The Beautiful Mother

by Scholes, Katherine

  ‘Tell them to come back with us. Ian will help them.’

  Simon shook his head. ‘They are only interested in you.’ He sounded as mystified as Essie.

  ‘Where do they want to take me?’

  ‘Pango ya picha,’ Simon replied.

  ‘The cave of pictures . . .’ Essie frowned. Why would they want her to go there? She knew the place well. The cave study was the project that had brought her to Magadi in the first place. She’d once spent weeks at a time at the shelter, tracing the rock art with crayon on cellophane, and taking photographs.

  ‘They have made a camp there,’ Simon added.

  Essie shared a look with him. Most people thought the Hadza were the descendants of the very people who’d made the cave paintings thousands of years ago. It was extraordinary to think that now, in the twentieth century, the tribespeople were there again, in that same cave – still living the same lifestyle. Normally, Essie would jump at the chance to see such a scene. Any researcher would. But she didn’t like not knowing why she – in particular – was wanted there.

  She whistled for the dogs. Julia had trained them well. They bounded to her side. Essie rested her hand on Rudie’s head. As he picked up her anxiety, a low growl buzzed in his throat. Essie registered the men’s long hunting knives, sheathed at their waists, and the quivers full of arrows. The weapons definitely looked daunting, but she didn’t imagine the hunters would really use them against her and Simon, or even their pets. In Tanzania, Europeans – as anyone fair-skinned was called – were almost always treated with respect. And unlike the Barabaig and some of the Maasai, the Hadza didn’t have a reputation for being aggressive. Essie decided she would simply ask Simon to say firmly but politely that she was going home.

  As if reading her mind, the old man suddenly knelt down, moving his face closer to hers. She could see the tracery of fine lines on his skin and a dusting of ash blending with the grey in his hair. He began talking to her in a low voice. The words – unintelligible, yet potent – were like a spell.

  ‘He is asking you with his whole heart.’ Simon’s words came to her from behind.

  Essie felt herself drawn to the hunter, caught up in his emotion. She nodded slowly. Scooping Tommy into her arms, she hoisted him up towards the younger hunter, who quickly tucked the dead hare into his leather belt in order to free both hands. Then she raised one arm to the other man, waiting to be helped onto the ledge. A rough-skinned palm closed over her hand. She was lifted easily, as if she weighed nothing. The hunter’s limbs were all muscle and bone, with barely a layer of flesh, just sinew and veins. As the man hauled her up beside him, Essie breathed his smell of wood smoke and tobacco.

  ‘Nandamara,’ the older man said, pointing at himself. He gestured to his companion. ‘Dafi.’

  Essie told them her name in response. They both repeated it, stretching out the first syllable the way all the other Africans did.

  Barely waiting for Simon to join them, the two Hadza marched her off in the direction of the cave. Essie eyed the distance anxiously. She told herself that if Ian were here, he’d have made the same decision. Whatever it was that the Hadza wanted, he would deal with as best he could. Meanwhile, he’d be planning to make the most of every moment of this encounter. He’d be filling his notebook, using Simon to ask questions as he documented these unique people who were seen as a link between the present and prehistory – the living and the long, long dead.

  The walk to the cave was easy, covering ground that was mostly flat. There was a path made by game heading to the plains to drink. Nandamara led the way followed by Simon, Essie, Tommy and the dogs. Dafi walked behind, presumably to make sure no one decided to stop or change course. Before long, another rocky outcrop came into view. Essie felt a strong sense of recognition: she knew the cave was at its base. She hadn’t been here for at least a year but every detail of the location was marked in her memory. When she’d been doing the cave project, she was new to Magadi. She wanted to get a grasp of the area around the Gorge as quickly as possible, though she knew she’d never match Ian and Julia’s intimate knowledge of the place. Instead of blindly following Simon, she’d stopped at regular intervals to refer to the geological survey map, comparing the terrain to the contour lines.

