Rift

by Beverley Birch

  He said quickly, not to lose it, ‘Matt was being sick, Anna was holding him!’ Nausea rose in his own stomach: nausea and a blind fury, and he saw clearly – that this picture was not in Charly’s tent after all, but his own, the one he shared with Matt.

  ‘Wait, wait . . . we left our tent, went to Charly’s to get away from something . . . But there’s nothing in ours, nothing . . . ’

  ‘Let’s go and look again,’ she pleaded. ‘And in Charly’s. We can’t just leave this, when you’ve remembered a bit of something. Joe?‘

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Yeah – now!’

  He swung his torch across the empty beds, Matt’s pack, the floor, the canvas walls.

  ‘Work it through,’ Ella urged. ‘You ate supper. You left the canteen. You came back here?’

  He said, carefully, ‘Anna went to her tent. I remember that. She wanted to be in before Candy and Janice, because they were doing this stupid thing, holding it closed from inside so she couldn’t get in, putting a dead baboon spider –’

  The memory hit him: Matt, pushing into their own tent. Matt backing out. His face covered in something – dark, it gleamed wetly in the torchlight, and Matt was stumbling away, vomiting, and Joe’s own torch was swinging up, catching the swaying net, the dripping chopped-up mass, the slit, spewing entrails, glistening.

  He sat down with a thump.

  ‘What?’ she said. ‘What, what?’

  ‘They killed the snakes. They chopped them up. They saw us looking at them up in the ravine and they thought it’d be fun to kill the snakes and put them in a net and hang them in the tent for us to walk into. Matt did that, he walked right in, all over his face. There were these buzzing flies on the stickiness, and it was just a little family of snakes –’

  Ella could think of nothing to say. She looked up at the ridge pole of the tent. She shone her torch down, at the groundsheet. Nothing. All scrubbed away, clean, innocent.

  ‘And Charly was at Burukanda and Sir was in Lengoi and there was only Strutton here, and those other two: Hopper and Sharp, who never do anything –’

  ‘So – what?’ Ella put in, trying to think straight, to help. ‘You left and went to Charly’s tent? You thought they wouldn’t look for you there?’

  Morning, light coming – he saw it clearly suddenly –

  ‘Silowa picked up the bag.’

  ‘What bag?’

  ‘Tools.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Digging. We were going to dig –’

  ‘Here’s the deal,’ Anna’d said. ‘It’s a team thing, right? We’re going to enter that Award even though Miss says we can’t because we’re Silowa’s team, and he’s going to win and we’re going to help him and he’s going to do something perfect with the prize. Look, I could do this on my own, but we could all do it. And we get Charly too, so she can be the proof it was him and us and she can tell them it’s true.’

  ‘What you on about, what’s “it”? What’s true?’ Joe’d demanded, confused.

  ‘Look, Silowa’s found it, and he says he knows there’s more, lots and lots. So we’ll help him get it, and then Charly can take it to Burukanda and get them to look at it. We won’t let anyone else know, so they can’t spoil it, or steal it, or break it, or say we didn’t do it. And Silowa will win and then – see – Silowa wins the thousand pounds, right? Then he and Ndigi can go back to school and do three more years and get their exams, and after –’

  ‘Ella,’ Joe breathed, very slowly, very carefully, in case he lost it again, ‘I remember where we went.’

  Murothi read and slept and woke and slept again, and when he woke finally, all the mountains of words and thoughts and questions had fallen away and he knew what he was looking for. Not why or when, but where. Not where they were now, but where they had begun, and he got up quickly, and one by one searched the sketchmaps, the doodles, the labels.

  And there, on the sketchiest map of all – no more than a few squiggles in a page of writing – he found it. It was a small mark: the kind Charly used to indicate places where she’d taken photos or made sketches, or just sat and looked. This particular mark had appeared to Murothi to be a small square with a cross inside it.

  Now, imagining Ella’s eyes reading it, he saw it for what it was: two tiny stick figures holding bones. A replica of the Battle of the Bones drawing. And it was placed beyond the ravine, beyond Charly’s place where the notebooks had been found. On this side of the ridge, below the rocks, along the stream, some way to the east of the camp.

  third day: footprints

  New Dawn

  Sunrise of the third day: the first rays fired the horizon and streaked across the land, striking the south-eastern face of Chomlaya. In the warming light, the colossal slabs seemed to stretch, as if they woke and drew breath. An advance guard of baboons foraging beyond their territory bounded along ledges and gullies and froze at the sight of tents below. Then they plunged down into the trees, provoking screeching displeasure among resident birds and monkeys.

