Authors: Felicia Rogers
Diamond Mine (9 page)
One thing Melanie did that Hannah thought was a good idea was pray. Even though she made no audible sound, she closed her eyes and moved her lips. Hannah followed suit. And for a second time, the situation was handed over to God, trusting He would rescue them.
Time flew by. The truck lurched to a halt. Soldiers moved outside. Earlier, Melanie had hinted someone named Tapiwa was responsible for their current situation. Fear kept her from asking who he was and what he wanted from them.
Why would someone take Korzan and then threaten to take Melanie? It made no sense.
Now she wished she had asked. At least she would have known her enemy. Comic books and kids cartoons were fond of saying
K
nowledge
is
power,
and she believed them. To know your enemy and their weaknesses was the only way to defeat them.
A man dressed like a soldier jerked the back gate open. They pulled the children from the truck and threw them to the dusty ground.
Melanie huddled in the corner; fear lit her eyes. Surprised, Hannah stared at her. Looking between Melanie and the children, she gathered her courage, struggled to her feet, stumbled to the edge, sat on the end, and lowered herself down. Wrists still bound, she worked to pick up the children. She whispered words of encouragement, attempting to communicate that everything would be okay. With some of the children, the language barrier kept her from knowing if she'd gotten her point across. However, brief smiles gave her hope that maybe her feeble attempts had worked.
As she bent to sweep the dust off the knees of one spindly-legged child, a look of horror crossed the little one's face. She was too late to move out of the way before a fist, the size of a bear paw, slapped the side of her head and she fell.
Instinctively, she returned to her feet. She got in one good kick before the stranger threw her to the ground and booted her in the ribs.
Instead of jumping up so she could be knocked down again, she placed herself in the fetal position and waited. The patience was rewarded and the abuse stopped. She chanced to look up. She was surrounded by several guards, who stared at her like a pack of hungry wolves.
One guard reached forward and grabbed her shirt. Her sleeve ripped off in his hand, and he held it up like a prize.
Angry, Hannah grasped the cuff and pulled. The guard stared at her, his face twisted in a maniacal grin.
Fear gnawed at her gut, and she looked for assistance. Melanie was nowhere to be found. She was alone in her fight.
The ropes chafed but she didn't let go of the shirt. Her efforts were rewarded with a punch to her head. The sight of the camp blurred, then nothing but darkness.
****
Hannah awoke alone in an enclosed cell, happy to discover she still wore her ragged, torn clothing, and that only her shoes and socks were missing.
Laid out on a wooden shelf about five feet in length and around two feet from the ground, she'd curled into a ball. Her lids fluttered, and she focused her blurred vision. The room wasn't much larger than a child's bedroom. The only opening a bar-covered square at the top of a rudely constructed door.
Hannah pushed to a seated position and pulled her knees into her chest. Fear and cold caused her to shiver.
She lost track of time. Was it day or night? Without outside access, there was no way to tell.
Where were Melanie and the children?
This was not the reunion she'd planned.
Head back against the wall, Hannah wished she'd had time to go through her luggage. Then she could have retrieved her Bible. She needed the words right now more than ever.
Stories of Paul or Christ's other followers would bring peace. They prayed, sang, and talked to Jesus, counting themselves worthy to be in prison for the Savior.
Hannah didn't know why she was being held, but she knew the words of the Bible would bring her comfort in any situation. The twenty-third Psalm came to mind.
“
And though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.
For thou art with me
.”
Then other words came. “
I go to prepare a place for you, if it were not so
,
I would have told you
.”
Verses cycled over and over in her head as the sound of shuffling feet and jumbled voices filtered in from outside. She wanted to jump from the bed, race to the door, and call out, but why give her captors the satisfaction. Instead she listened.
The door opened and a guard walked in, carrying a tray of food. He smiled, revealing a row of blackened teeth. Hannah forced her gaze downward.
“Here you go. Enjoy the weevils,” he said, turning away from her and laughing.
She broke. Standing on the platform, she jumped onto his back. She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck.
“Let me go!” he yelled, turning in circles and shoving her against the wall.
Tighter and tighter, she squeezed his neck. The guard's movements became erratic, and he grew limp and fell to the ground.
