Shadow of a Dream

By D.J. Mitchell

In this full-length sequel to the novella "This Thing of Darkness," Sam Winslow has given up peace work in favor of a less dangerous life. Yet despite his promise to his wife that he would never leave home again, an urgent plea from a war-torn nation brings him back for one more adventure: delivering a secret peace overture from the President to a bloodthirsty rebel commander. But with traitors inside the government and a coup d'etat imminent, Sam finds himself trapped in rebel territory and wanted as a spy. He dreams of his wife and his home in Utah, but he'll need all his wits to make it home again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.J. Mitchell
• Release date: Aug 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465821287

D.J. Mitchell

I’m a wanderer. I grew up in a small town in New Hampshire, and moved to Los Angeles when I was nineteen. In 1993, I volunteered in Sri Lanka and Thailand for 18 months, and made several more trips over the years. Eventually, I joined a team that worked to end the Sri Lanka civil war, and helped bring about a cease-fire there.In 2004, I settled in rural southern Utah, where I raised goats and made cheese for eight years. In 2014, I became a father, and there weren’t enough hours in the day for cheesemaking anymore.In 2016, I moved with my family to Harrisonburg, VA, so I could attend Eastern Mennonite Seminary.I’ve loved writing since I was a child. I began my first novel at age thirty, and it’s not finished yet. My first published novel, Ordinary World, came out in 2012 and received great reviews. Now that I’m otherwise unemployed, writing allows me to work while still having the flexibility to be a good father.

Book preview

Chapter One

The dream ended badly, with blood and violence. In the darkness, as consciousness returned, I struggled to remember where I was—and to identify the frightful noise. I reached out and felt the familiar warmth of my wife Annie, lying next to me. I’d been dreaming about another place and another, more dangerous time. But with Annie next to me, this must be our bed, in our home in Southern Utah. Nightmares still troubled me, but the events that caused them I’d left behind in another life.

I recognized the intrusive noise as the electronic Mozart that served as the ringtone to my cell phone. I reached for it in the dark, hoping to silence it quickly so as not to wake Annie. I fumbled, and cringed as it rang again. Annie shifted and pulled the pillow over her head.

I grabbed the phone, punched the green button, and whispered into it: Hold on.

I sprinted for the hallway. In the living room, I could see the red glow of the digital clock on the DVD player. It said 4:12 AM, the middle of the night. It had been a long time since I’d gotten a call at that hour.

Hello, I said softly into the phone.

Mr. Winslow? asked a distant male voice. Mr. Samuel Winslow? The man’s speech was crisp. I have an ear for accents, even at that hour of the morning, and I judged his to be slightly British. South Asian, I thought, but educated in England.

This is Sam Winslow, I said. Who is this?

My name is Weeraka, the voice replied. I am Assistant to Minister Prabada of Vedanta. The minister would like me to speak with you." There was a terrible delay on the line—the signal must have bounced off at least two satellites before it reached my phone.

Talk with me? What about? I asked, my brain automatically figuring the time difference. It would be afternoon in Vedanta. That explained the early hour of the call, but it didn’t explain why a representative of the Government of Vedanta would have an interest in me.

Peace, replied the assistant. We wish to talk about peace.

Damn, I thought. Vedanta had been at war for as long as I could remember. I’d visited the country briefly in my travels: a small island nation off the coast of India. With Sri Lanka and the Maldives, it used to be one of the prime tourist destinations. Until the war.

I’m sorry, I said. I don’t see how I can help you. These days I’m just an accountant.

Yes, Mr. Winslow. But you were not always an accountant, the man called Weeraka observed. The minister learned of you from a man named Richard Hendrix. You know him, I believe.

Yes, I said. The name brought an involuntary grin to my face. It had been a long time since I worked with Smiley Hendrix. We’d made a good team once, many years ago.

The Minister was impressed with what he heard, Weeraka continued, and he looked into your background. He has read your work on the wars in Sri Lanka and Palestine.

