The Beautiful Mother

by Scholes, Katherine

  ‘What do you think happened?’ Essie didn’t want to add to Kisani’s distress, but she had to know what he thought. It wasn’t something she could ever ask Ian.

  ‘On the mountain there are many places where a child could fall down and disappear. Mrs Lawrence thought he was trapped somewhere. He was hurt, hungry, scared. When we were searching she always wanted to stop and listen to hear if he was calling her.’ Kisani paused, putting his hand to his ear. In the quiet, it was easy to imagine a faint cry floating on the air.

  ‘Maybe a wild animal caught him,’ Kisani continued. ‘A leopard, or a lion. But they always leave some remains. And the dogs did not smell blood. It is more likely that an eagle took him away. That would leave no clue behind.’

  Essie stared at him. Magadi was home to martial eagles. Some days they circled above the Gorge, beaks pointed down, powerful feet thrusting forward as they swooped on their prey. Essie had only ever seen them rise back into the air with a hare or some other small animal in their clutches.

  ‘Robbie would have been too big,’ she protested.

  ‘An eagle can steal a dog or a goat.’

  Essie pictured two sets of talons grasping a struggling child. She heard the sound of huge wings beating. What came next, after the terrifying flight, was too awful to imagine.

  ‘It is not the worst thing,’ Kisani said, as if guessing her thoughts.

  Essie moistened her lips. When she spoke, it was almost a whisper. ‘What is the worst thing?’

  ‘You know the Africans who are born white?’ Kisani asked.

  ‘Albinos?’

  Kisani nodded. ‘They are the ones I am speaking about.’

  Essie frowned. She didn’t understand how this could be relevant. She’d seen some albinos once, on a visit to Arusha. In the busy marketplace Ian had pointed out a family where the father and children were white but their mother black. African albinos looked exactly like very fair Europeans – Norwegians or Swedes – but with frizzy hair and colourless eyes. Essie remembered staring at the black mother holding her white toddler – the pairing looked so incongruous. The father was partially blind and had lesions on his skin. Albinos suffered under the African sun. They were pitied and marginalised. But there was nothing frightening about them.

  ‘Some people believe they hold great powers,’ the Maasai continued.

  ‘Albinism is simply the result of a genetic abnormality. They are just people with no pigment in their skin and hair.’ Essie was grasping at facts as if they might shield her from whatever she was about to hear.

  ‘Their bodies can be used in magic,’ Kisani said. ‘A finger. An arm. Ears. Tongue. The mchawi makes medicine from them. The dawa can help a miner to find gold or a fisherman to catch big fish. It can cure an illness.’

  As Essie absorbed the meaning of his words she felt sick. ‘People kill albinos for their body parts?’

  ‘It is called muti. Medicine murder,’ Kisani confirmed. ‘Sometimes they just capture the person and remove what they want. Then they let them go.’

  As the horror deepened – bringing up a vision of an albino bleeding from the stump of a severed limb – Essie found it hard to breathe. She knew there was a dark side to some of the tribal practices in Africa, but Europeans tended to keep well away from the topic unless it was part of the reason they were here in the country. Missionaries preached against African beliefs. Doctors and nurses fought against the practices of witchdoctors. Often, according to Ian, both groups had little understanding of the Africans’ perspective. Anthropologists competed to find ways to describe and give meaning to the rituals they observed. But everyone knew that the truth was often incomprehensible to the outsider. Essie felt a shiver travel up her spine. Whatever the real meaning of what Kisani had described might be, it was unspeakably evil.

  Essie was glad that the children dotted through the crowd did not speak English. She rested her cheek on Mara’s head, feeling the softness of her hair. She wanted to carry the baby over to the pram – to get away from the manyatta and back to where she belonged. But first, she had to follow the topic to its harrowing conclusion: that a dead European – or parts of one – could be passed off as a white-skinned African.

  ‘You are saying that Robbie could have been taken for this purpose? He was only four years old!’

  ‘It is easier to carry away a child than an adult.’

