Rare Earth Page 11

  The elders listened with the unblinking severity of hanging judges. When he was finished, the silence clung to them with the heat until Philip’s uncle said, “You search for answers.”

  Until that moment, Marc had no idea any of them spoke English. “I do.”

  One of the other elders said, “We must know whether his questions are ours.”

  “No,” another said. “His questions are fashioned by Western minds for Western problems. Ours are Kikuyu and Luo and Masaii and Nubian. What we must know is, will his answers become our answers as well.”

  The discussion reverted back to Swahili. Marc gave it time, then asked, “May I pose a question of my own?”

  If the elders were offended by his interruption, they did not show it. Philip’s uncle said, “You may speak.”

  “Charles called this gathering a miracle. Will you tell me why?”

  “It is a good question,” a rotund elder said.

  Oyango shifted his colorful robes. “You know my tribe?”

  “You are Luo.”

  “It is so.” He reverted back to Swahili. Charles translated, “The blood enemies of my people are the Kikuyu. And the Nubian. All of the clans represented here are bound by tribal loyalty. The enemies of my great-grandfathers are my enemies, as they will be the enemies of my children’s children. These things do not change. You in the West make alliances and you make marriages and you break them all. This is not the Luo way.”

  “Or the Kikuyu,” one of the others said in English. “The first president of Kenya after liberation was from the Kikuyu clan. The vice president was Luo. These two tribes formed the largest voting blocs. They had an agreement. After two years the Luo was to become president. But what happened, after one year and eleven months, the president fires the vice president and all the Luos on his cabinet. He says they were incompetent and could not do their jobs.”

  Another of the elders said, “And all the Kikuyu, they cheer. They say, this is very smart. Because they know, the Luo are not to be trusted.”

  Oyango went on, “And the Luo, they vowed revenge. Just as they have for a thousand years.”

  “This is not just politics, and it is not just in the past,” the rotund elder said. “A hundred and fifty years ago, the British colonial government brought in Nubians from Egypt. They gave these Muslims from the north this land here, Kibera, as their own. At the time it was an outpost far from the colonial capital of Nairobi. Now the Nubians are our landlords. So those Luos who are Muslim formed alliances with the Nubians. The Luo gangs and the Nubian gangs, they prey on the Kikuyu and the Kisii.”

  “Yet look now at what you see.” Philip’s uncle pointed to each of the others in his circle. “Nubian. Kikuyu. Luo. Luhya. Kalenjin. Kisii. All of us sworn enemies. Yet here we sit in peace. How is this possible?”

  Marc answered, “Because of Jesus.”

  “You are a follower of the risen one?”

  “I am.”

  The chief turned one way, then the other. “I accept my nephew’s direction now as I did before. At the turning. At the new beginning of my life. I say we should trust this man.”

  After a time of silence, the elder at the far end said, “Tell him.”

  One spoke, then another, then a third and so on. Back and forth the exchange went, almost as though they intended to add force to their words by weaving the sentences together jointly. Those who were not speaking hummed a single note of emphasis, a soft sound from the savannah, from the African night, from the vast seas of grass and beasts and days without end.

  Charles translated, “The land of our fathers is not just for growing crops and hunting game and building our homes. It is our heart. It is our blood. It is our fathers and our mothers.”

  Marc said, “It always comes back to the land.”

  They responded with a unified drumbeat of sound, a deep resonant force. One of the Kikuyu reached down and grabbed a fistful of dust from the floor. He held it out and spoke. “This earth is dead. It is infected with all the city’s ills.”

  His words were taken up by another. “This earth is infecting our children.”

  And another. “It is for the children that we speak with you. It is why we ask for your help.”

  Marc said, “Tell me what I can do.”

  Charles bound the voices together into one continuous dialogue. “With all the villages represented here, the process was the same. A bureaucrat they had never seen before arrived. He walked the village. He smiled at the elders. He spoke kind words.

  “A few days came another man. And another. And a third. This last man, he came with papers and with trucks and with guns. He told the elders that the land was not theirs and never had been. The men with guns herded them into the trucks. The man gave the elders the papers that promised new villages. And payment for the land that was not theirs. Enough money to build new villages and plant new crops.”

  Marc guessed, “The money never arrived. Or the land.”

  “Soon, we are told. Tomorrow. Next week. After the rains. But the rains do not come. Or the land. Or the money.”

  Philip’s uncle said, “We can wait no longer. Our children hear the city’s call. Do you hear what I am saying, Marc Royce? Our children, they are forgetting their name.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The next morning Marc departed Nairobi on a Lodestone helicopter. A pair of sharpshooters armed with automatic rifles and RPGs leaned out the open rear door. Boyd Crowder and Marc and Karl Rigby joined the two pilots up front. With all three jump seats occupied, the cockpit was cramped. No one complained, for their view of Kenya was spectacular.

  The chopper left the Nairobi sprawl behind in a matter of minutes. Once the air cleared of city smog, the Rift swooped open below them and a hundred lakes flashed and glistened. The vista was immense. The air rushing in the open doors was filled with all the flavors of Africa.