  In the human camp across the stream a bustle of sudden movement echoed them.

  Murothi, Charly’s notebook in one hand and a map in the other, was walking out to open plain. Every ten paces or so he looked back. He was trying to get the angle right, to see past the bulging tilt of the cliff to the east of the camp. He wanted sight of the rocks beyond, where they folded back on themselves in the stretch where, on her sketchmaps, Charly had placed her Battle of the Bones mark. All of this was out of sight to him from closer in, near the tents.

  The air was dewy and warm. Drifts of mist stroked the ground, and on the high precipices it wisped and curled, veiling corners and angles. Yet, as he reached the right vantage point some distance out, the rising sun seemed to part the steamy vapour, like a hand drawing a curtain aside. He was gripped by a sense of portent, of imminent events, so violent that his heart pounded, and a fire of energy shot through him. He broke into a run back towards the camp, to call the sergeant, constables, rangers, Joe, Ella – to get started. Ten minutes had passed since the sun had tipped the horizon.

  But already Sergeant Kaonga was rushing from the police tents; Joe and Ella were calling; even Véronique and Otaka’s Land Rover bumped its way from the night’s resting place. As he neared, he could hear Joe, I remember, I remember, we went there, over there, I remember, I remember! and saw him point in exactly the direction of the place marked by Charly.

  It was a scene replayed endlessly in Joe’s head. Always it reached the same point and jammed, and started again. Silowa lifting something from the ground; the stab of a cry, like a piercing note from Matt’s pipe, but it wasn’t, because Matt was with him . . . The picture splintered, started afresh: Silowa kneels, raises it from the burning soil, above, the ear-splitting raucous call . . .

  In the luminous dawn air the scream came again. Ella jerked her head up, looking, and then Joe knew it wasn’t memory, but real, its echo reverberating from the pinnacles of the upper rock.

  ‘Where is it?’ he demanded, searching the sky.

  ‘There,’ she told him, pointing. Spread wings floated dark towards the sunlit crest.

  ‘That is the eagle,’ said Véronique, jumping from the vehicle as it rolled to a stop. ‘And there is the partner.’ She shaded her eyes, following a speck disappearing and reappearing against darker and paler bands of rock. ‘There is a pair living here . . . ’

  Urgently Joe insisted, ‘It’s what I keep hearing, and just before, Silowa – I don’t know, somewhere there –’ the story spilled from him fast, incoherent.

  Ella, who had managed to grasp most of it, translated, ‘See, they went to Charly’s tent to get away from the snakes, and they were going to win the competition so Silowa could go back to school, and they went secretly because they didn’t want anyone to spoil it or do more horrible things like killing the snakes.’

  ‘Joe, Ella, this is very good, very good,’ said Murothi, his mind working overtime to unpick the tale from the incomprehensible torren
t and his chest heaving from the run back to camp. ‘Joe, show me, this is where you were going?’ He had taken the boy’s arm and steered him firmly towards the Land Rover. He spread the notebook and map on the bonnet. Swiftly he explained to them both: Charly’s map, the Battle of the Bones sketch.

  Joe looked at it all, silently. And then suddenly he looked up at Murothi with such delight in his face that Murothi’s heart lifted with a flip of real hope.

  The sergeant arrived among them. ‘Sir, it is DC Meshami calling! Hoi, he has discovered something! The thing in Matt’s hand when they lift the boy from the rock, this thing the climbers tell us about last night? It is not his music pipe! It is old, old! A flute – bone – old bone. The DC has flown it to Burukanda, and Mr Peter there says it is from the leg of the eagle! He has seen one like this in France, from the bones of vultures. More than 30,000 years old! And Sir, Sir,’ the policeman surged on, ‘we hear the report now – strange, strange things!’ He shook his head, sucked in breath, ‘This is the way it is: the climbers cross over the place where Matt was found, and he is not there, then in just a second, no more, just one second, the helicopter sees him. The climbers are still only fifty metres away! So he has come, Phut, out of the ground! This is the only answer! So in the night they have put more people down on the top and they search everything. They find holes, small, filled with bushes. They do not see them from the air. But still there is nowhere for Matt to hide away. A big mystery! Yet they will go on, on, on!’ He finished, and grinned triumphantly at Murothi.

