An'erim

Chapter 6 of Microcosmia

Microcosmia

Chapter Six

An’erim

“An’erim,” Mudhead coughed.

Vane sat up and reached for his binoculars.

An’erim, a military outpost abandoned by the Italians in 1941, was all but history; faded, collapsed, corroded by time and seasonal torrents. Over the decades the cement-and-brick buildings on the white mound of naked rock had dissolved like sand castles, leaving a single burned-out, roofless structure of crumbling stone at the mound’s base--sitting right where the wretched old road ended and Vane’s handsome new, paved road began. Clumped about this heap were a few ragged army tents, a pair of lean-to sheds, and several dry huts constructed of thatch on flexed and bound sticks. Stepping up the mound’s east face were regularly spaced hovels, each a bit larger than its predecessor, the largest of all sagging on the crown.

Vane twirled a languid hand.

“Crazyman church,” Mudhead explained. “Christ In Box.”

Vane cleaned his sunglasses on his T-shirt. “That’s downright sad. What a feeble statement.”

“Worse. Corpse farm.”

In the open squatted a battered jeep, the rusting centerpiece for a dusty display of rickety wooden wagons. Leaning inward, like charred sticks stacked in a campfire, a number of jet-black men and women waited in a crowd of naked children, mesmerized by the approaching convoy. These were classic famine specimens; the adults emaciated and lethargic, the children all outsized heads and distended bellies. One man now broke from his spell and loped like a great gangly water spider to the standing structure’s doorway. He thrust his head around a hanging canvas sheet. A tanned arm swept the sheet aside, and a blond man looked out with an odd expression. He was in his late forties, lean, wearing a light sleeveless khaki jumpsuit and dirty tennis shoes. His face swung from Isis to the trailing vehicles and back. He stepped out slowly. As the Land Rover pulled up he approached with his hand extended.

“Good afternoon, sir, good afternoon! And welcome to the Church of Christ Compassionate.” The blond head cocked. “American, are you? I’m not used to such treats. Name’s Lyle Preston.”

“Cristian Vane.” Their handshake was neutral.

Preston smiled. “Christian? What a marvelous surname.”

Vane did not return the smile. “An unfortunate homophone, Mr. Preston. I’m afraid I don’t share your views.” He stirred the dirt. “Yes, I’m an American. I’m on my way to a tract I’ve purchased in the Danakil Depression. Except for some desert cops, you’re our first sign of civilization.” He looked around. Those structures stepping up the slope were strange little buildings of scrap tin, appearing as unstable as houses of cards. Each bore a large white cross painted on either side of a single doorway. The large structure on the summit had a sunken spired roof. Leaning west on that roof was a cross constructed of long sticks tied into bundles.

Preston seemed distracted. “You say you…you purchased land in the Depression? Whatever for, sir? And all these trucks…I…for a minute there I was hoping…” He licked his cracked lips. “As it stands, those policemen you ran into are not exactly our link to survival. They are Muslims of the worst sort.” He made this statement frankly, indifferent to Mudhead in his bleached white robes. “Still, we are holding our own, Mr. Vane.” Preston raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t, perchance, be related to the ‘California Vains’?”

This was the tabloids’ pet name for those shady packs of Residents captured incidentally in Rest photographs.

Vane bowed ironically. “The very same. I didn’t know you received those gossip rags out here.”

Preston returned the bow. “And you arrive as…what--a speculator? You’re surveying? You’ve obviously brought a lot of equipment. There is little to mine in the Danakil other than salt, and the Afar have preceded you in that regard by a factor of some centuries.”

“Let’s just say,” Vane just said, “that we’re engaged in charitable work. Similar to yours, but with dissimilar motivation.”

“Really? What motivation could one have in this place other than saving the Lord’s children?”

Vane, bowing deeper, clicked his rubber heels. “I can only respond, Mr. Preston, by repeating that I do not share your religious convictions. My motivation in addressing these people stems from a concern for their bodies rather than for their so-called souls.”

