The Shepherd’s Song Read online

As the words became a permanent part of her, she felt more and more empowered by them. I will fear no evil, for you are with me. With God beside her, she would no longer fear evil. After all, God was the one who created everything. He was powerful—more powerful than her father, more powerful than her old boyfriends, or her previous employers, or anyone, even Lobo. With God she had nothing to fear.

  Johnny dabbed off the last of the ink, then held up a mirror for her to see. In the mirror she saw herself differently. Confident. Fearless. Worthy.

  She gazed at the final result. Covering her long, jagged scar was a scroll inset with the words:

  I will fear no evil,

  for you are with me.

  The scar had been transformed. No longer visible.

  Johnny smiled, obviously pleased with the results. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “I will fear no evil,” she answered.

  She felt a curl of courage growing inside her, along with another emotion she had not felt before, something warm, like the sunlight, and bright and open and spacious—love. It could be love. God loved her.

  Marra looked at the clock. 10:45.

  “Do you have a minute?” she asked.

  “All day.”

  She looked at the tattoos covering her body. One by one she told Johnny her stories, starting with the first, and going forward, until they both sat weeping. It felt good to tell her stories. Suddenly the power of telling engulfed her. She was energized by the thought that there were more people out there—other women—who needed to hear her story. They needed courage and the strength of God with them.

  Her final tattoo would be with her always, to remind her of the fact that she didn’t have to fear anymore because God was with her.

  Johnny was still wiping his eyes when he handed her the psalm.

  “You turned me into a big marshmallow.”

  “I think you were already a big marshmallow.” She kissed his forehead.

  “You keep this.” He handed her the psalm. “And here’s a coupon for next time.”

  Marra smiled at him. This time her mouth stretched into a full, wide grin.

  “Thanks. I don’t think there will be a next time. But I’ll take the psalm. I’m sure there’s someone else out there who needs it.”

  Marra left the scarf on the chair and walked to the shop door. She looked out into the sunlight. Lobo was out there somewhere, but she was no longer afraid. The curl of courage inside her was growing. She pushed open the door and stepped outside.

  With her head held high Marra walked past the stores toward the ship. For now, the fear inside was gone. There was no pain, just warmth. She would begin again with God; she felt it. She could leave the fear behind and move ahead.

  Then she saw him—Lobo, darting in and out of the shops with that angry look on his face, probably looking for her. She stopped for a moment, staring at him. His anger was apparent, his face contorted in rage, his fists balled up as if ready to strike. She no longer saw him as beautiful; she saw him as he was—an angry, evil man filled with bitterness. Her problem—Lobo—was between her and the pier. She glanced down at her new tattoo.

  “I will fear no evil,” she said out loud. God was bigger than Lobo. God would protect her. Her new strength empowered her, and she walked forward.

  Protect me, God, she prayed as she walked straight ahead. She did not cower, or weave in and out of the crowds, or duck into shops, hiding.

  She could not explain this new feeling of courage. God was with her; she was sure of it. He would protect her.

  As she got closer to Lobo, she prayed, God, I will fear no evil, for You are with me. I will fear no evil, for You are with me.

  Lobo stopped in the middle of the street, looking right and left.

  Marra continued praying as she approached him. She saw his flashing eyes; the muscles of his neck bulged out as he breathed. She was within a few feet of him, but he did not see her. He seemed to be looking everywhere except at her.

  The loud bellow of the ship’s horn sounded, calling people to board. She took a deep breath and marched around Lobo. As she passed, she smelled his anger, his evil. He turned his head, but his eyes were empty and stared right through her. At the edge of the pier she stopped. She turned to see Lobo storm away into the crowd.

  Marra turned her face upward and smiled. She had never seen the sky so blue, the sun so yellow, or the clouds so big and white.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. Then she hurried down the pier to her new life: transformed, loved, and unafraid.

  THE GUN SOUNDED. Thousands of feet hit the pavement. The Rome Invitational Marathon had begun.

