Rift (14 page)

‘Wish they’d let us see him,’ said Zak. ‘Before they took him off. Wish we could’ve talked . . . ’

Otaka sat by the small fire, smoking. He raised his pipe in greeting to Murothi. From above, Véronique peered from the roof of the Land Rover. She was kneeling, spreading something out.

‘Inspector! Join us – we would be happy,’ she called. ‘I am just arranging my bedroom!’ She clambered down a ladder and pointed to a canvas stool by the fire. ‘Sit!’

Murothi obeyed. Since nightfall the temperature had plunged, and in his thin shirt, damped with dew, he shivered. He watched Véronique throw back the lid of a food box and rattle things busily.

Otaka, with a long, direct scrutiny of the policeman, observed, ‘My friend, you are troubled.’

‘Ah, well, you see a confused Murothi,’ the policeman responded. ‘And his confusion grows!’

Véronique placed a pot in the fire and settled it firmly. She fetched another stool from the Land Rover, flipped it open and subsided on to it, thankfully.

Otaka continued to puff on his pipe. Then he took it from
his mouth and with the stem traced the long ridge of Chomlaya, fringed with the light of the climbing moon. He said, ‘It is told by the Dumwela people that this is the seat of the God. That he lives here as rock, as elephant, as snake, as fish in the water, as lion, as lizard, as hare. He is in the bones of the rock and the gouging of the rift through its heart . . . ’

‘Old friend, you would know that,’ said Véronique, handing Murothi a mug of steaming tea and a biscuit. ‘You have studied the line of this land as no other person living.’

‘But I do not breathe it, like the men who walk it,’ replied Otaka. ‘I do not hear the call of ancestors.’ He laughed. ‘I fear in my old age I will be like those polished men in fat black cars that fly above the land on shiny roads, and do not touch it.’

‘I have met those,’ said Murothi, thinking of the Minister who had sent him to tidy away this disaster. The tea was warming him. He had eaten little; hunger hollowed out his tiredness. His eyes seemed to stand out on stalks, but he did not want to go to the solitude of his tent and the muddles of his mind.

As if sensing that, Véronique refilled his mug. ‘Perhaps such stories of Chomlaya are why we have never come to dig here. As if we believe them, and are afraid.’

‘Silowa’s cousin Mungai has told me of these tales,’
said Murothi, sipping the tea.

‘Mungai is not of the Dumwela. He is of the Kigio,’ murmured Otaka. ‘The Kigio have a story that is like the story told by the Dumwela, but it is not the same.’ Thoughtfully, he puffed on his pipe. ‘Some do not call this place by any other name than Snake Rock. But others tell how when the God enters his human form he leaves his footprint here. To guard the place where the first people were born. It is like this, my friend: there came a day when the Creator looked at the trees and flowers, the mountains and rivers, the animals and birds – at every good thing he had made – and he said, “There must be a creature to love and tend this, to reap its riches.” So the Creator took the soils he found at Chomlaya’s feet: the rich moist soils, the soft powdery soils, the black soils, red soils, white soils, yellow soils. He took some of each and mixed it to a clay, and from the wealth of clays he made people of all the colours. He moulded legs to run, to hunt, to wander with the cattle and dance for joy, hands to gather food, to plant and sow, and reap, he gave eyes to see, a mouth to eat, a tongue to speak and sing, for people would need celebration when the work was done . . . ’ He gave Murothi a long, sober look. ‘You see this: it is told that in the shelter of Chomlaya, the Creator has made humans. It is the place of life. And here he calls his creatures
when their time is done; the place of life, the place of death. For these children, their time of calling is not yet here. And so Chomlaya will give them back. This we must
believe.
’ He straightened suddenly, smiled, lightening the mood, tapped his pipe and relit it, puffing hard. ‘Tales told in many ways by many different peoples in these regions. But we should hear them and take heart, my friend.’

