Essie’s lips parted as the meaning of his words sank in. In order to hold its own temperature, the space he’d reached into must be big. They could be standing on the rooftop of an underground cave.
Extracting his arm from the hole, skin chalky with dust, Simon scrambled to his feet. Then he turned to scan the surrounding terrain. He pointed to a mound of sedimentary rock nearby, its ochre tones set against the lacy texture of an old lava flow. On its own, it would not have caught their attention – but now Essie saw that it could well be the remains of an erosion stack. It might once have stood tall, a prominent landmark like the Tower at Magadi. That there had been a similar rock formation at the Meeting Place was just a coincidence.
Essie glanced down into the sling, checking on Mara. When she looked up, she could see Simon already jumping from rock to rock; Rudie was following on his tail, sniffing the ground. They were aiming down the slope – if there was an access to the floor of the cave, this was where it would be.
She took a piece of twine from her pocket and tied it to Tommy’s collar so she could keep him close. Then she set off over the scree. She moved cautiously – the knowledge that she was responsible for Mara’s safety made her want to test each foothold before shifting her weight. In the heat, she thought longingly of the cool, underground air that Simon had reported. She rubbed her hand across her brow, feeling the grit in her sweat. Then she brushed aside a windblown strand of hair that had stuck to her lips. As she glanced up to check where she was headed, something caught her eye. Squinting into the glare, she identified the remains of a dead tree – a stunted trunk, bleached to a silvery grey. It must have been a tough specimen, to survive for years in this barren field of stone. Essie wondered what had caused it to die. A change of local climate, perhaps; disease; an earthquake . . . Then an image came to her of limp, yellowed plants collapsed onto the ground around the edges of a pool – victims of hewa mbaya: the fatal miasma of carbon dioxide, released from deep underground.
Essie approached the tree, stopping a short distance away. It was just a skeleton, the leaves and fine branches long turned to dust. Close up, she saw the desiccated remnants of a bush that had once been growing in its shade. Her gaze fastened onto a few streaks of green nearby – living plants, reaching up between the stones. If there had been gas emissions here, they were not happening now.
To the right of the tree was a pile of earth and rubble. Looking up, Essie could see its source: an overhang of eroded sandstone had collapsed. She skirted the base of the heap. As she stepped around a large boulder, she came to a sudden halt. It took a moment for her to process what she could see: a ragged black hole, like a giant inkblot on the side of the hill.
Essie trained her gaze closer. The opening in the rock was wide at its base, tapering to a point just above her head: the shape of a crooked pyramid. Even from this distance she got a glimpse of a shadowy interior. Her stomach leapt with excitement. It was definitely the entrance to a cave or tunnel – how big or deep she could not tell.
She called out to Simon – yelling again and again, until an answering cry travelled back on the wind. She didn’t move any closer. Even if there had been no baby to think of, she knew to be cautious. The cave could be the lair of a leopard, or some other wild animal; without Rudie here to pick up the scent, there was no way for her to know.
She sat down on one of the boulders to wait. She moved Mara around to rest on her lap but kept her in the sling in case it was necessary to make a quick move. Essie felt uneasy, being on her own with the baby. Normally, she and Simon stayed in eyesight of one another, with Rudie ranging over the distance between them. The hope of finding a cave had spurred them to forget their rules. Essie couldn’t help thinking of Julia, years ago also caught up in the anticipation of a new discovery – and paying a terrible price.
But even as these thoughts ran through her head, Essie’s gaze kept being drawn back to the opening in the rock. She wanted to walk straight in and see what lay beyond the pyramid arch. Logic told her that it was probably just a small dank space containing nothing of any interest. Rat-ridden. Spidery. Dark. And yet, the dream of finding a cave full of prehistoric paintings rose enticingly before her. She unclipped her torch from her belt and clicked it on, off, on – the sound mimicking her impatience. In her mind, she could almost see the pictures she was about to discover – as detailed as the ones she’d already studied in the Painted Cave. Perhaps even more beautiful. And with a significance that no one had yet even imagined. Essie would surely be the first European ever to see them. The opening was hidden behind the rubble of the overhang. And assuming the tree that had caught her eye was already dead at the time, it would have been a warning to Stein, or the people in the search party, to move through the area as quickly as possible or risk exposure to dangerous gas.
