Rare Earth (3 page)

T
he sunset was spectacular. Even the elders emerged from their huts to observe the pyrotechnics. The volcano's plume became a fiery staff that challenged the heavens. To the southwest the descending ash formed a veil of glistening jewels.

Throughout the camp Marc could see people watching. The medical staff gathered by the screens and murmured softly. Marc could not make out any faces, but he noticed Kitra's slender form among them. Only Valerie, the French aid worker, remained unmoved by the sunset. Marc could see her sitting in the admin building.

The mess hall was a long lean-to attached to the bunkhouse. Marc ate dinner with the others, but remained isolated by more than the generator's constant grumble. Kitra ate with the medical personnel. The only time she showed an awareness of his presence was when one of the technicians stopped by Marc's table. Kitra smoldered the air with her expression.

After dinner Marc joined the drift toward the chapel. It was dark enough now for the candle by the sacristy to offer a soft defiance to the shadows. Sergeant Kamal and two of his men came. Camp dwellers filled the pews and then pressed in on all sides. The faces surrounding the chapel's perimeter gradually faded into the night.

Kitra and one of the other nurses were among the last to arrive. Marc noted with surprise as she joined in with the formal response and opening prayer. From her file Marc knew she was an Israeli Jew. He forced himself not to stare, and tried not to worry. For the file to miss such an important point left him worrying over what else might have been gone unnoticed.

Charles looked very regal in his white robes. He spoke every sentence first in Swahili, then in another native tongue, then in English. Marc prayed for a time and afterward stared over the heads of the parishioners at the southern reaches. The volcano painted a sullen red glow beyond the horizon. Now and then it emitted a deep rumble, a drumbeat more felt than heard.

He found himself thinking back to his last assignment, rescuing a group of Americans and an Iraqi who had been abducted in Baghdad. He recalled another dark-haired lady, with flashing eyes and a beautiful daughter and a heart big as the desert sky. Marc did not miss her so much as wish he had been ready to give what she had hoped to receive. But in the weeks that had followed his departure from Baghdad, he had come to realize he was not yet ready to love another woman. He no longer ached with the loss of his own wife. But as he sat and watched the Kenyan night envelop the gathering, he offered a silent prayer, asking God if he was ever meant to love again.

When the service ended, Marc waited until the last villager departed before approaching Charles. “I need to ask your help once more.”

“Let me remove my robes, and I am ready.” The service's formal tone remained in his voice. “Are you a believer?”

“I am.”

“Then we are joined by more than concern for the people of this camp, yes?”

In the candle's dim glow, Charles resembled a mystic from some ancient age, only partly connected to the harsher realities of here and now. “I'd like to think so.”

Sergeant Kamal chose that moment to emerge from the shadows. Charles listened to the man's rough burr, then translated, “The sergeant says he has a problem and hopes you can help.”

“If I can, I will.”

The pastor motioned them into the second pew. Marc seated himself next to Kamal while Charles slipped the white robes over his head and carefully folded them. His black T-shirt was stained with sweat. Marc asked, “Would it be impolite to ask how a sergeant commands a camp's guard?”

Charles seated himself so his legs extended into the aisle and he could face them. He spoke swiftly, then translated Kamal's response, “There were a captain and two lieutenants. All had families housed in the UN military compound on the volcano's eastern slope. They left to get their families to safety. They have not returned.”

“His men are fortunate to have Kamal.”

“As is the camp,” Charles agreed.

Kamal nodded his thanks for the compliment and then launched into a longer discussion, which Charles translated, “He needs more men. Right now he has enough to patrol the central compound only. He keeps two men on the main gate, but otherwise the camp is not secure. The elders cannot maintain order in the camp without soldiers to give strength to their words.”

“How many more does he need?”

Kamal responded before Charles had completed his translation. “Ten for perimeter patrol. Twenty for the camp. Split into units of five.”

“I'll see what I can do.” When Kamal started to rise, Marc said, “We have another problem, one that cannot wait.”