At the sound of the door slapping the wall, Hannah released him. She grabbed the tray from the bed and threw it at the newcomers. Dodging, they grabbed the guard and pulled him out.
Like a wild animal, Hannah hunched in the corner of the bed. Let them think she was crazy. Let them believe she was a madwoman. That was her only hope of keeping them at bay.
Days passed. Food became scarce as fewer and fewer guards were willing to risk her fits. Thoughts of why she was here kept her going. New story plots with ways to punish her tormentors kept her sane.
“Tapiwa, I tell you she is not ready,” said a voice from outside.
“It does not matter. We have a buyer. You will
get
her ready. Clean her up if you have to strip her and spray her with a hose.”
Hannah cringed. The keys rattled in the door and she moved farther into the corner. The lone bulb in the room shone brightly, giving her nowhere to hide. Now, if she could just absorb into the wall.
“Come on, little one. I don't want to hurt you.”
The man walked forward, one hand outstretched, the other held behind his back. What was he planning?
“You may be leaving us soon, and we need to make you pretty.”
Hannah hopped onto the bed and moved her hands like an ape. She screamed and wailed like a mother who had lost her young. Widening her eyes as far as they would go, she attempted to look as crazy as possible.
It worked. The man put his hands above his head in a defensive posture and backed away. Outside he told the others, “She isn't worth it. If the man wants her, he can take her as is.”
A sigh of relief swept over her. She fell back against the bed. Another tragedy avoided. But how long could she keep this up? And what did they mean about someone taking her?
As she lay still, sleep took over. She awoke to a new flood of voices, filtering through the door.
“Ah, this one here is our finest. She has creamy skin, like milk. I believe she will be to your taste.”
A British voice replied, “Very well. I wish to see the product.”
A deep timbered laugh escaped the captor's throat. “I am afraid you will have to look at her through the door only. This one is a spitfire, and I cannot run the risk of her attacking a client and perhaps having to put her down.”
“All right, I shall peek through the bars. But I do have a question. If she is so dangerous to your potential customers, then how do you plan on selling her?”
“Ah, that is easy my friend. Some men enjoy taming the beast, if you understand me.”
The Brit and the South African shared a hearty laugh. Stuck on the idea that she was to be sold, Hannah couldn't muster up the appropriate amount of anger over their rudeness.
The potential buyer rapped his knuckles along the door and demanded, “Look up and smile pretty.”
Hannah ignored him.
Just let him come through the door and make me
.
“Look at me, love.”
Clinching her fists, she thought about ripping out his eyeballs and feeding them to wild hogs or using her fingernails to scratch a scar across his face. But something familiar in the newcomer's voice caused her to obey. She lifted her gaze and swallowed.
On the trip to Tapiwa's camp Rory argued with himself. The boy and the priest had convinced him he had to go. He was the only one who could rescue the woman. Why this one white woman was so important to them or to him wasn't completely clear. Father Thomas was worried about American relations. The boy wanted his mother back and believed Melanie and Hannah would be together. Rory participated out of some sense that he needed to.
The father had enlisted the help of Sister Mary to dress Rory for the part of a wealthy business man: white linen suit and fedora accentuated by a walnut cane. For extra effect, she'd added shiny polarized sunglasses. Black oxford shoes, which pinched his toes, created the final piece.
A local villager had been chosen to be his driver. The hardest part of the entire venture had been finding a vehicle that befitted a man of his stature. Rory was to visit the camp as a man who traded in human flesh â a man who'd come to purchase women to sell to others for profit. If the plan wasn't executed properly, then he and the others could be in danger.
Debate raged inside him as they approached the camp. What was he doing? This was crazy! The recesses of his mind harbored the idea that this Hannah could be his, but logic pushed that notion aside. What would a successful romance writer be doing in South Africa?
Tightly shut windows kept the road dust outside. Specks of dirt littered the windshield, blocking his view. Like his life, he couldn't see what was coming around the next bend.
Sighing, Rory focused on the task before him. Regardless of who this Hannah was, she and those with her needed help. By a twist of fate he'd offered to be that help.