A butterfly flitted past, hovering in the air, then settling on Essie’s hand. Mara watched, entranced, as the wings opened and closed, displaying a pattern of brown, red and green. She gurgled with delight, looking up at Essie to share the experience. It was a good hour since she’d had a bottle of milk, but she was not hungry or thirsty. Essie could tell this, now, at a glance. She was attuned to the baby in a way that reminded her of Simon’s sensitivity to the land. It was as if words, unspoken, passed constantly back and forth between them.
After what seemed like a long time, Simon arrived at a run, out of breath. Rudie was at his heels. His eyes went straight to the gap in the rock.
‘It might be nothing,’ Essie said. ‘I haven’t looked.’
She saw Simon taking in the dead tree and bush, a frown marking his brow.
‘There are healthy plants growing now,’ Essie said. ‘But we should still check.’
Simon eyed Mara as he nodded. Swinging the rucksack to the ground, he felt inside the pocket for the matches. Then he slipped his hunting knife from its sheath.
From her place by the boulders Essie watched him approach the opening and pause to strike a match. As the flame flared he leaned inside. There was a tense wait. Then Simon looked back over his shoulder with a smile. Peering past him, she glimpsed the little flame burning brightly in the velvety gloom.
Essie and Simon hung back, letting Rudie scout ahead. They were in a tunnel, rather than a cave – a continuation of the arched entrance. They pointed their torches after the dog, watching for his responses. The Dalmatian’s coat was short and smooth, which meant raised hackles could be seen straightaway. So far, nothing had alarmed him.
Essie looked down at Mara. In the meagre light the whites of her eyes stood out. She was very still, gazing around her. Essie was about to murmur some reassuring words, but then realised the baby looked intrigued more than anxious. To Mara, this was just another place into which Essie and Simon had brought her. As long as she was held close, by one of them, she felt safe.
Following behind Simon, Essie crunched over patches of gravel, picking a path between scattered chunks of stone. She glimpsed fossils lodged in the walls – dark shapes in the sediments – but decided to leave closer examination for later. Tommy walked right behind her, his muzzle nudging her leg. His presence reminded Essie how bizarre her work practice had become these last weeks. She was on a quest to discover an important archaeological site – while carrying a baby in a sling at her side and towing a small animal on a leash.
Suddenly, she saw that Simon had disappeared. Alarm flashed through her. Then she realised he had turned a corner. Moments later she was behind him again. Only a few feet further on, the tunnel widened.
Essie stood still. The air was immediately cooler. She could feel the vast empty space around her; it was as if she had some extra sense that went beyond sight and hearing. She swung her torch in a circle. A tapestry of colour was revealed – a sweep of reds and yellows; smudges of white; black lines; daubs of brown.
She caught her breath as she recognised the shape of an antelope, complete with horns and hooves. Beside it was a hunter holding a spear.
Then a bird w
ith a long neck.
A tall figure with round circles for breasts . . .
They were similar to the paintings Essie had studied in the Painted Cave – surely created by people of the same era.
Essie’s eyes were dazzled, suddenly, as Simon turned towards her. When he aimed his light away to the side, she could see his face. They stared at one another.
‘We found it.’ Essie spoke in a hushed tone, unwilling to break the deep quiet of the place.
Simon smiled, his teeth white in the shadows. ‘Those Hadza were telling the truth.’
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The twin beams of their torches roamed in long arcs over the walls, crossing one another, then moving apart. The paintings were revealed one by one, looming out of the blackness. Essie studied an image of a porcupine. She could feel the thrust of the sharp spikes, the gentleness of the curved snout. It was a beautiful piece of work.