  ‘Who would do that? Right here, near Magadi?’ Essie couldn’t help glancing around her, as if she might see in the watching faces some clue to a lurking evil.

  ‘It is not the work of Maasai,’ Kisani said. ‘We have different medicine. The place where this witchcraft is carried out is around the big lakes – Lake Victoria, Lake Tanganyika. But traders are everywhere.’

  Essie closed her eyes. Many of the possible endings to Robbie’s story were so much worse than a simple death. And no one knew which of them had occurred. No wonder the Lawrences had been so traumatised. Having never met William, Essie didn’t know how he’d coped. It sounded as if he’d buried himself in his work. Ian had been young, at least; he’d have been shielded from some of the nightmare. But Julia. The mother. The small glimpse of her torment that had been shared by Kisani gave Essie a hint of what she had suffered. It was like the cut of a savage knife – forging a wound so deep that it might never be healed.

  Essie could not imagine how Julia had found a way to pull through. Only a couple of years after Robbie’s disappearance, the effects of the war – intensifying in East Africa as colonial powers imported their nations’ conflicts – had forced the Lawrences to leave Magadi. Perhaps the distance had helped. Yet the family had returned when peace was declared. They had walked, of their own accord, back into the heart of their agony. Maybe it was impossible for them to stay away. They might have felt they would be abandoning Robbie’s memory. Or maybe they believed that if they could at least make an important discovery here, their decision to live and work in Magadi – which had led to Robbie’s death – had not been in vain. The price of a lost life could never be repaid, but maybe at least something could be added to the other side of the balance sheet . . .

  A touch on her shoulder made Essie look up. Kisani was right at her side.

  ‘How is the health of Mrs Lawrence?’ he asked. ‘I have not seen her for so many years.’

  ‘She is well. She is happy. They have plenty of money now.’

  Essie wondered if Kisani saw through her glib phrases. Only the last part of what she’d said was true. From a physical point of view, Julia was becoming thin; birdlike. Her hands were arthritic after a lifetime of overuse. Emotionally, she wasn’t in very good shape either. She was brittle under pressure. When she laughed, which was rare, she seemed surprised by the sound of her own mirth. The closest thing to happiness, for her, was a day of good, hard work, and the satisfaction of seeing the camp running smoothly. It was an irony that just when funding was about to appear, making everything easier, her daughter-in-law had turned up with a baby.

  ‘Why don’t you visit Mrs Lawrence and see for yourself?’ Essie suggested.

  Kisani shook his head. ‘She wants to forget me. When they came back after the war, I went to the camp. Workers were getting jobs. But they did not choose me.’

  Essie could hear the emotion in his voice, the memory of being let down. ‘That seems unfair.’

  ‘But I understood,’ he said. ‘The past had to be left behind, so that something new could begin.’

  Essie felt humbled by his gracious words, and the empathy behind them. Standing at her side, Kisani seemed even taller than before, as if elevated by his noble sentiments. He was silent for a time, and motionless. When he finally spoke again, he sounded worn out, as if he’d been on a long journey.

  ‘Send me someone who knows this area and I will tell them how to find the Meeting Place. I wish you well with your work. Goodbye.’

  As he walked away, Essie watched his shoulders droop. He was an ageing man again, returning to the mundane tasks of his everyd
ay life, far removed from the drama of the past. His hands hung at his sides, limp and empty.

  TWELVE

  A moving pattern of pink layered on pink filled Essie’s gaze. A vast population of flamingos stretched away to each side of her along the shoreline. Beyond the mass of birds lay the still blue waters of the lake. In the distance was the saltpan, a white desert shimmering in the heat. At its heart, like a strange kind of oasis, was the grey mound of the nesting island. The backdrop to the whole scene was the volcano, its peak rising up against the sky and foothills descending to the water.

  Essie looked down at Mara, lodged on her hip. The baby was wide-eyed, taking in all the colour and movement. She didn’t seem bothered by the racket the birds were making – the loud honking calls that blurred into an incessant cacophony. Nor did she seem to mind the heavy smell of sulphur and bird droppings. She reached towards the flamingos with outspread hands.