  Now, as she walked, she was reminded of all the times she’d arrived here in the fresh air of early morning, eager to begin work. She could almost feel the waxy crayon in her hand and the rungs of the ladder pressing into the soles of her feet; she could smell the dew-damp earth. She knew every one of the paintings as intimately as if she’d been the one who’d ground up the ochre and clay and created the pictures with a chewed-stick brush. She could have drawn the main image from memory – the group of strange tall figures dancing with long sticks. The heads were made up of radiating lines that were thought to be elaborate hats or wigs. There was one small child in among the dancers, looking vulnerable surrounded by the towering legs and sticks. Essie had had to carve a fine point on her crayon to capture the miniature shape.

  It occurred to Essie, then, that the purpose of her being taken to the cave might have something to do with her work on the site. She knew researchers often ran into problems with local people, even ones whose connection with an area was so old it was lost in time. If there was some issue with the Hadza, then it was wise of Essie to have agreed to come. It was her project; her responsibility. But when she thought of the older hunter’s face, the look in his eyes, she felt there must be something more personal at stake.

  As they neared the outcrop, Dafi ran ahead. Peering past Nandamara’s shoulder, as they rounded a thicket of bushes, Essie saw the rock shelter. Some of the paintings were visible from here. Smoke curled up over the lip of the roof in a wispy grey cloud. There was a broad rock platform, like a stage, in front of the cave entrance.

  At first, the figures gathered there blended with the ochre and brown hues of the stone. But as Essie came nearer, the details of clothes, bodies, bows and animal skins emerged. It was easy to imagine these Hadza were the descendants of the artists whose paintings, in similar tones, formed the backdrop to this scene. The group of people was not large – maybe twenty to thirty. Whatever the hunter had hurried on to tell them, it had grabbed their attention. Every eye was fixed on the arrival of the two strangers. Essie might have been viewing a frieze, with people captured unmoving in the midst of their activities. She saw a hunter’s hand poised over the shaft of an arrow, binding a feather into place. An old man squatting on skinny legs, a pipe in his hand. A woman on her knees beside a grinding stone, a wreath of red and yellow bead necklaces hanging between her breasts. Children, naked but for leather thongs around their waists, were gazing at Essie with wide eyes. One of them, a boy, was daubed with white clay, his eye sockets forming dark holes in his face. He held a child-sized bow in his hand.

  As Essie reached the Hadza she smiled a greeting. The only movement her arrival provoked came from a yellow-eyed dog that took a few steps towards her. Its upper lip curled back, exposing sharp teeth. Dafi made a noise in his throat and the dog dropped to its haunches. Essie checked for Rudie. He was right behind her, standing on full alert. Meg was next to him, hovering protectively over Tommy.

  Essie scanned the far side of the platform, still looking for some clue as to why she was here. A young woman sat at the edge of the group, breastfeeding her baby. Not far away, another woman suckled a toddler. The little boy held his mother’s breast as he fed, his chubby fingers pressing into the soft flesh. Nearby, Essie caught sight of a teenage boy with a hand that had been badly burned. The skin had contracted while healing, curving the fingers into a claw. Aside from him, though, Essie thought everyone looked healthy and well fed. There was no sign that anything was wrong.

  Essie turned around, seeking the man who’d summoned her so urgently. He was already leading the way through the middle of the group, beckoning her across to where the young woman was feeding her baby. When he bent down, Essie thought he was going to pick up the child
but instead he gathered up a bundle of soft hide edged with grey fur – a piece of a baboon pelt.

  As he carried it towards Essie she saw a tiny hand reach out, dark brown fingers unfurling to form a star. There was a glimpse of tight-curled hair. The fur wrap fell partly open, revealing more of the baby. It was a girl, long-limbed and round-bellied. She was naked but for a string of white beads around her neck. Her dark skin was smooth and perfect; shiny with some kind of oil. The closed eyelids were fringed with thick lashes.

  Nandamara looked down at the baby as he spoke.

  ‘This is the child of my daughter,’ Simon translated. ‘As you see, she is too young to have a name.’

