Chapter 38
The slow lumbering gait of a caravan heading south attracted Em's attention; over one hundred camels loaded carefully and precisely with blocks of salt, trekking for months to reach their destination. The camels refused to move if the load wasn’t packed exactly the same way each day. Historically there had been huge wealth in the trade of salt for gold from Ghana. Now the men earned a mere pittance. What did they live on? What motivated them to travel the far reaches of the desert? Genetic memory? The habits of lifetimes? She’d never been able to figure it out.
Waiting for the caravan, she scanned the horizon. She had always wanted to see the world, but never as a tourist. She snorted as she thought of the “job” she had with Powers. She was certainly seeing the world; plunked now in this vast barren landscape that captured her heart. Be careful what you wish for?
She played idly with the ring on her left hand as she waited. Many months ago she had decided it was relaying messages from Powers, guiding and advising her, but she hadn’t always had clear signals. Or, perhaps the signals were crystal clear and she lacked the wisdom to read them. Either way, the ring with its iridescent stone screen brought comfort with a sense of Powers’ presence protecting her.
She looked into the ring but there were no images. The caravan was not her job then. Nevertheless, as it approached, she rose and walked with the men and boys for a time, catching up on desert gossip and giving them news of the outside world. Eventually she waved goodbye and made her way back to the meager shade of the lone baobab tree.
She sighed heavily, wishing away the memories of what she had seen on TV. She cursed softly wondering at the sudden curiosity that had compelled her to watch the documentary even for a few moments.
Miracle Madame’s strategy… The results have been astounding… a complete ceasefire…
*
Mentor turned from the earth view to ask, “Why did she see that?
“I don't know. I took the media reports away from her a long time ago. I thought maybe you—”
Mentor's scowl silenced me. She was mad. Perfect Ms. Mentor showing emotion. Made me wonder what went on behind the facade. As a child, I don’t remember feeling anger, or joy or anything like the emotions I’d learned from humans. Growing up, I’d always thought that meant we didn’t feel or at least didn’t feel deeply about much of anything, but now I wondered if we had simply become adept at submerging our feelings. And did years of suppression kill emotion?
Or? New thought! Was Mentor, like me, picking up on this whole laughing/crying/yelling thing that humans had going for them?
I wondered what the Guardians would think of all this? No way of finding out of course. They didn’t deign to converse with anyone. Sent cryptic messages to the Council Chair. At least that’s what I’d heard. The general belief was that there were three Guardians operating like a tribunal. But who knew? No one had ever seen them.
I watched Em seeking solace in those heartbreaking branches reaching for the sky. The ugly, beautiful weathered survivors tore at her heart. Standing alone against the harsh horizon they quite simply demanded love.
“Those trees are a good analogy for life down there,” Mentor said. “They’re a jumbled mass, defying all definition of order, but still they manage to function.”
“Beautiful in spite of the ugliness. Isn’t that what life is?” Em’s words following on Mentor’s seemed a direct answer.
Mentor scowled, apparently as startled as I was. “Surely, she can’t hear us.”
Suddenly Em bolted upright and paced furiously. “Those damn documentaries claim perfection. And there’s the real danger. Nothing is perfect. Nothing should be. True beauty isn’t found in David but rather in the unfinished pieces, the figures struggling to be free of the stone.”
“Who’s this David she’s muttering about?” Mentor asked.
“A statue by a long-dead artist of note.”
Em kicked at the sand as she stormed back and forth. “God!” she cried. “And you!” she shouted as she swung her fist skyward.
I knew she meant me.
“She means me.” Mentor said and I saw a tear roll down her cheek. “But we have to do this. Doesn’t she understand that?”
“The news she saw reminded her that her critical successes could well be colossal failures. All assurances from the Powers—me, that is—haven’t truly convinced her.”
“Hum.” I waited for more, but Mentor was watching Em, her eyes half closed, head tilted slightly to one side. I wished I could read her mind. What would she do if she felt Em wanting? A chill wound its way around my heart.
Em continued to pace and curse until, drained of energy, she collapsed under the tree, gasping for breath. “Oh God, Ron, how can I go on?”
