Zaman stretched out his arms, fell forward, lay on the ground, his face and arms bruised. After half an hour, with ants clinging to his arms, he wiped his face, cleaned the dust off his clothes, and walked back to the foul oasis with the yellow can. The people saw him; they said nothing. They watched him fill the container again. He restarted his journey to Kargi on foot. Got there in the late evening of the day after that. Remarkable speed.
A wheezing part-time imam approached Zaman as he shuffled to the tree where he had last seen his family. He stopped.
“God be praised,” exhorted the imam.
“Yes.”
And he told Zaman the truth. In keeping with burial customs, all bodies were buried just before sunset. The prayer man said, “It is God’s will.” He told Zaman that they would all meet in paradise, thanks be to God. He said they were in a better place.
Zaman heard the words.
He said nothing in reply.
Nothing.
Had not spoken about the events to another human being until now.
Eleven years later, the Jacobses were still plowing seeds of light across unheeding desert people of Kenya. In keeping with the times, they had also become spotters of terrorists and pirates. Their medical center was a web, a rich pond for mass baptisms and extraordinary renditions.
Close to dusk. The Trader gets up. He is trundling away when the d’abeela calls after him, “We are ravens …” the Trader gurgles. The voices on the radio tell him about the chaos that followed the murder of a Pakistani woman leader.
13
OLD COFFEE AND A CONVERSATION IN THE WUOTH OGIK BOMA—two men and a cramped eavesdropper. Galgalu had taken to lying under the sky so his nightmares had greater distances to cover before they reached him. Galgalu had seen that the Trader’s eyes were cold and his voice like breaking glass. His spirit shivered as the man spoke.
The Trader was saying, “In the places of water, where stories are left to be found, long-ago tales of a man named Hugh Bolton linger. It is said, one day he left. Was he looking for the house of red rain?”
Nyipir squirms, blows his nose, and allows himself a grunt.
The Trader says, “I feel there’s something you need.”
“Nothing.”
“Anything?”
Nyipir gestures toward the coffin. “Bring him back to life.”
The Trader grabs Nyipir’s forearm. Nyipir’s muscles shudder and then relax. He emits a groan.
The Trader leans close. “I met a friend of the family.”
“Who?”
“A d’abeela.”
“What do you want?”
The Trader pulls out coffee beans and shrugs. “Ka-ha-wa?”
Nyipir looks away.
“Truuut — rat-a-tat-tat,” sings the Trader.
Nyipir answers, “I don’t trade anymore.”
“It’s what I want.”
“I don’t trade.”
Silence.
“I can help.”
“What?”
“Eliminate poisonous snakes that infest a quiet house.”
Silence.
“He’ll leave.”
The Trader looks over at Wuoth Ogik.
“Maybe. Akai is frightened of snakes. The venom … could kill her.…”
“He’ll leave.”
“When?”
Nyipir shifts.
The Trader leans his head against his shoulder. “I can make watering holes forget everything.”
Nyipir mutters, “It’s not like that.”
“As you say.”
“What do you want?”
The Trader snorts, “You were a terrifying man before. Now we only pray for you.”
Nyipir glares.
The Trader says, “Costs much to make a man disappear.”
“I paid.”
“A discounted rate.”
Nyipir exhales; his nose flares; he grits his teeth. “I’m grateful.”
The Trader smiles. “So?” He extends a quarter-filled pot. “I’ve added four drops of clove oil and a cinnamon twig. Try it. Clears the head, helps the mind to retrieve its silence.” A ravening grin. “A great feat, to cause a man or men to disappear—paff—or bring them back!”
“What do you want?” Nyipir’s eyes blink rapidly, and his hands shake.
“Very little,” says the Trader.
Outside, a small wind eases past a thorn tree. Inside, the scent of ghee, smoke, and warm leather. It saturates skin, cloth, blood, grime, and sadness. In the dark, Galgalu slithers into the room where Isaiah snores. In his hand, the Trader’s potion — it is shaped like a fist-sized incense lump. Simple instructions given with a glimmer in the eye: Light this in the room where he sleeps. You, you must leave when the smoke rises.
“What’s this?” Galgalu asked.
“A gift for the home,” the Trader said, and giggled.
Lump in one hand, Galgalu watches Isaiah’s chest rise and fall. He wonders at the haplessness of sleeping souls. Swallowing saliva. “Isaiah?” Galgalu tugs at the coverlet with the free hand. “Isaiah!” A hiss.
Isaiah jumps awake, stands naked, swaying. “What is it?”
Galgalu puts a finger to his mouth, listens for something outside, and then throws Isaiah’s trousers at him. “Go.” Tosses his shirt.
“You can’t just come in here and …”
“Leave.”
“Why?”
“Go to Nairobi. Find Ajany. She’ll tell you everything. Go.” Desperation. “Save your life.”
“I’ll leave after I speak to the old man.” Isaiah pulls on the unclean shirt, khakis.
“Wait and die, Isaiah,” Galgalu says, lucid. And then, “You want to die? Stay!” Galgalu pushes Isaiah’s chest. “Go! Go! Go!”
Isaiah grabs his things, more shaken by Galgalu’s urgent gestures than by what he’s saying. Immortality’s veil cracks. Icy fright. He is so far away from home.
Galgalu spits resentment: “You open quiet graves and think the dead won’t also look for you?” He shoves Isaiah’s chest. “Go, with your sickness.”
“Why not just kill me?” asks Isaiah.
“Too much work.” The death nugget feels hot within his palms.
Isaiah squeezes his eyes shut. In between wondering and deciding, an image shows up: the death-destruction-fear-night-of-death goddess Kalaratri. A shudder slithers through Isaiah’s body. He succumbs. “How do I leave? Here, I’ve got a map.”
Galgalu rolls his eyes. “Leave the house, walk a straight line from the door. Don’t stop till you see many, many black rocks that are the shape of many, many breasts. Wait there. I’ll come with the cows. Listen for bells. Go. In Nairobi, find Ali Dida Hada. Police headquarters. In your map, write ‘Ali Dida Hada.’ ”
“Who’s he?”
“Police. He was looking for Bolton.”
“What?”
“Yes.”
Galgalu disintegrates into darkness, leaving Isaiah alone after he has tossed the poisoned lump onto the bookshelf.
Fear’s moldering stench. Isaiah listens for movement. Is this an ambush? The water tank creaks. Isaiah craves a place where tea shops sit next door to Covent Garden ballets. He misses the disembodied voice nagging, “Mind the gap.” He wants to hear Christmas bells and dull sermons from apologetic vicars. Isaiah grabs his bag, stuffs in some books, stares at the night, greedy to live. Terrifying Kalaratri. She is also a mother. So he prays. Help me! He is not running away. Help me, Kalaratri. Needing to live, promising to live.
14
THE LAND’S ROCKS CANNOT DECIDE WHAT COLOR TO BE. THE splendid Mount Kulal is violet, then a pink-edged blue. An oryx herd gallivants and leaps. Someone’s scattered camels huddle, and a weaver colony strain the branches of an acacia, chattering with intent. The morning stillness enhances desert murmurs. Isaiah has walked for exactly four days, using the landmarks Galgalu had crafted on the ground. The long, brown, beaded gourd of milk that Galgalu had also left behind dangles from his wrist.