  Marc studied a map supplied by the Kibera elders. Its surface was stained by a thousand hands. On it were noted all the known villages that had been erased by some bureaucrat’s uncaring hand. Crowder and Rigby checked it carefully and declared that none of the evictions had used Lodestone forces. Marc knew Walton would be skeptical, but he was glad he had decided to trust these men.

  They headed east, aiming for Oyango’s home village. A half hour later, Lake Victoria emerged from the blue-gray horizon. The lake spanned over ten thousand square miles, the world’s second largest freshwater sea. From their height, Marc could see smoke rising from three neighboring hamlets. Marc asked the pilots to survey them before landing and then slipped into the chopper’s rear compartment. Children raced out and waved and danced as they passed. Men and women straightened from their stations in the fields. Cattle and goats scattered. Through the open doorway Marc smelled woodsmoke and earthy fragrances.

  But the village cleared of people was something else entirely.

  There was no sign that Oyango’s village had ever existed.

  Instead, they descended on the outskirts of a modern factory farm. A neat rectangle of perhaps three square miles was planted and watered and sheltered beneath plastic ribbons. A pair of tractors dragged massive rotor blades and raised flocks of screeching birds. The dust was terrible.

  As the rotors slowed, Crowder slipped off the headphones and said to Marc, “This is your show. When Lodestone HQ asks what went down, I’m telling them I was here as your official escort.”

  “Got it.” Marc exited the chopper and walked toward a team of workers uncoiling irrigation piping and settling it into shallow grooves. But before he arrived, two men rushed over. They wore pale blue coveralls without insignia and waved angrily at his approach.

  “No, no, you are not being here! This is a most private place!” The taller of the pair was not African at all, but Indian. Glistening black hair was slicked across a head large as a pumpkin. Angry eyes glinted from within deep folds. “You must leave now.”

  “I’m here representing—”

  “I am not caring
for anything you say. This is private land, and you are a trespasser!” He waved his hands in Marc’s face, as though trying to block his vision. “You are going now!”

  “I need to ask what happened to the villagers.”

  “You are illegal! You think I am caring what questions you bring? No, I am not caring! You are trespassing! I shall call the army and report you!” He whipped about and said to his associate, “You are making careful note of this helicopter’s tail number?”

  “It is done, sir.”

  “Now you are taking photographs of this man.”

  Marc protested, “I just want—”

  “Go, go now! You will see much trouble, oh yes!”

  Marc allowed himself to be turned around and shoved back toward the chopper. It was either that or fight the man. And nothing was going to be gained through violence. The Indian showed no fear of the armed men, who watched through the chopper’s open door. Marc clambered aboard and the helicopter rose into the sky. The Indian administrator watched them depart with fists planted on his hips while the African continued to shoot photographs.

  Marc slipped past Rigby and pointed out the windshield. “Set us down on that rise over there.”

  Between the factory farm and the nearest village was a lonely hillock. The chopper’s arrival flattened the grass and sent monkeys shrieking from a pair of thorn trees. This time when Marc hopped down, Crowder and Rigby joined him.

  The factory farm was a fragment of Western-style order in the midst of the Kenyan landscape. Five long whitewashed buildings stood at its center. Marc assumed they contained admin and lodging and storage and barns. The workers operated in tight coordination. The fields and their plastic covers were neat and orderly.

  Crowder demanded, “This make any sense to you?”

  Marc did not respond. He watched as four trucks rumbled into the central compound and backed up to loading bays by the largest of the whitewashed buildings. Crowder walked back to the chopper and returned with binoculars. He watched them for a time, then announced, “They’re loading up bundles of flowers and what looks like turnips.”

  Marc said, “Why would they evacuate one village and leave those others right where they are?”

  Crowder tapped the binoculars on his thigh. “If they’re setting up factory farms, why scatter them around the region? Transport alone would eat up their profits. You want as much land all together as you can get. It’s the only way these things work. My family’s farmed for ten generations. I might have chosen the military over black Arkansas earth, but I know a mistake when I see one.”

  Marc replied, “They wouldn’t have kidnapped Serge over some experiment in modern farming techniques. We’re asking the wrong questions.”

  Rigby added, “Serge Korban was taken from an area blanketed by ash. You couldn’t grow stones in that place.”

  The colonel growled toward the factory farm, “What is going on down there?”

  Marc turned back to the chopper. “We won’t find the answers out here.”

  They followed the elders’ map to two other displaced communities and found identical situations. The surrounding villages remained untouched. They landed at one occupied village, where the lone headman who spoke English related how their village had been warned to keep all animals away from the factory farm. The elder complained about cattle that had been shot for straying too close, and said their wells were going dry. As to the displaced villagers, the elder shrugged his lack of information. The government, he replied. Men in suits came with papers and armies and trucks. The villagers were forced to leave. It is the way of this age.

  When they took off, Crowder ordered the chopper to the south and east. The pilots did not need to check their maps for this final destination. As they descended, Crowder told everyone on board, “We are not here.”

  He received a series of grim nods in reply.