  Kioni’s feet pounded hard as she reached her stride. The front-runners moved forward as one—Kioni from Kenya, two girls from the United States, one girl from Italy, and the German girl.

  The sideline was a mass of color and movement as spectators cheered and waved the flags of many countries.

  “Go, Kioni. Go, my girl. Run for Kenya!” Sister Immaculata cheered.

  Kioni didn’t usually see the spectators, but Sister Immaculata was hard to miss. Her ample body took up two or three seats on the bench, and her big arms fanned her face with a never-ending sway of paper in an attempt to be cool. She lifted her cane as she cheered. It was the cane she used for support—and not just any cane, but a gnarly stick from the forest of Africa.

  Kioni’s legs stretched and loosened as she made the first mile. Only twenty-five more to go.

  Her mind shifted. The streets of Italy disappeared, and suddenly she was running on the red dirt roads of Kenya—the twenty-six-mile loop that she ran for training. The grays and the blacks of the city were gone, and the greens of the beautiful Great Rift Valley appeared. In her mind in Africa it was early morning with a huge orange sun rising on the horizon. Thoughts of Africa brought her comfort.

  The paper that she had tucked into the back pocket of her shorts brought her comfort, too. It came from a little boy on the street.

  “Autograph,” he had said, calling up to the window when her bus to the stadium stopped.

  “No paper,” Kioni said, holding up her empty hands.

  The boy darted from person to person along the sidewalks until he found someone, a tattooed girl, to give him a piece of paper. He handed the paper through the bus window to Kioni, but as she searched for a pen, the traffic light turned green and the bus drove away, leaving the boy on the curb and Kioni holding the paper.

  “Meet me at the end,” she had called, and his smiling face nodded.

  On the back of the paper was Psalm 23.

  Just the comfort Kioni needed now, for this race, especially when she thought about the German girl who might try to keep her from winning.

  Your rod and your staff, they comfort me. The idea of the rod and its protection was not new for Kioni. The shepherds in Africa used rods for protection, and Sister Immaculata’s cane was like a staff, guiding Kioni and the other girls at the orphanage.

  Some of the slower runners were falling behind, but Kioni was still in the gaggle, out front with the Americans and the Italian, and, of course, the German, who was lagging behind. Often serious opponents did that—stayed behind just far enough so you didn’t worry about them. Then, at the end, they would make their move. Kioni shoved that thought from her mind.

  Focus. Stay calm.

  She was almost to mile five. Where would she be at mile five in Africa?

  Ahh. The high trail. She would be on the high trail running through the tall grasses. It was the place where she first saw Runo tending his father’s sheep. He had been standing tall with his shepherd’s rod in his hand. Her heart had beaten faster as she’d approached the handsome man.

  Then she’d seen the elephants blocking her path up ahead. It was unusual to see them there and not down by the stream where they often went for water. The large male in front was upset, breathing hard and stomping his feet. Kioni had stopped running and stepped closer to see what was the matter.

  A co
bra had risen up beside her on the path. Its head darted forward. Kioni jumped fast. Then Runo appeared and struck with his rod. Whoosh. Snap. The terror was over before it began.

  Kioni had stared with mouth open, eyes big. “You killed the snake,” she said.

  He smiled, showing a mouth full of straight white teeth. “The elephants saw what you could not.” Then he laughed, and she laughed, and that’s when she fell in love.

  Kioni passed mile five. Thinking about the gold and green of the grasses brought the rhythm of her heart into line with the rhythm of her feet.

  “Go, Kioni!” she heard Sister Immaculata yell. Sister was waiting at the five-mile mark. The twenty-six-mile course looped back by the stadium twice, and Sister planned to be at both locations when Kioni passed.

  “Go, Kenya!” In a flash Kioni ran by. She caught a glimpse of Sister waving her cane.

  When they had arrived at the stadium, Sister Immaculata had parted the crowd with her cane.

  “Make way!” she had called out. “Make way for Kenya.”

  Kioni had giggled. “Like Moses parting the Red Sea . . . only more determined even than Moses.”

