Admittedly, she had not stayed long enough to see how the shaman’s ‘patient’ (who had seemed to be more sad than sick) had fared in the aftermath, but even while respecting their traditions, Eloise could not help but worry about their reliance on this kind of ‘healing’ and how dangerous any encounter with a ruthless new pathogen might be. As it had been for other communities, rural and urban, persuaded by wild rumour that modern medicine (or even basic infection control) was a conspiracy to rob them of their identity at best, or murder them at worst. Eloise tried hard to be neither sentimental, nor to condescend about a system of living that, against all odds, had kept this genetic line alive and well for so many millennia. She knew they had no need of the ‘white saviour’ but she also knew it would be impossible to bear if some unthinkable tragedy ever befell the Bushmen.
Her subscription to an advocacy group for the survival of tribal peoples seemed like a band-aid against the inexorable forces of land grab and cultural decimation. But what else could be done? Was it the fault of economic pressures alone, she wondered, or were their oppressors also somehow afraid of them, envious of them – these people who held up a cracked mirror to what humanity might have been, and to what it had become?
Or maybe they would have the last laugh? Eloise believed that it was indigenous peoples of such a robust and ancient nature who would likely outlive the rest of humanity if the worst of the Armageddon scenarios ever played out, especially if they were able to isolate themselves.
She drew in the sweet Sussex air and gazed upwards, away from earthbound worries, to seek some elusive peace in place of all this moral rage, and was happy she had done so when she noticed a flock of swallows heading home.
‘Does the hawk fly by thy wisdom and stretch her wings toward the south?’ Job 39:26
It was the only biblical verse that she knew verbatim but it came to mind every time she saw a starling murmuration, or the ecstatic mating dance of the grebes, or a drag-efficient V-formation of geese riding the generosity of an updraft. Now, as she watched the darkening violet of the skies above, the swallows migrating overhead had triggered a grammar school memory about an assignment to address Job’s biblical rhetoric.
What indeed made a young bird take its first brave flight southwards, home to Africa, with no concept of how long the journey would take or what it might encounter? With only innate programming directing it to follow the magnetic lines and navigate via the solar compass? Instinct, yes, necessity, of course, but what of subtler guidance, perhaps even at a quantum level? At eighteen she’d concluded firmly on the side of adaptation and on the inescapable engine driving the need to reproduce, achieving the grade she’d aimed for in the process. But here, in this enchanted moment, with everything seeming at once in flux and yet fully present, might there be a window opening to some other form of ‘emergence’? Were these sudden tears of rapture telling her so?
Eloise had experienced another such surprising yet uplifting moment recently after her visit to the Natural History Museum. Realising that she was long overdue in paying her respects to the tomb of Charles Darwin, she’d decided to go into Westminster Abbey for the first time and had wondered, naturally, how he might have felt about the irony of his burial there.
There had been other ‘tourists’ visiting, like she, but as she’d relaxed into the calm cradle of all that cool stone, so lovingly laid by working hands in honour of something greater – as she’d observed those church-goers who’d come here to pray or to contemplate or to revere their god, Eloise had felt profoundly moved. Oddly ‘at one’. Not with any narrative, or ritual, or dogma, or any subjugation to a club and its rulebook, but with the vulnerability of her fellows and their humble yet exquisitely bonded humanity in the face of all that is.
No, this was no more than what some might describe as a ‘peak’ experience, she decided. A lull in the roiling seas that had surrounded the Sarah project and which had spilled over into her personal life. Eloise forgave her distracted mind.
Surely this was nothing more than the mischievous stimulus of the sunset over an excitable party of neurons.
*
Warm, like it once was in the summers of home, with a moistness that caresses her flesh. The rolled bear fur has become a dead weight, not needed, especially on this uphill climb, but she will not discard it. Now at last they breach a ridge and she sees the lush, sheltered valley below. Yes, yes, this is the site that she somehow remembers. Water cascades and flows through it, alive with energy. This is the place, it must be.
