The Beautiful Mother

by Katherine Scholes

  If Julia had once had a soft, motherly side, it was well buried now. After supper last night, when Essie had brought the sleeping baby back into the Dining Tent, the woman had barely looked up from lighting her cigarette. Ian had met Essie’s gaze over the little dark head cradled against her chest, even offering a small smile. He had moved around quietly, finding the fossil crate and then the cushions to use as a mattress. All the while, Julia had remained seated, her hand moving in a steady motion to her lips and back to the ashtray, peering through the smoke with narrowed eyes.

  Now, in her hiding place among the trees, Essie rubbed her hands over her face, kneading her knotted brow. She glanced at her watch. It would soon be lunchtime. Her note would be read, first by Ian, then Julia. Essie hadn’t decided how long she would stay away from the camp. Part of her wished she need never go back – that she could just remain here forever, letting the hum of insects in the midday heat fill her head. She didn’t want to face the questions that arose from what she’d just done. She had no answers, no plans . . .

  She looked around to check on Tommy, who’d given up trying to attract her attention and wandered off to graze. She located him on the far side of the clearing. He was standing very still, his nose lifted into the air. His tail flicked from side to side, which meant he was either excited or afraid. As Essie straightened up, instantly focused, she saw what appeared to be a piece of the bushy undergrowth separating from its surroundings. Fragments of patchy shadow joined together, forming a solid upright shape.

  Essie rose to her feet as a man walked noiselessly towards her. He looked almost the same as the hunters who’d found her the day before, except that in place of a baboon pelt he wore a garment made of small grey skins stitched together. He had the body of an athlete. On his bare buttocks, the outline of the gluteus maximus – the muscle that had evolved to allow humans to walk upright – became visible as he moved. Slung over one sculpted shoulder was the hind leg and haunch of a zebra. The perfect black-and-white stripes on the hide, and the neat shape of the hoof, made a harsh contrast with the bloodied mess where the limb had been hacked from the carcass.

  A stream of Hadza click-talking came from the man’s lips. It was a gentle sound, like the running of water over pebbles. Essie offered a cautious smile. The hunter’s gaze was trained on the leather sling, which Essie had put on ready for when the baby awoke. He frowned questioningly – he obviously knew about the baby. Essie pointed to the Land Rover, where the fossil crate could be seen resting on the seat.

  The man put down his bow and shrugged off a quiver of arrows, before laying the hunk of zebra meat on top of a sturdy bush. Then he strode across to the vehicle. Essie hurried after him. She had a sudden fear that Nandamara had had second thoughts about their plan. He’d sent the hunter to reclaim his granddaughter. That made no sense though; Essie was the only one who could feed her. And anyway, this encounter had surely only happened by chance. But even as Essie told herself this, she had to admit that the way the Hadza had appeared right here, just now, seemed almost eerie. It was as if the hunter-gatherers were so closely connected with their surroundings that they were an omnipotent presence in the land – all-seeing and all-knowing – with eyes everywhere.

  Essie’s body tensed as the hunter reached into the crate. While she was still trying to decide if she had the right to intervene, he carefully lifted the baby. She stirred but didn’t wake. The Hadza studied the nappy, hanging loosely around her hips, before shaking it gently off, as if it was something that had stuck to her by accident. Then he settled her in the crook of one sinewy arm. Essie relaxed a little – he had the casual confidence of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. She noticed the fine coat of dust on his skin, contrasting with the pure black of the newly washed baby. She hoped the hunter hadn’t noticed the off-putting smell of the lye. She hated the thought that he might report the observation back to Giga.

  The hunter strolled over to the boulder where Essie had been and sat down. Essie perched on another, smaller, rock right beside him. Tommy stood next to her, eyeing the hunter warily. Essie put a comforting hand on his collar, then took it away in case the Hadza thought she suspected he might be a threat to her pet. Looking at the man now, it was hard to imagine him hunting anything; he gazed down at the baby with such tender eyes.