Long fingers of firelight probed grass and bush and the cones of termite mounds around them. There was the guttural grunt of a leopard hunting, the scuffle of hoofbeats as something fled the predator, and Murothi wondered if he should feel fear here: of the rock that might be a god, and the leopard and lion that might be a god, and the rock that had taken people but would give them back, and he felt foolish for breathing these stories that were just stories into himself.

In truth he did not feel fear. He felt Chomlaya hunched above them, black against a high yellow moon. But his dread was not of the rock.

He said, after a while, ‘I have a question. I have many questions, but this is one you can perhaps answer. Likon says that a week ago Silowa came to talk to someone at Burukanda, specially. Otaka, was that you?’

‘Silowa is always talking to me,’ the other man answered,
with a deep chuckle of amusement. ‘He has appointed himself my pupil. He wishes to learn this skill of fossil hunting.’

‘Silowa is already like you,’ put in Véronique. ‘He lopes across the ground like you. He has your eye for these invisible things! Otaka and Silowa see a single tiny fossil among the black lava pebbles on a slope. They see fossils that not one other person would see! They conjure them from the ground as they pass, Inspector!’

‘
Murothi
,’ said Murothi. ‘I am Murothi. I do not know this Inspector! He is quite new to me.’

Véronique raised her mug of tea in salute.

‘You are right,’ remarked Otaka pensively. ‘Silowa came to me some days ago. I think this is the time Likon is meaning. I remember that the boy wanted to know about tuffs.’

‘Tuffs? What are these?’

‘Layers of volcanic ash, compacted to rock,’ offered Véronique. ‘Murothi, think of a volcano spewing out the ash. Or the volcanic ash carried far by rivers and dumped. In the heat and pressure of volcanic eruption, there are changes in the minerals –’

‘I do not understand,’ protested Murothi, already lost.

‘It sets a kind of atomic clock going, which we can use to tell when the eruption happened. So, we date the tuffs! If we
find something trapped below a tuff, it is older, if it is above a tuff, it is younger. Of course, sometimes things have been twisted upside down, as in Chomlaya, making it difficult to trace the line of the tuffs from one place to another. Is the archaeological find really above or below? Has some great rift in the earth flung everything on its head? I tell you, we can go quietly mad with this!’

‘And this enquiry about tuffs. This is the kind of question Silowa would usually ask? Did this talk seem different?’

Emphatically, Otaka shook his head. ‘This boy is always eager. He drinks knowledge like it is the water of life. We have many of these conversations while we work.’

Murothi, sipping his third cup of tea, could think of nothing else to ask. Whispers seemed to float in and out of his head. It is the tiredness, he thought. He passed a hand across his face, pressing his eyes.
It is sleep that calls
–

‘You have the face of a haunted man,’ commented Otaka, getting up and fetching sticks, placing them on the fire, sitting down again and studying Murothi.

‘I
am
haunted, Otaka. These voices haunt me.’ Murothi waved a hand at the little pile at his feet, shining pale against the soil. He leaned down and picked it up. ‘Here, you see, Anna’s drawings and your friend Charly’s notes. Then we have
these police interviews, the students’ camp diary, Charly’s emails and letters to Ella. I have what the students have said, and what Joe has told me. I have talked and talked to Joe since Matt was found. I have the voice of his distress that he does not know the answers. I have Ella who
knows
her sister.’ He sighed. ‘And now I have your voices too! Ah! They all tell different stories and I know, in here,’ he tapped his head, ‘that they are the same story. But I cannot see the joining points.’

Ella struggled free of the sleeping bag and flopped on top. Sweat dried, sticky on her skin.

There was a slight, furtive, rasping sound. It came to her at the same moment she saw a change in the light through the canvas. With a flip of alarm, she knew that someone stood there.

Not Joe. Too tall.

She sat up, swinging her legs to the ground. The zip was opening, a figure slipping deftly through the gap.

‘Who –?’

‘
Shut up.
’

He came on silently and fast, reached the bed and stood over her, legs wide, her knees trapped between his, close, pressing.

