Rare Earth Read Online Free Page A

discussion with the others. Twice Charles interjected a few comments of his own. The elders studied Marc intently.
    The discussion went on for some time. Then the leader called out. Swiftly a pair of stools were brought. The chief gestured for Marc and Charles to seat themselves. A clay pot of some mildly fermented cow’s milk was brought. It tasted like month-old cottage cheese and smelled far worse. But Marc followed Charles’s example and smacked his lips over the putrid drink.
    The formalities observed, Marc said, “I need to know what problem to attack next.”
    The elders seemed to have been expecting this very statement. There was a brief exchange, a low murmur as the clay pot made its way around the circle. Charles translated, “The younger women and the widows and the lonely grandmothers. They have a problem.”
    â€œThe most helpless,” Marc said, showing he understood. “The ones with no man to protect them.”
    â€œThe camp lacks many things, but the most serious need is cooking oil. There is firewood. The forest you see beyond the camp boundary has mostly died with the drought. But many of the women refuse to go. We are hearing tales.” Charles hesitated. “This is a sad thing.”
    â€œI am listening,” Marc said. He did not know what he was going to hear, but already his gut burned with live coals.
    â€œThe elders suspect some of the men wait for the young women and demand sex in exchange for granting them passage. Some of these maidens refuse to enter the forest. They are starving, even when they now have grain.”
    Marc stood and made a process of dusting off his pants, trying to hide his rage. “I will see what I can do.”
    The elders had the same red-rimmed eyes as everyone else in the camp. They studied him carefully. The youngest finally spoke. Charles translated, “They wish to know your name.”
    â€œMarc Royce.”
    â€œThey ask if you are a chief in your homeland.”
    â€œSorry. No.” He turned to leave. “Just an accountant.”
    At a signal from the young chief, Charles remained where he was as Marc rose and departed. Gathered in this circle were eleven elders from five different tribes. Two were in fact not officially elders at all, merely those selected to speak. Only one was a true chief, of the Luo. He was the youngest, not yet forty. His name was Philip. Philip had taken this new name when he had turned to Christianity. His clan had been animist for over a thousand years, worshiping the sun and certain trees and the hill known in English as Kilimanjaro. Charles held this one in something akin to awe.
    The elder from the Ndebele tribe asked, “Truly, this newcomer is a man who looks at numbers?”
    â€œWhy would he lie?” another replied.
    The clay pot was passed from hand to hand. Only a few drank. Among the tall tribesmen of the Rift plains, the pot would have been spiced with fresh cow’s blood. When it came to Charles, he dipped his nose into the pot’s opening, then passed it on. As a child, he had become physically ill merely from the odor. He still found it faintly nauseating. But he had learned to mask his distaste. He said, “Marc Royce genuinely cares for those affected by this latest trial.”
    â€œI sense this as well,” Philip said.
    The fact that Philip had spoken in agreement ended the discussion. One of the older men asked him, “Do you think he is the one?”
    â€œI only know what I dreamed,” Philip replied. “You have all heard this. Many times. Since the night a month and more before the eruption.”
    â€œTell us again.”
    â€œA man arrives on a chariot. He enters through the camp’s front gates in the day’s high heat.”
    There was a respectful murmur, a rumbling deep in the chest. A Kikuyu elder called for a smoke. His senior wife approached, drawing a long-stemmed clay pipe from a pocket. She used a curved