The Hyena Man: Horn of Africa Suspense Series Book One

By Scott Douglas Martell

High in the Ethiopian mountains, a sorcerer known as the Hyena Man concocts a devilish plan to destroy a Christian charity…

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543981148

Book preview

Copyright 2020 Scott Douglas Martell

All Rights Reserved

Print ISBN 978-1-54398-113-1

eBook ISBN 978-1-54398-114-8

Cover and Book Design: BookBaby

Editor: Iola Goulton, Christian Editing Services

Readers: I’m grateful for the many people who read portions of this book while in progress, specifically members of American Christian Fiction Writer’s 211 Scribes group. Other readers helped fine-tune this book while reading all or parts of the manuscript, including Joyce Hearl, Barbara Slauter, Bete Demeke, N. Quinn, Cathy Maxwell, Joy Salmon, Daniel Kocuj, Jillian Sturm Moshay, and Gigi Haile. I’m grateful to all. It shows that a novel is best when it springs from a community, rather than a single soul. Of course I am fully responsible for any errors in text, thought, and implementation.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Project Mercy, Ethiopia (projectmercy.org) and its founders—two of the most godly people I’ve ever known, who fiercely forged ahead against all obstacles to achieve success in Yetebon, Ethiopia. This book also honors the project’s Ethiopian and foreign staff, teachers, volunteers, students, and supporters worldwide—all who’ve made this charity a light on the mountaintop.

And this book is dedicated to my first granddaughter, Rylynn Elizabeth Cook, blessed daughter of Willow and Nathan Cook of Portland, Oregon.

Author’s Note: I was blessed to serve a total of thirteen years in mercy missions work in Ethiopia. While the general background for this story comes from my experiences, I deliberately changed many things: from physical settings, to the people involved. Some of the stories may be reflective of some of the experiences of the people I met, but they are a compilation of many people’s experiences. Nevertheless, I hope I’ve honored their service to God through including their stories.

To Ethiopian brothers and sisters: Ethiopia culture, history and the emotion they bring forth are poignant in the hearts and minds of Ethiopians. Despite living in Ethiopia from 2006 to 2018, and marrying an Ethiopian, I can hardly say I deeply know your country or people. This is simply a story of love and redemption. If I didn’t portray any aspect of your amazing country’s story right, I ask for your forgiveness and grace.

S

cott Douglas Martell

Scott is a writer (scottdouglasmartell.com), coach (thejoyquest.com) and teacher. He and his wife, Gigi, operate a charity in Ethiopia ( empowering-ethiopia.com ) that focuses on helping children and families. God called Scott to Ethiopia in 2006 to serve as a teacher for Project Mercy in Yetebon Village in the Gurage Mountains of southern Ethiopia ( projectmercy.com ). This novel series springs out of that blessed time in an amazing organization, in a beautiful place. Scott served from 2006-2018 in Ethiopia, and now teaches in Vietnam. Please sign up for Scott’s monthly newsletter at scottdouglasmartell.com. The newsletter has short links to his stories about the writing life, Ethiopia, Vietnam (next fiction series) and the pursuit of happiness, Scott’s blog that focuses on brain and heart health (thejoyquest.com).

Maps illustrated by: Tran Thi Hoai Thong

Maps illustrated by: Tran Thi Hoai Thong

"How else but through a broken heart

May Lord Christ enter in?"

- Oscar Wilde

The sun sets into the Gurage Mountains

Prologue

Gurage Mountains

Ethiopian Highlands

Abby stumbled down the dark, rocky slope. She stopped, gasping for breath. Glancing behind her, she saw the fire had engulfed the wooden walls of St. Mariam’s Church. Flames exploded, writhing like a living inferno, stretching fiery fingers toward the Orthodox Christian cross atop the round building.

Abby turned and lurched into the mountain darkness. Other than the fire’s hellish light, only a sickle-shaped moon and pinprick stars provided illumination over the mountain range that towered over Ethiopia’s Rift Valley escarpment.

Heart pounding in her chest, she struggled to keep pace with Jemal, following his shadowy form and wheezing breath. A rock tripped her, and she flapped her arms like a wounded bird to keep herself from falling. Don’t be a clumsy teenager now, girl!

A hyena’s cry pierced the night. Abby forced herself into a trot, as if the hounds of hell yapped at her heels

It can’t be him! Jemal mumbled, just loud enough for her to hear.