  They landed at a major intersection. The two roads were both well paved. Connected to them were a series of small feeder trails, surrounded by the inevitable trading shanties. Pie dogs sniffed and snarled. Goats bleated and pulled at their ropes as the chopper’s engine wound down.

  Accompanied by an armed escort, they left the chopper and crossed the Trans-African Highway between crawling trucks. Crowder led Marc to a broad expanse of burned earth.

  “This was just another regional supply depot,” he said. “Used by a dozen different aid groups operating in this district. At least, that was the plan. But when the attack happened, my men were standing guard detail for empty godowns.”

  “The traffic jam at the Mombasa port,” Marc recalled.

  “The goods being off-loaded from the ships were sent straight to the camps. Until the attack, this duty defined boring. They are in the middle of nowhere, bothering nobody.”

  Marc surveyed the terrain. A series of drainage ditches bordered the supply center. Stone pillars stood like blackened teeth in the western sun. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Just before midnight they radioed in that choppers were inbound. They said the choppers weren’t responding to their radio queries, but when they landed they saw the soldiers on board were wearing blue UN armbands. You follow?”

  “Your men assumed they were all on the same side.”

  “Roger that. Then we got one alert, a thirty-second burst of panic. They were under attack. We didn’t believe them. We thought it was some kind of practical joke born out of tedium. But then we heard the gunfire. And the shouts. Then the line went dead.”

  “Did you record the conversation?”

  “Of course. I’ll play it for you when we get back.” Crowder stomped forward, kicking up plumes of ashes as he led Marc to the nearest clump of trading shacks.

  Only then did Marc realize the shanties were empty. All of them.

  A crone bent almost double with age and infirmity emerged from a shack by a goats’ pen. She shuffled toward them, leaning on a stick as warped as her back. Her outstretched hand was held in an arthritic curl as she whined an appeal.

  “Last time in, I brought an interpreter,” Crowder said, handing the woman a bill. “There are six people left from a community of maybe thirty Indian and African traders. All those who remain are too old and too sick to leave. The rest were ordered away by the soldiers. And now you know what I know.”

  “You’ve spoken with the UN?”

  “They claim it’s all a myth. They grew angry when I insisted this had happened the way I described. Like I was insulting them, instead of just hunting answers.”

  “I’ll talk with the Kibera elders and Uhuru, see if they can tell us anything.” When Crowder responded by kicking the burned earth, Marc said, “If I can help you, I will, Colonel. I’m certain your mystery is tied to my own.”

  They returned to Nairobi well after dark. Streaks the color of blood filtered across the western horizon. Otherwise the world was intensely black. On the approach to the airport they passed a few islands of lights, small townships that served as feeders to the mammoth silver-white creature on the horizon. The connecting roads became veins illuminated by crawling headlights. Other than that, the land was invisible. The air through the chopper’s open door was filled with alien spices, the wind warm as a caress. The dark landscape seemed to mask a million dangers.

  Marc ate, showered, and called Ambassador Walton from the front lawn of the Lodestone compound. He had to assume his office and room were bugged. It wasn’t Crowder or Rigby who concerned him. It was the unseen threat, the unnamed foe, the beast that lurked beyond the shadows.

  Walton heard him out in silence, then declared, “These evacuations are not happening for the sake of experimental farms.”

  “I agree one hundred percent.”

  “It doesn’t matter how fertile the soil. I don’t care if they’re raising a new breed of living gemstones. This is not the reason.”

  “The authorities are masking something,” Marc agreed.

  “I’m still not in agreement with your decision to bring in Lodest
one’s military arm. They could be showing you a friendly face just to determine your primary objective.”

  Marc held his ground. “You said it yourself, sir. I’m the operative in the field. I need to follow my hunches on this one. From what I’ve seen, Crowder is on our side.”

  Walton chewed on that for a time. “We’ve run into a surprise on Crowder’s file. Our operatives discovered an electronic guard dog. Our guys think they slipped away before they were discovered. But there is definitely someone keeping a tight watch.”

  “Lodestone could suspect Crowder of switching allegiances. Now they want to know who else is interested.”

  “I’m still not convinced,” Walton growled. “I will see if there is anything listed on new experimental farms. In the meanwhile, you watch your back.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next morning Marc attended another gathering of the Kibera elders. When he climbed from the taxi, Charles stood alone in front of the church. Marc shook the offered hand and asked, “Where is Kitra?”

  “She returned yesterday to the refugee camp. A French convoy made it through from Mombasa, and she is riding back with them.” Charles must have seen Marc’s disappointment, for as they entered the church Charles patted his shoulder and said, “She likes you very much. This much I know. And I suspect it is why she left no word.”

  Marc stopped midway down the aisle. “I don’t understand.”

  “She is conflicted. Over what, I do not know.”

  “Another man?”

  “No one here in Africa. Of that I am certain. One comes to know people very well in the camps. Back in Israel?” Charles shrugged and motioned them forward. “Come. It is not correct to keep the elders waiting.”

  As in the previous session, Philip’s uncle held the central position. Marc accepted a tin mug of black tea sweetened by coarse raw sugar. He turned his mind away from the absent woman, thanked the elders for seeing him, and related the previous day’s journey.