Sacrificial Hope--A Martyr's Tale

A fictional example of holding to beliefs in difficult circumstance.

   Rain spattered inconsistently in the hazy grey-blue of the lush countryside. Rotting wood held the facade of fencing, but the splintering was obvious. A simple tree, holding stained fruit, sighed with exhaustion, welcoming the rain with a sad breath. Ryan stepped with delicacy in fading prior footsteps, her monotonous converse shoes indenting the bare footprints. She walked on slowly, though usually loving the feel of each step and release, this time she was in a damp atmosphere of whispering nothing. She stopped when she came to a rounded fork in the muddy path called a road, staring up at the tree she saw from far away. The orange of the peaches were darkened, the mushy fruit chemically and cruelly slapped. She blinked with lag, gazing at the fruit that held so dearly to its demotivated branches, adjusting the grey, worn bag on her back with her chilled thumbs. Then with quiet resolve, she walked on across the fork and onto the lush overgrown hill, silent with an unspoken pain. A fresh smattering of raindrops fell on her nose and hands. Her legs moved forward with strength, the green grass tickling her calves. Finally, she reached the top of the hill, closer to the grey sky, its clouds low and peeking beyond one another with strain, a slight blue still clinging to them even in the musty Hanoi aura. Trees grew with ancient luster father on as the hill sloped down again on all sides. Ryan knelt in the damp grass, her bare knees and white shirt slightly wet also. In front of her, a tattered ivory cross supported itself in the ground, no more than two feet tall. A child to its left held onto it dearly with whitening knuckles and a muddy face, streaked with old tears. His clothes were khaki, whether from dirt or dye was uninterpretable. He clutched lilacs in one of his small hands. He turned at the sound of Ryan, dark eyes wide. She gazed into them with reverence and gentility, her own brown eyes unmatching his. She was tall, bending down to his height, and her long hair was caramel, the same color as his skin. The boy stared into her eyes, unmoving, the grass encapsulating his small figure. Ryan broke the gaze to look around the hill. Down the hill to the northeast lay what appeared to be a town, though now quiet and scared, its wooden homes sagging. Dirtied, old cars sat heavily and rusting, no one brave enough to ride in them. Beyond the town, a patch of sun pressed through the deep clouds, only to illuminate the rain and mist, and also the rising smoke and scent of hopelessness further on. Hanoi was dying, inside out, from the wickedness dropped in the form of explosives. It didn’t fight back. It sat, waiting for redemption and maybe a hint of kindness. To her immediate right, on the road on the bottom of the hill, stood several human figures, dressed equally in a harsh olive color. More trickled in to join them from the outer buildings, the buildings that were the edge of the town, separating it from the countryside. Their eyes fell on her, narrowing. Their mouths moved, not quite reaching her ears as they spoke in murmurs to one another. Ryan only felt a deep sadness well up within her; disappointment and isolated strength. She turned back to the boy, peeling the backpack off her shoulders. With kind hands, she reached into the pack, the zipper breaking the rain’s sound pattern. She pulled out a fruit; a fresh one, round and brightly orange. Real fruit, with now rare deliciousness. She outstretched her bulging hand, and the boy’s eyes locked on the luxury in front of him. He looked up at her quickly, hesitance and questioning in his petite features. Caution. Ever since the man of the East stood up to speak his corrosive ideas, it was everywhere. Fear and caution. Ryan hated it, and it saddened her that one person could affect such a large group of people so negatively. She wasn’t going to bow, though. With a kind smile, she gave a small nod, encouraging the young boy to take the orange. With wonder, he reached out also, releasing his grip on the ivory cross to take the gift. Then he released his other hand from the small monument, still gripping the lilacs, and reached out to hug Ryan. He wrapped his tiny, soft arms around her neck tightly, an act easily translated even through a wide language barrier. Ryan held him back, burying her nose into his shoulder with a deep breath. He held the scent of flowers and must, and she closed her eyes, savoring the moment with welling sadness. She knew what was to come.