The car slowed. Idly drumming his fingers against his thigh, Rory pretended indifference. Staring at the landscape, he felt the hot breeze rush inside.
The driver rolled down his window and announced Rory, while holding out a colorful wad. Immediately the vehicle was ushered in. The presence of money brought what he needed.
Now hours later, he was standing in front of the cell door, purveying the
merchandise
.
His heart thumped wildly. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. He clasped his hands together. He couldn't believe his eyes. An eerie glow cast around the room from a lone light bulb. Before him was the girl he'd fallen in love with almost ten years before. It was Hannah Baker. The one he'd been forced to leave behind without saying goodbye.
She didn't look like herself. Caked with dirt, her silky brown hair matted on one side in a large wad. The other side stood straight up about a foot from her skull.
Emerald green eyes flashed like those of a frightened animal. One sleeve was ripped away from her blouse, exposing bruised, torn, and bloody skin. The rest of her clothing was holey and covered in dirt and grime. She'd only been inside the trafficking camp for a few days, and she already looked like this? What would happen to a person who was forced to stay longer?
As Rory watched her through the bars, he realized she hadn't recognized him. Good. Now was not the time. He only hoped when the deal went down, he could keep her under control long enough to escape the compound. Then he would explain everything.
Hannah turned away from the intruders and laid her head against the wall. Until this point, he had kept his emotions in check. Anger wasn't an emotion he could afford. Not yet. He needed to remain neutral. He was a buyer of flesh. It was business. Nothing more.
She wept. The bitter sound of the quiet anguish begged him to release his pent-up anger. She was a human being!
Great delight would have been taken in using his bare hands to rip out the traffickers' innards and shove them down their throats. Of course he could also tie them up and use lights to burn out their retinas, or he could rip out their toenails with pliers, one by one. Then, he wouldâ¦
“Sir?” said Tapiwa.
“Hmm⦠yes?”
“What do you think? Is she what you're looking for?”
Rory didn't answer and Tapiwa seemed unperturbed by his lack of response.
He tapped his forehead. A smile parted his lips. “She's exactly what I'm looking for. I'll take her.”
****
Hannah refused to look at him. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Let them come in and take her! But his voice. His accent. It brought back memories of someone else. Someone from her past, a person she couldn't disregard.
Hannah faced the door. The bright light kept her from seeing outside her cell. Tears streaked her face as she turned away and sobbed.
The Brit made plans to purchase her. Her brain wouldn't allow her to contemplate the ramifications. The dilemma was so outrageous, she couldn't see it as reality.
Instead she reverted to what she did when a bad situation arose. She either made up a story or embellished a real one.
It was the story of meeting Rory Chance, digging holes for rosebushes. A smile graced her cheeks, and she swiped her tears away. That summer had been the best summer of her life. If she closed her eyes she could remember every vivid detailâ¦
The sun blared on the hot asphalt as Hannah
walked to
Rory
'
s
door and knocked
. N
o
one
answer
ed the door and she turned and walked around the house. A
“
For
S
ale
”
sign
graced
the yard.
He was gone.
Just like that.
If she hadn
'
t taken pictures of them
together
,
she
'
d
have thought he
'
d
been
a
dream
,
t
he entire summer imagined.
Desperation
set in.
Rory had talked so little about himself
that
, now that he
'
d
disappeared
,
she
didn
'
t
know where to begin
to search for him
. Trying the post office revealed no forwarding address.
Hannah
waited
,
hoping he would contact her.
A
week before school
started,
s
he
moved
.
She made sure to leave
a
forwarding address.
Years passed. While visiting her grandmother she picked up a foreign magazine and
was
startled to find a photo of Rory on the cover.
Over and over she read the article
,
devouring every word and every piece of information. Sometimes the news she read hurt, other times it made her proud, but always she read more. Until Monica, of course. The repeated stories of their exploits ruined even that.
Voices outside her cell door brought her out of her reverie. Sighing deeply, she fought her rising panic. Why now, when she was at her lowest point, did there have to be a reminder of her one and only true love?
Why did her purchaser have to be British? Why had he called her “love”?
Reality struggled to slip in, and the memories faded. Besides, they couldn't help her. Nothing could.