This Thing of Darkness (Second Edition)

By D.J. Mitchell

After an unexpected tragedy, Sam Winslow finds himself questioning his purpose in life. He leaves his accounting job in Los Angeles to work for peace in Sri Lanka. His quest to understand the war leads him to the jungles of Sri Lanka's no man's land. Teamed with his whimsical yet cynical roommate, Richard Hendrix, they are soon joined by an unlikely team consisting of a serious-minded priest and a wisecracking rabbi. But all is not as it seems, and no one wants the truth known. Their greatest challenge lies ahead as exploding violence threatens their lives and their sanity.

Based on an actual journey the author made while working for peace in Sri Lanka, This Thing of Darkness is more than a travelogue. It explores the roots of war, and suggests that what Sam Winslow learns in Sri Lanka can be applied to many conflicts in the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.J. Mitchell
• Release date: Aug 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311776532

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.

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This Thing of Darkness

D. J. Mitchell

Copyright 2015 by D. J. Mitchell

Published by Jackrabbit Prose, Inc.

Paragonah, Utah

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine. —William Shakespeare, The Tempest

Chapter One

What led me to this place? I often wonder what my life might have been like had I spurned the urge to wander from the beaten track. Would I have taken up architecture, like my dad, or business or engineering? Would I sit in a cubicle with a computer screen contending in never-ending combat, seeking to master a tireless stream of data all my days?

Instead, I stare out a glassless window at swaying coconut palms while the first rain of the monsoon gathers in rivers on the street below. An old man, the color and texture of prunes, pulls his worn sarong up around his hips and wades where we both know a sidewalk ought to be.

It’s coming down good, says Richard, grinning at the monsoon outside.

Yep, I agree, glancing at him. So why are you smiling?

It’s just my nature, he says, grimness passing briefly across his eyes. With so much ugliness, a person has to find joy where he can.

You think that guy finds joy in the rain? I ask, gesturing toward the lone wader, now halfway down the block.

I would say, Richard speculates, that an old man like that finds joy in a cup of tea and a dry bed at the end of the day. He probably lost a day’s pay because of this weather-which is what, a dollar? And I find joy in the fact that I wasn’t born in this God-forsaken place where I might well have ended up like him. I’m here by choice. And so are you.

I sigh. Richard Hendrix-don’t call him Dick-manages to be whimsical, optimistic, profound, and cynical, all at the same time. His constant smile barely masks a deep bitterness at life. And though I’ve known him nearly a year, he has given me few clues about its source.

Richard and I are about as close as two heterosexual men can be. We share a small flat in Dehiwela, on the outskirts of Colombo, the capital of Sri Lanka. Technically, the capital was moved a few years ago to Sri Jayawardenapura where the Parliament meets, but for practical purposes Colombo remains the capital city. It houses the government bureaucracy, military and police headquarters, the President’s palace, the central bank, and the nation’s three shopping malls.

Richard and I are the only two Americans in our neighborhood. We eat together, socialize together, chase women together, and occasionally drink together. To make matters worse, we work together, too. It’s almost like marriage, but without the sex. According to Richard, that’s not a divergent characteristic, though he denies that his failed marriage is the source of his bitterness.

Keep your sense of humor, Winslow, he tells me now. A man who loses that has lost everything. It used to annoy me that he used my surname instead of my given name, Sam, but in a country filled with annoyances, I find Richard’s idiosyncrasies increasingly irrelevant.

Yeah, it’s just a laugh a minute here, I mutter. If it’s not snipers and bombs, it’s aid workers being found dead in a village and newspaper editors being hauled off in white vans for a good beating.

Hendrix grins again. See, there you go, he says, gesticulating. Looking at the worst of everything. Did we not have a fabulous meal last night at a hidden gem on the Galle Road?

I make a sour face. That was the worst food I’ve eaten in weeks, I retort.

Exactly, he replies, grinning some more. And the place was packed. The whole neighborhood was clamoring to eat lousy food. Which means you and I have been eating better than average every night.

After a year of eating nothing but Sinhalese food, interrupted only by an occasional curry-flavored pizza, I am bored to tears with the cuisine. It’s rice and curry, often three times a day. And it’s the same curries over and over: various local vegetables in a yellow coconut sauce, along with fish in a red sauce, served over ubiquitous starchy, short-grained rice. I grimace, just thinking about the inevitability of tonight’s dinner, and change the subject.

So what time do we leave tomorrow? I ask him.

