Blue Country

By Mark Wentling

Unexpected twists and turns keep the reader guessing about what will happen next. Throughout this entertaining novel is weaved a one-way dialogue between a dying prisoner who tells repeatedly his sad story to a hungry jailhouse rat, which only lives to eat. The story moves from the death and destruction of one town to the amazing rebuilding of a new town by survivors who lived to tell the tale. The human foibles of many of the book's characters are displayed. Miracles make possible survival, love, and marriage, but evil lurks beneath the surface, and unforeseeable events determine the future of a people and their country. Heroes live and die by the hand of hidden forces beyond their control. The eyes of an innocent young man, offspring of a saintly mother who died giving birth to him, are opened to social injustices caused by an elitist power structure. The ambitions and interests of a few are pursued to the detriment of the majority. Fortunes are decided by a violent border dispute and a heated soccer match that leads to a brief war between two countries. The story begins with hopes created by salvation found in the protection of an old church and ends uncannily in the same church, where a handful of assorted protagonists find they have been given a new lease on life. Yet the question is left open as to which forces will ultimately rule: good or evil? No mention is made of the sacrifices necessary for good to triumph over evil. Will people be willing to work long and hard enough for the good of their country, or will they be guided by their own selfish interests and incapacity to understand what is really at stake? These questions and others are left to the reader to answer. Other questions remain unanswered. Will unscrupulous leaders succeed in manipulating people to support them? Is divine intervention for the good of the people possible? How many chances will good people be given to make the wrongs of society right? Will unanticipated events continue to govern the course taken by a people and their country? Which way will the wheel of time turn, and who will benefit? Nobody masters completely with certainty their destiny. Fate will be what it will be. Several readings of this book could yield some answers to these questions, but good answers to these eternal questions will continue to be beyond the grasp of mere mortals. In the end, it is up to each individual to decide whether or not their life made a positive difference that endures for generations. Or maybe this book is only an engrossing superficial story that has nothing to do with any of these heavy questions or any deeper meaning. Each reader will have to decide for themselves what this book is about.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645441052

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Blue Country

Mark Wentling

Copyright © 2019 Mark Wentling

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2019

ISBN 978-1-64544-104-5 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64544-105-2 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Dedicated to All those who Work to Make Wrongs Right

Chapter One

Doomsday

On his last day, he was happy to see the rat. Juan Eduardo de Mejia knew when the rat scampered out of its hiding place in his dark cell, the anonymous jailer would emerge from the murky shadows with his daily dash of feculent food. Juan watched how the rat deftly skirted its way around the puddles, avoiding the falling drops of water and dancing over the scummy paving stones to arrive at its usual spot next to his scabby left leg. The rat had been his faithful companion during his long months of solitary incarceration. His appreciation of the rat grew with each passing day. He felt a strong bond with the rat and wished he could trade places and enjoy the freedom the rat enjoyed. He affectionately called the rat Savior, because he believed he would have been dead long ago if it were not for the unfailing companionship of the loyal rat.

The sound of a heavy metal tray scraping the rough floor stones beneath the rusted cast-iron gate of his dank cell alerted him that his daily ration had been delivered, thus marking the passage of another day. He strained to move his emaciated body from the coarse-hewn cinder block wall at the back of his tiny cell to a place where he could reach the food tray. He made slow and painful progress as his body was weak and the seat of his pants had been shredded long ago. His exposed rear was bloody and infected from the countless times he had dragged himself from the wall to fetch his food tray or to use the nauseous pit latrine in the corner of his clammy cell.

He feebly grasped the edge of the corroded tray and slowly tugged it, in jerky stops and starts, back to his usual sitting place on a well-worn, smooth spot on the cragged pavement stones, where he could lean against the scummy wall. Savior waited patiently at his side for his meager portion of food. As his time was near its end, Juan expected better food, but it was the same as it had always been…rancid rice, moldy beans, and stale tortillas. He tried to steady his twitchy hands so he could carefully parse Savior his tiny allotment of the food. Savior had multiplied in size during the months of his dreary confinement, while he had become a mere figment of his former fit self. Savior was fat and fine with a shiny coat, while his clothes were tattered and caked with filth, and his body covered with hideous blotches and open sores. Yes, he told himself, it would be much better to be a rat. Savior, I envy and salute you.