  They digested this, and Véronique said, ‘Peter knows his stuff, Murothi. He is one of the foremost experts in prehistoric artefacts. If he says it is a flute made from fossilised bone of an eagle, then that is what it is. We definitely conclude these children have found something . . . ’

  ‘We did, we did,’ said Joe, ‘Silowa found it and we went to help him dig it out, but it wasn’t a pipe!’

  A calming hand on Joe’s shoulder, Murothi surveyed the visible sweep of the rock. He indicated the map. ‘Sergeant Kaonga, the two boys were discovered here and here – I have got the positions right?’

  They all gathered closer, studying the two crosses Murothi had marked. The sergeant murmured his assent. Musing, Murothi traced the way with one finger: in order, moving eastwards from the tents, you came round the encircling curve of the cliffs, encountering the big ravine, and crossing it. Then on round, to where the overhanging crags ended in a promontory formed from tumbled boulders. This was the point where the ridge turned away from the camp, folding back in a north-easterly direction for a mile or two. Moving along it, you came to the place where Joe had appeared, but in a gully half-way down and on the far side of the ridge. And then even further to where yesterday afternoon Matt had been spotted high on the summit.

  Beyond all of this, Chomlaya continued in a series of snaking curves for another five miles.

  They followed Murothi’s moving finger.

  ‘Look!’ Ella had been looking at Charly’s map again. ‘See! Joe was found there, and Charly’s put that Battle of the Bones mark here!’ The two positions were roughly in the same region.

  But on opposite sides of the rock.

  ‘It seems to me,’ said Otaka slowly, ‘there is a hidden route up from here to the top and across to the other side. We should look for a place where these children can climb . . . ’

  ‘Yes, and they could have got to the top and unhappily fallen into one of these invisible holes we have just heard about!’ Véronique shaded her eyes to look at Chomlaya, as if scrutiny alone would reveal all.

  ‘These places have been searched!’ the sergeant exclaimed, frustration sharpening his voice. ‘When Joe was rescued over there, they looked that side, and then they looked this side! But it is impossible. Steep! Like it is cut with a knife! Chop, chop! A sharp knife!’

  ‘Sir, Sir, Mr Boyd, what can we do?’ clamouring voices sounded, and Ian Boyd was heading towards them, flanked by a crush of students. ‘We got to do something, Sir, we got to help. You said there’d be stuff to do now.’ This was Zak speaking. Everywhere was abuzz with activity: Samuel dishing out breakfast of tea, hard-boiled eggs and bread, which they were eating as they assembled, expectant, as if responding to some inaudible call to action.

  ‘What’s best, Inspector? Sergeant? Give us your orders,’ Ian Boyd asked.

  ‘I will explain the situation for you, Murothi,’ Véronique jumped in quickly, seizing the notebook and map. ‘And you can rely on Otaka and me to accompany you to this place. You will need trained eyes to help, if these children were searching for fossils, and found something.’ To the teacher and the students, she began, ‘We do not know exactly what it means yet, but this is what Joe is now recalling . . . ’

  ‘We all,’ Murothi announced to Joe and Ella, ‘together, will go to investigate this place you remember.’

  Sergeant Kaonga unclipped the radio from his belt. ‘I will tell the helicopters. They will bring climbers to help us,’ he announced. ‘And I will ask the helicopters to point from the sky to where Joe and Matt were found. So we can mark it from here – I think this is a good idea!’

  ‘Good, yes, good. Where is Mungai?’

  ‘Before light, he goes. He is walking to the north of the rock. He says Silowa will arrive there!’