Essie looked back the way they had come. Barely any light filtered in via the tunnel. Before the collapse of the overhang there would have been a little more – nevertheless, the cave would have been virtually dark. The paintings must have been created and then observed by the glow of burning branches – by Neolithic times humans had long been masters of fire. But still, there would only have been a limited view. She turned to Simon.
‘Why go to the effort of painting all these pictures inside a dark cave?’
‘They had their own torches, made from fire.’ Simon’s thoughts had obviously been following her own. ‘The Hadza still do this.’
‘But you can’t see them properly.’
‘You can,’ Simon argued. ‘Only you must look slowly. It is better.’
Essie returned to the porcupine. The torch beam was like a spotlight, bringing different parts of the animal into focus. It was true, what Simon had said: the images, held within darkness, had a special potency.
‘In that moment when you can see, and yet not see,’ Simon continued, ‘new things can be understood. That is why we like the dark.’
Essie turned his words over in her mind. She was reminded of how, at Magadi Camp, battling the night was a constant preoccupation. Memories of electric light enjoyed in other places haunted everyone’s minds. No matter how many lamps were lit, there never seemed to be enough. Simon had spent the early part of his life in a Hadza tribe, where there was only the moon and stars, and sometimes firelight, to illuminate the night. No wonder he saw this place of permanent darkness differently.
‘It is like the epeme,’ Simon added.
Essie nodded. ‘The night dances . . .’
She knew a little about the Hadza ceremony: it was an important ritual that took place at least two or three times a month. It was held only on moonless nights. The meaning of the event was an enduring puzzle to anthropologists. It seemed to have nothing to do with the usual preoccupations of traditional peoples. The Hadza didn’t believe in an afterlife that had to be earned or a god who had to be appeased; being nomads, their fortunes were not tied to one place – they weren’t held captive, in their lives, by the threat of flood or drought. They weren’t so plagued by fear. There was some other agenda at stake in the epeme, and no one knew what it was.
‘During the epeme we see only by the light of the stars,’ Simon continued. ‘Even the glow of a single smoking pipe is too bright. We are divided into two. Women and little children on one side; older boys and initiated men on the other. Between us there must be a rock or some thick bushes to keep us apart. There is a dancer – just one man at first. He wears bells on his right ankle. He has a cape to hide his body, just in case someone is able to see. He calls out names. He talks, sings, whistles in the darkness. The women call back.’ Simon shook his head. ‘It is too hard to describe . . .’
There was a long silence. In the dry cave there was no dripping water to break the quiet, or even the scuttle of an insect.
When Simon spoke again his tone was light, almost casual. ‘When Mara returns to her family, she will attend the epeme.’
Essie braced for the emotions that always went with picturing the future – the wave of jealousy; the terror of letting go and trusting others with Mara’s care. The ache of abandonment. And the irrational sense that somehow, once Essie couldn’t see her any more, Mara would cease to exist . . .
But this time, the pain didn’t come. Instead, all Essie could feel was the rightness of Mara being with her own people, taking part in their traditions.
‘Can you tell me the meaning of the epeme?’ she asked. ‘I want to know what she will learn.’ She had the idea that this might be her only chance to find out. Here, in the secrecy of the cave, Simon seemed able to speak with a freedom he might not find again.
‘It brings everyone together. We repair all the problems that have come up since the last epeme. Things to do with children, old people. Arguments between lovers, hunters. We put everything back as it should be.’
Essie smiled. She’d been picturing some weighty, solemn purpose. But what Simon described just sounded simple and practical – as straightforward as housework.
She moved along one of the walls. Her torch played over another collection of paintings. She made notes in her head.
A crouched figure, male, with erect penis.
Strange prostrate form, or a pattern of sticks. Bones?
A pyramid with lines radiating from the apex. Ol Doinyo Lengai – spitting fire.
She imagined the challenge of tracing the works by lamplight. The huge scale of the investigation. There would be months and months of work.
‘You can be happy now.’ Simon’s voice floated across to her, as if he was reading her thoughts.
