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knife to pare shavings from a compressed plug of native tobacco. She lit a twig and puffed deeply before handing the pipe to him.
    Philip continued, “He halts the chariot and enters through the gates on foot.”
    â€œThis the newcomer did not do,” an elder said.
    â€œPerhaps his entering on foot suggests a deeper meaning,” Charles offered. Any who are offered the pot might speak as an equal. “A symbol.”
    The eldest among them responded, “But a symbol of what?”
    â€œHumility, perhaps,” a third said. “Or a desire to be accepted.”
    There was no impatience, no need to press forward. The elders counted time by a different clock. The story was less important than understanding what role Marc Royce might play in the days to come.
    When the others went silent, Philip said, “Where he stepped, the ash disappeared. Grass shoots rose from the earth. And then I was lifted up. High as an eagle’s flight I rose. And far as I could see, all the earth bloomed. Trees whose limbs are now white as old bones bore fruit. As I awoke, I heard the maidens and the children singing the harvest song.”
    â€œIt cannot be this one,” the eldest murmured. “A man who dwells in a room without windows and eats numbers as we would mealy bread. This one cannot bring the rain. This one cannot save our land.”
    â€œI saw what I saw,” the young chief replied.
    â€œDid you see his face?”
    â€œI did not.”
    The eldest among them held up one arm. His senior wife stepped forward and helped the man to his feet. He took the clay pot a final time, drank deeply, and smacked his lips. He leaned heavily on his cane as he started toward his hut. He said as he departed, “This new one will stay only as long as he can take money from our plight. He will count his winnings, and he will leave. Numbers are the white man’s fascination. He must fill the forms. He must count the heads. And when he goes, we will be as we are now. Seeking to survive another day.”

Chapter Four
    T he sunset was spectacular. Even the elders emerged from their huts to observe the pyrotechnics. The volcano’s plume became a fiery staff that challenged the heavens. To the southwest the descending ash formed a veil of glistening jewels.
    Throughout the camp Marc could see people watching. The medical staff gathered by the screens and murmured softly. Marc could not make out any faces, but he noticed Kitra’s slender form among them. Only Valerie, the French aid worker, remained unmoved by the sunset. Marc could see her sitting in the admin building.
    The mess hall was a long lean-to attached to the bunkhouse. Marc ate dinner with the others, but remained isolated by more than the generator’s constant grumble. Kitra ate with the medical personnel. The only time she showed an awareness of his presence was when one of the technicians stopped by Marc’s table. Kitra smoldered the air with her expression.
    After dinner Marc joined the drift toward the chapel. It was dark enough now for the candle by the sacristy to offer a soft defiance to the shadows. Sergeant Kamal and two of his men came. Camp dwellers filled the pews and then pressed in on all sides. The faces surrounding the chapel’s perimeter gradually faded into the night.
    Kitra and one of the other nurses were among the last to arrive. Marc noted with surprise as she joined in with the formal response and opening prayer. From her file Marc knew she was an Israeli Jew. He forced himself not to stare, and tried not to worry. For the file to miss such an important point left him worrying over what else might have been gone unnoticed.
    Charles looked very regal in his white robes. He spoke every sentence first in Swahili, then in another native tongue, then in English. Marc prayed for a time and afterward stared over the heads of the parishioners at the southern reaches. The volcano painted a sullen red glow beyond