  Essie found it frustrating, not having Simon here to translate. She couldn’t enquire if everyone else was still camped at the cave, and if so, when they expected to begin their journey to another area. She had to accept being silent. The hunter seemed relaxed; he began to hum quietly. Clearly, he was in no hurry to go on with his day. Perhaps now that he had meat to take back to camp his goals were accomplished. Gradually, Essie absorbed his mood. There was nothing for her to do right now, either. She was just killing time.

  She eyed the dismembered piece of zebra. She wondered idly if the Hadza had an explanation for the black-and-white stripes. Their evolutionary purpose was hard to see, since zebras lived on the savannah, where the striking markings made the animal stand out instead of providing camouflage. The only explanation Essie had heard of was that tsetse flies, whose stinging bites were a torment to any kind of mammal, had been shown to dislike landing on the striped coats. Tsetse flies evidently made use of light and dark when seeking food and water, and they found the contrasting pattern disorientating. This hunter would probably not be interested in this fact, Essie guessed, even if she had some way to communicate it. He was just carrying home his supper.

  From down on the plains came the peeping of waterbirds. Essie followed the direction of the sound, then turned back to scan the branches of nearby trees, where yellow weavers chattered as they swung from their pendulous nests. She shifted her attention to the hunter, still holding the baby. A long gash on the man’s forearm caught her eye. It looked as if a large claw had been dragged through his flesh. The wound was old and well healed. His feet had obviously never been anything other than bare; the skin was thick and grey.

  The baby stirred again, opening her eyes. The hunter talked soothingly to her, until she sighed and went back to sleep. Essie felt a twinge of envy, knowing how familiar the touch and smell of the Hadza man must be.

  Tommy sat down, tucking his legs beneath him, resting his head on Essie’s knee. A lizard waddled slowly across the clearing, pausing to flick out a long purple tongue, snatching a small cricket. The baby was deeply asleep, her arm draping down over the hunter’s scarred forearm. Essie leaned closer to swish a fly away from her. Meeting the hunter’s gaze, she smiled.

  He looked at her thoughtfully, his head tilted to one side. Then he used his free arm to gesture in the direction of the Painted Cave. He mimed the act of someone drawing, then pointed at Essie.

  She nodded, confirming her link with the place. She assumed the Hadza man had either seen her at work tracing the cave art or heard about it. She wondered what he made of the activity, but his face showed no emotion. Instead, he swung his arm away towards the distant gleam of the lake and the lower foothills of the volcano. Once again, he mimed someone drawing.

  Essie was puzzled. There were no significant caves over there – let alone ones that contained rock paintings. The area had been well surveyed. A German missionary named Wolfgang Stein had once lived down near the lake. He’d settled there before the First World War and stayed on for nearly twenty years, leaving only just prior to the arrival of the Lawrences. His stone house was still standing. Stein’s goal had presumably been to convert the local people to Christianity. He was also an amateur archaeologist – the kind that destroyed important evidence by using poor methods, at the very same time as they were making valuable discoveries. He was the one who’d first recorded the existence of the Painted Cave, and the flint factory as well. He’d made maps of the foothills of Ol Doinyo Lengai – the documents were in a missionary society archive in Berlin, but there were copies at Magadi. The Lawrences had made use of them during their own assessment of the area. It had been while Julia was working over the
re that tragedy had struck – the disappearance of Ian’s little brother. Large parts of the foothills had, as a result, been scoured by police and volunteer searchers. No one had mentioned a cave, as far as Essie knew.

  She raised her eyebrows curiously. The Hadza repeated his mime, but it made no more sense to her than the first time. She wondered if she’d misread the hunter’s meaning completely. Perhaps he had seen visitors to Magadi making paintings or sketches of the volcano. Academics, students and journalists alike seemed to feel an urge to make images of Ol Doinyo Lengai, as if the act formed a personal connection between them and the mountain. Julia disapproved of it – she didn’t like the landscape being romanticised like this. Such a view clouded the eye of the researcher. Nevertheless, it had become something of a tradition.

