Ascendancy

Chapter 1

Breath…. I need air… Can't breath. Basically my thoughts everytime I go for a run. I am no born runner. You know how some people go long distances and maybe even- Odin forbid- like it? Those people are absolute lunatics.

And proof that I am a terrible runner is the fact that this bright morning in Sudan, I can not breath, like at all. Well, I should say I am huffing and puffing, grasping for just a bit of air to stay inside and rejuvenate me, but it just doesn't happen.

Slowing down, I bring my once dry shirt up to wipe my horrifyingly sweaty face, but to no avail, for my shirt is not dry anywhere. I guess that is to be expected when you go running in the desert.

Sudan isn't that bad though. I mean, it is hot, when it rains, it rains, and there is so small amount of food it's insane, but the people, when they aren't worried about the rebels or military plagiarizing them after the civil war, are nice.

I think I'll just walk back to camp. Having decided, I walk the half mile toward my home sweet home- a UN refugee camp. It should be called a small city because of it's size. Looking at it from a distance makes it seem even bigger, for some strange reason.

Kids call at me, yelling "Sweaty Ella!" at me in English, as I walk down the dry road through the camp to my shelter (most speak a mixture of English and Nuer, and sweaty has become a common word around here ever since I arrived). Even though I could take offense at this, it is so rare to see the children laughing, that I can't help but join in; the laughing phenomenon.

On either side of the skinny path is tents and huts made of all kinds of materials: From tarps to sticks, whatever can be used, will be. Women sit in the openings, talking in their garbled speech, while some are watching their kids, getting water, making food, and ect. Typical day in a refugee camp.

I finally arrive at my tent- a nice canvas one, with an opening flap. When I came to this camp from my home (Greentown, SC), I was told to bring a tent, as the materials to make me one would be near impossible to find. So mine ended up being one of the nicest in the entire city-camp. It sort of has to be, considering I have other people come meet me in here for their sessions.

When I enter my beautiful tent, I walk to the mat on the ground, aka my bed, where my chest of close is by. I slip off my wet shirt for a dry, dark purple one, then rest on my mat for a minute. Jerking awake from the sound of someone entering, I cheer, "Mumbada! How are you today?", when a dark young boy enters.

And then the session begins. We talk quietly about his days as a child soldier. There is no pressing, for it is a horrible matter, but as a psychologist, it's a part of my job; hearing and helping to heal the horrible.

I was brought here to help the people, especially the few child soldiers that got transferred back to their families who are living here at the camp. A non-profit charity helps fund my mission work here in Sudan; sometimes I have direct sponsors.

It has certainly been an adventure. Straight out of college (NYU) I had worked at a high-end psychiatrica place, but the most difficult thing to deal with there was normally depression, which though not a good thing and extremely difficult, it is nowhere near as terrible as the horrors of being a child soldier. PTSD has now become my speciality.

Finally, when I saved up a good amount of money, I began my dream of serving overseas. And while it hasn't been a joy ride, the feeling of truly helping people is definitely worth the struggles. Results are slow when dealing with PTSD or extreme depression, but I have been seeing improvements in my patients after the nine months of being here; which seems like a long time after I think about it.

After meeting with five more patients, I head over to a family's tent to share dinner with them. The family's father was a patient of mine; he tried suicide. Going all the way to the desert, with no food or water, he wandered far from camp; desperate because of his children's' and wife's despairing conditions. One of his kids saw him leave and a three day search commenced, and ended with finally finding him dehydrated in the blaring Sudanese heat. After the father was brought back to health, he became mine to take care of. And grueling months of sessions finally lead to a breakthrough when he saw his kids laughing and playing; it's not that it was entirely unusual for them to be happy, but something inside him untwisted and a new man broke through.

So thus, I joined them often for dinner, gratefulness on everyone's faces each time I came near. Tonight we supped on boiled water with a bit of dried meat and beans in it; a poor excuse for soup. But tomorrow always holds the opportunity for a supplies truck to come in, and with that, possible fresh fruits and vegetables.

As I sit on my mat, eating by these brown beauties, surprisingly enjoying and gobbling down my stew, fulfillness abounds in my heart. If I can help them, these people in possibly the worst situation you could imagine, who can't I help?

/

The next morning is almost identical to yesterday: a breathless run, a catnap, then my patients. When all is suddenly interrupted.

Jostling and banging its passengers, a jeep and truck plow into camp, and with it come hundreds of rejoicing cheers. "Food! Food!" Is screeched from every far corner of this camp-city and it's almost deafening. The UN volunteers hop down from their cars and immediately open the back of their large truck with a bang. A few are put on crowd control, pushing back the Sudanese from the multitude of supplies and food. Hands, arms, and even feet, can be seen squirming through the barricade of volunteers.

Rushing over, I shout, "Back up everybody! Form a line to the hole!" The hole is what we call our supplies storage; a large, slanting hole in the ground that is covered with a tarp and wood. A few listen to me, and begin forming a rudimentary line to the hole, but most are still fighting towards their much wanted and needed supplies.

I stand next to Mumbada, ready to help with anything I can, when a red haired women wearing expensive sunglasses and a brown leather jacket, roughly takes my arm and pulls me aside. "Where's your tent? We need to talk." Well, that's a little insulting. All she had to do was ask politely.