No sign of people. For a moment she doubts. Could her dreaming have been wrong? She decides she will wait for the night and watch for any fires.
She takes this time to let the little one play, devising a game designed to tire her out, gently rolling and wrestling her while mimicking the monkeys and their noises, their grooming, their fearless affection. Letting her daughter find and forge her own strength until she is breathless and sleepy.
Before dusk she rigs the sling she has devised, an idea inspired by the tree-dwellers that have amused them so, howling to each other as they swung and hung above. Between two strong branches she fixes a nest of safety for the child, binds her in gently so that she cannot roll out in her slumber. Then she climbs to the highest vantage point that will take her weight and lashes herself to the trunk, so that she too will not be deceived by the sleep that comes more easily these days.
The moon, whole and huge, throws ghost light over the treetops and shines the river into writhing lizard-skin. How could something that allows the spirit to soar in such ways bring harm? Still, she is vigilant.
25
The irregular assembly on the steps up to the Institute seemed unusual, but didn’t register as anything threatening until Eloise came closer and could see a group of people handing out leaflets with a body language that was verging on belligerent. There were no placards, no loud-hailer, no shouting, but then she saw the silver gaffer tape that was fixed over their mouths. The quiet insistence as their pamphlets were thrust at passers-by and the glazed-yet-gleaming look in the eyes of these activists suggested neither the old nor new brand of revolutionary. Despite their silence, every stifled breath they took screamed ‘cult’.
Oh, bloody hell, Eloise moaned inwardly, what manner of misinformed loony now?
She tried to avoid them, swatted away a leaflet pressed upon her by a determined middle-aged woman in an oversized burgundy sweatshirt which may well have been borrowed from her teenage son, and she resisted any kind of eye contact. Whoever they were, this targeting of the Institute was an unwelcome new development. Eloise briefly registered a vague, if easily dismissed, déjà vu about the group. This was not a sensation she willing to indulge.
Once she was inside, she could see that one of her colleagues was already having a word with security, and she noticed a couple of flyers abandoned to the marble floor. On a curious impulse she picked one up and read it when alone in the lift.
‘WE SPEAK FOR THOSE WHO CANNOT!’ It claimed. ‘STOP EMBRYONIC STEM CELL RESEARCH! LIFE IS LIFE! MURDER IS MURDER! SCIENCE IS NOT ABOVE GOD’S LAWS!’
Misinformed indeed. No embryos here. Possibly very soon, synthetic DNA, yes, but no donations from tragic miscarriages, despite how those who had lost a little hope might want that loss to mean something or for something else to be gained. (Just as she had done.) Even those who had chosen to donate after abortion, or following successful IVF, had chosen. Chosen. Eloise was a big believer in personal responsibility (and felt that many humans of both genders could certainly apply a little more) and she was passionate about prevention over cure, but she blamed no one, judged no one – and would fight to ensure safe access to healthy procedures, if necessary.
Perhaps, she asked herself, she should have stopped to talk to them, whoever they were and whichever version of vengeful deity they subscribed to (and to whose wrath they might gleefully dispatch the rest of creation). Or maybe this lot were not so quick to condemn, after all? Maybe their action was driven
by a kind of love? Compassion for all life, in all its forms was an aspiration that Eloise could appreciate, despite the way that modern lifestyles led to a constant wrestling match with one’s own hypocrisy.
The possibility of some kind of original or unifying intelligence was not something she could dismiss outright, not without clear evidence either way. Indeed the very notion of possibility itself was her guiding light. But she knew from those searchlight stares outside that in this case, any discussion would be futile. She tossed the leaflet into the nearest recycling box. Waste nothing, she thought, for nothing in life or death is wasted. Besides, there were many more enlightening things on the agenda today.
The much-delayed mineral analysis was due that afternoon, finally the backlog at the specialist lab had cleared and Eloise was hoping it would form another corner piece of the puzzle, shedding light on Sarah’s diet and lifestyle. She kept herself busy until lunchtime then popped in briefly at the farewell do in the canteen for the retiring caretaker. Eloise was sorry to see old Mr Morrin go, but he had done in his time in overalls.