I chuckled bitterly under my breath. The minister had done his homework.

That was a long time ago, I said. I’m an accountant now. I don’t do peace work anymore.

The words sounded hollow, even to me. But I’d made a promise to Annie that I’d stay out of dangerous places like war zones—and I meant to keep that promise.

I understand, sir, Weeraka replied. But perhaps you would do us the honor of having tea with our minister? He will be flying into St. George at seven o’clock in the morning local time. He would very much like to speak with you.

St. George, Utah? I asked, incredulous. Why would he fly into St. George? It was an obscure airport with only two flights a day, into a small city of about a hundred thousand people.

He greatly desires to meet with you, Weeraka explained. It was the closest airport to which we could schedule a flight.

Damn, I said. I’ve told you I don’t do that kind of work anymore. I wish he’d checked with me first.

I understand that sir, said Weeraka. But had he checked with you, you would certainly have declined. He felt it better to make the trip first and ask your forgiveness later. Please, sir, meet with him. He will have come a very long way.

That was certain. The journey from Vedanta covered almost 9,000 miles, and the flight time alone was over 24 hours. As a government minister, he’d probably flown first class, but still, it was a long trip by any measure.

I sighed, checking the clock again: 4:19. I’d just have time to shower and dress before making the 90 minute drive to St. George.

Tell him I will meet him, I said, resignedly. But I am afraid he has made a very long trip for nothing.

****

I’d taken the call in the dark. Now, I quietly closed the bedroom door so as not to disturb Annie, then I turned on the kitchen light. The sudden brightness made me blink. I shook my head in an effort to think more clearly. It was not quite 4:30 in the morning. Only moments before, I’d been dead asleep, reliving frightening images of war. Now I had a long drive ahead of me, and I needed to function.

I opened the fridge, poured orange juice into a glass, and drank two large swigs straight from the bottle. Then I put a piece of bread into the toaster. While it toasted, I perused the drier for clean clothes I could wear. I found two pair of jeans and a wrinkled pair of khakis. Since I was going to meet a government Minister, I opted for the khakis and an equally-wrinkled button-down shirt. I found some clean jockey shorts and socks, hung the clothes on hangars in the bathroom, and returned to the kitchen before the bread finished toasting.

The toaster dinged, and I buttered the toast and ate it standing over the sink. I chased that with the orange juice from the glass, washed down my morning vitamins, and then tiptoed to the bathroom to brush my teeth, shave, and take a quick shower. I dressed and examined myself briefly in the mirror. The steam had taken a few wrinkles out of my clothes; they didn’t look great, but they’d do. I put on my shoes, turned off the lights, and quietly opened the bedroom door again. Annie lay sleeping peacefully. I leaned over and kissed her gently on the forehead. She sighed softly in her sleep, and I tiptoed back to the kitchen. Then I put on a jacket against the morning chill and left the house.

I’d already climbed into the car when I realized I should have left Annie a note telling her where I’d gone, since she had slept through the call and didn’t know I’d left. I scratched out a quick message on the back of a fast food receipt that had been stuffed between the seats, carried it back to the house, and put it at Annie’s place at the table—making a mental note that I’d need to call her from the road.

Chapter Two

I started the car and let it warm up for a minute. Then I opened the gate, drove the car through, and closed it again behind me. On our unlit dirt road, jackrabbits scampered in the car’s headlights. A mile down, I could see that no lights lit my neighbors’ house. They still slept—as all sane people should.

Several miles later, I turned right onto the freeway onramp. I glanced at the clock: 5:40. I was running late. I didn’t dare try to make up the time, since Highway Patrol frequented this stretch of highway day and night—often in unlikely vehicles like Mustangs and pickups. I kept my speed just a hair over the speed limit as I cruised past Paragonah, Parowan, Summit, Cedar City, and then began the long, mostly-downhill stretch that led to St. George.

My cell phone rang, this time with beethoven’s 9th Symphony. That was Annie’s ring, and I grabbed for the phone and searched for the talk button.