As Marc described his discussion with the elders about the dangers the women are facing, Kamal's features took on a bitter cast. He replied, “We have suspected this. But without more support, there is little we can do.”

Marc said, “I have a plan.”

Marc used the rudimentary shower, then dressed once more in the same sweat-stained clothes. He selected an empty bunk in the men's chamber, stowing his carryall in the trunk at the bed's foot. A lone ceiling bulb burned midway down the central aisle. Five ceiling fans drifted in lazy circles. Marc pulled the mosquito net around his bed and lay down. He could smell the bitter odor of disinfectant and hear bugs strike the screen by his head. In the distance, the generator chugged. Gradually the day's tension released him. He watched the fan's lazy orbit until he fell asleep.

The night was strong and black when Kamal touched his shoulder. Marc slipped from the bed and followed him from the bunkhouse. They were joined by two other soldiers and Charles. Five was the standard number for nightly patrols. Any more would attract attention. Marc had disliked the idea of bringing the pastor along. But his plan required a translator.

They took the central road and padded toward the main gate. Their boots squeaked softly in the ash. There was no moon. The camp was draped in a gentle myth of calm. Somewhere to his left a baby cried. Marc saw no one, but felt eyes on him at all times.

Marc had no idea if the soldiers could be relied on. He disliked entering an ops situation with an unknown team. His life could well depend on them following orders. The sergeant seemed trustworthy enough. But Marc had only observed him within the central compound's relative safety. If they faced a free-fire situation, which he imagined they probably would, he would have to take great care.

They collected the two men on gate duty as they passed. At a signal from Kamal, they left the road and drifted into the woods. The trees all appeared dead to Marc, the limbs leafless and silver-gray in the starlight. But Marc had been in other arid places. He knew how such vegetation adapted to the absence of water. When rain fell once more, the entire world could flash into colorful and abundant life. Marc followed in Kamal's footsteps, ducking under the occasional limb, and thought how much his own life resembled this landscape. Blanketed by ashes of regret and loss, waiting for that faint blessing of rain. Waiting.

They were in position before the first light of dawn touched the east. The volcano's rumble seemed stronger out beyond the camp's relative safety, a noise filled with anger and phlegm, like the earth was clearing its throat. Kamal handed out energy bars and encouraged his men to drink. The two men off gate duty looked very tired after a night without sleep. But they joined in the soft banter and showed Marc feral grins. Wanting him to know they were ready.

Kamal squatted down on Charles's other side. His voice was a soft whisper, the sound of a hunting cat waiting on prey. Charles translated, “He misses the birdsong at dawn.”

“It is quiet,” Marc agreed.

“The birds and the rest of the game began leaving four years ago, when the rains failed. Each year the dawns have grown quieter.”

“Four years without rain.”

“Yes, so long. Now, with the volcano, the elders ask if the land will ever live again.”

“Your family are farmers?”

“Since the time before time.” Charles's translation matched the sergeant's rolling plainsong. “On a plateau above the Rift. We grow millet, corn, melons. Even a few almond trees. Some coffee. Good land.”

“And yet you became a soldier.”

Kamal flashed a rare grin. He was the only one of the team whose smile did not come easily. “One can love the land and not the life.”

“There is much wisdom in what you say.”

“Someday I will go back. Raise fat babies. The land is good for children.”

“I wish you success with your dream.”

“And you? What is the dream of a Western man in Africa?”

“To be here.”

Kamal's hand swept slowly over the vista of dawn-lit ash. “I am thinking yours is a strange dream, to stand in the shadow of doom. I mean no offense.”

“None taken.” It became increasingly easy to ignore the pastor's translations. The American and the sergeant spoke in a cadence that was both friendly and extremely African. “I meant, I wish to be here. Helping others. Doing good in dangerous times. It is where I feel most alive.”

One of Kamal's men hissed a soft warning. Charles confirmed, “Here they come.”

T
he slender shapes only took on true form when they were close enough for Marc to hear their voices. The women spoke anxiously, like the chirp of dawn birds. There were several dozen of them, most in their early teens. They remained close together, not quite touching, their fear evident in their unsteady gaits.

