“Please. Come in.”
The woman gathered her dress and ducked into the archway. Jon went in behind her. A sweet, pleasant smell of rooibos tea filled the low-ceilinged, cave-like room. Three squat candles cast shadows on the walls.
“I go by Kaya,” she said, extending her hand. “Come in. Have a seat.”
The barefoot woman, crouching, slowly poured out cups of tea from a copper pot. They sat on two old foam chair cushions on the dirt floor, facing each other, not saying anything at first. The tea’s nutty flavor was delicious, the first thing he’d had to eat or drink since the day before.
“Did you come through the village?”
“Through several, actually.”
“Do you think you were followed?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Everything seemed abandoned, all the way in.”
“Yes.” Her eyes lowered. “You can stay here tonight. One night only. That’s Marcus,” she said, when the little boy appeared momentarily in the doorway.
“Your son.”
“No.” Her eyes moistened for a moment but stayed on his. “He has become my son, yes. Since several days ago.”
Jon sipped his tea, letting his eyes adjust. He felt grimy, unshaven and unclean. The woman who called herself Kaya watched him, holding her cup above the saucer. Her steadiness intrigued him, made him feel drawn to her. She was probably in her late thirties, he guessed, although at certain angles her face seemed much younger.
The room smelled earthy, musty, human. Against one wall was a single shelf stacked with tins of food and a small, generator-powered refrigerator. A large wooden crucifix rested on an empty fruit crate between two of the candles.
“There’s some nice country out there,” he said, to make conversation.
She grimaced slightly. “Not so nice anymore. Have you been to Sundiata before?”
“In the south. Briefly. The border area. Below Kuseyo Valley.”
She nodded. “I lived in the south. For seven years, I ran a clinic in the village of Kaarta.”
“Southwest of the valley?”
“Yes. It was.”
“‘Was.’”
“Yes.”
“How do you mean?”
“The village is gone now. Everyone died, in a single day.” Jon saw something change in her face, her eyes glistening but no less firm. “Marc’s parents died, his brothers and his sisters. His grandparents.” She lowered her voice and looked to the slant of light in the entranceway. “He still goes out some mornings, thinking he will find them. He still talks to them sometimes. He calls their names in his sleep. Everyone died. There aren’t even any graves for them.”
“But you didn’t. You survived.”
“Yes, I survived. But more than that. I witnessed it. There were not supposed to be any witnesses.” Her eyes, unblinking, seemed wise to him, and Jon felt a flare of curiosity.
“I still see them at night when I can’t sleep,” she said. “I remember people I knew, looking at me.” Her eyes, reflecting the candlelight, seemed to retreat for a moment. “As I say, there weren’t supposed to be any witnesses. But now you have one. Three, actually.”
“What do you mean?”
“Three reliable witnesses. At least three. Isn’t that enough for you to tell a story?”
Jon studied her face, trying to grasp what she was telling him. Wondering if this was the information—the details—his brother had promised. Witnesses. Yes, that was what he had said. Be a witness to things that haven’t happened yet.
“Witnesses to what, exactly?”
She looked toward the arched mud doorway where the boy had been. A corner of her mouth twitched. “Witness to the elimination of more than a hundred thousand people, maybe a lot more, in a single morning. Quite an accomplishment.”
“What?” The woman sipped her tea, the shadows mimicking her motion on the mud walls. She returned the cup to its saucer, her eyes leaving his for only a moment. Hands steady. “How?”
“How did I survive? Because I had warning. What happened was a trial. One of several that have already occurred. The next wave, we think, will be for real. Much worse. We think it will be in early October.”
“The next wave.”
“Yes. That’s what we think.”
“The flu?”
“It is called something else, though,” she said. “Something that has a different meaning. That changes it from bad to good. They are calling it a vaccine now, the ‘aerial vaccine.’ They’re spraying ‘vaccine’ to ‘contain’ it, along with pyrethroids to eradicate mosquitoes and tsetse flies.”
Jon set his teacup back in the saucer.
“You know my brother, then.”
She nodded once but looked away. “We had been waiting for you,” she said. “It’s almost too late now. This region may be taken in a few days, maybe sooner. We’re in the path here. We need to get out right away. But he wants you to be a witness, too.”
“My brother does.”
“Yes.”
“Is he here?”
“No.”
Her eyes shifted. Jon felt his heart racing, and he thought again about logistics—how would they get back to the airport, out of this country? Don’t try too hard. “Is that what he told you? Is that who gave you the warning?”
“No,” she said. “My cousin did.”
“Your cousin.”
“Yes. He came to visit me shortly before it happened, and he told me what might be coming. His name is Paul. Paul Bahdru.”
“Paul Bahdru!”
“Yes.” Her eyes went to the entranceway, as they seemed to do instinctively every few moments, as if she were keeping sentinel. “My real name is Sandra Oku,” she said, speaking more softly. “I survived because my cousin gave me warning, and because he provided me with medicine. Now I have a great responsibility, something that is very humbling and requires a great deal of faith every day. My own needs are not important anymore.” The candlelight flickered on her face. “We have a colleague, a very organized and resourceful man who is an engineer. He arranged to get you here.”
“Chaplin.”
“Yes. Joseph.”
“Tell me about Paul. What he told you. What happened.”
The calm steeliness in her eyes was arresting. “We don’t know,” she said. “We know that Paul had gotten inside. He had been hired by the government, for the Ministry of Health for its new research institute. The institute is carrying out these vaccine programs. They’re funded largely through Western investors and are being implemented by so-called humanitarian organizations. He made arrangements for me to come here some time ago. He wanted me to be a witness, in case the worst happened. A back-up.”
“A human memory stick.”
“Yes.” She smiled at him, quickly.
“Why here?”
“Proximity. Temporary safety. There is a river on the other side of the next hill.” She pointed. “And past that there are dozens of cocoa farms. These people work in the fields when they can. When there’s work. But many of the farms have closed down. It’s moving this way.”
“I know about your cousin,” Jon said. “My brother was supposed to meet with him last week, wasn’t he?”
She looked outside again. “Paul had begun to find out who was stealing this country. He wanted to do something about it. But I’m afraid he didn’t make it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No,” she said, gesturing dismissively with her right hand. “There’s no need any more for polite sentiments.” She took a breath. “For a time, they thought they might be able to stop it. But they came to see that it isn’t so simple. So they decided to expose it instead. To maybe let opinion stop it. But that isn’t so easy, either. At least not so far. They have advantages that are difficult to overcome.”