She pushed, trying to twist from his hold, throw herself sideways. But he held her effortlessly by the shoulder, one hand pressing her down, the grip painful, his other hand groping for her mouth.

‘Wha-?’ she mumbled, frantic to think straight.

‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘Makes it interesting?’

‘
Get out.
’ Joe was a square of black against the opening, without form or feature, except his voice.

‘You’ll make me?’

‘Yes.’

Sean laughed. ‘How?’

‘Don’t know. But I will . . . ’

‘Well, won’t wait while you figure it out.’ He shoved Ella’s shoulder spitefully. It flung her against the metal edge of the camp-bed with a bang that drew a yelp of pain, and instantly Joe launched himself, toppling Sean sideways over Ella’s backpack on the floor.

Expertly the taller boy rolled to his feet and dived at Joe, the whole taking place in a muted, grunting fury: thud, thump against the ground, hoarse, strangled breaths, Ella tumbling with them, scrabbling to hold Sean, weigh him down, drag him off.
Fetch someone
pounded through her brain even as running feet and torchbeams split the dark. Boys’ voices, girls’ . . . Miss Strutton’s bark, ‘
Where DO you think you’re going?
‘

‘He came here, Miss. He’s –’

‘
Back to your tents this minute.
’

‘ – looking for Sean, Miss –’

‘
How DARE you run about like this? You know the rules!
‘

‘Yeah, but
he’s
not meant to be out, either –’

‘
I’ll be the judge of that!
‘

‘We saw Sean come this way –’

‘
Since when is that your business?
‘

‘Since
now
, Miss. We got to find what Sean’s doing!’

Then everyone silenced as Ella pulled the tent flap wide and stumbled out.

It took seconds – the two wrestling boys tugged apart, Sean kneeling viciously on Joe as he got up, aiming a last vindictive kick. ‘Later,’ he muttered. To Ella, not Joe. He shouldered past her, shrugged everyone else off and flung away, hurling a glance of open scorn at the dumbstruck Miss Strutton.

For a moment there was a startled vacuum, as if no one had really expected to find anything happening. And then the inspector and the sergeant coming at a run from the police tents, and the teacher Ian Boyd from somewhere else, and a general babble of explanation.

Suddenly shivery, sapped, Ella turned back into the tent. Joe was sitting on the camp-bed. He gave her a shaky smile. She sat down beside him.

‘Right,’ she could hear Ian Boyd saying outside. ‘Good, everyone. Now, back to your tents. No random wandering
about with the main lamps out. Don’t want surprise encounters with other kinds of wildlife. Get some sleep now. Need you all fit and alert tomorrow. Inspector Murothi, I’ll see to Joe and Ella. And we’ll look for Sean, find out what he thinks he’s up to. We’ll keep an eye on him – Oi, you lot, don’t take liberties! Off you go.’

Zak’s head came poking into the tent, followed by Antony and Tamara: like a totem pole, their faces one below the other. Zak gave a thumbs-up, and the others grinned, and then they withdrew into the sounds of general chatter, voices and footsteps gradually drifting away.

After a minute, Ian Boyd peered in. Then he came fully inside, shone a torch over Ella’s face and then Joe’s, examining carefully.

‘Hurt?’

Ella, tears of delayed fear and shock welling up, shook her head dumbly.

‘Sure?’

She nodded.

‘Joe?’

‘He’s a savage, Sir, he’s a –’

‘And you stopped him, Joe. That’s more than . . . ’ the teacher hunched his shoulders, didn’t complete the sentence.
‘Look, get some rest – both of you. Stuff to do as soon as it’s light. Won’t be long, now. I’ll be keeping watch. We’ll sort Sean out. Promise.’ He glanced from one to the other, seemed on the point of saying something else, and didn’t. He went out.

‘He’ll come back,’ said Ella. She meant Sean.

‘Maybe,’ said Joe. ‘Yeah, he’ll try.’ He put his arm round her shoulder, pulled her against him and sat holding her. ‘I’ll stay. Two of us?’