Abby grunted, trying not to show fear. How long would it be until the Hyena Man discovered they weren’t climbing back to the cave after finishing their assignment to burn the church?

Abby focused on the lights of Butajira, far down the Rift Valley escarpment. In town, they’d sneak into the back of a long-haul truck heading to Addis Ababa, 130 kilometers away. They could lose themselves amongst the thousands of children living on the streets, huddling under bridges at night, roaming city streets during the day. They’d be free. Free from the dark cave where they served an evil sorcerer, the Hyena Man. Free, with no more fear.

God, Lord Jesus, help us escape. Abby pressed her hands together in a prayer but quickly drew them apart to retain her balance.

Allah, help us, Jemal chanted under his breath.

A red light flashed in the sky, an airplane headed north to Addis Ababa. She stopped and took a deep breath. Jemal stopped and slid closer to Abby.

Jemal, you okay? Abby tried to see his eyes.

Yeah. His voice rasped in the darkness.

We can do this. By dawn we’ll be hiding in a truck on the way to Addis Ababa.

I … hope so. Jemal’s voice cracked.

Her hand tingled. Fear? Or exhaustion? She clenched her fist. We can do this.

Yeah.

Come on, Jemal. Take a deep breath. Come on!

Yes, big sister!

His tone was sarcastic, and Abby knew he’d be okay. He was joking. All the Hyena Man’s students were forced to call each other brother and sister. He expected them to be one big family of budding warriors for his cause—not the cause of Islam, as their parents had been told. They thought he was a mystic healer blessed by Allah, and they were chosen children, honored to study under him.

Big joke.

I love you, little brother. Abby shook her head. But one thing I won’t do is claim your father as mine. I’d rather stay an orphan.

Jemal stood silently. Had Abby offended him? And was she really an orphan? That’s what the Hyena Man had told her when she’d gained consciousness five years ago, lying on a dirty blanket in the dark cave. He said Abby’s parents had died in a house fire, and the Hyena Man had saved her. He’d showed her his hands, burned red and blistering. Truth or lie? Weeks of her memory had been erased—drugs? She vaguely remembered being on a plane, flying back to Ethiopia with her mom and dad … Well, they weren’t really her mom and dad—after all, they were white, with fair hair. But they wanted to take care of her, like a mom and dad. What had happened?

Wheezing sounded behind her. Jemal was taking her advice and inhaling deep breaths. The heavy breathing stopped. Once upon a time my father was okay. He was my daddy. Now he’s Mayor Shemsu. A different person.

Abby nodded in the darkness. Keep going, my friend. If I get tired, you’re going to have to carry me.

Yeah. Sure, Jemal muttered as he began to walk downhill.

Abby’s feet crunched on the loose gravel. She took a quick look behind her, and then turned back to focus on their goal, the beckoning town lights far down the mountain.

Jemal, do you think the townspeople can see the fire? she whispered, as if someone might hear her voice in the vast darkness. She shook her head. Took a deep breath.

It’s late.

But they have lights down there. Restaurants. Bars.

Maybe, Jemal muttered. He slipped on a patch of lose soil. Whoa!

You okay? Abby asked. The sloping land now turned into furrows of roughly plowed ground. She slowed.

I’m good. We better move faster. You okay with that?

I’d be better if we had a helicopter. Abby grinned when Jemal giggled under his breath.

Yeah, right. Jemal jogged away, his form a bouncing shadow in the night.

They ran past a cluster of three dark huts. Smoke from cooking fires lingered in the air.

No one is going to see us, that is for sure, Abby gasped.

There are all inside, with their cows, sheep and goats, safe from hyenas. When he said the word hyena, they both slowed and reached out to hold each other’s hands.

He must know by now, Abby whispered.

Yes, he must. He’s probably coming down the mountain. Jemal tightened his grip.

Come on. Let’s go faster, Abby said.

The cry of a hyena again echoed from far up the mountain. Abby shuddered. She squeezed Jemal’s hand. "These farmers don’t know some hyenas have two legs.

Jemal grunted. At least one, anyway.

Abby nodded in the dark. Come on. We’re almost to the hospital road. From there, we’ll get to town fast.

Jemal let go of Abby’s hand. Let’s go!

His breathing was now strong, like a marathon runner. Abby clenched her fist. She jogged down the mountain, not worrying when their breathing began to wheeze loudly. Abby focused on a lurching run.