Preston tilted his head side to side, his expression one of intense concentration. Suddenly his eyes were on fire. “It’s you!” He got right in Vane’s face. “You’re the one responsible for all those caravans! That light plane! The road pavers! You…Mamuset. How blind of me!” He rocked back as though measuring Vane for a punch. Little by little the tension passed from his frame. “Well, well, well. I’ve wanted to come face to face with you, in the worst way, for the last six months.”

Vane recovered his balance. “What’s your problem, man? I don’t even know you.”

“But I know you.” Preston unclenched his fists and closed his eyes. When he looked back up he was all conciliation. “Perhaps you misapprehend me, sir. Perhaps you misapprehend our church. We do dearly love these people.”

Stuck for words, Vane rolled his shoulders and tried to relax. After a moment he said levelly, “I respect that. You’re a survivor. I sincerely applaud your temerity.”

Preston plunged his hands into his jumpsuit’s pockets. “Please follow me, Mr. Vane. I am your host, so you must allow me the honor of being your guide. And as for temerity, let us just say that a real strength arises from conviction.” He tipped his head. “And I would suppose that an analogous strength comes from…inestimable wealth.”

Vane’s blood was still up. “Great wealth, Mr. Preston, used with great moral conviction, can produce great results.” He waved a hand irritably. “Real results, far surpassing those produced by great religious conviction. Concrete results.”

Preston’s smile was patronizing. “Greatness, sir, is not of this world.”

“I,” Vane said curtly, “disagree.” He rolled his shoulders and changed the subject. “Mister Preston, what are these structures, and especially that larger one situated above us? I take it to be, by the cross on its roof, your physical church, as opposed to ‘Church’ in the sense of your organization?”

“Not so.” The men began climbing a worn path. “That edifice is the most important building in this compound.” Preston measured his words, eyeing the path thoughtfully. “We in the Church of Christ Compassionate have made several small compromises in our work here, Mr. Vane. The spiritual composition of contemporary Ethiopia includes Muslims of both the orthodox and the self-serving varieties, latter and modern day Christians, and countless animist communities caught up in barbarous indigenous practices. Those people we serve are primarily animists, and they have real problems dealing with monotheism.” He waved an arm. “The structures we are passing--these minor hovels and sheds--represent certain portals in a gradual climb to salvation.”

“These sheds are steps in a gradation?”

“…only in a physical sense.”

“Then I take it this grade--this physical ascent--represents the climb out of their dark, primitive religion to your bright, sophisticated one?”

“You have an annoying obsession with symbols.”

“I don’t erect ’em,” Vane muttered. “So what’s the compromise of your Church?”

“The compromise is that we compromise at all. Ideally the road back to Nazareth should not be an untested one, but this bleak country necessitates certain illuminating stops along the way. These people are being saved here. It is not the road that is important, Mr. Vane. It’s the destination.”

“Saved whether they like it or not? Saved whether they understand it or not?”

“They,” Preston said with exaggerated patience, “are being saved. A road need not be traveled by a limousine to be traveled successfully.”

Vane’s eyes slid away. “Nor need it be lined with psalms and promises.” They halted at the summit, independently studying the desert beyond. It was clear to both men that they simply didn’t get along. “This structure, then,” Vane went on distantly, “is symbolic of what?” He caught himself. “And I’m using the word symbolic in deference to all we’ve discussed, Mr. Preston, and not out of disrespect. It’s where they learn of monotheism, of Christianity? Of Jesus?”

“Yes. Yes and no. It’s where they leave behind not only their primitive beliefs but their clinging selves.”

The view was spectacular: perhaps a mile away sprawled a huge, almost circular depression dotted with clumsy wooden structures and markers, backed by a hundred square miles of rolling desert. Even from this distance Vane could see an occasional wandering black stick-figure.

“This,” Preston said, indicating the leaning structure’s caving doorway, “is the Way of Christ. It is where those wayfaring men and women, starved and smitten by plague and stone, have risen, through the ultimate sacrifice of Jesus, to surrender their sins into the loving Arms of our father God in Heaven.”

“Amen,” Vane said drearily. “So this is where they’re brought to die?”