Where are you? she asked, her voice thick with sleepiness.

Headed for St. George, I told her. I explained about the phone call and that a government minister from Vedanta had flown in to meet with me.

Vedanta? she asked.

It’s near India, I said. He came a very long way to meet with me.

Annie said nothing for a moment. Then, suspicion in her tone, she asked, What does he want?

I’d known this would happen eventually. I had hoped to put it off until after the meeting, when I could present it to her as resolved, another crossroads behind us. But that wasn’t my luck.

He wants to talk to me about peace work, I said. I’ve already told him I don’t do that.

Then why are you meeting him? she asked. If you’re not going to do it, why meet with him at all?

I sighed. The man flew nine thousand miles to have tea with me. The least I can do is drive an hour and a half to explain why he’s going home empty handed.

Sam, she said sharply, you don’t call someone to tell them you’re not going to all them. You’re going to do this, aren’t you! she accused.

I’m not! I protested, ashamed at the defensiveness in my voice. I don’t even know what ‘this’ is, but I’m going to tell him no.

I heard her exasperated sigh, then the signal dropped out as I passed the Black Ridge, a lava-covered mountain that blocked all cell reception. I punched the off button in frustration and checked the phone: no signal. The conversation was over, at least for now.

It was 7:00 sharp and dawn was well underway as I pulled off the off ramp. They still had St. George Boulevard torn up with construction, slowing the morning traffic, and I reached the airport a few minutes late, hoping the Minister would have a sense of humor.

Fortunately, the Minister’s flight was even later. The sun had already risen well above the mountains as the passengers deplaned from the little Brazilian turboprop and crossed the tarmac to the terminal.

Minister Prabada was not difficult to spot. He was the only dark-skinned passenger on the Utah-bound flight. He strode wearily across the tarmac carrying only a valise, and he did not stop at baggage claim. His eyes scanned the terminal as he entered.

Minister, I said, approaching him with my hand outstretched. He was a small man, about five feet tall, with white hair that contrasted sharply with his coffee-colored skin. He turned and met my eyes with a pleasant gaze.

Good morning, he said, grasping my hand firmly and pumping it in greeting. You would be Mr. Winslow.

I would, I agreed. How was your flight?

Long, but uneventful, he said, smiling. Thank you for coming. Is there a place we could have tea?

Prabada had a magnetism about him that made him easy to like, and I found myself returning his smile. Perhaps you would care to join me for breakfast? I asked. I haven’t eaten yet, and I bet they didn’t feed you much on the way up.

I ate when I reached Los Angeles yesterday, he said, nodding. Breakfast would be agreeable.

I escorted the minister to the parking lot, and we took my car down the hill into town. At one of the local coffee shops, we took a corner booth with a view of the craggy red cliffs north of the city.

I have never seen anything quite like this, Prabada observed. This is called desert? he asked.

More or less, yes, I said. It’s dry enough. But it’s not the same as the Mojave Desert. This is the edge of the Rocky Mountain Plateau. It’s much more mountainous and varied.

It’s beautiful, he said. Your home is nearby?

About eighty miles north, I said. It’s much higher up, and surrounded by mountains.

Prabada shook his head. God’s work is truly wonderful, he said.

The waitress came by to take our order, and Prabada ordered tea with milk and sugar. I asked for orange juice. We both ordered eggs and hash browns.

When we were alone again, Prabada said, Thank you for meeting me.

It’s the least I could do after you traveled all this way, I replied. But as I told your assistant, I’m afraid you wasted a trip.

He smiled understandingly, as he might to a small child.

A trip is never wasted, he said. Whether you agree to help us or not, this trip will have a necessary result. We may not yet know what that will be.

I’m sure you’re right, I agreed, without much enthusiasm.

For the moment it is enough that you should meet with me and hear what I have to say, he continued. Is that acceptable to you?

Of course, Minister, I said, and found myself bowing my head slightly in deference.

