There are some stories that you just know are going to be monumental in your life. “Remember the Nightingale” is one of those stories for me. An early beta reader, Adam, wrote upon reading the rough draft:

The manuscript presents a rich tapestry of emotions and relationships woven amidst a vivid backdrop of Rwandan culture and landscape. The manuscript skillfully cultivates a sense of place and character while exploring deeper themes relevant to both personal and communal experiences. This is a touching, thought-provoking, intense and, ultimately, inspiring book that encourages readers to reflect on the complexities of family, culture, forgiveness and the pursuit of healing. Of the Johnson books, it is my favorite.

I’m sharing quite a bit of it because doing so piece by piece allows me to reconcile the volatile emotions it brings in me. It also allows me to connect with others to hear perspective. My YouTube channel has nearly the first half of the book, and there are many excerpts here. Of what’s shared, though, the below excerpt is the most sensitive.

Warning: if your past (or present) include(s) any form of abuse, this could be triggering. Please know that your emotional and physical wellbeing matters more to me than your reading this chapter. Also, if you need help, RAINN offers round-the-clock support through online chat and telephone. It also provides a wealth of educational and support materials.

This is copyrighted material; please link to your heart’s content, but please do not steal my work. Writing is my lifeline.

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Chapter 21
Day 31

He’s a mile from where he died.

He still walks, he still breathes in and breathes out, but he’s a shell of the man he was a month ago. Marc and his father don’t chase his dreams anymore; Evariste and Mamree do. He’s spent weeks looking for her, but she’s nowhere to be found. None of the villagers are hiding her – or, if they are, they aren’t telling him. Not that he blames them: he wouldn’t tell him where she was, either.

            My favorite are the hills. Her favorite part of Rwanda are its thousand hills. When he stared at them with her, he saw them through her eyes: ubiquitous, vibrant frames for breathtaking sunsets and sunrises. This is the hill he hid on when she was being harassed by Pierre and his friends. He was so … righteous … that day. I’d kill anyone who touched her – he remembered thinking that as he pumped his arms and legs as hard as they would go to get to her as fast as he could. Mamree screamed, Ev – Evariste – they – threw rocks at her – and he yelled back, I’ve got her! knowing he’d get to her before her father would. He swore to himself the whole way there he’d kill anyone who hurt her.

            He isn’t worth going to prison for, Evariste chided softly later when he confessed he wanted to strangle Pierre with his bare hands for scaring her.

            You are, he returned, his jaw set, his eyes an enthusiastic burn.

            Liar, the word whispers through his head. He knows it’s the one Evariste would use to describe him now. He promised to protect Mamree, he pinky promised. And he did the exact opposite. Gaeton lifts the banana beer he stole from a Tutsi’s hut to his mouth.

            He’s killed three men; he’s watched and helped murder others.

            Go to the cave, you’re going to the cave right now, Lucie.

            She went there. He knows she did because the supplies are gone. Or, he thinks bitterly, maybe she didn’t go there, and the supplies were stolen either by other Tutsi or commandeered by the Hutu militia. But no, she would have gone. She would have gone to the cave; it was why Mamree made it. She wasn’t there, though, when he went to look for her. No one was. He hasn’t been with the militia in weeks;  he hasn’t slept in days. He eats when he comes across something, but he doesn’t seek it out. Twice, he’s gone home. Muhira fed him and put him in bed, but he couldn’t sleep. Whenever he closes his eyes, he sees Evariste’s face.

            Mamree is dead.

            He shakes his head, trying to clear it, trying to make that feel real.

            He was there when she was born, standing outside the hut, waiting as if he were the baby’s real brother. He made her canvases for her art. He chased her around the eucalyptus trees and scared her by jumping out at her. She laughed every time. She and Marc were made from the same cloth. Full of mischief, laughter, and freedom.

            Where is Evariste?

            What would you even say? He doesn’t know.

            How could you? They’re hurting her! You’re hurting me, let me go! Evariste’s fists pummeled his chest, tears staining her cheeks, desperation making her scream and act nothing like the Evariste he knew. The sound of his own fist striking her plays like a broken record in his mind.

            I had to. If the militia didn’t think I was angry, if they didn’t think I intended to kill her myself, they would have done it for me.