She was introduced to his now fully-trained replacement, a tall and pale man called Calumn who possessed a cold-fish handshake and what appeared to be a crippling shyness, and Eloise felt rude about an immediate desire to leave as soon as was polite. But she attempted to engage him in the briefest of exchanges, nevertheless.
‘Hello, Calumn, welcome! I’m sure you will do a fine job of replacing our irreplaceable Mr Morrin!’
‘Hello. Yes. God-willing I will do my best.’
‘Indeed. Indeed.’
Mr Morrin piped up to close the painful gap in what could hardly qualify as a conversation.
‘He’ll be grand, I’ve no doubt! And I’ll tell you this much, Dr Kluft, Calumn’s your man if you were ever wanting or needing any kind of tape. And I mean any kind. What a collection he keeps! String, too, and cable-ties, super-glue, whatever kind of packaging or fixing sundries a body might ever need.’
‘Wonderful! I shall certainly bear that in mind. Thank you. But I’m afraid I can’t stop, I’m needed back at the lab. Well, all the very best, Mr Morrin, I hope you enjoy every moment of your new-found freedom. Though try not to drive your dear wife up the wall with all your spare time!’
Eloise slipped away without staying to enjoy the finger food buffet that some kind soul had laid on, a choice that for the sake of her stomach she regretted soon after.
To fill the dead time in the remaining lunch hour (while KC skyped his family) and to compensate for an appalling sandwich from the corner shop, Eloise cruised the travel sites. It was time to plan another voyage, she felt ready to explore again and would need something to look forward to once Sarah had told her story (and KC had gone home). It would be a while before their Africa idea came together, if it came together at all, and they would both want and need to work closely with local specialists. It would take time to make those key contacts.
So how about that long-postponed holiday in Iceland? No, not on her own. Besides, she hoped there might be a better and properly funded excuse to visit if one of several recent proposals to the foundation was accepted. The population of this historically isolated isle boasted one of the purest pools of genetic information to be found in the modern world. Eloise had the same reason for postponing her longed-for excursion to Nepal, where the mountain air – and a likely inheritance from archaic hominin encounters – had given rise to remarkable adaptations to altitude in the blood of its natives. Such scenes, such people, she would want to share all that with a companion, whether academic or romantic.
Then Italy again, perhaps? Or the Greek Islands? A few years earlier, between assignments, Eloise had embarked on her own version of the Grand Tour, minus the Byronic debaucheries and solo, apart from a passing encounter in Venice. (She had absolved herself the morning after with the excuse that it would have been churlish, somehow, not to partake of all that was on the menu in this delicious country.)
Italy had caught her off guard. In the quiet moments she had found herself contemplating faith, in this place so dedicated to it and yet so paradoxically carefree of its constriction. No ascetic self-denial here. Love, beauty, food all to be celebrated and enjoyed. The art, the music, the architecture.
Why, Eloise asked herself, did these seem to flourish so much more satisfyingly under the patronage of church rather than state? And why were we so often at our best – and worst – in the name of god? When did we first seek him out? Was this longing for the divine, for an afterlife, for belonging and meaning always within us or simply a cynical way to scare the herd, a lazy relinquishing of responsibility to a greater authority? Eloise was learning to dance with the dichotomy. There was the empirical evidence (and the lack of it) and then there were her feelings, for want of a better word. She found that she could not consign these intuitions and sensations solely to her personal or isolated neurochemistry, not quite yet.
At last, her inbox chimed and even before the printer could churn into action she was scouring the results on screen. The isotopes told an intriguing tale and also brought KC back to her workstation, leaning over her shoulder, just close enough for comfort.
‘So what you got, Eloise?’
Without the chance to fully digest the information, her response was more of a running commentary.