“No-o-o…this is where they are brought to be born!”

Vane noticed a winding path leading from the distant cemetery’s entrance to An’erim’s far side and continuing, presumably, to an exit at the rear of the structure. “In one door and out the other.” He and Preston sauntered back down the path, small in the dust and sun. It was Preston who broke the silence.

“Mister Vane…the famine of ’83 and ’84 was responsible for the deaths of millions in Ethiopia, despite independent charity groups, and despite the best humanitarian efforts of Europe and America. Massive quantities of food and medical supplies went nowhere. Some of the kindest, most-caring individuals one could ever pray to meet bled and wept themselves dry in a passionate attempt to control it. Only time and the love of God preserved this place. But the cycle goes on, and our Maker does not apply His healing touch willy-nilly. I am certain the disaster unfolding about us right now will dwarf even the Great Plague of London. And I am sure, too, that every man doing the Lord’s work here, no matter how paltry the effects of his labors may seem, is doing infinitely more than all you sunshine altruists combined, and more than all those governmental bodies merely seeking to apportion surpluses.”

Vane halted mid-stride. “Preston, blind aid is, in my opinion, the practical equivalent of blind faith. In one sense I agree with you wholly. But now listen to this, and mark me well, as I’m not likely to repeat it. I am not a sentimental hands-wringer, here to kiss the poor darlings and make them better. Nor am I, as everybody seems to think, a bored rich boy playing chess using the dying for pawns. What I intend to do here is not about me, it’s about Principle. I realize that, as a mere mortal, I can’t significantly affect the big picture. There are famines in India and China and in other parts of Africa. Always have been, always will be. I can’t fix this planet. But for the short time I’m on it I can use the tremendous opportunity of my inheritance to make a difference, if even in a small way. Who knows; maybe I can set a precedent, maybe I can serve as an example. Or maybe I’ll fall flat on my face. But at least I’ll have tried.”

“And maybe, Mr. Vane, maybe you’ll take down a whole lot of people with you. Life is not an experiment in free will at all. It’s an extension of God’s will. Besides,” he sniffed, “not everybody has the opportunity, or the audacity, to tamper with ordained systems.”

“All the more reason for those who do to energetically apply themselves. As long as their motives are good.”

“The motives of man, unless they are solely aligned with those of God, are inherently selfish. It is man’s very selfishness that prevents him from seeing himself as selfish.”

Vane conceded the point. “It’s a shame. It’s always a shame. But you solve problems by addressing them realistically. Not by pontificating and proselytizing.”

“Your appreciation of this ‘problem,’ as you put it, defines the narrowness of your scope. This ‘problem’ allows you to philosophize about a modern tragedy. This ‘problem’ allows you to minimize a calamity rearing upon the Horn of Africa like a tsunami.”

“An ‘Act of God,’ Mr. Preston?”

Preston ignored him. “Let me give you an idea of what life in Africa is really like.

“Back when our church was still setting up, a terrible drought took this land. We at Christ Compassionate witnessed an extraordinary plague of grasshoppers coming out of Sudan, darkening the sky for miles, as deep as it was wide. All crops had failed by this time, and little remained but stunted acacia and shriveled euphorbia, yet this terrible storm came on; ravenous, relentless. There was nowhere we could run, sir, nowhere at all. We cringed inside our trucks with the windows tightly closed, crammed into one another like pranking college kids stuffed in a phone booth. The day was absolutely black. Hour upon hour we remained there, buried under a constant stream of hammering grasshoppers. The sound was like that of an endless hailstorm. The insects would spatter on our truck’s roof and their slimy corpses roll down the glass. Some had already died of starvation in their final blind descent, others appeared to be cannibalizing the dead.

“After the plague had passed we exited our vehicles into a nightmare world of barren trees and dead grasshoppers. The beasts had stripped the bark from the acacias in their frenzy. The ground was slippery with their bodies. A bloody, chitinous slime coated everything, clogging the trucks’ grilles and vents, oozing over anything solid. And in the east the great frantic cloud could still be seen, its extremes dipping and rising surreally, like the slowly flapping wings of a gigantic passing wraith. As we drove on we came upon the bodies of wildlife, and then of people, buried under mounds of these dead and dying insects. Squirming green humps for graves. We could only bless the fallen and truck them to a common burial site between Mekele and Gondar, where an entire string of villages had been denuded by the storm. No hurricane has ever been so thorough.”