  The race continued. The streets of Rome were not so crowded, and there were fewer runners with her now—just the girls from the United States, the Italian, and the German. The German would probably make her move at the end. Don’t think about the end now, only the next mile. That’s how you win, one mile at a time.

  Kioni’s mind returned to Africa. Across the African plains she ran like a gazelle. Her bare feet pounded a steady rhythm as she lightly flew along the paths and the dry, dusty roadways of Kenya. The ten-mile marker would appear soon. In Africa, the ten-mile mark of her training run meant passing the small village where Kioni had made the decision to marry Runo.

  Runo and Kioni and some of the girls from the orphanage had been in the village getting supplies when they’d seen a crowd gathered in front of the outdoor restaurant. They came closer and saw what captivated everyone’s attention—a small TV showing a parade. Floats went by, and a drum team, then more floats and marching bands. The majorettes were twirling their batons, tossing them high, and catching them with perfect precision. Kioni and the girls were mesmerized.

  Then suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, Kioni saw Runo get up. He marched to the front beside the TV and lifted his rod. All eyes left the TV and focused on Runo. He began twirling his rod in a perfect imitation of the majorettes.

  “Go, Runo!” everyone cheered and clapped. Then suddenly he slowed his twirl. He glanced skyward. Everyone got quiet. Kioni held her breath. What was Runo doing? In a great whoosh, he rotated his rod in a circle, then threw it into the air. End over end it rose higher and higher against the blue Kenyan sky. It arced, then started down. Everyone stared, the TV parade forgotten. End over end it descended, everyone hoping against hope it would be caught. Then, just before it hit the ground, Runo grabbed it and twirled it three more times. He closed in a deep bow.

  The small band of friends erupted into great cheers. That’s when Kioni decided she wanted to marry Runo.

  He had asked several times before, but she had hesitated. There were some significant obstacles to marrying Runo. Life seemed always to be full of obstacles. She wished that she could clear them away as easily as Sister moved away the crowd with her cane.

  Slap. Slap. Slap. Kioni passed mile ten in the neighborhoods of Rome, her stride in perfect rhythm. Her feet landed firmly with each step. She kept pace with the front-runners. One of the Americans lagged behind a bit. The other American and the Italian were right with her. She did not turn to see the German girl, but she could hear her, running fast, breathing hard, just behind them.

  Kioni moved smoothly and carefully, always aware of the position of the German—Gilda was her name. Last year Gilda had taken out the front-runner by shifting closer and closer, then grabbing the opponent’s elbow and pulling her back. She did it slyly, where it was difficult for anyone else to see.

  Kioni increased her pace. She wished she could hear Sister’s voice now, but Sister would not appear again until mile twenty.

  With mile fifteen came a calm. Kioni’s rhythm was established, and she thought of mile fifteen in Africa—the open plains. Kioni imagined the Cherangani Hills in the distance. She and Runo walked these hills when they talked of marriage and the obstacles that stood in their way. Mostly there was one obstacle: Runo’s parents.

  “No son of mine will marry a girl from the orphanage,” his father had said. “You will marry from a good family, and you will run my sheep farm.”

  Runo’s father would disown him if they married. Runo loved the sheep. Kioni could not take that away from him. Runo was the perfect shepherd. He had a sixth sense about the sheep. He knew when they were in trouble, which was most of the time. Many nights he slept in the field with his sheep, protecting them from other animals. How could he leave them for her? It seemed that there was no easy answer.

  The heat of Rome brought her back. Water station. Kioni reached out her hand as she passed and accepted a paper cup of cool water. She drank, then dropped the cup and kept moving. At eighteen miles she heard a gasp and a thud—the American fell.

  Focus. Keep the focus on Africa.

  Kioni settled her mind on her running path in Africa, on the banyan tree, her favorite tree, making a graceful silhouette against the backdrop of the plains. She remembered one time walking by the tree with Runo. They had been so carefree, even skipping. Then suddenly Runo stopped. “I forgot my rod.”