Savior ate his fill and darted off to disappear through a jagged crack in the thick stone wall. Juan immediately longed for Savior’s return. He believed Savior was the only thing keeping him alive. He had lost track of time, and his mental capacity was fading. Perhaps he was becoming mad, but he knew that madness would not result in his escape. He needed a miracle, but he was certain he was not worthy of any divine intervention.

He often asked himself, How could I, the son of a national hero, be in such a deathly fix? In the darkness of his mucky cell, his thoughts dwelled bizarrely on his charmed childhood in the mountains above Sinoteca. The obscurity of his chilly cell was warmly illuminated when his mind’s eye focused on that sunny day long ago, when as a small boy, he was told he was the son of his famous father, Don Ernesto Tomás Mejia, who had received his country’s highest honor, the National Medal of Gyanga. The memory of all he learned about his father as he grew up burned brightly within his failing mind.

Several years before he was born, his father was among the few hundred fortunate survivors of the great Sinoteca flood of 1933. They were able to take refuge in the old Spanish Catholic Church of San Antonio before a crushing wave of water and mud had reached its full height. The rugged colonial church was the only building left standing after the cataclysmic landslide and flood destroyed the ancient community of Sinoteca. Only those inside the windowless fortresslike church survived. Except for the sturdy old church, the entire village and most of its several thousand inhabitants had been wiped off the face of the Earth. Nothing was spared. All had been lost at a time when economic depression reduced the capacity of the outside world to come to their aid.

The few hundred survivors huddled together in the center of the old church to thank God for saving them and praying for those who had perished. They knew it was only by the grace of God they were still alive. God had saved them by protecting His place of worship from the devastation caused by an unseen landslide in a distant mountain valley that had created a natural dam across the Limpini River. A historic rainfall of twenty-five inches in less than twenty-four hours caused this dam to burst, unleashing a towering wall of rushing water, earth, rocks, and debris that flattened everything in its path. In a flash in the middle of a bright, sunny day, the thriving border town of Sinoteca was extinguished. Several centuries of growth and progress were erased in a matter of minutes.

The survivors were asking themselves many questions. Mostly, they wanted to know why God had spared them the deathly fate of their friends and family members. Why had they been saved and not their neighbors? They were overwhelmed by the miracle they had experienced and the saintly reality of the holy ground on which they were now standing. They turned to the most respected man in the community, Don Ernesto, for answers. Ernesto had been born and raised in Sinoteca. He was a brilliant student who had won a full scholarship to study medicine at the national university in the distant capital city. The young Ernesto had recently graduated and returned to Sinoteca to serve as its physician. He was also actively involved in politics, serving as the local head of the dominant political party.

With much anguish in their hearts, everyone gaped at Ernesto, waiting for him to say something. In a soft but purposeful voice, the always eloquent Ernesto asked for God’s guidance as he uttered as firmly as he could, We must make our resolve stronger than our despair. God has saved us for a reason. I believe that reason is to build a bigger and better community. We must do this to honor all those who are no longer with us. Let us begin as soon as we can by giving decent burials to all our brethren who perished.

Their will to live suffered a terrible blow when they stepped outside the church into a light drizzle. Everything they had lived for and all they needed to survive was absent in a nightmarish scene that revolted their senses. It took great courage to look at the absolute ruin that surrounded them. What was once a familiar, lively town full of friends and family was now a muddy dump yard mess of debris and smashed fragments of buildings, trees, and animal and human remains. All that had been familiar had suddenly become ugly and unfamiliar. This ghastly scene prompted a wretched wailing that only comes from broken hearts. The sickening sight caused some people to swoon and faint. Ernesto felt the same pain but forced himself to take charge and inspire people not to lose hope. He intuitively knew he had to do all he could to instill among his fellow survivors a strong will to live.

Ernesto organized all the able-bodied people into search crews and sent them in different directions to look for survivors, gather information, and collect anything they could use to get them through the night and the bleak days ahead. They knew outside help would be slow to come because the capital city was three days away by unimproved mountainous roads, and they did not have an airstrip. Their best hope hinged on being rescued by people coming from a nearby neighboring country. Sinoteca was located a few miles from the border with Eilagua, and its capital city of Santa Maria was only a couple of hours away by paved road. Many of the inhabitants of Sinoteca originated from Eilagua, and they hoped their relatives would come to their aid.