  It had all been started by one artist who’d stayed here with the Lawrences a long time ago. She’d done nothing but paint while she was at Magadi, judging by her output. A whole stack of her work was in the storeroom, in a folio tied up with ribbon. She’d left paints and a palette there as well, as if she’d planned to return one day. A couple of her paintings were still on display in the Dining Tent. They bore her simple signature in the corner: Mirella 1955. The works were unframed, just pinned to the canvas walls. Over the years they’d been marked with stains, spotted by fly dirt, the edges frayed. But the pictures were still eye-catching, with their vibrant colours and bold lines.

  The hunter, roaming the area over the years, could well have seen Mirella – or one of the other visitors who’d followed in her footsteps – at work. He might be speculating about the purpose of the images – whether they had the same meaning to the Europeans as the cave paintings did to the Hadza.

  Essie gazed helplessly at the hunter. She wished even more keenly that she’d persuaded Simon to come with her. Who could say what insights into Hadza life this hunter might have been willing to share, now that the baby had formed a bond between them? But Essie’s assistant was probably standing in the Dining Tent right now, being interrogated by Ian and Julia.

  With the topic of the paintings abandoned, the pair sat quietly for a while. Then the hunter pointed at the portion of zebra, while raising his eyebrows at Essie. She understood he was offering to give her the meat. She smiled warmly to show her gratitude. It was a generous offer. Even just carrying the leg and haunch around must have been hard work; and before that, there had been the hunt, the kill, the butchering. Politely she shook her head. The Lawrences might be short of meat, but they wouldn’t resort to dining on zebra, any more than they’d consider eating one of the carnivores. For some reason zebras were nearly always infected with parasites. Also, in Essie’s mind, there was something about the decoratively patterned coats – regardless of their function – that would make eating the animals feel wrong. She had a similar feeling about giraffes. The plain brown hides of other herbivores – goat, deer, wildebeest – whether tame or wild, made them different somehow. The distinction applied to birds, too. Essie found it easier to watch plain grouse and ducks being plucked than to see guinea fowl stripped of their black-and-white spotted plumage. Essie was aware that her prejudice made no sense at all.

  The hunter repeated his offer. When Essie declined again, shaking her head to push home her meaning, he smiled, showing teeth that were strong and even but stained, perhaps from tobacco. Then he broke into laughter, shaking his head as though a wonderful joke had been made. Words flowed from his mouth. He laughed again. Essie smiled cautiously, suspecting she was the butt of the joke.

  As the man’s humour subsided, the sounds of the bush took over again. A crow cawed as it flew overhead. Closer at hand something rustled in the undergrowth, making Tommy tense. The disturbance was too minor to cause Essie any alarm. She patted him absently. Though she was sitting here, her attention drifted elsewhere. She couldn’t help picturing what might be going on at the camp.

  The hunter looked up first. Then Essie turned her head, frowning as she detected a distant hum. The Hadza gave her a knowing nod. He moved his free hand through the air in a slow smooth arc.

  Essie jumped to her feet. Scanning the sky, she found the black speck of an aircraft. It was approaching quickly. She told herself that it could be a tourist joy ride. But it was right on schedule to be the plane coming for the baby. Essie stared blankly at the hunter as her mind raced. Had her message not been passed on? Had it been ignored? Or countermanded somehow? But by whom?

  The plane passed overhead, a bright yellow shape against the sky. Essie didn’t recognise the aircraft, but it was possible St Joseph’s Mission had chartered one she hadn’t seen before. She just hoped the Land Rover, parked in the shade for the sake of the baby, could not be seen from above. With her khaki clothes she wouldn’t attract any attention. And the hunter in his grey skins and tawny leather, his black skin the same tone as shadow, would be completely invisible.