            They all died that day.

            Mamree suffered fatal wounds his mother’s herbs couldn’t heal. Evariste suffered the pain of hearing her sister tortured and of his betrayal. He knew from Marc’s death that pieces of her were gone forever. But a part of Gaeton died that day too. And now, he’s a mile from the hut, unable to put one foot in front of the other, unable to walk the rest of the way there. Her parents likely still lie on the floor. He’s coming back to bury what’s left of them. There might be nothing if the dogs have gotten them. Some of the bodies he passes are bloated and black. Others have their nails falling off and their teeth fall when the head is moved. Many have skin falling off by now. But there are new bodies every day. The river runs red with them, the churches overflow with them, the streets display them. They lie in heaps, they lie in pairs, they lie alone. Sometimes he’ll walk past a detached head, and he no longer looks for its body. The stench permeates everything: his clothes, his skin, the ground he walks on. The scent of death and blood and smoke have replaced the scent of wildflowers and dust and food cooking.

            A burial is a sign of respect. A burial is a sign that their lives mattered. And it’s an act of love for those who remain. He wouldn’t let his father; his brother or Mary lie in the open and he’s let twenty-five days pass without burying Evariste’s Ema’ma and Papi. His eyes go towards the sky again. The sun rises slowly today. Evariste loved the sunrise.

            “You came!” Her voice sounds like honey and sunshine even when she whispers. Excitement shines on her face as she closes the door to the hut and falls into his arms. The sky is still dark, but she said she’s never seen a full sunrise; she’s only caught glimpses of one. “Come with me, then,” he said, shrugging. “Get up at five; I’ll be here.”

            “It’ll be dark outside.”

            “Hm mm, it will. The sun rises by six.”

            She laughed, filling the air with ringing bells. “What if I don’t wake up that early?”

            Deadpan, he replied, “Then you won’t get an early morning kiss.”

            She laughed again, tipped her head to the side, batted her eyelashes, and said, “Just one? I don’t know if I can get up before daylight for just one kiss. What else you got?”

            He chuckled. “Guess you’ll have to get up before daylight to find out, won’t you, Lucie?”

            She gasped and said happily, “Bringer of light! I get it! You need me to make the sun rise.” She clucked her tongue. “Well, we wouldn’t want to deprive you of light, would we? So, I guess I’ll make the sacrifice and get up at five, but you better not be late.”

            “Good morning, Lucie.”

            “Where’s my one kiss?” 

            Smiling, he cupped her small oval-shaped face with his hands and pressed his mouth to hers. Pulling back, she wagged her shoulders and smiled, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. “Good morning, Gaeton.”

            Threading his fingers through hers, he led her down the dirt road. They walked half a mile towards the village well and stopped beneath the large eucalyptus tree. Gaeton chose that spot because she could see the gentle rise and fall of several hills in the distance over which the sun would make an impressive appearance.

            She sat between his legs, her back against his chest, her head against his heart, her hands resting on his forearms when the midnight blue sky showed hints of pink and purple. Her fingers tapped along his skin and her head lifted as she took a sharp breath in. “Oh, Gaeton, look.”  The sun’s golden hues breeched the horizon and added more colors like orange and yellow to the sky. Its rays seemed to fall directly on the couple sitting beneath the tree and warming them.

            “Look at the hills!”  She exclaimed, pointing. “The hills are like a picture frame!” 

            “What do you like most about the sunrise?”

            Evariste brought her hand back to his and slid her palm up and down his arms. Lying her head back against his chest, she said, “The colors, I think. The colors of the sky. I love the pink, but all of them are beautiful.”

            “A long time ago, when the earth was new, the colors all fought each other every day to be the brightest in the morning. Well, not all of the colors fought. Yellow, orange, and red, they didn’t fight as much as blue and purple. The gods got tired of listening to the bickering of blue and purple. One day, instead of letting the sun rise with all the rainbow colors, the gods created a barrier, air bubbles, that the sunlight had to pass through in order to reach earth. When the sunlight hit the air bubbles, they slid across the horizon, scattering the bickering colors off the sky. Because they didn’t fight, the gods allowed yellow, orange, and red to stay longer, to bounce off the air bubbles a few times before being washed away by the sun. This is why we see the colors we see in the sunrise and why we don’t see the others.”

