She gathered a handful of shells from the stream-bed and began experimenting. To open a living shellfish you laid it on a rock and bashed it with a flat stone. That was no good. The empty shells simply splintered. A pointed stone, then. She found one and bashed with that, but it was still no good. She was trying pure pressure when the stone slipped and the shell shot away, but starting again she noticed that she had actually managed to scratch the surface. If she could scratch and scratch and scratch . . . After many experiments she discovered a technique of pressing the point down hard with one hand and twisting the shell to and fro beneath it. The process took a long while, but it worked in the end, and by evening Rawi was wearing her ornament, content.
So now Li was sitting on the boulder round which the stream curled just before it reached the marsh and watching a vast flock of new strange birds which were paddling on stilted legs between the reed-beds. Beyond them the faint layers of mist were starting to rise and spread. The world, she felt, was full of interest, and wonder, and promise. The birth of Rawi’s daughter was as wonderful as anything, because it showed that despite all the changes and horrors things were well, things were as they were meant to be.
Something had made all this happen, on purpose, just as she, Li, had made the hole in Rawi’s shell. Something had caused her to be sitting on this rock, this very evening, herself, Li. She felt that she was being watched with the same intentness as she had watched the spider building its web long ago under the leaning tree above the shrimping beaches, or the other spider only a few days back. Yes, like that, that sort of web, herself at the centre of it, all the lines drawing in to her, here, now. No-one else. Nowhere else. No other time.
It was the dolphins, she knew. They were still with her, still her friends and helpers, wherever they seemed to have gone. One day she would go there too, and dance with them again in their golden seas where the sun was born, and learn the meaning of their song.
She picked up the shoulder-blade from beside her and studied it, turning it to and fro in the evening sunlight. She had carried it now so long that it seemed part of her, so much so that not having it in her hand made her feel strange, but it would be better if she could wear it on a loop of hair, like a birth-ornament. Then she would always have both hands free. It was much thicker than the shell, but not so hard. She would need to be very careful. There would be no way of finding another one if she broke it.
She chose a place near one corner, adjusted the bone on to a jut of rock, pressed the point of the stone she had used for Rawi’s shell firmly down and with her other hand began slowly to turn the bone.
NOW: THURSDAY AFTERNOON
THEY BROKE THE journey to rest in the shade of a flat-topped tree beside the track. There were no weaver-bird nests in it, but otherwise it could have been the same one where Dad and Vinny had stopped for lunch five days ago, just one tree in the enormous plain which had once been the sea. The sun was half-way down the burning sky.
The buzz of a helicopter came faintly from the north-west, louder as it neared until they saw it race by about half a mile away, an ordinary commercial machine painted scarlet and silver. Dad laughed.
‘Bet that’s Wishart on his way to the camp,’ he said. ‘His flight must have been late. He’s in for a shock.’
‘What’ll happen?’ said Vinny.
‘Lord knows. The Minister’s still there, unless he’s gone home by another route. I don’t think Joe’s going to be able to make it up with him. Wishart is a thoroughly nasty piece of work, in my opinion. I’ve only met him once, and he struck me as both prickly and slippery. I doubt if he’ll hit it off with the Minister.’
‘Fred will be loving all this,’ said May Anna.
‘I think Fred’s going to come out on top,’ said Dad. ‘He’s got the contacts Watson needs. If we’ve got what we think we have, he’ll be able to raise the funds . . .’
‘Aren’t you going to help?’ said Vinny. ‘Watson’s not too bad, honestly he isn’t . . .’
‘Just think what Joe would make of it,’ said Dad. ‘I set all this up in order to lever him out and take over. The mere fact that Watson promptly arranged for us to keep our visas . . . No, I’m going to look for something with a bit less hassle in it than hominids. There’s plenty of interesting work to be done. What about you, May Anna?’
‘I told Watson I’ll come back. I want to finish my skull. It’s getting really interesting. It’s got some fascinating features – clearly hominid, but so small. Male, I think. And, do you know, something fractured it, just behind the left temple. No, seriously.’
‘You’re as bad as Joe,’ said Dad.
He laughed, then sighed.
‘I’d like to have finished it,’ he said. ‘Let’s pray Watson manages to keep control of things and get the material into some kind of decent storage. I can just see those soldiers shovelling them into plastic bags and slinging them into some corner, and then . . . You know they took every scrap of my notes?’
‘Mine too,’ said May Anna. ‘All gone.’
‘I’ve still got my bone,’ said Vinny.
‘What bone?’ said May Anna.
‘A scapula she was drawing,’ said Dad. ‘Hang on – let’s think about this. Didn’t they go through your bag?’
‘Watson carried it out to the jeep, remember?’
‘Oh, Lord. Look, I’m afraid we’re going to have to dispose of it for the moment. I’m still a bit jumpy about someone going through our bags again, and we certainly can’t risk taking it out.’
‘If May Anna’s going back . . .’ said Vinny.
‘The trouble is there’s no documentation,’ said Dad. ‘There’s nothing in my notes.’
‘If she just put it back in the H-bag,’ said Vinny.
‘Then perhaps someone could notice . . . you could notice, May Anna . . .’
‘Please,’ said May Anna.
Dad laughed.
‘See what you think. Show her, Vinny. Don’t say anything.’
Vinny fetched the fossil and gave it to May Anna, who studied it first with the naked eye and then through a magnifying glass, tilting it this way and that in a patch of sunlight to reveal its faint markings.
‘Someone’s bored a hole there,’ she said.
‘Possibly,’ said Dad.
‘Not just possibly. Look. There’s these drill-scratches this side, and look at the wearing this side. They’ve pressed down on to it with a pointed flake, using a rock as an anvil, but they didn’t turn the flake. They turned the scapula. If you didn’t have a fully manipulable hand and wrist you’d find that easier. You’re telling me this came from your site?’
‘Out of the H-layer. The one with the foot-bones in it,’ said Vinny.
May Anna whistled.
‘And you didn’t tell Joe?’ she said.
‘It was tricky,’ said Dad. ‘By the time Vinny noticed those scratch-marks – I told you she was drawing it – we were already having trouble with him.’
‘It was my fault,’ said Vinny. ‘I asked Dad not to tell him. I hated the way he kept making a fuss, pretending I was his lucky mascot and so on.’
‘It was partly that,’ said Dad. ‘Anyway, I wasn’t as sure as you are about the significance of those scratches – in fact I’m still not. Furthermore, if you’re right, then it’s going to cast considerable doubt on our dating. You’re not going to get a lot of palaeontologists believing in an artefact four and a half million years old, for a start.’
May Anna sat silent, still turning the bone to and fro.
‘What do you think it is?’ said Vinny. ‘I mean, what sort of animal did it come from? Dad doesn’t know.’
‘Just what I was thinking about. Were you ever at Pechabar, Sam?’