“A rude Ethiopian baptism.”

“This was before we had begun the long haul into the Northern Highlands. Our party, as you see it now, was originally distributed among various tribes, working most where they were needed most. But as the effects of the drought increased and famine became widespread, tribes began to break up into family units that wandered off on their own, in desperate pursuits of sustenance. This is one of the great tragedies of lack of organization, Mr. Vane. What little support the government is willing to provide for its pastoral population is rendered academic by said tribes’ timeless habits and cultures. In a country so vast it is difficult to reach them, if they can even be located. Those who wander of course die, and those who remain under the umbrella of some kind of tribal leadership simply die a little slower. Many people have for time immemorial followed a nomadic existence based upon moving their camels and cattle from watering hole to watering hole. Most of those holes are now dried up. The beasts are skin and bones, the owners dull, wizened stickmen. Our Church intervened whenever possible. Utilizing a spotter plane, we were able to locate those sites best able to water their animals, and so led many thousands of these nomads in great caravans, using our vehicles as guides and maintaining tight radio contact. Otherwise we would certainly have become lost. The people were docile. Ages-old tribal conflicts were forgotten in their common need. For a time there I began to believe I could actually make a difference.” Preston spread his arms. “The ultimate site to which all these needy people were led is perhaps three miles north of us.”

“I know of it. A series of rank pools growing feebler by the day.”

“Its present state is immaterial. When we first elected to make it the permanent site of our Church there was more than enough for brute and nomad, and all signs pointed to a huge assemblage of tribes living as one under the loving eye of God. But these people soon began to diverge and follow their old ways, wandering off in their hundreds to watering places they have visited regularly, cyclically, over many generations.” Preston stamped the ground for emphasis. “Mr. Vane, these people were well aware their traditional sites were exhausted! They knew--their elders knew--that they were committing suicide when they began their treks. But they went! To this day their customs hold sway over even the most basic instincts of self-preservation. This, Mr. Vane, greater than any logistical or financial struggle you may find yourself facing, will be your real undoing here. You will never be able to cause these people to behave in a manner that runs contrary to their adaptive programming. For you, educated and rational Westerner that you no doubt are, sir, will be confounded over and over by a phenomenon too simple for a plain man to comprehend. Time and again, Mr. Vane, you will lead the horses to water. But only in Jesus will their thirst truly be slaked.” He rolled his shoulders squarely. “Their husks are expendable.”

“Their ‘husks’ are not expendable! Man--you almost make it sound like you prefer these people in a weakened, more pliable state.”

Preston drew himself erect. “That’s either a clumsy attempt at levity or a direct insult.”

“Then why aren’t you taking a hard line with the government? Why aren’t you clamoring for supplies? Why aren’t you working to relocate these people? What’s wrong with this picture, Preston? If you really cared you’d be directing them my way, instead of ushering them up to your little morgue. Your operation here isn’t Godly. It’s ghoulish.”

Preston said through his teeth, “In case you haven’t noticed, this country is at war with the nation next door. The government of Ethiopia will not be bothered. I couldn’t begin to tell you how I’ve begged for assistance, or how many I’ve watched die; men, women, and children.” He snapped his fingers. “But you become inured to it. You see God rearranging His clay and you cease attempting to stay His hand. Meanwhile, the Word gets around. Would you have these people arrive and not find salvation? Do you think their own government cares a whit for their salvation? What more would you have us do here?”

“Fight for them,” Vane said. “Fight for their lives. Focus on their natural drives, their tenacity. Feed them and educate them. Encourage them to fend for their selves. Fear for their blood and their breath and every jot of nervous energy they can manage. Marvel at each twitch and tingle, at every gleam of perception. Worry about their hides. Let your god worry about their souls.”