Most of those sent out to search for provisions were troubled to be obligated to return empty-handed. They said they needed tools to dig through the heavy layers of mud and debris to recover anything. One teenage boy was welcomed like a hero because he had been able to retrieve a partial bag of rice from the tattered top branches of the giant La Ceiba tree that towered as a lone survivor in what was once the town square. Ernesto embraced the boy, but his rising emotional state was dampened by thoughts of how they would cook the rice.

Ernesto raised his voice to ask if anyone had matches. One elderly man reached deeply into his pants pocket to fish out a small leather pouch that contained a few matches. He rushed to show Ernesto this precious find. Upon seeing the lifesaving matches, Ernesto instructed the men to begin ripping apart two church pews. He wished the Spanish priest was with them, but he had been washed away as he rushed out to call frantically for people to take refuge in the church. He explained this destructive sacrilege of church property by saying forthrightly, God wants us to live, and the only way we can survive is to use his pews to cook the food we are able to scavenge.

Ravenous survivors wasted no time in dismantling and splintering into jagged pieces a couple of pews. Several men had fled their homes with their trusty machetes and used them to chop the old hardwood into the proportions needed to make a cooking fire. The legs of the pews and the machetes were used to remove the pavement stones and dig out a hole in the middle of the church’s floor. The stones removed were arranged to support the kettles found in the church’s small storerooms. Communion chalices were found in the sacristy to dip Holy Water from the two marble fonts located in the front vestibule. Trash cans were used to collect water dripping from the church’s sky-high leaky roof. Silver plates normally used for sharing the body of Christ were employed to serve cooked rice. Strands of straw from shorthand brooms were removed and crumbled to start the fire. All the people gathered around to observe the big moment when Ernesto carefully lit a match, cautiously cupping it in his steady brown hand. He then placed it next to the broomcorn kindling and delicately puffed into life the tiny flames that would ignite a crackling cooking fire.

As the flames darted upward, the people faintly clapped and quietly sang praises to God. The rice was boiled, and people took turns in scooping up a handful of this sustenance from the antique communion plates. The elderly, the sick, and the children were the first to eat. Ernesto made sure everyone had at least a few bites of soggy rice before he took his measly share.

Night’s dark shroud was falling quickly around them. Votive candles were lit from the dying fire embers. Before they fell asleep on the church’s hard stone floor, Ernesto caught the attention of everyone by standing abruptly bolt upright. His usual stately countenance had been unchanged by the catastrophe. His light brown complexion glistened in the candlelight. His well-trimmed mustache and suave full head of black hair somehow made him look larger than his strong but short stature. All eyes focused on him when, in a deliberate motion, he made the sign of the cross and said in a prayerful tone, Everyone should get some rest. We’ll need all our strength tomorrow to search for what we need to survive another day. Let us all pray for God’s help and all our brothers and sisters who are lost forever. May God guide and protect us and bring us a better tomorrow. I wish you all a good night. Amen.

His fellow survivors responded in unison, Amen.

Chapter Two

Mariposa Miracle

Ernesto rapidly rubbed his face to stop the feathery irritation of falling cobweb fragments that insisted on disturbing his sleep. He repeatedly brushed lightly his face with his smooth physician’s hands, but the sensation of spider residue descending on him from the high rafters of the church did not dissipate. At last, he could not take this persistent nuisance any longer.

He grudgingly opened fully his sleepy eyes to try to see the source of his unrelenting aggravation. In the obscurity of the church’s drafty vastness, he could barely perceive fluffy particles floating through the many cracks and holes in the damaged roof. His heart sank because his annoyed eyes told him the source of his disturbance was ashes that had been ejected high into the sky by an explosive eruption of nearby Gyanga volcano. He asked himself why a volcano that had lain dormant for decades would explode at this time to add to their extreme misery. He mumbled silently to himself, Oh, God. What have we done to deserve yet another killer calamity? A mighty landslide and disastrous flood, were they not enough? Do you want us all dead?

As apocalyptic visions stormed into his tired head, morning began to break, and the first dazzling rays of sunlight penetrated through the myriad of apertures left by missing and broken red clay roof tiles. Then he saw what had really roused him. Fluttering through the air, darting up and down and to and fro, were hundreds of majestic monarch butterflies. Such a miraculous sight caused tears of happiness to stream over his high cheekbones. He was overjoyed that it was not a destructive volcanic eruption, but the promising sign of butterflies. He began to laugh loudly as if he were mad. His howling laughter stirred his fellow survivors from their slumber. By this time, streaming beams of sunshine had lit brightly the interior of the church, allowing all to see the miracle of the mariposas.