My country has been at war for a long time, he said. I am old enough to remember a time before the war, but many in my country have not in their entire lives known peace. Does that surprise you?

I knew of the war, I said. In truth, I had not thought about the fact that almost two entire generations had grown up since it had begun, and I told him so.

Prabada sighed.

It is a tragedy, he said, sadly. My country is filled with tragedies. There is of course the economic cost, not only in destroyed homes and businesses, but in lost foreign investment and lost tourism. But that is the least of the tragedies. Both sides have waged war on each other, but they have also waged war on each other’s civilians. Did you know that only one third of those killed have been combatants?

I shook my head. I didn’t know that, I said. Though from what I’ve seen of war these days, that’s not unusual.

And there is a greater tragedy, he continued, his voice suddenly grave. "That is, my people, my own people, started this war. But we blame the rebels. We cannot acknowledge our guilt. And because of this the war does not end. We suffer, and we blame them. But the blood is on our own hands, for we have refused at every step to make peace.

I am not saying that the rebels are blameless, he continued. Clearly they are not. They have killed thousands of innocents. Yet they are ultimately nothing more than a reaction to our own unwillingness to make peace.

I stared at him, uncertainly. In this man’s culture, to admit fault was to lose face. A wrong must never be admitted, regardless of the cost. Yet here was one of Vedanta’s most powerful politicians admitting to me the fault of his people.

He smiled, his face suddenly lighting up.

You are surprised, he observed, to hear me speak thus.

Yes, I acknowledged.

Let me show you something, he said, reaching into his valise and extracting a small photo album. He opened it and pointed to a four-by-five glossy photo of a young boy of about five, dark and smiling, with facial features strongly resembling the man across from me.

This was my grandson, he said. This photo was taken fourteen years ago in London, when my daughter came to visit me. I was at Oxford at the time.

He turned the page and showed a formal portrait of a young man in uniform.

This was taken last year, he said. It was the last photo of my grandson that I received before he died. Not two weeks later, he was killed by a claymore mine. They sent me a photo of his body. I do not keep it in this album, but I can never forget what he looked like. His eyes grew moist as he remembered. There could be no public viewing at the funeral, he said, and left it at that.

There was a long silence, during which the waitress brought our eggs. We both sat, looking at our napkins, until the Minister suddenly snapped back to the present.

How rude of me, he said cheerfully, gesturing toward my plate. Let us eat while it is hot.

I reached for the ketchup and doused my eggs, and then we both lifted our forks. The conversation changed course as we ate. He asked after my wife, whether we had children, and why not. I asked about his family and his career.

When the waitress had cleared our plates and brought the Minister a fresh tea, he changed topics again, his face becoming grave.

So many men, he began, when confronted with the loss of a family member, swear vengeance on their enemy. I did so when I first heard the news of my grandson’s death. But do you know that women, when confronted by the same news, do not swear vengeance? Women, it seems, do not blame the enemy. They blame the war. Isn’t that odd?

He gave a sardonic smile.

I learned this from my wife and from my daughters, he continued. "When they heard my talk of vengeance, they blamed me for my grandson’s death.

At first I thought they were crazy, he said, softly. Are not all women crazy? He cast me a conspiratorial glance and laughed, bitterly.

At times they seem to be, I agreed.

But after a while, he said, my love for my family caused me to look at my own behavior. And I saw the truth in what they said. I had sworn vengeance, but when I carried out that vengeance, some man on the other side would swear vengeance at me. How would it ever end?

How indeed? I echoed.

And I had never seen that before, he said. I thank God for the wisdom of my wife and my daughters.

He sipped his tea, and I considered his words. He’d clearly undergone a transformation, and that was something I respected greatly. The essence of making peace is transforming hatred into empathy.

How many are there that think as you do? I asked.

He laughed, and again I heard his bitterness.

Too few, he said. But I will tell you something now that is known by only a handful of people in the world. The President is one of them.

President DeSilva? I asked, incredulously.

The same, he confirmed.

But wasn’t he elected on a hard-line military platform? I asked.