            “Scattering colors.”

            “Hm.”

            “Well,” Evariste said, tipping her head back until she could see his face looking down at her. “I hope the gods never scatter people. I think I would miss you very much.”

            “You think you would miss me?” He arched his brows, a smile playing on his lips.

            “I don’t know for sure,” she lied, trying to look serious but failing to keep the smile out of her eyes. “I mean, you haven’t danced with me in days, and I only got one kiss this morning and I’m never sure -“

            Gaeton dropped his head and kissed her again. The salty taste of his lips mixed with the honey on hers.   “Did you eat honey before coming outside?”

              “With mizuzu.”

              “You had honey with mizuzu without me?”

              When she laughed, he murmured, “How dare you? I guess this will have to do,” and melted his mouth with hers again. As he pulled away she sighed happily and snuggled back against him. “Yes, okay, you win. I’d miss you very much.”

            Would she?

            Did she?

            They’d never gone twenty-five days apart.

            Frowning, Gaeton took another drink of the banana beer and then stood. If she came back home, he wouldn’t let her find her family in whatever state they now lay.

            She’d find them buried.

                                                                 Day 35

               Can’t spend another night in the open. The last three nights were panic inducing.

               Between the animal sounds, the wind whistling through the leaves, and unexplained shadows dancing all around her, sleep was impossible. She could still feel the heat of the fire on her skin, she could smell the smoke as it rose in the air, she could still hear the screams of Anika and Juanita ringing in her ears. They amplified the screams of her sister, getting louder and louder and louder until she felt her mind was going to explode. They’d find her here. There was nothing to shield her. They set fire to the church and both huts. There was nothing left except the woods. She felt exposed in the night with nothing covering her. She couldn’t stay here.

               The map.

               She knows where her mother hid the map: she helped her hide it. Under the creaking board under the dresser. If she could find the map, she could go to the cave. If the cave were as safe as Honorine thought it was, she could wait the war out there. How long could it possibly take? She could scavenge for food in the woods, eat berries and plants. It would be easier than drying up the meager supplies found in one or two huts. The woods would provide for her. Maybe she could even set a trap for mice or squirrels.

               It means she has to go home.

               Anika and Juanita both warned her against doing that. It’s too far. It’s too dangerous. You’ll be caught. It’s suicide. But staying in the open invited death, too. Either by animal or by Hutu. The only chance she had was to retrieve the map; the only chance she had was hope. Hope her home had not been burned to the ground, hope the map was still there, hope she could follow it correctly, hope the women implemented the plan and left food in the cave. Hope was all she had.

               “I can’t lose her, Gaeton, she’s my sister.”

               Mamree was very sick, she was so sick everyone thought she was going to die. Tears shone in Evariste’s eyes. Gaeton opened his arms and Evariste fell into them, her shoulders shaking. “I have to do something; what can I do to fix it? Can you make her better?” 

               Gaeton’s face twisted. “I would if I could.”

               Evariste turned her face against his chest, burrowing deeper. Gaeton’s arms tightened. “Whenever Ema’ma has someone sick come to her,” Gaeton started slowly. Wiping her eyes, Evariste pulled back. She and Gaeton sat outside her hut. Mamree lay inside with a fever, alternately thrashing and lying motionless. “And they feel really sad, she tells them that whenever the need is the greatest, that’s when a wellspring of ideas will come.” 

               Evariste frowned. “Ideas to help her get better?”

               “Maybe.” He lifted a shoulder. “Or maybe ideas to help you feel better. If you feel better, then you can be stronger for her.”

               Her lips and cheeks and eyes swollen from crying, Evariste nodded. “I want to be stronger for her.” Tears filled her chocolate eyes again and her bottom lip quivered. Gaeton took his thumb and swiped her eyes. “Okay, let’s do that then,”  he murmured. “What kind of ideas do you have that you think would help?”

               “I don’t know,” her voice trailed higher into panic, her eyes overflowing.

               Gaeton lifted his head, scanning their surroundings. “She likes to paint.” He said and Evariste sniffled, nodded. “Yeah, imigongo painting.”