Jemal tripped, crashed to the ground, and screamed in pain.

Jemal? Abby slid to a stop.

He lay on the ground, moaning.

Abby. Abby. Jemal thrashed about, holding his leg tightly.

It’s ... let me… Abby bent down and felt his leg. She gagged. Bone stuck out of his shin, below the knee—a compound fracture.

Ahh! Abby!

The call of a hyena echoed from a ravine, much closer than the previous howl.

He’s coming. Can’t you hear him?

A gulp of air stayed trapped in her lungs. She forced herself to exhale and inhale another deep breath. Let me help you get up. I can help you walk.

Jemal took a hand away from his fractured bone and squeezed Abby so hard it hurt her. No. He’s coming! Leave me!

Abby tried to lift his leg.

Jemal screamed. Stop. Look at you, girl. You can’t carry me down the mountain.

Jemal was big for his age, as tall as Abby. She stared at him. I’ll never leave you. We must try.

If you get away, all of this will be worth it. He pointed up the mountain.

Never!

Allah will protect me. That beast, he knows my father checks on me. He needs my father’s silence. So he won’t do anything to me. But you! He’ll devour you. Go! Go! Save yourself.

I can’t … Abigail started sobbing. I can’t.

You must. You must! Otherwise he’ll kill you right here, and I’ll never rest. I am safe. You know this is the truth. Maybe you can help me later, somehow. Please dearest friend, I beg of you, go.

***

The Hyena Man stood behind an acacia tree whose roots clawed into the slanting escarpment. The girl bolted by, unaware of his presence. She looked back, tripped over a rock, then rose like a wounded lamb. He watched as she stumbled down the mountain. A burst of laughter gurgled like a geyser from deep in his belly until it burst from his throat and echoed in the mountains.

He took a deep breath to calm down. His plan was underway. After it came to fruition—with a Christian charity condemned for child trafficking—he’d take care of the girl.

Now, that boy … He hadn’t expected him to join in the girl’s escape. The boy’s father would have sent him scooting right back to the mountain school. The girl was the seed to destroy the Christians. She was the important one.

The spirits were having fun, showing him that he, the Hyena Man, wasn’t in total control of everything.

He loped across the slope.

Jemal, it’s your friendly witch doctor on a house call. Or, should I say, a field call. The Hyena Man laughed as he crouched down over the boy. He panted softly, like a hyena. The boy tried to scoot back but cried out in pain.

Fell and hurt yourself, did you? He stood back up tall on his two feet and bellowed out the hyena’s hunting cry. The eerie sound echoed down the mountain.

Your little friend knows I’m with you now. Good! She must feel guilty. She must feel worthless and alone. Thank you, Jemal.

The boy’s lips quivered.

Good job on burning that church. An eruption of laughter boiled up his body. Your father, the unworthy Mayor Shemsu, would be proud—at least about burning the church. But if he knew you were really rebelling against me, he’d likely do this! The Hyena Man reached out and slapped Jemal across the face.

Jemal moaned and turned his face to the dirt.

The Hyena Man moved in closer. "I’m sorry. I can’t hear you. What do you have to say for yourself?

Jemal put his arms in front of his face. Take me to my father. Take me to him, please.

Can’t do that. He chuckled.

Jemal lay silently, not moving.

"Your parents expect all of you children to become mighty servants of Allah. And you will be. You’ll be my Hashishin, just like the first assassins from the mountains of Persia. I’ll be your prophet, the new Hasan-i Sabbah, and you will serve me. And Allah, of course. He grinned his well-practiced hyena smile and gestured to the looming mountains. And this will be my Alamut! Or something like that… Come, get up!"

The boy was still.

What, can’t you move? He bent over and felt Jemal’s leg, then tried to pull him into a standing position. Jemal screamed.

Just a little broken bone. Be a man, boy! He pulled him harder. Jemal screamed again. The boy was a dead weight, no movement at all.

Passed out on me, have you? Should leave you for a hyena. They are smelling the blood, just as I smelled it. You smell good, boy.

He turned around and whistled a shrill two-beat call. A loud crunching sound echoed in the darkness, the sound of someone running. A hulking boy materialized out of the night.

Come on, Hailu. Move it. You’re going to have to carry your little friend back to the cave. Let’s go!

Hailu picked up Jemal and slung him over his shoulder.