  ‘Right,’ Ian Boyd declared loudly. ‘There’s a few pairs of binoculars between us. We’ll do a detailed scrutiny of the rocks. We can spread right along below. Maybe we can spot the places they could climb. Anything unusual, we’ll tell you. OK, everyone. Understood? Four groups. Take a section each.’ To the other teachers, also gathering, ‘Keith, how about you oversee the first stretch of the ridge? Helen next? Lawrence next, and I’ll take the last. Should be able to get reasonable cover over the distance. OK – volunteers to sort out water bottles for all, and don’t forget the policemen and the rangers – and Joe and Ella here and Véronique and Otaka. Anyone with binoculars, get them now. Everyone back here in two minutes flat.’

  At which point Miss Strutton and Miss Hopper arrived, and were ignored in the enthusiastic rush to get organised.

  ‘Mr Boyd, I want a word,’ Miss Strutton called sharply. ‘I consider –’

  ‘Time’s short, Elisa, we can talk later,’ Ian Boyd’s voice was brisk, and he was looking beyond her at Sean, who stood apart, watching. The boy’s expression was sour.

  ‘Work out where you fit in all this, Sean, and snap into some useful action.’ Ian Boyd spoke vigorously. ‘Or stay well out of it. Lift a finger to get in anyone’s way and I’ll put you under guard. Make up your mind, eh?’

  The boy did not respond. His friends, Carl, Denny, Candy, Janice, heading to join him, looked around with sudden uncertainty.

  At Murothi’s elbow, Véronique murmured, ‘Charly’s heart would warm to see this!’ She was looking at Miss Strutton and Miss Hopper, and then at all the other teachers busily finalising the binocular teams. ‘She said it was like an infection, this hesitancy to argue with this woman or to challenge this horrid boy and his friends. She said there are teachers and children here who know better, who are better, but they do nothing! So this little nastiness grows, from silly things to not-so-silly things. But her heart would warm to this sight!’

  For some minutes, they had followed the base of the ridge. They had passed Charly’s place, where she’d hidden the books beneath the boulder. The rough path had petered out, and they were forcing their way through dense, ferny undergrowth bordering the stream. Here the water ran fast down steps of slippery rock, gurgling through narrow channels and splashing into occasional deep, hidden pools.

  The boulder-strewn promontory was behind them. They turned along the foot of the rocks running north-east. The force of the sun climbing to their right was fast heating the air to uncomfortable levels.

  The expedition had grown. Left in the camp, Constable Lakuya and Likon were manning communications with helicopters and climbers; here on the trek along the rock, Tomis assumed lead of the column
while Constable Lesakon, with the radio, brought up the rear. Between the two, Murothi, Joe, Ella, Sergeant Kaonga, Otaka and Véronique pushed along with varying degrees of competency in the steep, treacherous terrain; at every step ledges of rock masked by the ferns threatened to send them sprawling downwards. A little way behind, surprised yelps and nervous laughter came from the binocular teams. There was none of the excited chatter of earlier. The exertion and perils of the route took all of everyone’s concentration.

  They were equipped, too, with torches and ropes – needed, Tomis and Likon insisted, for looking in dark undergrowth and deep holes.

  It was fifteen minutes since they’d left the camp. The ferny slopes ended, and the stream began to calm through a flat, marshy area of tall grasses and muddy banks. It was easy for Ella to jump to the far side where a stretch of bare earth merged into a slope clothed in low bushes that ran right up to the foot of Chomlaya. For a moment, glimpsing the footprints of Tomis and Murothi ahead of him in the drying mud, a fleeting sense of last night’s dream assailed Joe. He felt teeming animal life around him. And something else, intangible and dark and full of sound – and then it was lost again. There was only the red earth and the eight of them walking across it.

  On the far bank, the sergeant crouched down and spread the map. Ella knelt down with him, putting Charly’s notebook open at the page showing the sketchmaps.

  ‘It’s the right place,’ she said. ‘Look, we’re on what Charly’s labelled the “orange bank”, and there she shows the line of Chomlaya, and that’s the reedy edges.’ The bank was reddish earth cut through by the course of water running off the rock and joining the stream. A broad, shallow gully had formed; roots of trees and bushes protruded from the sides, denuded of soil. The surface, ridged and cracked, was littered with stones.

  ‘Quite recently formed,’ commented Véronique, looking round. ‘That last storm washed violently through here. See, it has begun to break the bank away!’ She pointed at one edge, split and hanging away, creating a narrow chasm. ‘Probably the next storm will wear it smooth. All this will just be sludge washed down and filling up the stream.’