The elders had done their job well. The previous evening, Marc and Charles and Kamal had approached them and explained the plan. How they needed a number of young women to go out with the dawn, enough from various parts of the camp to attract attention. The elders had responded with only two questions, and one command. The questions had been, would Kamal give his solemn oath to protect the young women, and would the American be with them. The command had been, only use their firearms as a last resort. Kamal had balked at the order, but the elders had remained adamant. Guns had decimated their world and way of life. Unless some attackers fired first, there would be no guns. Reluctantly Kamal had agreed. His men would carry only pistols, and keep them holstered.

Behind the girls came a second group, moving slowly. In the gathering light, Marc saw that many were little more than children. With them came the widows. The old women set the pace, some leaning heavily on the young ones.

And behind them lurked the wolves.

Marc saw them rise up like phantom beasts on two legs. Kamal hissed to his men and pointed.

The closest girl heard Kamal and froze in the process of picking up a dead branch, her eyes wide and glistening in the gray dawn. To Marc she appeared like a nymph of a mythic age. Their eyes locked. Her defenseless terror gripped him so tightly his rage ignited.

Then one of the small girls in the second group spotted the predators and squealed.

“Now!”
Marc rose and bolted forward. The young girl screamed, but he was already past her, threading his way through the group, heading for danger.

Kamal appeared at his right, flying gazelle-like, his boots pushing up tiny clouds of ash. The sergeant found the breath to shout an order. Marc assumed he was telling his men to spread out.

The wolves paused, caught off guard by the soldiers' sudden appearance. Two attackers bolted for the camp and safety. But that still left a far larger group than Marc's paltry band. The leader of the gang yelled words that required no translation. Marc took aim straight at him.

The leader crouched in hungry anticipation and yelled a second time. His voice was hoarse. His two closest mates took up station on either side. Marc's initial thought was confirmed. These were not merely young toughs. They were either former soldiers or criminals. They were trained for the assault.

But they did not appear to be armed. Which was as Marc had expected. Why bear guns when their prey was simply women from the camp? To carry arms would mean revealing themselves to the guards by the gate.

Two of the attackers facing Marc hefted staves from the deadwood littering the ground. The leader motioned at Marc and crooned softly. His mates laughed and whistled and made smacking sounds.

Marc knew they expected him to hesitate, to show caution at their greater numbers. Instead, he bulled straight in. There was a brief instant when surprise registered on the leader's face, a tightening of the skin, a warping of the scar rising from his jawline. Then Marc struck.

He slipped easily under the right-hand attacker's swing. He was then too close for the staves to do any good, as they risked striking one of their own. He uncoiled so fast the leader probably did not even see the two strikes, a fist to the point over his heart and another to the jaw's hinge. The man was unconscious before he was fully aware of having been hit.

Marc used the leader's body as a shield against the left-hand attacker, and aimed a kick for the most vulnerable point, the throat. He let the leader drop and twisted the stave from the attacker's fumbling hands.

Swinging around, his entire body a whip, he aimed a blow at the now-uncertain man to his right. The attacker blocked the strike with his own stick, but barely. Marc did not care. The important thing was to have this man also become aware of the ferocity he faced. Fear would do the rest.

Marc channeled his momentum and recoiled back around. He rapped the man to his left on the forehead, then spun a second time, aiming at a new attacker. But this man had already given up the fight. He tried to flee, but Marc leaped and tapped his rear ankle, tripping him. Marc bounded forward and rapped the man's head.

Only then did he become aware of the din that surrounded him. Women screaming, men shouting and struggling, the dawn obliterated by clouds of swirling ash. Marc stepped over and assisted Kamal in dispatching his third adversary, and together they hurried to shield one of Kamal's men who was down.

And then it was over.

They brought their captives back to the camp roped in a long line. Marc and Charles walked at the head, Kamal at the rear. Villagers gathered about both sides of the camp's main road and shouted, especially the women. A few made as to strike the men, some raised sticks and plucked rocks from the ash. At a signal from Marc, Kamal and his men forced the camp dwellers to keep their distance.