               One corner of his mouth quirked; Gaeton lifted a shoulder. “Why don’t we do it?”

               “Paint?”

               “Sure. We’ll make her something for when she gets better.”

               Evariste blinked and inhaled a shaky breath. “She laughs at my paintings.”

               Gaeton chuckled. “Not as hard as she laughs at mine.”

               A short laugh bubbled out of Evariste. “Okay.” 

               Together, they walked to the pasture and gathered fresh dung; they only found one spare canvas, so it would be one painting with two artists. “What should we paint then?” Gaeton asked, his brows lifted in a challenge. Pick something, he dared her silently. Rising to the unspoken challenge, Evariste swallowed and said, “Flowers.”

               “Right. Good choice…. how do you make a flower again?”

               A reluctant smile pulled from her, Evariste takes her finger and spreads the dung into the shape of a flower. She tips her head and arches her own brows in a return challenge.

               “Hm,” Gaeton says. “Alright, I can do one better.”

               Soon, the canvas is full of … shapes that only loosely resemble flowers. It takes the whole day to let the canvas dry, to make their own paint, to paint the dried dung with freshly squeezed berries mixed with water.

               “I am a mess,” Evariste said at the end, holding her hands out.

               “You smell it too,” Gaeton teased, wringing a laugh from her.

               “You’re not much better yourself.” 

               “Ah, but at least I don’t have dung on my face. How did you get dung on your face instead of the canvas anyway?” 

               Spontaneously, Evariste reached out and spread her whole palm over his cheek. Jerking his head up only caused her hand to slide down his neck. Cursing lightly, Gaeton reached out, grabbing her wrists, and pulling it away from his skin. Their eyes caught and held as he released her wrist. Evariste broke the spell first, looking down at the canvas.

               “Hers are so much better.”

               Chuckling again, Gaeton replied, “Are you mocking my painting?”

               “I painted it too.”  She pulled her lip between her teeth, emotion spreading to her eyes again. “Hers are so much better.”

               In the silence, they hear a bird call. Evariste smiles softly. “She’ll laugh at both of us.”

               Pride swells his eyes at how she rallied. “Hm, yeah, she will, Lucie.”

               “Thank you,” Evariste whispered, looking at their canvas. Gaeton reached out and tapped her nose. “I’d kiss you right now but then the dung might get on your lips,”  The smile playing on his mouth exchanged her tears for laughter.

               “Evariste?” his voice turned serious, and she lifted her gaze to his. “Mamree will be alright. She’ll pull through; she’s a fighter just like you.”  He paused and murmured, “I am in awe of you.”

               Evariste puffs out her cheeks, releasing a breath she didn’t know she held. Memories of Gaeton slide in at odd times when she least expects it. She banishes them quickly, using the sting of his betrayal to forget the tenderness with which he looked at her. She pulls herself back to the present, reminds herself she can’t stay in the open again, and she has to go home. Mamree did get better that time, she did pull through. And she did laugh at their painting. Hope worked that time.

               She isn’t sure she knew where she is.

               She isn’t sure she walks in the right direction.

               She only knows that her hut directly faces the sun when it rises. So, she goes east. Whenever she hears noises she stops and hides. If the noises come from within the forest, she moves to the edge of the trees. If they come from outside the woods, she moves deeper under the canopy of the forest. She spots a Tutsi lying flat on his stomach in a tree branch above her; she sees another hiding beneath a pile of leaves, a pair of round, black eyes the only indication she is alive. She sees evidence of the Twa but never spots any. A splinter gets stuck in the heel of her foot, and she takes the time to sit and bite it out with her teeth. Sometimes she hears shouts and screams. She stops altogether then and hides, whether behind a tree or beneath an embankment or, once, alongside three dead bodies.

               Eventually, she recognizes the hills.

               She knows where she is.

               Panic grips her and when Gaeton’s memory whispers through her mind, she doesn’t banish it because it reminds her to be strong. She stands on the dirt path staring at the hut. It is still here; it has not burned down. Her parents are inside the door. She is scared to see them, especially Ema’ma.

               The map.

               Go on, Lucie. You can do this. I’m right here.

