Mackenzie Ford - The Clouds Beneath the Sun

“I’m not sure I have the temperament to be a pilot.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. It was a momentary slip.”

“If Jack hadn’t been there—”

“But he was!”

“Were you very frightened?”

She paused. “It all happened so quickly … there wasn’t time … Jack reacted before I did.”

Christopher nodded. “He was quick to see what was happening. Those bloody birds.” He let some time go by. The jazz got faster still.

A water buffalo moaned in the gorge.

“I need more lessons.” He breathed out. “But not from Jack. Jack makes me nervous. I suppose it’s him being my brother.”

Natalie said nothing. Where was this going?

The jazz ended in what sounded to Natalie like an apocalypse of drums.

“Look,” said Christopher, leaning forward, “it’s Christmas in just over a week. The ancillary staff get a few days off, and the guards, and with this new ruling of my mother’s—that we must only be in the gorge in pairs—we are all going to stand down for seventy-two hours. I wondered … I wondered if you wanted to drive over to Kubwa. It’s on the slopes of the mountain before you get to Ngorongoro and there are some hot springs. The water is very restorative and, well, since we have had such a wearing few days, I thought it might help us unwind, get the cobwebs out of our hair, prepare us for the ordeals to come … the press conference and the trial …”

Natalie was relieved to hear Chopin’s “Farewell to Poland” waltz. For her, the piano beat the drums any day.

But how did she respond to Christopher, who had just handed her a nice little dilemma?

“Jack has already asked me to spend Christmas with him, at a Swahili village called … Limu, Lomu? On the coast, anyway.”

“Lamu. It’s not far from the Somalia border. Did you say yes?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t given him an answer yet, no.”

“Then you are going to have to choose between brothers.”

“Oh no,” replied Natalie, shaking her head again. “Oh no. You’ve both put me in an impossible position and there’s only one way out.” She stood up. This had gone far enough. “I’m going to say no to both of you. Good night.”

When Natalie reached the breakfast table the next morning, Eleanor and Christopher were discussing the press conference.

“Most of the British delegation will be staying at the Rhodes,” Christopher was saying. “That’s not far from the Coryndon Natural History Museum, where the director has said we can use their premises. It’s central, and the room will be filled with natural history specimens—that will produce the right atmosphere, don’t you think?”

“Yes, it will. Excellent. Well done, Christopher.” Eleanor looked up and smiled as Natalie sat down. She let Natalie sip some coffee and slice into her fruit before asking, “And the documentation, Natalie, how is that coming along?”

“Well, no one has worked on it for a few days, for obvious Kees-related reasons. But we’re almost there, I think. Once Jack gets back from Nairobi, we can polish what we have, and you can see it soon after. Forty-eight hours at the most, I should think.”

Eleanor nodded. “Good. Things are falling into place. I still can’t say I’m happy with the route we are taking but … since we are going that way, we must give it our best shot, as the Americans say.” She looked across to Natalie. “There’s been no further word from the odious Richard Sutton Senior, or from Russell, I suppose?”

“One short note from Russell. He’s still not happy.”

“And did you try to soften him up?”

“Yes, of course. I haven’t heard back. My letter crossed with his.”

She swallowed some fruit.

“I don’t think Russell will soften, Eleanor.”

Eleanor nodded, removing her spectacles at the same time.

Just then Naiva brought in a large plate.

“Ah, eggs!” cried Eleanor. “Christopher—” and she looked across. “I’m famished. Be an angel, go and radio Jack. Find out how Kees is this morning.”

Christopher got to his feet and, taking his coffee mug with him, crossed to his mother’s tent, where the radio-telephone was.

Eleanor waited, as usual, while everyone else was served, before spooning two eggs on to her own plate.

“Arnold, how close are you to finishing your part in the press conference?”

“It’s just a matter of tinkering, don’t worry. This creature—I take it we are still calling him, or her, Homo kiharensis , yes—?”

Eleanor nodded.

“Well, we now know more or less what his or her diet was and—”

“Before you go into that, may I say something?”

Everyone looked at Natalie.

“Sorry, Arnold,” she said. “But I’m sure your news about diet will be accepted by the rest of us. I wanted to raise a point where I don’t expect universal agreement.”

“Go ahead,” said Arnold. “These eggs are too good to let them get cold, anyway.” He attacked his food.

“I can understand why you want to call these remains Homo kiharensis.” Natalie swallowed some coffee, and looked over her mug at Eleanor. “I see how that fits into what we are trying to achieve. But I wonder if we are not … if we are not missing a trick here.”

Eleanor wiped the remains of egg yolk from her plate with some bread. “I don’t follow.”

“Consider an alternative name,” replied Natalie gently. “Consider Homo suttoniensis.”

Eleanor gave a stunted gasp. “What—! I don’t believe—!” She tailed off.

No one else spoke.

“As a mark of respect, as an acknowledgment that he, and Russell, and Daniel here found the first bones.”

Eleanor was shaking her head. She was just about to speak when Christopher stood over her. She looked up. “Yes?”

Natalie noticed a stain on Christopher’s shirt. He had spilled his coffee over himself.

“I spoke to Jack,” he said quietly, very quietly. “Kees died in the night.”

“What! No. No! ” Eleanor wrapped her fingers around her mouth, but said nothing more.

Behind her spectacles, her eyes glinted.

Natalie, shocked herself, couldn’t make out whether or not there were tears in Eleanor’s eyes.

“Jack and Jonas will stay in Nairobi today, alert the family, and make the arrangements to fly the body back to Holland. They’ve already started. He died in hospital so there are no legal problems.” Christopher looked around the table and put his hand on his mother’s shoulder. “Apparently, his internal organs had suffered and withered too much for him to survive. He died at 4:15.”

Eleanor scraped back her chair and hurried to her tent.

She disappeared inside.

Christopher sat back down at the breakfast table. “I know I shouldn’t say this, but I’m starving.”

“Eleanor? Eleanor? It’s Natalie. Are you there? May I come in?” Natalie stood by the radio-telephone at the entrance to Eleanor’s tent. In more matter-of-fact tones, she repeated, “Eleanor.”

Following Christopher’s devastating news, the high spirits in the camp, the high spirits that had carried over from the night before, had vanished entirely. No one now felt like exposing himself or herself to the airless heat of the gorge, and people found chores to do in camp. Grief shared is grief lessened.

Eleanor hadn’t been seen all morning. There had been no more activity on the radio-telephone. Jack and Jonas were obviously shouldering the burden of telling the next of kin and making the other arrangements—finding a coffin, making the airline booking, liaising with the Dutch embassy over customs/immigration clearance, and whatever else was needed.