Sure enough, a split second later, a strong pair of hands ripped her backwards, tearing her from the young child. She fell back like a ragdoll into the hands, and another pair gripped her other arm, lifting her to her feet. Yet another pair yanked her backpack from the ground with a harsh motion, and another grabbed her stomach to guide her backward. They were speaking to her in Vietnamese, ordering her to do several things, but Ryan blankly gazed forward, tuning them out. The boy had stumbled backward at the sudden jolt, the lilacs still clutched, along with the orange. His eyes gazed up toward the men in olive, fearful and beginning to dampen as they pulled her away. Ryan caught his splintering gaze, and held it with her own tears. The world was hazy. She didn’t want to break the gaze of the young boy, she wanted to give him hope, to prove their was kindness still out there. She motioned with her eyes to the orange he held. He looked down at it in response, then back up with a new gaze, one of questions and wonder once again. He clutched the fruit tighter. On it was a character, etched barely into the peel. It signified salvation. He opened his mouth, but Ryan was shoved to the side, her gaze ripped from his. She closed her eyes tight for a moment, burning the memory into her mind. She was still in a haze, feeling them tug on her arms and torso, guiding her away, down the slippery hill, but barely noticing it. She let them pull her, push her, let herself be walked away, though still with a strong resolve, breathing evenly. She knew this would happen. She knew they would take her; remove her from the world. Though it saddened her that even the slightest hint of faith caused such consequences, she was willing to let her flame burn on. She had resisted the threat, the orders to keep hidden. She wasn’t going to play the game; she wasn’t going to give up belief for safety.

They reached the road, the dirt kicked and wafting, slowly turning to mud in the rain. Ryan looked up to meet the gaze of a few shaking citizens, who had gathered to the edge of their homes, avoiding the gazes of the militant men around her. They stayed close to one another, close to their doorsteps, tense and reclusive, curiosity and reverence the only thing driving them to watch what was happening. Ryan held even still, watching each person pull their children tighter as they went by, glancing at the necklace that was tied tightly around her collarbone. A wooden cross. She knew she symbolized the rarity; hope. She knew she was only one person, but she also knew her caring was enough in God’s eyes. She sang her soul and beliefs silently to Hanoi as she was dragged through the destructed town, singing truth, singing God. She wasn’t going to give up her faith, and Ryan was determined to let herself burn with love no matter what happened. And this might be the end.

The cells were damp and dirty, slimy and old. Ryan sat against a wall, head back, praying to her creator. Not for herself, but for the others. For the world. For redemption. The rain had stopped, but the choked tears in the cells, rows and rows over, had not. It stabbed her heart to see the others around her, starving and losing the will to live.

Soon, footsteps, echoing with pride and cruelty, hit the tiles down the hall, and stopped in front of her cell. A vietnamese soldier, in the deathly olive, crouched to match her current height. He opened the cell door, confident she wouldn’t fight him to escape. He was correct. Ryan was here, and as long as she was kept here, she was going to be a strength they hated. A passive one, a weakness to wickedness. She blinked evenly. He began to speak, rambling in a language foreign to her. Finally, he realized she was not comprehending and attempted a switch to English.

“Denounce your heartfelt rights.” He ordered, implying, in Vietnamese phrasing, to reject her God, her religion.

Ryan fingered the cross still on her neck. “I won’t.” She stated truthfully, unafraid.

The soldier reached a hand out, grasping the necklace and breaking it, the twine snapping at her neck, digging into her skin with a burning sensation. He threw it across the hallway behind him, the clattering bringing many to the bars of their cells to see what was going on.

“Do it.”

“No.”

A slap. Ryan clenched her teeth at her throbbing jaw.

“No other option.”

Ryan gazed right back up to him. “I will not ever renounce my God, nor will I ever satisfy you with breaking. You can do what you like, I will not bow to a false king.” Her words rung in the corridor, and many other prisoners, most likely all taken for not obeying curfew, cowered at the soldier’s tensing muscles. He stood, stopping at his full height.

“Few days you will.” Then he was gone.

Ryan began praying once again.

Not once did she reject her God. Her resolve held through under God’s strength, and she met every threat with a truth about God. Several prisoners became more confident, refusing to speak to soldiers or allow them to remove their human rights.

Hanoi continued to suffer. Even after the firing squad, nothing seemed to get better. Only worse. Unfortunately for wickedness, this only began to prove that they were wrong in their ways. Many visited the hill after that day. To pay respects to the two ivory crosses. One old, one painfully new, covered in lilac.

“The goal of missionaries is not to make a visible difference, but instead to spread the truth for the glory of God, regardless of what that means for them. They are to be a furnace for the Lord, for He can take even the smallest act of kindness and love and change the world, even if they never get to see the effects of their obedience. One drop of hatred can contaminate an ocean, but one drop of light can illuminate it. They are to be the living seal of Christ, to be Jesus to the pained and hopeless. That is their goal.” --anonymous

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

A sad and powerful story.
"Ryan gazed right back up to him. “I will not ever renounce my God, nor will I ever satisfy you with breaking. You can do what you like, I will not bow to a false king.” Her words rung in the corridor, and many other prisoners, most likely all taken for not obeying curfew, cowered at the soldier’s tensing muscles. He stood, stopping at his full height.
“Few days you will.” Then he was gone."
You create bad place and strong character. Men fear people who hold faith and love over hate and violence. Thank you for sharing the excellent story. Need to be read by more people.
Coyote