“Bravo, Mr. Vane. Bravely spoken. But feed them what? Dirt and promises? You see what we have to work with. I’ve argued like a lunatic for supplies. When I saw your convoy I thought for sure my pleas had been answered.” He shook his head angrily. “Instead I suddenly find myself with a rich hippie for a neighbor. No offense,” he said, and his expression was anything but inoffensive, “but your intentions as I understand them, no matter how well-meaning, can only disrupt the work of our church and divert these innocent people from receiving the Lord’s Word at the most important moment of their lives.”

That did it. “The ‘most important moment of their lives?’ Y’know, Preston, people like you really make me sick. Men like you will step on anything and anybody to achieve their personal or corporate goals.”

“And do you know what, Mr. Vane? People like you only make me love the Lord all the more. What do you know of goals? Look at you. Richer than Croesus and nothing to do but vacation in sunny Ethiopia with a boatload of goodies and an obscenely wealthy liberal’s half-baked philosophy about rescuing the needy. Do me a favor. Pose for your pictures and pass out your parcels and take your entourage back where you came from. Take your silly Geldofs and your Harrisons and your Bonos with you. Go find another cause.”

They had reached the bottom of the path. Vane turned on him. “No dice, Preston. And I’m not a Geldof. This isn’t about my ego. If I were to walk out of here after what I’ve witnessed I’d be treating these people with the same contempt you’re showing them. So get used to it: you’ll be seeing a whole lot of me from now on. And I won’t be citing scripture or building death holes for the living.”

“And I tell you to go! This is not a playground for the nouveaux riche! I have solid friends in Addis Ababa, and they dwell high above sophistry and bribery. They are men who will move mountains to see the Lord’s work done.”

“I too have friends, Preston. So don’t toy with me. I wasn’t able to get state clearance, unrestricted use of roads and airstrips, and the go-ahead to set up my operation where and when I choose, simply because the Ethiopians think I’m such a nice guy. My account was won by Banke Internationale in Addis Ababa. As a consequence, my friends in this nation’s capitol are, I daresay, a sight more interested in my welfare than yours.” Vane looked away, ground his teeth, took a deep breath. “Look, I’ll make a deal with you. You pick up your operation and come along with me. Forget your private campaign and become a team player. I’ll provide transportation for you, these people, and whatever staff you may have. I’m not asking you to make any concessions. You can set up this same system if you want; I’ll even provide you with sturdy structures to replace these tents and sheds. Regardless of my personal viewpoint considering the Big Picture, it is my understanding that human beings typically have a very deep, sometimes overwhelming spiritual need, as real as the libido. I’m assuming that applies no less to animists than to ‘compassionate’ Christians.”

“It’s called the soul. And no, you won’t find it on an anatomy chart. And no, it’s not hormonal in nature. It radiates from God.”

“Some other time, man. One of these days you and I can sit down and have a good long gabfest about the meaning of life, if any. But for right now I’ll make the offer again. Grab your gear and gather your group and join us in Mamuset, where you can make a difference.”

Preston’s expression was that of a man who didn’t know which way to spit. He blew out his cheeks and exhaled explosively. “And when your resources are exhausted, what then? How next will you attempt to seduce these poor people? You may gratify your ego by buying their worldly adoration, but it will only be a temporary fix.” Preston surprised Vane by double-twitching the first and middle fingers of each hand, the lowbrow gesture for quotation marks. “You accuse me of being involved in a ‘private campaign,’ as you put it, as if I, personally, have something to gain by doing the Lord’s work in a place where it is so desperately needed. This is not about me, sir, and that is something that you, as a man of the world, are literally incapable of comprehending. This is about abnegation, about denial of the thing that is Me. I am doing God’s business, as his grateful tool. My gratification is derived solely from the joy of humility. Some day, Mr. Vane, you will either lose your unbelievable wealth or outlive its appeal. Some day you will find yourself facing a death that right here and now seems only a prospect for losers. Then, when you seek and find the Lord, you will truly understand the meaning of enrichment. Then your efforts will be selfless and glorious. Until then, sir, you and I share nothing.”