  It was still early. Essie had left the camp straight after breakfast, before the day’s planning session began. Last night, Ian had finally agreed to her proposal that she and Simon begin scouting around the location she’d suggested: the lakeshore. She’d chosen the place as it gave her an excuse to be near the foothills – though of course she hadn’t mentioned that. She’d talked instead about the fact that with the water level rising and falling over the seasons, there was always the chance of finding an ancient fossil harking back to the time before the lake was formed.

  Essie had been allowed to take the ‘good’ Magadi Land Rover – with the arrival of Diana’s new one, it was no longer required by Ian and Julia. The vehicle now was parked a short distance away on the other side of some bushes. Tommy was cooped up in the back; he’d have the chance to roam later on, and for now Essie preferred not to have to keep an eye on him. Rudie had been left there as well, sitting obediently on his haunches beside the driver’s door. Essie didn’t want to risk him running into the acidic water or disturbing the birds. All Mara’s things remained stowed in the vehicle: bottles of milk, nappies, clothes; even the sling. Essie was enjoying just holding the baby in her arms. It felt more manoeuvrable and free. She looked towards the sun, climbing up from the eastern horizon. In spite of the early hour it was already hot. She lifted Mara away from her body for a few moments to let cool air wash between them.

  Her gaze returned to the lake with its swirling mass of pink. The birds were in constant motion – a collage of wings, legs, necks, feathers. Watching them was like being caught in a kaleidoscope, with images blurring and changing, then taking on new forms.

  Essie had all the basic facts about flamingos at her fingertips. People who came to Magadi were always curious about them and the Lawrences had a mini-lecture they often shared. In their spiel they explained how a particular algae bloomed in the soda lake, to a greater or lesser degree, depending on the conditions. They talked about the carotenoids in the algae – the very same pigments responsible for the colour in carrots, eggs and autumn leaves. The flamingos that fed on the algae were literally dyed pink. If you cut open one of these birds it was pink all through. The yolk of a flamingo egg was pink. Even the mother bird’s milk was pink . . .

  Essie focused on one bird, watching how it dipped its head to the water, dragging the beak along upside down as it drew in water to strain out the algae. It walked slowly along, taking high steps, pink legs bending in acute angles. After feeding for a while, the bird paused, stretching out first one wing, then the other, before folding them both away. The movements looked so considered and so elegant, the bird might have been taking part in a dance rather than just carrying out daily activities. Essie was reminded of the music-box ballerina twirling in her pink net skirt to music from Swan Lake.

  She moved Mara from her hip and turned her around so she had a better view. Essie wished Simon were here to tell Mara the word for ‘bird’ in Hadza – she imagined the soft sound formed around a throaty click. But her assistant was still on tent duty. Now that Diana’s ‘palace’ had been erected, he was helping set up some washing facilities for her. Tomorrow he was supposed to be returning to work with Essie.

  ‘See the pink feathers?’ Essie said to Mara. Foreign words seemed better, as always, than silence. She pointed at a flamingo that was running across the muddy bank, water splashing from webbed feet. It rose into the air, legs stretched out to create a perfect streamlined shape. ‘Look, it’s flying!’

  Essie tried to imagine what a baby might make of the spectacle. She knew that without language the ability to think was limited. Yet there were times when Mara became very still, as if she was concentrating on something, or listening intently. In those moments Essie had a sense that the baby was in touch with something very old, while being herself so young. It was a fanciful idea that Ian would scoff at. But the fact was that when Essie was alone with Mara she didn’t feel she was on her own, with only an unformed human for company. It was as if the person Mara would one day become was already here.

  Checking the position of the sun once more, Essie decided it was time to start work. She planned to drive as close as possible to the hills and then scan the countryside with binoculars. It would not be wise for her to go any further on her own, especially with a baby, but she could at least assess what was visible from a distance.