People dropped to their knees to thank God for this glorious sign of his divine intervention. Each passing butterfly raised their hopes of living to tell the tale of their survival. Ernesto beckoned to several men to assist him with opening the hefty mahogany front doors of the church. They slid from its cast-iron brackets the heavy board that secured the door and pushed open its two weighty wings to reveal an unexpected sight. In the bright light of the early morning day, lying before them as far as the eye could see was a dense orange carpet of butterflies. Everything was covered by a fluttering blanket of butterflies. The heart-wrenching ugliness of their devastated environs was now hidden beneath a charming cosmetic layer of their sparkling glow. For them, it was clear that God was expressing His sorrow for their suffering and promising He would not allow such a catastrophe to happen to their community again. The awestruck group crowded onto the cobblestone steps of the church to observe the amazing splendor of the scene stretched out before them. Their eyes could not cease to feast on the magical sunlit crust of golden wings that gilded the land.

Their praises to God and constant crossing of themselves were rudely interrupted by the sudden and teeth-rattling sound of repeated gunshots. The noisy bursts of gunfire startled the butterflies and sent them flying speedily skyward in a swirling flurry of beating wings. The rapt people watched as the butterflies soared rapidly upwards to disappear into their secret hiding place in heaven. The people believed the butterflies had returned to the place where God tended to them. They wished they could leave their wrecked lives to join the butterflies and fly away to be with God forever. Just as the last blessed butterfly was out of sight, the ear-popping rudeness of scary gunshots was heard again.

Rounding the corner of the thick western wall of the robust church was a group of men covered in mud yelling in a delightful refrain their joy at finding some survivors. The excited men trudged through and around heaps of debris and mud to reach the spellbound group of church refugees. By the time they reached the front steps of the church, the people they were ecstatic about helping were all on their knees thanking God for sparing them. As the exhausted men stepped hesitantly onto the steps with wobbly legs, the motley group of ragtag survivors rose to embrace them emotionally as tears poured from their eyes, and they cried as loud as they could, repeating a litany of Hosannas and Hallelujahs. After this initial contact, a cacophony of a dozen conversations ensued as each person excitedly expressed thankfulness over being saved while describing their wretched ordeal.

When the excitement began to diminish, Don Ernesto raised his voice and called everyone to order by saying, We thank God for these men who have sacrificed to come from a village in our neighboring country to aid any survivors in our ruined town. I think it best that we do not lose any more time and listen to how these men plan to help us.

One man named José was among the seven men who had struggled to walk many miles overland to reach their town. José stepped forward and said, We also thank God for giving us the strength to arrive here among you, and we give Him all the thanks for enabling us to find survivors after such a horrendous catastrophe. The first thing we should do is make sure any sick and hungry are given attention. We are carrying in our backpacks some medical supplies and food items. The big challenge will be walking with you through rough terrain the almost three miles to the nearest road. We may have to wait and leave early tomorrow morning.

Ernesto immediately intervened, What about the others? Surely there are some others who survived.

With his head hanging low, José solemnly said, So far, we haven’t found any others who survived. More search parties are coming, and maybe they will find other survivors. So far, it appears the only people who survived are those who were able to take refuge in the church. It is only by following the butterflies that we found you.

There was a stony silence as Ernesto and his people absorbed the magnitude of the stunning news of being the only survivors. They felt lost in a sea of unimaginable misery where all reasons for living had evaporated. They drew blanks as they tried to see a way forward. There was nothing left for them to live for and nowhere for them to go. Life was no longer worth living. All they knew and lived for was gone. Their past, present, and future had been washed away with all that was precious to them.

José and his six courageous comrades sensed the deep depression of those they had come to rescue. Tears wetted their eyes as they tried to console the living victims of an unprecedented natural disaster. These seven men were near collapse and caked with mud, but they called upon their physical reserves to come to the aid of a severely battered group of people. José spoke softly, I know you are suffering from your great loss and your painful circumstances, but I believe God has saved you for a reason. Please, allow us to help you survive and build new lives for yourselves. Let’s go inside the church and discuss what we should do next.

The people slowly turned to enter the church. José and his men removed their muddy boots and walked on weak legs into