  She waited to see the aircraft veer off in the direction of the volcano. But it only came lower, homing in on the Magadi landing strip. To control her anxiety, Essie paced in circles, avoiding the quizzical gaze of the hunter. Then she stood still, letting out a long breath. Whatever was going on, there was nothing she could do about it.

  Crossing the clearing, she found another stone that would make a better seat – bigger, with a smoother surface on top. She rolled it back to the spot where she’d been before. Then she sat down to wait. With or without the company of the Hadza hunter, she would be here for some time – until the yellow plane was safely back in the air, returning to wherever it had come from.

  SEVEN

  Essie tried to close the Land Rover door quietly, hoping to postpone the moment when her return to camp was noticed. The baby was settled in the sling, content after gulping down her bottle. She had no idea, Essie thought grimly, of the tense scene they were about to enter.

  She trailed towards the Dining Tent, Tommy nudging her calves from behind, frustrated by the slow progress. Essie tried to think of the occasion when she’d seen the Lawrences at their angriest. Running a camp, they had to be tough with staff, though they were usually also calm and fair. But one confrontation stood out in her memory. It was with a young Maasai worker who’d stolen a fossil and sold it to a Serengeti tourist. Julia and Ian had acted as a team, taking turns to interrogate him. Their outrage had grown as the culprit showed no remorse. Essie replayed the interchange in her head. It helped contain her own anxiety. Whatever was going to unfold now, it could surely not be as bad as that event. Words had been flung back and forth so rapidly that Essie had struggled to follow the Swahili.

  ‘You accuse me of stealing!’ the Maasai had said.

  ‘You were caught in the act,’ responded Ian.

  ‘And yet you are the ones who are thieves.’

  As soon as he’d spoken, the young man bit his lip as if regretting his words.

  ‘What are you saying?’ Julia’s tone was icy.

  She and Ian were both sitting down and their employee towered over them. He wore his work trousers but had replaced his shirt with a red and purple shuka. The sections of his body that were revealed – the bare shoulders, arms and one side of his torso – might have been modelled on a Greek statue; a perfect example of a male human. Yet he still reminded Essie of a boy standing in front of a headmaster. It took him some time to gather his nerve, but when he continued, his voice was bold.

  ‘The bones that you collect belong to us.’

  There was a dense quiet. From over in the kitchen Essie could hear Baraka shooing Tommy out of his way.

  Ian took a deep breath. ‘They have nothing to do with you! You Maasai migrated from the north, from the Nile valley. You’ve only been here for a few hundred years.’

  The worker leaned forward. ‘How long have you been here?’

  Julia and Ian exchanged glances. What felt like a considerable time to the Lawrences – two generations – could hardly be held up as an answer here.

  Raising his voice, the Maasai continued. ‘How many boxes of
bones have you sent away to another country so that rich white people can have their feasts?’

  Ian frowned. ‘Feasts?’ He rephrased the Swahili. ‘Big meals with visitors?’

  The young man nodded.

  ‘No one eats the bones,’ Ian said impatiently. ‘They study them.’

  The Maasai shrugged his shoulders. ‘The main point is that they pay you a lot of money.’

  Julia let out a laugh that sounded like a cough.

  ‘They do,’ he insisted. ‘When you find special bones, you are rich. Now you have none, you are poor.’ He spread his hands. ‘You eat the food of peasants. No one comes to pay you their respects. All your special things are broken. It is time for you to go away.’

  Julia’s mouth fell open. Ian looked around as if seeking advice. Essie saw his gaze settle on the National Geographic magazine – his father’s face. He stood up, confronting the Maasai. ‘That is enough! You will not work here any more. You must leave the camp. Right this moment.’

  Fury flashed in the sacked worker’s eyes. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sheath knife. ‘You are the ones who should go. This land belongs to Lengai. Not to you. We do not want you here.’

  Essie noticed the ritual scar on his leg that proved he’d slain a lion as part of his initiation to warriorhood. She bit her lip. Suddenly Magadi Gorge felt very isolated and remote. They were three white people, out of place among dozens of Africans.