Outside, all the torchlight had gone. Only a sliver of moonlight slipped across the groundsheet.

Suddenly Joe got up, zipped up the tent, and moved Ella’s pack against the entrance.

‘Trip him up,’ he said. ‘Warn us. We got to sleep. Like Sir said. It’ll be light soon.’

He climbed on to the camp-bed beside her, put his arm across her and pushed her down, gently. He settled, and shut his eyes.

For a while she studied his face, a shadowy mosaic of contours in the dark, until her shiveriness ebbed away. Then she turned over, pushed up close to him so she could feel his warmth against her back, and went to sleep.

The notebook slid off Murothi’s chest and fell to the ground
sheet with a slap. The lamp guttered, burning low and yellow.

Something had jolted him awake. Something rattled in his head.

It is two separate events.
These people have left the camp for one reason. They have disappeared for another. In these
two
things is the answer; Murothi, do not confuse their
separateness.

Dawn was still two hours away. His throat was dry. He heaved himself off the bed and found his water bottle, drank thirstily. The liquid coursed through him, cooling, kindling him to an alert wakefulness.

He picked up the fallen notebook. On the cover Charly had written CHOMLAYA CAMP/ OPENED 6 FEBRUARY 2006. Twenty-three days ago.

What had struck him most was its scale and care: dated, meticulous, detailed. Notes about the place: sketchmaps, plants, animals, birds; trips made with students; notes of conversations with them: families, interests, friends. Likon, Tomis, Samuel – they were all there, and the two drivers, David Ntanyaki and Nicolas Waiputari. Even the various English teachers. She seemed to have made a point of talking, carefully, to everyone. There were Otaka and Véronique; other names from Burukanda that Murothi did not know. And all this was interspersed with her impressions, reactions, thoughts – even
quotations. Like one from Samuel:
He who is unable to dance says the yard is stony.
Murothi could not help smiling, having a very good idea that the ‘he’ in this case was probably a ‘she’, Miss Strutton.

He thought, you can trace the course of Charly’s mood, day by day. Here, in that first week, is her elation: Chomlaya, her happiness that the students were so enthusiastic, new sights, new friends. Barely two weeks later, is the beginning of the descent . . .

The first hint came in a note on 18 February.

You can see what’s happened – this friend of Ian’s comes here, falls in love with it – inspires Ian to organise the trip, he gets me involved, we all share an idea about why we’ve come . . .

CRASH, bad fairy lands at the party: I’M IN CHARGE!

It’s a personal kingdom for ES – not thirty kids and a handful of teachers in a semi-desert place, a place they DON’T KNOW, which could turn against them in a flash.

She’s got to decide everything. Disagree with her, and it’s I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS. She SULKS, she FUMES (if there were doors to slam, she’d slam them). The most ridiculous, tiniest detail of camp arrangement is a tussle of wills.

EXHAUSTING!!!!!

The really, really depressing thing is that someone has put this person in charge of children! And everyone here, EVERYONE, every other teacher – even Ian who knows better – just backs away! What if something serious happened? What if she wanted to do something really loony?

Beginning to see how SERIOUSLY ill-prepared this all is. Like those disastrous school trips where people get lost in the snow and aren’t even dressed for a rainy day.

Murothi dropped the notebook on the table. He unzipped the tent and stepped outside, drawing a deep breath of the clear night air. A path of moonlight shafted between the trees, and Mungai crossed it, acknowledged him with a brief lift of his stick, merged back into the dark.

Murothi went back in, and took up Anna’s drawings. He had already studied the undisguised fury of the girl’s cartoons, particularly one of Miss Strutton behind a table spread with little boxes. Each box was labelled: Clever, Stupid, Winners, Losers. Tiny figures peered out of some. He recognised a smug Candy, a supercilious Sean. And it took little effort to detect Anna, Matt, Silowa, Joe, fighting their way out of a ‘Losers’ box while a giant, snarling Miss Strutton tried to push the lid down on them.