"Whats this about?" I question, yanking my forearm out of her clutches to push a strand of brown hair out of my face. "Are you with International Psychiatric Aide?" Seeing her raised eyebrows beyond her large sunglasses, I answer my own inquiry, "I guess not. Follow me."

Glancing around, the women purposefully follows me, like a spy on a mission. Flipping open my flap, I gesture to my grand living-room/dining-room/ bedroom/kitchen. "Nice place." She says sarcastically. "The best money can buy." Is my reply.

I plop down on a mat, and gesture for her to join me, but the women declines. Pulling off her sunglasses and revealing an austere face, she says. "Let's get down to business." Which automatically brings to mind Mulan, but I resist the urge to sing, saying rather, "What business?"

"You are supposedly one of the best PTSD Psychiatrists in the world, am I correct?"

"Well, I don't know if I'd say that."

"Your scoring would say otherwise, Mrs. Walin."

This isn't making any sense. "What test? And who exactly are you?"

"I'm Natalie Roman, and I work for the Wakandan government. We want you to come work for us. And by test scores," Natalie sits down on the sandy ground across from me. "I mean the ones we assigned you. Our researchers, the top in the world, searched the globe for someone with your capabilities. They ranked the top Psychologist in the world, and when it comes to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, you are the top of your class."

This, of course, shocks me. I know I'm pretty good, I was always the top of my class, and my experience on the field may be near invaluable if I head back to the states. But the best out there? That just doesn't seem right.

"I highly doubt that."

Natalie shifts back on her heels, and says, "You better believe it. The Wakandan government is willing to pay you a large sum of money for your help. And with just one patient."

This must be one special patient. "And do you have the patient file?"

"I'm sorry but that's classified information." A patient I'm not even allowed to know? Natalie continued. "If you accept, than we would immediately wish you to come to Wakanda. And if this is an offer that you wish to accept, come find my tent in the morning and we will head out promptly."

But what about my current patients? It's hard enough to see some of these emotionally damaged Sudanese leave our sessions after the first one. They need so much help, but they are too proud to take it. I don't want to leave them for long.

"How long would I be there?"

"As long as it takes."

"And you still can't tell me anything about this mysterious patient."

Natalie raises her eyebrows and the corners of her lips curl up slightly. "All I can say is that they will be the most challenging case you've ever had the... pleasure of working with."

"Oh." I reply plainly.

Patiently waiting for my response, Natalie stands up and says quietly, "I'll give you some time to think." And I watch her red hair as she walks across the sandy plain to the UN workers.

This is insane. Wakanda is the richest city in Africa and the thought that they want me, and for one patient…. It must be an insanely special person. The offer is extremely intriguing but I don't just want to leave everything I have here. And my patients.

I flop on my back, and a slightly exasperated sigh escapes my chap lips. Running my hand though my short brown locks, the grainy sand in my hair tickles my fingers. How am I even supposed to decide? If this person is truly as damaged as they say, this could be great practice (and look great on my resume) but who knows how long I would be in Wakanda helping this man (or woman)? But with the money they might pay me, I could stay on the field for a long time…

Breaking away from my racing thoughts, I feel like I should go help unload but I'm sure they have enough help, considering how happy people were to see the new shipment of supplies. The campers would be lining up to help. So I just stay inside my tent, away from the camp and it's inhabitants.

Night falls, the suns last yellow rays shine through the canvas of my tent and all I do is lay there, wracking my brain to decide. It's not that I'm bad at decisions, but there are pros and cons to this situation that I just can't wrap my mind entirely around.

A kid walks in as I'm in that state between sleep and awareness, and I jerk awake, embarrassedly wiping the drool from the side of my mouth. "Male, Ella. The workers brought sampa! And I brought soup we cook." The adorable little boy said in his stilted African-English. He handed me a hot styrofoam bowl full of steaming vegetable soup. "Thank you." I say, taking the bowl.

As if the world depends on it, I wolf down the canned soup. That's when it hits me. If I can get that money then maybe that little boy will be this happy and full all the time. And it's just possible if I do a good job for the Wakandan government, they will be willing to hear me make a case for the Sudanese people. More food, more… everything.

I need to do this. The simple truth is, it shouldn't take long to help this patient. If he (or she) is to be my one and only, then all my attention will be on them.

So the next morning I meet Natalie at her tent, and she is already awake, her whole self surprisingly clean and put together. "I'm going." I tell her directly. She nods her head, as if expecting that answer. "Let's go."

"Uh, how?" Natalie just starts walking, past all the tents and shacks, of which she had stayed in one last night, her black combat boots grounding the sandy terrain. OK, then. A woman of few words, I suppose.

We head towards the UN vehicles, which would be here for a few days until they finish giving some vaccines. Natalie goes to the back of the van, and unlatches the hatch, lifting it by the strap. And that is when I see the motorcycle.

Natalie jumps up, and pulls down the ramp. Spinning her keys on a finger, she saunters up and revves up the cycle. Slowly she Rolls down the ramp, then shouts over the engine, "Hop on!"

I swing my leg onto the hot seat, and with a roar of the engine, we head off toward the sun. Toward Wakanda. The land of my mysterious patient.

/