The Hyena Man stared at the sliver of a moon. He took a deep breath, preparing a victorious howl. Then he sighed and shook his head. Focus. Be serious. Call the mayor. Have the police capture Abby and put her in that Christian orphanage, and watch it explode.

Then he could howl and dance and party all night.

Chapter One

Gergi neighborhood

Addis Ababa, Ethiopia

David Tesfaye turned his head and flashed a quick glance down the road.

Three boys followed him through the Addis Ababa neighborhood where he’d grown up. He stopped and put his hands on his hips, tightening his lips, and squinting in an attempt to look mean.

The boys stared at David. One carried a small gasoline container. Then, one by one, they hopped over a waist-high fence into a small park where an acacia tree spread its gnarly limbs. The boys sprawled under the tree. Two hovered over the container, one putting a towel over his head while the other edged close until it was his turn. The third boy, wearing a checkered shirt, looked at David and shrugged. He had light skin, clear eyes, and a small mole to the side of his left eye.

So much had changed since David was a young boy, playing on these same streets. He wasn’t that much older than these boys when he’d been given a rifle and told to be a fearless soldier. When that army had been crushed, he’d been beaten and imprisoned. He’d fled the country, promising never to return.

That was almost thirty years ago.

Two of the boys staggered to their feet and stumbled to the road. The third boy put his hands in his pockets and strolled behind them. Was this the new Ethiopia, homeless boys sniffing gas at dawn? David picked up his pace. It is what it is. Leave it.

He had one goal: fulfill his familial duty in Ethiopia, then return to London, a faceless man under an umbrella, reveling in fog and solitude.

A picture flashed into David’s mind of his mother hugging him at the airport just a few short weeks ago. She’d sobbed and called him Yonathan, his dead brother’s name. Then she’d peered into his eyes. Oh, oh! It’s not Yonathan. It’s the King! She’d chuckled. My King David. Oh, my son. My handsome son. His mother wept, tears splattering David’s chest, fingers clawing into his back. He held her tightly, a woman he hardly knew, becoming even more elusive as Alzheimer’s erased her past.

He glanced behind him. No boys.

He inhaled the high mountain air, spiced with the sweet scent of acacia flowers. Black-winged lovebirds darted past, diving over a wall and into a compound where mango trees promised a sweet feast. He heard the familiar loud, raucous "haa-haa haa-haa of a small flock of wattled ibis soaring overhead. Some things never changed. He remembered sitting on his father’s lap, listening to stories. Those birds are going out for breakfast, but tonight they’ll return to guard Emperor Haile Selassie at the National Palace." The emperor had been murdered long ago, but the birds kept flying. That tale was one of the few memories he had of his father. His face was a blur, a memory from the family photo album.

David power walked out of his old neighborhood and onto an asphalt road that led to the international airport. Few vehicles disturbed his daily exercise this early in the morning.

He turned and looked back up the road. There they were again. The three boys crossed the road, heads down, stumbling towards a small grove of trees on the edge of a massive field. Was that where they slept?

Father. Father. One birr. One birr. A little girl ran up to him, wearing a ragged, dirty dress, her hair in tangles, and eyes sparkling like stars. She smiled and held out her hand for money.

A young woman, wrapped with a dirty country-style shawl, sat with her back against a streetlight pole, a baby at her breast. The little girl’s mother? Put the mother in clean and elegant clothes and she could be a fashion model. They’d probably slept in the field.

God will provide. David shook his head, lips pursed. They shouldn’t have fled the countryside, where the food was grown. But many thought they’d find a better life in the city. Others fled horror at home: rape, abuse, enslavement.

Father. Father. One birr. The girl laughed, flashing her sparkling eyes.

God will provide. He put on his most stern expression. She was too young to understand what she was doing. So beautiful, so innocent. He felt an urge to hug her, hold her. But he kept his expression emotionless.

Only one birr, Father. One birr. The girl kept smiling. To David, it seemed she treated begging as a game and getting a coin was like scoring a football goal.

One birr? David asked.

One birr, Father, okay?

David reached into his pocket and felt a paper bill—a ten birr note. It might buy a banana and a piece of bread. When he was a child, it would have paid for good food for several days. He took the note out and gave it to the girl. Okay. Give it to your mother.

She hid the note in her front pocket and ran to her mother, shaking her head.

David watched the girl. She