Through the Valley of the Shadow of Death

Jungle thorns clawed at her legs as she ran. Bile rose in her throat—whether from exhaustion or panic, she couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. All she could think about was the natives behind her, silent in the shadows and stalking their prey, waiting for her to slow.

They didn’t need to wait. She’d seen how they killed the rest of the missionaries—how they handled John, and he’d been large, even to American standards. No, the thrill of hunting was different than conquest, and there were few better ways to celebrate than with a fresh meal.

Images of the island natives flashed through Renee’s mind. They wore red loincloths and head coverings the color of arterial blood, and they painted pale clay on their faces. Their jewelry was made of shells that rattled in a vicious chorus as they moved. And yet, tonight, they would eat together. That ubiquitous act of fellowship that unites all humans together: dinner, and how strange it was, she thought, that an uncontacted tribe of cannibals would share the same comforts as she and her family.

A thorn popped through the callus on her heel and made her yelp, but the pain was hardly enough to slow her progress. The acidity settled in her throat as she crossed a network of streams she could swear she’d already seen. But her mind was a carousel of half-shaped thoughts, and the only coherent one was the voice that screamed to her, “Run.”

Carson cried incessantly. He wriggled his arms loose in his swaddle and pushed sticky hands against her arms. He flushed, eyes wild, and arched his back, wholly unaware of the dangers that lurked beyond his mother’s control. He only knew her, and he writhed at the unfamiliar whimpers coming from her chest and at her shaking arms as she squeezed him close to her breast. She ached to comfort her boy, to soothe his wails and tell him it would all be fine, but she swallowed the guilt and kept on her path. She didn’t dare look back for fear she would see them stepping from the undergrowth, trophies in hand, and closing the distance with an ease that could only be fostered from a lifetime of training. So, she ran through the night, and when she could no longer run, she walked. And sometime in the night, cradling her son on her lap under the lazy branches of a shrub, she felt herself drift into a restless sleep.

*

It was not the morning sun, the dripping fog, or her stirring babe that pulled Renee awake. It was her dreams: the images burned into her mind of the island natives, those her mission had come to help, and those who’d attacked, unprovoked, without warning. It was the sound of rock against a skull and the way John looked at her before he was taken. And it was the joy the invaders had felt: their dancing and yelling and the way they had not chased her when she fled. They simply watched her, neither curious nor reactive. Simply observing.

She felt nothing. Her limbs were jelly and her mind was blank; even the rustle of leaves didn’t raise her pulse, and she only then realized how terribly hungry she was. Carson, too, had given up on crying, and his lethargy was not quelled until he was given some of the water that had collected on the leaves overnight. He settled back to sleep only moments later, and though her victory was a small one, Renee relished it.

As she drank her share of the dew water, she found a patch of light peeking through the canopy overhead, and she sat on sandy ground to take the chill from her skin. The water felt like new life as it trickled past her lips and down her throat, and the feeling coddled her like a warm blanket. Then she prayed.

Such a prayer was a matter of habit—something she’d done for so long that it took more effort to avoid than to follow through with. So, she thanks God for the warmth and the morning sun, for her son’s life and resilience. She thanked Him for the canopy’s shelter and for the cupped leaves that offered water to them like clusters of diamonds. And she praised Him through the first of her quiet tears as she thought of her husband, his sacrifice, and his return home. Then, for the native peoples and their families, the sounds of life teemed around her. For the swaying branches, the chirping birds, and the squawking gulls in the distance.

Her breath caught, and she felt, somewhere deep in her gut, a fleeting quiver of hope so slight that she felt that if she focused on it too long, it might break or disappear.

The soft push and pull of water against the Earth danced at the edge of discernment, and the shiver grew to a tremor. She scooped Carson in her arms and begged her tired legs to work as she broke a trail to the left. Thorny vines and thick brush forced her down the trail to a clearing where the smell of salt finally permeated the jungle wall.

From her sandy knoll, she could see the blue roof of a building she was familiar with. It was nothing more than a large dot near the horizon, but she knew that in that building was the man who’d welcomed her and the other missionaries when they arrived. He would have a radio and a bed, and if they were lucky, his wife would still have leftovers warm from breakfast. And the hope grew wings that fluttered into her chest because she knew she was safe. In that moment, first time in nearly twenty-four hours, her mind felt unburdened, and she heard the words her husband had read the morning before they were attacked.

“Fear not,” he said, his baritone voice as clear as it was steady. The sound of it made the hope soar, and she fumbled with the straps as she fashioned Carson on her back. “For I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire, you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.”