  Nandamara offered the baby to Essie to hold. She smiled politely but shook her head. The man’s action took her by surprise. During her years of working at the Gorge she’d met plenty of Maasai mothers, and they never passed their babies over to Europeans. They probably knew the gesture would be rejected. Aside from the Mission doctors and nurses, Europeans were always wary of dirt and disease when it came to cuddling babies. Essie felt the same way. And the truth was, even back in England she normally avoided holding babies – they looked too fragile; too easy to drop. She kept her arms by her sides. But Nandamara pushed the fur-wrapped bundle against her chest. Her hands came up automatically to prevent it falling.

  Essie held the baby stiffly, away from her body. In the transfer, the fur had all but dropped away, leaving the bare bottom exposed. Essie pulled the covering back into place. She didn’t want to have to walk home doused in urine, or worse; Julia would be the first to notice the smell. She looked to Nandamara, waiting to at last find out why she was actually here.

  The hunter spoke to Simon again, but kept his gaze locked on Essie’s face. Simon’s voice faltered as he translated.

  ‘My daughter did not survive the day of this baby’s birth. Her blood came out of her, like a stream. Within a short time, her life was gone.’

  Nandamara was silent for a moment, pressing one hand over his eyes.

  Essie bit her lip. It was hard to watch an old man fighting tears. ‘I am very sorry.’

  Nandamara pointed at the woman feeding the other baby. ‘Giga has kept her alive since that time. Two moons have come and gone. But now her own child is becoming hungry. It is the same with the other mothers. The dry season is here. There are hardly any berries for us to eat; all the big animals are leaving. We have to move north. Every day we will be walking.’ He gestured at the baby. ‘She will surely die.’

  Essie stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The mothers must put their own babies first.’

  As she tried to absorb the grim logic of these words, Essie looked questioningly at Simon.

  He nodded slowly. ‘If two babies become thin, then they are both in danger. It is a hard situation for people like these wild Hadza.’ He turned to Nandamara. ‘This man loves his granddaughter. They have tried their best.’

  Essie looked down at the baby nestled against her chest. The child stirred, making little sucking movements with her pursed lips. There was a dribble of milk in the corner of her mouth.

  Essie shifted her gaze back to Nandamara. He was holding a discussion with Simon now. They seemed to be communicating easily. She wondered if the two had ever met before, or if they were relatives. She had no idea how the Hadza groupings worked. She also knew very little about Simon’s home or family. He avoided discussing such topics – focusing instead on what he hoped to make of himself in the new United Republic of Tanzania. Eventually, Nandamara stopped talking. He turned to Essie. She seized the moment to offer the baby back, but the man stepped away.

  Essie felt a spike of alarm. She sensed she was being drawn into a situation she would find hard to control. ‘Here, take her.’

  Simon cleared his throat. ‘He wants you to look after her.’

  Essie’s mouth opened but she didn’t speak – the suggestion was too outlandish.

  ‘They know you can.’ Simon looked towards Tommy, who was now stripping leaves from a bush at the edge of the platform. ‘You are the mother of this animal.’

  Essie stared blankly at the gazelle. Slowly she grasped the meaning of Nandamara’s words. Someone in this group must have seen her feeding Tommy at one of the digging sites. From the beginning she’d taken the baby gazelle with her to the korongos each day. Originally it was to prove to Julia that his presence wasn’t affecting her ability to work. Then she found she enjoyed having Tommy trailing after her. The sight of an animal being bottle-fed had caused great interest among the Maasai. They would edge close, watching Tommy suck on the teat. They found the scene endlessly amusing. Whichever Hadza hunter had witnessed the spectacle would have shared his tale of the madness of Europeans when he returned to the camp. And today, when Nandamara had chanced on Essie and Tommy at the flint factory, he had remembered it.

  Essie scanned the watching faces. Even the children were motionless, waiting for her reaction. The woman, Giga, who had been feeding two babies, looked up at her. With one arm she made a gesture that seemed to confirm what Simon had said: that she’d done what she could. She had no more to offer. Essie understood now why Nandamara and Dafi had refused to tell her the reason why she had to accompany them. They knew that here, with the baby in her arms, and this young foster mother looking on, it would be difficult for her to refuse to help. She felt a sharp anger – directed both at herself and Simon. How had they let this happen?

