Mackenzie Ford - The Clouds Beneath the Sun

He slid the whiskey cup back across the table and massaged the back of his neck with his hand.

“We didn’t think it was such a big deal.” He turned his gaze towards her. “Is it really? The tribal goats are always grazing on that burial ground, kicking up the soil with their hooves and snouts. With any luck, no one will notice.”

She inhaled her cigarette once, twice.

Go slow, she told herself.

“Are your parents alive or dead, Russell?”

“My mother’s dead.”

“Buried or cremated?”

“Cremated.”

“Well, my mother is buried in Lincolnshire. In the local churchyard, next to the church where my father learned to play the organ. He is a very religious man, Russell. How do you think he would feel if someone dug up his wife’s bones, just to prove or disprove some … theory , something that could be settled in a few weeks anyway without … without doing that sort of damage?”

“I know, I know. It was wrong.” He rubbed his neck again. “But Richard was so … so persuasive. He’s terrified someone else will beat us to the punch. He convinced me it was no big deal—”

“Don’t hide behind him, Russell. You played your part. If you didn’t feel as strongly, you should have stopped him.”

“I know … I know. I keep saying that. I’m not hiding. I’m doubly in the wrong, yes. I should have stopped Richard and I didn’t. I shouldn’t have gone, but I did.”

They sat for a long time without speaking. Natalie finished her cigarette. The whiskey—that night’s ration, anyway—was gone. The noises of the bush carried on around them.

After a while, Russell said, “All you hear is animals. You never hear the people of the bush, do you?”

“That doesn’t mean they’re not there,” replied Natalie.

Another long silence.

Russell stood up. Natalie remained seated. He stood behind her chair, leaned down, and kissed the top of her head. “I’ve been wanting to do that since the moment I first saw you.”

She didn’t move or respond. He put his hands on her shoulders but at this she squirmed free and stood up.

They faced each other.

He moved forward. In the darkness, the freckles on his face all ran into one another.

“Good night, Russell,” she said firmly.

“Water?”

Natalie straightened up, pressed her hands into her back, then wiped her forehead with her sleeve. It was four mornings later and every able-bodied member of the dig was in the korongo , trying to fulfill Eleanor Deacon’s aim of finishing this part of the excavation by the end of the week. This morning, at least, there was a wind getting up. Warm, but it helped ease things a little.

Natalie took the bottle from Christopher Deacon. “Thank you.”

In front of them, the wall of the gorge, all around where the tibia and femur had been found, was being attacked. The soil-sand, newly exposed, was darker than the surrounding surface, which had long been bleached by the sun. Everyone who was able to was picking away at the soil. Arnold Pryce was sifting soil through a sieve. A little further along, Kees and Jonas were stooped over another stretch of gorge. Today there were a few clouds beneath the sun, which occasionally provided shade. So far, however, there had been no new discoveries.

“How are you settling in?” Christopher had hitherto kept his distance from Natalie. He was normally polite but … not formal exactly, but reserved. He had a slightly clipped accent, almost but not quite South African.

“I’m loving it,” replied Natalie. “I didn’t enjoy all the excitement about the burial ground, of course. I hadn’t anticipated such … high drama. At Cambridge, when you study archaeology you also study anthropology. No one who’s studied anthropology could have done what Richard and Russell did.” She sighed. “But the discovery’s exciting, isn’t it?”

“Very. What a pity it had to be marred by that silly prank. Though prank is hardly the word.”

Natalie handed back the water bottle. “We’ll all get over it, I suppose. Especially if there’s another major discovery.”

“It’s not us I’m worried about,” said Christopher. “As you say, we’ll get over it. Meals will be a bit sticky for a few more days but as we unearth other bones, if we do, we’ll gradually put this behind us.” He looked down the gorge, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand.

“What are you worried about, then?”

He breathed out. “The Maasai. They are very proud, very fierce when they want to be. Richard and Russell may think they covered their tracks, but it was dark when they raided the burial ground, so how they can be one hundred percent certain of that I don’t know. We can’t go back and inspect, that would just draw attention to the matter. My mother’s spent so long making friends with the Maasai—arranging medical help, educational scholarships, employing some of them, like Mutevu Ndekei … she’s very sensitive on their behalf.”

“Maybe that will help, if the tribe is upset.”

“Maybe. But they can be tricky, the Maasai. They’re supposed to be converts to Christianity but many of the men still worship their traditional gods, the fig trees, and the women give sacrifices at those local sand dunes that I showed you.” He turned towards her. “See what I mean? The Maasai are the Maasai. I wouldn’t like to predict how they will respond to this incident.”

She had never known Christopher to say so much.

“What’s that noise?” she said, after a pause.

“That moaning sound, you mean?”

She nodded.

“It’s the whistling thorn.”

When she frowned, he added, “Come on, I’ll show you.” He waved to the guard, Aldwai, to show that he was making a move, and stepped over to some acacia bushes. He pointed. “Whistling thorn, Latin name Acacia drepanolobium . Look, see these spikes growing out of the branches? They are two to three inches long and very sharp. But look also at these bulbous bases.”

He pointed to a brown-red bulb about the size of a golf ball, also with a thorn growing out of it. “In themselves, these are quite succulent, but watch.” He pressed the narrow neck of the water bottle he was holding against one of the bulbs. After a very short delay, swarms of ants emerged from a series of holes in the skin of the bulbs.

“Ughh!” breathed Natalie.

“Yes,” said Christopher with a chuckle. “Whistling thorn is a perfect example of symbiosis—which is why the Maasai revere it so much. The plant allows these biting ants—and believe me they are biting ants—to live in its bulbs because when herbivores, giraffes especially, feed on the bulbs, in next to no time they get a mouthful of biting ants, and then they don’t come back. The thorn provides a home for the ants and the ants provide protection for the thorn.”

They watched as the ants disappeared back inside the bulbs.

“When the ants burrow into the bulbs, they make tiny holes in the skin. Then, when a wind gets up, the holes make a moaning sound. As the wind gets stronger, they then produce a higher-pitched whistle. Which is how they get their name, ‘Whistling Thorns.’”

He drank some water.

“Then there’s the fact that this thorn wood is very hard and resistant to termites. That makes it useful for spear handles, tool handles, and building. It makes good charcoal and its sap can be used as a gum. Very useful, whistling thorn.”

He poured water into the palm of his hand, then slapped it on the back of his neck. A cooling maneuver.

“Turn round,” he said.

She did as she was told and, again using his hand, Christopher slapped water on her neck.