‘OK, so… Indications of a varied diet, but predominantly protein-based, as we’d expect. But here’s something, a suggestion of significant marine sources in the diet. And more, they’re saying these seem common to people living around the eastern Mediterranean or the Black Sea – but Christ, that can’t be right, can it? Even if the marine diet was more local, it’s quite a hike from Mount Kenya to any kind of sea coast for a spot of fishing? Maybe her tribe started out near the Indian Ocean or the Red Sea coast of Africa, or made seasonal forays? Now here’s something else. Evidence of higher than normal levels of fluoride over a period, though not enough to cause skeletal or dental deformities, clearly.’
KC’s expression was as quizzical as her own.
‘So what does that tell us?’
‘Could be a number of explanations – but isn’t there a high content of fluoride in volcanic ash, KC? And yes look, look!’ Eloise’s pulse was quickening, her voice rising. ‘Here it is – notable sulphur levels too!’
KC did not seem to find this as exciting as she.
‘Well, Mount Kenya where she was found is volcanic, and Kilimanjaro…’ he shrugged. ‘Heck, that whole valley straddles an active thermal seam. The lava is exposed in open wells in some places.’
‘Yes, but it’s ash that I’m talking about, KC – and Kenya’s extinct, the plug is over 2 million years old, despite the odd recorded rumbling or venting. Kilimanjaro’s been inactive for major eruptions for over 100,000 years, though there are some gas emissions from the crater. I’m not aware of any other significant activity for Sarah’s time and location.’
‘So, how about Toba? Did that eruption spill as far west as the Rift?’
Toba was definitely on Eloise’s mind, but not in the way that KC had made the connection.
‘It’s possible, depending on monsoon winds, but the ash fall went mostly north-west from Sumatra. It’s unlikely it fell in anything like the devastating degree that it did in Southeast Asia and India, or even the lighter but still dangerous fall in the Middle East and Europe. And while we know there was a very light and clearly survivable fall in South Africa, as far as I’m aware there’s no evidence of ash layers in east Africa to suggest a meaningful deposit from the supervolcano. They certainly escaped the worst of the global six-year winter from the stratospheric sulphur that followed, and the ensuing thousand-year ice cycle that it may have kicked off.’
‘Well, you’ve been doing your homework… So what are you saying?’
KC searched into her eyes. She was at ease enough with such familiarity now to look right back, though not enough to raise the shield of her reading glasses.
‘I’m not sure,’ she r
eplied, ‘but maybe Sarah wasn’t originally a local chick? Maybe she came from much further away? We have to factor in the morphology too, although there could be many reasons for that. I mean, we can only guess what any of the native populations looked like at that time. But water levels between the Horn and the Arabian Peninsula might have been low enough at that time to cross back into Africa? Or back along the Nile? Maybe some of them got out of the devastation, or survived the volcanic winter, made it ‘home’ to the motherland?’
‘Well, I guess it’s not impossible. I mean, we know that some pockets of early human types survived much nearer that mess, but it’s still stretching the hypothesis pretty wildly in terms of Sarah. That’s one hell of a journey in only a single generation, or even a few years? And hey, you know that the simplest and most obvious explanations usually turn out to be the right ones, Eloise. We need to source more geographical evidence and check on other volcanic activity in the Rift. We need to pin down her environmental exposures more specifically – and we should be looking at other hypotheses too.’
*
The mark of their location came well before the deep darkness, as she had prayed, the unmistakable smoke signals from a camp in the distance. By morning, with the music of the birds, the fires had not yet been dampened and she knew which way to walk. Quietly, carefully. She would not give away their presence until she had watched them for a while. Made sure. Saw what they did, how they were with each other, how they lived. What they fed on. Made sure that these were not the same tribe that had discarded that poor old woman to her fate.
Before the open expanse of the riverbank clearing at the top of a gentle rise, she finds a leafy place and waits. The campmates, several families at least, go about their day calmly, taking time to work, rest, gather and eat. Food that seems plentiful, enough to share equally. They laugh often and the children play freely. There are also elders here, she watches as one is assisted to some shade as the shadows grow shorter. But it is only the men who go and return from a hunt.
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