  ‘Look, I want to help,’ she said finally. ‘But this is a baby. You can’t just give her away.’

  ‘That is not the plan,’ Simon explained. ‘These Hadza will return with the Short Rains. Then you will give her back to them. At that time there will be plenty of food around. Giga will be able to feed her again.’

  ‘But that’s in . . . October. Four months!’

  Nandamara continued speaking, waving his hands to underline his words. Essie didn’t even want to know what he was saying. She turned to Simon. ‘You’ll have to make him understand. It’s a crazy idea. These people don’t even know me.’

  ‘They just want to save the child.’

  Essie thought quickly. ‘There must be another way . . .’ As soon as she’d spoken, she regretted it. She’d opened herself to dialogue about the problem. Now she was involved.

  ‘Where is the father?’ she asked – but she was just playing for time. What difference did it make?

  Nandamara shrugged. ‘Far away.’

  Essie looked down at the ground. A beetle walked between her boots, leaving a trail of tiny prints in the soft earth. The baby could not stay at Magadi Camp – that was obvious.

  ‘There’s a place in Arusha that would take her. An orphanage. Ian could contact the Mission.’ As Essie said her husband’s name she felt a surge of apprehension. She felt sure he’d be handling this situation differently.

  Simon didn’t give an interpretation straightaway. Essie assumed he was struggling to find the right words to describe an orphanage. A big house where children from different tribes were all living together, cared for by white women, until they could be given to strangers, never to be seen again?

  However it was that Simon eventually managed to describe the institution, a wave of shock spread through the crowd. Giga reached towards Nandamara, her face torn with concern. The old man responded to Simon with a look of outrage and a stream of vehement words.

  When Simon translated, he spoke firmly and clearly. ‘The child must not be taken away, even for one moment. You have to look after her at your camp, like you did that animal baby. She must stay here in this place.’ He pointed in the direction of Ol Doinyo Lengai. The volcano was known by the Maasai as the Mountain of God. The dwelling place of Lengai. The peak was clear of cloud today; a thick tendril of dark smoke reached into the blue sky. It was like proof that the mountain was alive, a presence looking over them. ‘You have to promise not to let her go.’

  Essie could understand their fears. Arusha was far away. The Hadza had pr
obably never seen a city, but they must have watched vehicles disappearing into the distance, or a plane passing over and vanishing beyond the horizon. No wonder they didn’t like the idea. And if Essie were honest, she had reservations too. Could she – or anyone – guarantee that the baby would be handed back when the Hadza returned? That nothing could go wrong? She had to accept their concerns.

  She must have nodded to herself, while she was thinking. She didn’t even realise she’d done it until a smile broke across Nandamara’s face. It was like a beam of light that travelled from face to face around the wider group. Dafi, the young hunter, began to sing, his body moving in time to his words. The clicks in his speech were a percussion instrument following the rhythm of his dance.

  Soon all the Hadza were on their feet, joining in. Only the skinny old man remained kneeling, coughing as he drew on his pipe. The people surrounded Essie and the baby. The men stood barely eye to eye with her; the women were shorter. In their midst she felt even taller than she really was. Over their shoulders, she could see the dancing figures in the paintings. They seemed to mirror one another, as if past and present were one.

  As the singing wrapped around her, Essie felt herself being caught up in their world. The baby, nestling against her, was at home in her arms. Breathing in her milky smell, she experienced a strange pull of emotion as if some deep part of her memory was being awakened.

  She bent her head, letting the beat of the song flow through her. The land, the trees, the watching birds, all seemed a part of it. She felt like a swimmer poised on the edge of a diving board, ready to fall.

  A lock of hair that had escaped from her rough ponytail fell forward. The straight, blonde strand came to rest on the baby’s black curls. The contrast – as extreme as that between noon and midnight – pulled Essie back to reality. She looked up, with a sense of rising panic. What did she think she was doing? She had to put a stop to the madness.

  But as she stared around her, she saw that it was too late. A transaction had taken place. The baby was in her care. The fact that Essie had never meant to agree to the deal was of no interest to anyone.