  Kioni stopped beside him. She scanned the grass around her. The grass moved . . . or was it the wind . . . or an animal sneaking up, hoping to make them his supper? Without Runo’s rod they were defenseless.

  “Let’s head back now,” he said, and they had hurried away.

  What a difference one rod made. One minute they were relaxed and lighthearted, the next, overcome with fear. The rod gave them comfort.

  Muscle fatigue. At mile nineteen Kioni felt a twinge in her right calf muscle. The heat was taking its toll. She thought of the paper in her pocket. The psalm. The psalm about the shepherd. God is the shepherd. God has a rod like Runo. Could God protect her here in Italy, far from home? Could He protect her from Gilda, the German?

  Kioni pushed on. Few runners were near now. The Italian girl had dropped behind. The other American lagged, too, but held close. Gilda, the German, was moving closer. Kioni’s legs pumped up and down like pistons, as she pulled away to solidify her lead.

  Sister would be at the twenty-mile mark. Kioni wanted to see Sister. Sister had supported her and loved her. When her own parents abandoned her, Sister took her in and cared for her.

  “It is God who cares for you,” Sister had told her. “He is the one who protects us and cares for us.”

  Kioni thought of the young girls at the orphanage. Right now they would be gathered around the computer to watch her race—their faces intense, staring at the screen, their bodies jostling for a better position to see.

  Mile twenty. Only six miles to go.

  “Kioni, go, my girl. Go, Kenya! Go, Africa!” It was Sister Immaculata waving her cane.

  In Africa this would be the turn to Runo’s family farm. In her mind Kioni could see the gate. It was there that she had told Runo. It was there that the decision had been made. It was not fair to separate him from his parents. She had told him that she could not marry him.

  The day before she’d left for Italy, she had told him. She had dressed carefully in the colors of Kenya, then oiled and prepared her hair. She had walked to Runo’s family’s farm and waited by the gate until Runo came home with his sheep.

  “What is it?” he asked, concern in the lines of his forehead.

  “I cannot marry you.”

  “You are sure?”

  “I am. I cannot marry you with your parents not approving.”

  Her heart ached with pain, but it was right.

  “You are braver than that.”

  “I am onl
y an orphan. I have nothing to give.”

  “You have you, Kioni.”

  “I am not enough . . . for you.”

  She remembered the way he had looked at her as she left, standing at the gate as he’d watched her walk away down the path. She could not help but look back once, then twice, then a final time. He stood tall and straight. He looked at her with love, and her heart broke as she made the final turn away from Runo.

  She had made the decision.

  Now, only two days later in Italy, Kioni’s legs and arms pumped the final miles. These miles were the most difficult, requiring total concentration. The smallest mistake could make the difference in the race. Pushing too hard could drain the energy. Lagging behind could give an opponent an advantage that could not be overcome. God would have to be with her now.

  Mile twenty-three. It was this mile at home on the path where the impact of her decision had washed over her, and she began to weep as she walked alone toward the orphanage. She might be like Sister and not ever marry. But she loved Runo, and the idea of not being with him was painful.

  Mile twenty-four. Concentrate.

  The pavement was hard and the road under her feet hot. The crowd was beginning to thicken here, and they cheered her on. The German was close and pulling closer.

  Three more miles.

  At mile twenty-four in Africa the path splits—one path goes up to the mountains, the other down to the orphanage. Kioni had stopped there for a moment on her long walk away from Runo. She remembered the pain she had felt as she’d looked at the two paths and accepted her choice.

  The German. A sudden movement behind Kioni brought her back to Rome and the race. The German was inching closer to make her move. Kioni remembered the story of Gilda grabbing for the opponent’s elbow. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Gilda’s hand dart forward. Kioni edged left, not missing a step.

  She heard a snort from Gilda. Again Gilda’s hand shot forward. Again Kioni sprang left. Finally, Gilda made one last lunge. Kioni thought of the rod of God protecting her, and she sprang left one last time. Gilda stumbled, not enough to fall, but enough to lose several steps. She could not catch Kioni now. Kioni used the last of her energy in the sprint of the final two miles.