Early, he says. Let’s get something to eat, and then get some sleep.

We should wait for the rain to let up, I suggest.

I watch the rain outside for a few more minutes. Now that the old man has passed from sight, the street is empty. There are no pedestrians, and no three-wheeled tuk-tuks.

Eventually, the rain slows. Gradually the water runs off and the sidewalks become visible again. An old man leads a buffalo along the pavement, pulling a cart on which is mounted a steel tank. I guess that it is filled with coconut oil, but I’m not sure.

Shall we? I ask Richard.

He glances out the window.

It’s not likely to get better than this, he observes.

We each grab our umbrellas. At the door, Richard puts on a pair of sneakers, while I slip into my Birkenstock sandals. I prefer them to closed-toed shoes, especially during the rains.

Outside, the rain has almost stopped. The air is heavy and wet, but cooler than it’s been in months. Sri Lanka has three seasons. This rain marks the end of the hot season and the beginning of the wet one. I’m grateful for the change. I hail from the dry climate of Southern California, and I hate the hot, humid weather that spans the first five months of the year.

We walk down the side street to the Galle Road, half a block away from our apartment.

Let’s take a bus into Colombo and eat something different, I suggest.

Richard turns his head to look at me.

You’re letting this place get to you, he says.

I don’t know if I’m letting it, I reply. But it’s definitely getting to me. Let’s go to that Tamil place in Bambalapitiya.

Richard stares at me a moment, and then nods.

Tamil it is, he agrees.

Sri Lanka’s two largest ethnic groups are the Sinhalese, which comprise 70% of the country, and the Tamils, which compose another 18%. Most of the southern part of the country is dominated by Sinhalese. All the restaurants in our neighborhood serve Sinhalese food. Every one has the same menu. There are subtle variations in cooking style, but for the most part, it’s all the same. I’m tired of it.

At the Galle Road, we stand at the bus stop for only a few seconds before a noisy Tata bus pulls up, brakes screeching. We climb in, squeezing into the mass of people already on board.

Bambalapitiya, I tell the conductor. Two.

I hold up two fingers in case he doesn’t understand English.

The trip costs only a few rupees. But it doesn’t include a seat. I am mashed in a cluster of teenage boys who seem to find my presence amusing.

Ten minutes later, we get off at the Majestic City stop. Majestic City is Sri Lanka’s version of a mall. It’s pricey, and the food they serve there is Sinhalese.

We turn away from the mall and cross the street. There, in a dirty storefront, is the restaurant: Sri Krishna Vilas. It doesn’t look like much. The front is open, allowing people and bus fumes in and out freely. Inside are a dozen or so tables, all covered in filthy white tablecloths. We’re early, so there is plenty of seating. We grab a table by the wall.

The menu is printed on a board hanging on the wall across from us. It is in Tamil and Sinhala languages. Neither of us knows Tamil. Between the two of us, we could probably figure out the Sinhala. But we know what we want.

Chapatti, Richard says, when the waiter approaches.

"Iddly, I tell him. And Coke."

"Dekai," Richard adds. Two.

Neither of us cares to drink the water, which is served in small glasses. The glasses are refilled between customers. They are not washed. When I first arrived, I found that disgusting. Now, I don’t give it a second thought, it’s just part of how they do things here. I still don’t care to drink from pre-used glasses, and soda only costs a few cents.

The food comes quickly. Richard’s is potato curry sandwiched between two fried flatbreads. Mine is a lentil and rice steamed dumpling accompanied by spicy sambar, which is almost like a soup.

Another waiter comes by to offer us chutney, which he dishes up with a spoon from two steel buckets. One is red, the other green. They are both hot enough to make my eyes water.

Nevertheless, I nod. I love Tamil chutney. So does Richard. This is a rare treat for us. These past few weeks, even taking the crowded bus into the city has seemed too exhausting to contemplate, so we rarely eat outside our own neighborhood anymore.

Tonight, I savor the spicy food and let out a contented sigh.

Delicious, I murmur.

It hits the spot, Richard agrees.

We eat in silence for a time.

As I pop the last bite of idly in my mouth, I nod, contentedly. Yet I can’t think about how delicious this is without also remembering how bored I am with Sinhalese food. I would give anything right now for some frozen yogurt for dessert, but that’s not available in Sri Lanka.

Do you miss home? I ask Richard.

Home? he repeats, contemplating the question as he uses his fingers to mash up some chapatti and potato and