The roped captives were settled in the dust before the empty godown. Guards were posted, mostly to keep the villagers from attacking. Marc watched as Kitra approached the men and examined their wounds. Marc knew the Israeli nurse expected him to order her away. But he liked her compassionate care, shown even to these brutal men. There was a rock-solid core to this woman. Marc left the prisoners under her care and the soldiers' supervision. He took a long shower, then dropped into the bunk and shut the mosquito netting. The last image he had before the night's burdens pushed his eyelids down was Kamal grunting his way into the bunk next to his.

He awoke in the early afternoon, famished. Kamal was already gone. Marc rose and went in search of food. He found a grinning cook, who offered Marc all he had ready, a bowl of gruel sweetened by lumps of brown sugar and condensed milk. It was one of the finest meals Marc had ever eaten.

Marc recharged his tin mug and returned to the compound. The captives were slumped in a circle, surrounded by women who eyed them with the patience of vultures.

Charles found him there and indicated that the elders wished to speak with him. Marc followed the pastor through the ring of villagers. As before, the men were seated in the open space encircled by their huts. The same clay pot of rancid brew was passed around. The oldest leader, a true ancient with skin more yellow than brown, asked through Charles if Marc would care for a pipe. He declined. If the elders were aware of the oppressive heat, they gave no sign. Marc sat on his little stool and flicked his hand at the flies and waited.

Finally the youngest of them spoke. Philip was dressed like the others, in a motley collection of western clothing and bare feet. But his eyes were bright, his voice deep and direct. Charles translated, “Philip wishes to know what you intend to do with the prisoners.”

“Is he the leader here?”

Charles did not translate his words for the elders. Instead, he replied, “Philip is both a chief of his tribe and a district chief. The regional chiefs are appointed by the government in Nairobi. Unlike many regional leaders, Philip is honest. What is more, he does not put the interests of his own tribe above the others represented here. Because he is the youngest, and because the region has been destroyed, his position could be a matter of great conflict. But these elders respect and honor him. As do I.”

Marc nodded that he understood. “Please tell him that I would welcome his counsel.”

Philip spoke, and Charles translated, “Tradition says you must give these attackers to the women who have been wronged.”

Marc replied firmly, “That will not happen.”

The chief showed no anger at being refused. If anything, he seemed to approve of Marc's response. “The women expect it. As do some of the elders.”

“I am sorry. But these among you are going to be disappointed.”

One of the other elders muttered, but Charles found no need to translate it. Marc asked, “You say his name is Philip?”

“He became a believer, then led his entire family to Christ. Soon after, his parents were killed in a traffic accident. His father was a chief before him. Philip's conversion was a great scandal. But he himself called it a gift from heaven that helped him recover from the death of his parents and accept the call to take their place as chief.”

Marc studied the young man seated across from him. There were distinct differences between the elders that went far deeper than merely the shades of their skin. Philip had the features of an ancient warrior, as though carved by a heritage that predated civilization.

Charles went on, “Philip is of the Luo tribe. His clan has always been animist. Not all the Luos, you understand. But all of his village. Philip did not order his clan to follow his choice, or expel the witch doctor. He built a church and then invited a missionary pastor and his wife to come live in their village. When the pastor objected to the witch doctor, Philip told him that their clan had worshiped the trees and the sky for over a thousand years. The pastor had been there for a month. So it would be up to the pastor and Philip and their families to live the message of Jesus, and let the people make up their own minds.” Charles smiled. “Nine months later, the witch doctor moved away.”

Marc met the chief's gaze. “So Philip too has gone against tradition over vital issues.”

When Charles had translated, he responded with a question of his own. “Philip wishes to know if the Lord Jesus ordered you to come.”

“I would like to think,” Marc replied, “that Jesus guides my every step. But I am human enough to know that there is too much of me in everything I do.”

This youngest of the elders studied Marc a long moment, then rose to his feet and offered Marc his hand. “Philip says that you should do with the prisoners as you see fit. He will speak with the women.”