               Angry at herself for allowing his voice to invade her head because she doesn’t need him, Evariste moans and puts one foot in front of the other. Opening the door of the hut feels like a slap in the face. She feels the man grab her curls, yank her down to the floor. She squeezes her eyes shut, holds her breath, and takes a step inside.

               It is empty.

               Ema’ma?

               Papi?

               Their bodies are gone.

               Blood stains the floor, a trail of it leads to the door. But the bodies are not there. Dogs. She starts to shake at the thought but there are no bones, either. If the dogs got them, there would be skeletal remains. Instead, nothing but the blood stains. Where are they? She spins in a circle, frowning, moistening her lips. Could they have survived? No, no they were dead. She was sure of it: the image of her mother’s face haunts her dreams.

               The map.

               Fear makes her check every room of the hut first to make sure she is alone. Only then does she go to the dresser. It is heavy and she is weak. It takes her a long time to push it far enough to the side, the sound loud in the silent, humid hut. She uses her fingers to pry the loose board up. it’s here. Still in the same place they’d buried it. Her fingers shake as she grips the edges of the map and pulls it from its grave. She runs the pad of her thumb over it and takes a shaky breath. Gently, she folds it and hides it in the pocket of her dress.

               Her legs quake as she walks to the door. She looks again around the front room where she knows her parents died and swallows hard. Quietly, she slips out the door. She walks for several minutes up the dirt path, allowing herself to pause at the top of the hill. Frames. She loves Rwanda’s hills.

               “Well,”

               Her back stiffens at the unfamiliar voice behind her.

               “Look what we found.”

               Without looking behind her, she runs, her screams splitting the Rwandan sky. She races as hard as she can down the path, memories of running from Pierre cascading through her. She’s screaming when something hits her from behind and knocks her down to the ground. All at once, she hears the shouts and screams of angry Hutus as they rip her dress off of her. She uses her hands to claw, rakes her nails down the face of one. Different faces swim in front of her, she’s never seen any of them before. They’re shouting at her to shut up, she twists her body, kicks her legs, and stretches her fingers, reaching for purchase of a nearby stick. But there are four of them and she’s not close enough. The burn of a knife against her throat stills her. Her screams quiet to whimper. One of them has her legs so she can’t kick, and one of them yanks both her arms above her head. “We’re gonna saw you in half, cockroach.”

               “Let the arms go, every time she scratches me, I’m going to bite the hell out of her.”

               Her arms are released but a boot kicks her in the temple. Stars swim above her as someone straddles her. “Please, please, please don’t, please,” she begs, hyperventilating. Fear turns wild as she bucks her hips. They laugh, telling her to hold on, the ride will start soon. She tries kicking but they hold her legs down so she can’t and then he falls on top of her and she screams wildly.

               I am in awe of you.

               Forget dancing, I’d climb a thousand hills to touch you.

               She feels something rip into her and the pain makes her scream louder, her arms quivering. She tries to slash at him again and he bites her breast hard enough to break the skin. She rolls her head in the dirt, trying to disappear into the ground that’s soaked with her blood. Every time he jerks into her, her body slides up along the dirt path, tiny rocks embedded in her skin. Wildly, her eyes scan for something other than faces she doesn’t know to look at. She’s dying, and she doesn’t want to die with their faces above her. She screams again, hyperventilating and choking on her tears, until one of them pulls her head up and forces a hard thing into her mouth. It feels like it goes on forever. By the time the world stops shaking, she’s stopped screaming. Her head feels like it’s swimming, her body quivers with pain, and then the world goes black.

              

Someone’s touching her.

               She screams as loud as she can, flails her arms and kicks. Her legs are free now and so she kicks as hard as she can.

               The sound of a nightingale freezes her.

               It’s not a nightingale. Is it? Three short twills.

               She moans, her mouth opening on a cry unlike any she’s ever made. The world swims around her and black starts to crowd her vision again. She hears the nightingale, and it keeps her still even as hands shift beneath her. The world tilts as she’s lifted from the road and she starts to panic, screaming again, her eyes closed against the onslaught of pain. The sound of a nightingale returns, and the screams soften to moans. Her body starts shaking uncontrollably and the sky spins above her as she fades to black again.