Essie stared into nothing. The words seemed to bounce around inside her, not finding a place to settle. Somehow, the elation she knew she should feel was elusive. She wasn’t thinking of how pleased and excited Ian would be when she told him what she’d discovered. Or how the new project was going to bring the two of them back together. In fact, when she pictured the person she most wanted to share the news with, it wasn’t even the face of her husband that came to mind.
Essie swung her torch beam, checking on Mara, then Tommy. She located Rudie – he was nosing the ground as he trotted towards the rear of the cave. There must have been a niche or tunnel there, because she lost sight of him. Essie whistled him back. When he didn’t reappear she headed after him. She wasn’t sure if a dog could get lost in an underground maze, or if they would always be able to follow their own scent back the way they had come.
Essie found herself in another tunnel. From somewhere ahead she could hear the sound Rudie made when he was checking a scent: the repeated exhalations, as if he needed to clear his nose before taking in a new smell. Next he let out a short sharp bark. He sounded surprised, more than aggressive or fearful.
‘Simon . . .’ Essie’s voice was thin, as if filtered through shadows. She tightened her arm over Mara, and waited for him to reach her side.
Together they edged their way along. This tunnel was short – more like a doorway in a very thick wall.
Now they were standing in a second cave. A finger of light reached down from above, painting a vague circle of white on the ground. Rudie was pushing his snout into a pile of debris. He lifted his head, an object in his mouth.
Essie stepped closer, aiming her torch. Shock tore through her like a bolt of electricity. She was looking at a small canvas sandshoe. Yellow laces, wet with saliva, draped from the dog’s jaw.
She stared, frozen. ‘Oh my God . . .’
Rudie dropped his prize, backing away into the shadows. As Simon reached her side, Essie squatted to pick it up. In the beam of his torch she turned the shoe over in her hand. The rubber sole was well worn, the edges ragged. Essie’s heart clenched at the thought of the thousands of little footsteps that had worn the tread smooth. Folding back the blue canvas tongue, she saw something marked in biro. Three letters, faded almost to nothing, but still legible.
IAN.
A
lump formed in Essie’s throat. They were hand-me-down shoes, from a big brother.
Simon’s torch moved away from the shoe, searching the space behind Rudie. A blur of colour was revealed – not the muted, natural tones of ochre or kaolin, but bright red and turquoise. Essie took in the remains of a checked shirt. A pair of sky-blue trousers.
Essie covered her mouth with her hand. She felt her legs weaken.
‘Mtoto wa siri.’ Simon’s voice floated in the stillness. The hidden child.
The little boy’s skin, mummified in the arid cave, was stretched taut over his skull, like calf-hide on a drum. Fair, wispy hair framed his face. In the low light Robbie could almost have been alive – just sleeping.
Essie struggled to breathe; her chest heaved but the air seemed too thin. She forced herself to go nearer. She had to see every detail. Pushing the sandshoe into her pocket, she dropped Tommy’s leash and grasped Mara against her hip. Then she bent over the dead child.
There were pieces of skin missing, she now saw, or peeled back, revealing bone. Through a gap in one cheek she saw a row of baby teeth, gleaming like pearls in the gloom. She felt as if she was viewing a picture that went in and out of focus. One moment she saw a decomposed body, a skeleton. Then she saw a little boy. She could barely tell which vision was more real.
Robbie’s hands were resting at his sides. In death they had closed up, the tendons contracting. He still had fingernails. Eyelashes. His lids were glued closed, covering shrunken sockets. His lips still held their babyish bow but looked frozen. Hard. A second sandshoe was tied onto a foot, a grey sock clinging to fleshless ankles.
‘He has fallen down,’ Simon said. He aimed his torch beam up to the source of the faint dribble of light. It was a crack in the roof; perhaps the very one in which Tommy’s leg had been snared.
Essie turned back to study Robbie. There was something restful about his posture, she now saw, as if he had just flopped where he’d landed, like a rag doll. Essie felt a wave of relief as she understood what this meant. The boy hadn’t writhed in agony after his fall or attempted to crawl away. It was obvious why. His head was at the wrong angle to his body. When he fell, he’d broken his neck.
The Beautiful Mother Page 33