He sat down on the bed, leafing to and fro through the pages. He let his mind wander loosely. Since the events a few hours ago with Sean, he’d seen these drawings in a different kind of light – recognised the particular savagery of Anna’s depiction of Sean.

It told Murothi a hidden story – that Anna was the victim of some sort of very personal encounter with this boy, and it had rooted a deep, instinctive fear in her. And anger. The others did not know about it, not even Joe. This, Murothi was also certain about. Even in the strangled mood of this camp someone would have told the police about it, if they’d known. Anna had kept it to herself. He was getting a strong impression of this girl: not one to drag others into her battles, yet, from what Ian Boyd and the students said, not slow to take on the battles of others.

He focused his mind on her sketchbook again. On the last page there was a drawing of a skull. No cartoon, this – detailed, and careful. Not a modern skull, he could tell now that Otaka had explained to him, and anyway, Anna had labelled it: ‘Burukanda boy – 1.5 million years old’.

Not bad, is it?
Véronique had said when he showed her Anna’s drawing, sitting by the fire earlier.
This girl has a talent, certainly. We have a plaster cast of this skull at Burukanda, Murothi. The original is in the museum back in Ulima. It was the
first very significant fossil find in this region, twenty years ago. You see here the famous discoverer!
and she’d put a hand on Otaka’s shoulder.

Ah, in my energetic youth
, Otaka had smiled, with a lift of the eyebrow.
Silowa is very proud of me. He tells everyone!

Below the drawing, in the peculiar writing that looked like bubbles, was printed the number 1,000. It was Véronique who had guessed its meaning suddenly:
You know what I think that is, Murothi? The prize for the Burukanda competition! It is worth that in English money.

Eee-ee! A very large pot!
Murothi had retorted.
For a children’s competition?

Ah, no. I have not explained properly. The competition is a big, national one: the Burukanda Award, for undergraduate and graduate archaeology students. Winners can use it to help pay for their studies. Here, it pays for two years. The students at Chomlaya camp are being given the chance to enter the competition too, to help give their visit a focus, you see. But of course they will not win this main money prize. It would not be appropriate for them to get such money – it is for students in this country. There will be other rewards for their effort, to encourage them.

But, thought Murothi now, looking at it again, Anna has written it down. If that is what the figures mean –

A conversation with Ella flashed into mind, prompting him to turn to the journalist’s notebook. Finding what he sought, he contemplated it for perhaps the twentieth time. At the top of a page, Charly had scrawled: FOOTPRINTS. Underneath, in fat quotation marks, ‘In the history of the world, the history of the human race is no more than the blink of an eye.’ Beside it was something Ella called a ‘doodle’. The notebook was full of these, tucked here and there in the margins: little patterns, stick figures, words decorated with curls. Charly, Ella said, always did these when she was thinking or listening hard.

This one looked to Murothi like stick people having a stick fight. But Ella had seen the figures were holding long bones with nobbles at each end, and managed to read the scribble up the side: THE BATTLE OF THE BONES.

Oh
, Véronique had exclaimed, when he showed her,
I remember Charly doing that. Look, Otaka! It was while she was asking about the entry rules for the Burukanda Award, yes
? and Otaka had agreed.

Something here I should be seeing.
Every time he looked at it again during this night, this thought niggled at Murothi. But he could not translate the feeling into fact, nothing he could
grasp
, or
do
something with.

Frustrated, he went outside again. Dim lamps marked the perimeter of the camp, and the embers of the dying campfire glowed at its heart. Further out, by the police tents, a single light fell on someone leaning against a vehicle, and inside the tent occupied by Ian Boyd a lamp silhouetted the shape of someone sitting against the canvas. Otherwise, there was no movement, and for a moment Murothi could not detect the helicopter engines either. Then he concentrated his hearing and found the distant hum amidst the light wind sighing through the web of trees.