  She picked her way around the thicket of bushes, heading for the Land Rover. As she emerged from the vegetation, she came to a halt. Someone else had arrived here. Parked next to her vehicle was an odd contraption that looked like a small boat with wheels. It was painted a pale grey that had been smudged with white to form a camouflage pattern. Essie guessed straightaway that it belonged to Carl Bergmann. Who else would be here, by the lake? As she came closer she could see the photographer beside it – crouched down by one of the wheels. Rudie was hovering nearby, wagging his tail.

  Carl stood up as Essie reached him. He had on the faded, almost-white shirt she’d seen before, along with a pair of grey shorts – perhaps he was dressed to match the camouflage paintwork. His hair was even more unruly than when they last met. It looked as if the salt from the lake had crept into it, forming stiff curls.

  ‘Good morning.’ Essie regretted the greeting as soon as it left her lips. She sounded so formal, like Ian and Julia. She avoided his gaze as she stepped into the shade of a stunted thorn tree, bowing her head to avoid a low-hanging branch.

  ‘Hello.’ An easy smile spread over Carl’s face. ‘I knew you were here, somewhere. I saw all the baby stuff in the Land Rover.’ He scratched Rudie behind one ear as he gestured towards the lakeshore. ‘You came to see the flamingos?’

  ‘Just a quick look, since I’m here.’ Essie didn’t want him to think she always spent her time simply wandering around. She waved in the direction of the foothills. ‘I’m doing some fieldwork.’

  Carl eyed her for a moment as if considering asking further questions. Instead, he bent to look at Mara. He touched her gently on the cheek. The baby smiled at him so readily, Essie wondered if she knew they’d met before.

  ‘She looks happy today,’ Carl commented.

  ‘She’s very settled now. Just eats and sleeps and looks around. She even plays with things. Yesterday she tried to put her toes in her mouth!’

  Carl turned back to Mara, miming amazement. ‘Clever girl.’

  Watching his reaction, Essie felt a rush of pleasure; with Simon so busy, she hadn’t yet been able to share the story with anyone.

  ‘She seems bigger,’ Carl said.

  ‘She can’t be. It’s only a couple of weeks since you saw her.’

  ‘Babies grow quickly.’

  Essie tilted her head. ‘Now, you sound like a real expert.’

  ‘Well, I know more about birds, of course, and cameras . . .’ Another smile broke across Carl’s face. The lines around his eyes deepened, accentuating the dark shine of his eyes. He pointed towards the boat-with-wheels behind him. ‘What do you think of my amphibious craft? I had it made in Arusha – that was one of the things that delayed me. I’ve nam
ed it Gari la maji. Car of the water.’

  Essie took in the clumsy lines of the contraption. The panels were crudely welded; some bits were lashed together with rope. ‘Did you design it yourself?’

  ‘I know it’s not much to look at. But I’ve done a trial run. I can drive over the saltpan and then get across the water. The birds don’t even take much notice of me.’

  ‘So it’s all going well?’ Essie asked politely. Working on his own, the photographer was probably lonely. And it was always good to show interest in another person’s profession.

  ‘Yes, so far. You can see the water level’s low – the island is exposed. The conditions are perfect. I’m all set up. It’s just a matter of waiting now for the birds to begin mating.’

  Essie recognised the tone in Carl’s voice – anticipation backed by the fear of something going wrong. Lots of researchers had superstitions that helped overcome this uncomfortable blend of emotion. Lucky charms. Rituals. She wondered if Carl was one of them. She looked into the distance towards the nesting island. The stakes were high for him. If he succeeded in his goal, this would be one of the crowning achievements of his career. He’d feel the same way Essie would, if she were able to discover a second cave of paintings . . .

  ‘I’m looking for something.’ The thought just came out as words. ‘A cave – containing rock art.’

  ‘Over this way, you mean?’ Carl looked puzzled. ‘I only know about the one on the other side of the Gorge. Wolfgang Stein discovered it.’

  ‘You know about his research?’ Essie was surprised. The Lawrences’ publications on the Painted Cave had eclipsed the work of the missionary – unsurprisingly, since he was an amateur.