Mentor didn’t move. I dared not speak although my soul ached for Em. I feared Mentor’s next move.
Mentor sighed and closed her eyes. “So much emotion. How can that possibly be good for anyone?”
Em sniffled. “Damn. No water to wash my face. Where’s an oasis when a girl needs one?” She dug in the pockets of her dress, even though she knew they’d be empty. “You’d think a Kleenex at least.” She pulled the hem of her dress to her face and wiped the tears as best she could.
She let her mind wander. As usual her thoughts turned to Ron. She missed him dreadfully. Their time together was so limited. It was only the intensity of their love that carried her from one visit to the next. And it had to be worse for Ron, she thought. He didn’t know what the voice—she meant me—had promised for them.
What Mentor had made me promise.
*
All thoughts were driven from Em’s mind when her hand tingled with the vibrations of the ring. She saw a very different caravan this time. A truck approached in the ring. She looked up to see an oversized prairie farm truck—now where had that 50’s image come from?
Typically overloaded and tilted at an impossible angle, it looked like a lopsided apple crate covered with wriggling maggots as it labored over the trackless sand. It crawled with human cargo. Desperate men clung to the sides; the luckier ones perched precariously on top, fingers and feet hooked into the ropes that bound the cargo, frantically fighting to maintain a place on this perilous journey from one country to another in a futile search for work.
Em was barely aware of the hot grains of sand invading her sandals and the heat burning her feet through the thin leather soles. Rivers of sweat ran down her back and between her breasts. Knots of tension rode her shoulders. She clenched and unclenched her fists, took three deep breaths, and counted slowly and silently as she expelled the air until the tension dissipated. Time to get to work.
The gears grated as the driver shifted down. Em signaled him not to stop, grabbed the arm of the rear view mirror with her left hand and swung up onto the running board. The cab had no doors and she found herself mere inches from the driver who was crowded to the edge of the seat by the five men who shared the cab with him.
“Madame,” one of them shouted. “You're back.”
“Bakary! How are you? What are you doing here?”
“Food for the refugees,” he said, gesturing to the load behind.
“Just one truck?”
“No. Five a day. The others are a little behind.” The driver smiled a wide toothy grin. Em chuckled to herself. A chance to show off superior driving skills was always a source of pride in these poorest of countries. “Foreign aid,” Bakary said, “from Europe and the United States. Rice, millet, dried fish. We’re the first convoy.”
“What’s this?” the man scrunched against the passenger door asked. “We’re carrying this too, but we don’t know what it is.” He handed her a small box.
Strawberry pudding powder, she read. Surely to God…. She opened the box, stuck her finger in and tasted it. Strawberry pudding powder. She didn’t try to explain.
She enjoyed the happy chatter of the men as she scanned the horizon.
They would come over one of the dunes. In fact, the attack came from both the left and the right. Armed men on horses charged toward them. The driver cursed, ground the gears, and brought the truck to a shuddering stop. The men spilled out of the cab and those who had been clinging to the cargo jumped to the ground. They huddled together in silent groups, a few wielding their walking sticks as weapons. The driver swore again.
Em dropped down from the running board, strode to the front of the vehicle. The men called out, warning her to stay back. The driver grabbed her arm. She shrugged him off. Bakary had seen her in action before. He grinned and offered a salute.
The rebels were closing in on them. She raised her arms, saw the horses brace their front legs, dig their hooves into the sand, haunches sunk low with the strain of the abrupt stop. The riders struggled to maintain their seats. Only a few succeeded. Most found themselves on the sand, weapons jolted out of their grip with the force of the fall. As they started to rise, Em waved them down. They hunkered in the sand, made no move to retrieve their weapons or horses.
To Em’s delight, the men from the truck took over. They bound the rebels, seized their weapons and soothed the horses, leading them to the truck. No need to cling to the cargo now, with these fine steeds to ride.
Em missed most of the grand celebration that ensued when the other trucks arrived. The ring vibrated again. She looked into the stone. “And, just where are you taking me now?” she asked.