He was, Prabada replied. And like me, he has had a change of heart—though for his own reasons I am sure.

I contemplated that for a moment, and then Prabada continued.

I believe that at this moment, there is a better chance for peace than there has ever been since this war began. There is a window, he said, but it will not be open long.

Why not? I asked.

Prabada gestured idly.

Events will take their course, he said. War has a way of perpetuating itself. Sooner or later, there will be an attack, or an assassination, or a massacre that will make peace unthinkable once again. There is no end to this, he added, unless something changes.

I see, I said. And I did, having seen too many times in too many places the promise of peace disintegrating in a fresh outburst of violence. The dream of peace was a fragile thing, and it must be tended if it was to grow.

Will you help us? he asked.

In the silence that followed, I desperately wanted to say no. I thought of Annie, and of our dogs, our chickens and goats. I thought of the tomatoes in my garden that I had tended all summer; in a few weeks they would ripen, one of the many joys of my new life. There were clients who would be upset with me, too. A sudden trip to Asia would, in their eyes, appear irresponsible.

I thought, too, of the promise I had made to Annie before we had married. I would, I had sworn, never go into a war-torn country again. Not ever. She hadn’t asked me for that oath, but she had gladly accepted it.

And yet, above all else, I was a peacemaker at heart. I believed in the dream of peace, and that in every conflict in every country, the possibility existed.

I was not so naïve as to foresee peace breaking out across the globe. I have pity for those who believe that all peace needs is a chance, or a prayer. There will always be conflict as long as there are human beings. There is no easy answer. I’ve seen the horror of war, and it haunts my dreams. But I believe that each of those conflicts can be ended. I have worked to end them. And I have seen some successes.

Over the years, it was the pain in the eyes of the civilians that had kept me going: the children who had lost limbs, the mothers whose sons and daughters had been killed or tortured.

Now I looked in the eyes of Minister Prabada, saw his pain, and knew that I could not say no.

What do you want me to do? I asked.

Chapter Three

I called Annie from the car as I drove home, and told her I’d be packing a bag. She wasn’t happy, and I can’t say I blame her.

You said you were going to tell him no, she reminded me.

I know, I said. But I couldn’t. He believes there is a real chance to change things. I can’t say no to that. Someone has to do this.

But why you, Sam? she asked. You said you’d given this up.

I did, I said. But this is different. I struggled to find words to explain, but her question came out before I could.

How? she asked. How is it different?

I heard an accusation where there wasn’t one, and suddenly we were in an argument.

I can’t believe you, I said, hotly, in response to an equally bad-tempered comment from her. You knew what I did when we got together.

You made a promise, she shot back. You don’t do this anymore.

I can’t change who I am, I said, sullenly.

For a moment, Annie remained silent. Then she said, Let’s talk when you get home. Get your mind back on the road, and drive safe.

She always was the wiser of us, I thought.

I hung up and tried to focus on the drive and the beauty around me. The red cliffs of St. George gave way to lava-covered mountains and then tree-covered slopes as I-15 climbed from 2,500 feet of altitude to over 6,000. Cedar Valley opened up, its wide open spaces accentuated by hills in the west and mountains in the east. Then Summit, and the Parowan Valley, rimmed by mountains on three sides.

Annie and I lived near the north end of the Parowan Valley, on land covered predominantly with sagebrush. When it rained, the smell of sage filled the air, a smell I never tired of. The soil wasn’t much good for crops, but perfect for raising goats and chickens, which feasted on the natural high-desert vegetation.

We lived well out of town, with few neighbors and views like a picture postcard. The valley floor was 6,000 feet high, and the mountains above rose to over 11,000 feet. They weren’t as big as the Rockies, but they were beautiful. I wasn’t happy about leaving them, even for just a couple of weeks.

The drive had seemed interminable, my mind troubled not only with thoughts of the trip but with the knowledge that Annie was angry at me for going. I exited the freeway and drove slowly down the miles of dirt road, opened the gate to