“You’re giving up on me? I’m not worth saving all of a sudden?”

“Nothing sudden about it.” Preston’s gaze rolled truck-to-truck, settling on a thin sheath of fog around one of the refrigerated trailers. “Save yourself. Get rid of your wealth, your appetite, and your vanity. And when you have nothing left to lose and everything to gain, come here and join the Lord.”

“That’s just not going to happen. Because ‘here’ isn’t going to be here. I give this place a month, Preston, half a year max. You talk about the ‘Word’ getting around. You don’t think these people are hearing about Mamuset? I’ll make a gentleman’s bet with you. I’ll bet these suffering people choose my house over your crypt. Man, I’ll bet they leave in droves.”

“Get out of here!” Preston whispered nastily. “Leave these people be.”

“Not a chance.”

Their eyes locked. Preston hissed, “Atheist!” and drew a line in the sand with the toe of his sneaker. At the same moment Mudhead turned over the Land Rover.

“The deal still stands,” Vane said evenly. He used his own shoe to delete the line. “We don’t have to like each other. We don’t have to agree philosophically. Pretty soon this site is going to be as deserted as those villages we’ve been passing. And it’s you who’ll be responsible, not your ‘god’.”

Preston took a step forward, his fists clenched. He pointed one at Vane’s nose, said, “Don’t tempt me!” and turned on his heel. He stomped to the crumbled building, threw aside the canvas curtain, and disappeared inside.

“Let’s go,” Vane said, swinging a leg into Isis. Mudhead put the Land Rover in gear. The trucks fired almost in unison.

The newly paved road was a tremendous improvement, but Vane couldn’t stop squirming. Finally he sat up straight. “Damn the man! He’s too interested in his silly ecumenical theatrics to realize he’s doing more harm than good.”

Mudhead searched for the right words as he drove. “Allman have angle. Difference is: Africaman angle survival. Whiteman not worry survival. Whiteman worry shine brighter everyman else. All time worry how otherman see. Big Camera always on. Whiteman try convince everyman else he most specialman.” Mudhead gestured behind them with his head. “Even worry impress god. Think can fool god like fool everyman else.”

“Everybody’s an actor.”

“In Africa,” Mudhead said, “noman fool anyman. Africa too big. Africa yawn play-actor.”

Vane stewed for another minute. “Everybody thinks I’m on vacation here.” He kicked the dash. “Nobody’ll take me seriously. Same thing back where I come from.” He kicked the dash harder. “Called me a flipping Geldof! Where’s the justice in this world? I don’t want a goddamned medal, but you’d think people would be happy when they see someone trying to make a positive change. What’s so wrong about trying to do the right thing?”

Mudhead once again chose his words carefully. “Justice whiteman plaything. All good idea come from democratman. All sound very nice, very cozy. Everyman same. Man same woman. Man love woman, man love man--all same democratman. Everyman have right. Crazyman have right. Thief have right. Child have right. Whiteman dog have same right whiteman. Whiteman dog democrat dog. Good dog. Democrat dog respect cat, learn meow. Whiteman lobby congress, open special school for sensitive dog. Good dog. Cat forgive. Good cat. All good. All ‘justice.’ Everyman happy. Now everyman like everyman else, whether everyman like everyman else or not.”

Mudhead smiled without humor.

“Everyman crazy.

“Everyman full guilt if no see everyman same everyman else.” He softly pounded his fist on the steering wheel. “But everyman no respect everyman else. Respect cheap as like. Cheap as justice. Democratman must respect everyman else. But phony respect.” He nodded as he drove. “Phony as like. Phony as justice.”

Vane rolled his head deliriously. “Well! That sure cleared things up! I ask a simple question and…aw…what’s the use.”

“Question not simple. Justice not simple. Respect not simple. Mudahid not respect simpleman, respect Bossman.”

Vane tilted back his shades and studied Mudhead’s expression. “Why? Why do you respect this crazy democratic white man?”

There was no pause from Mudhead. “Bossman take chance. Could stay home, play prince.” He shook his head. “Bossman desertman. Skyman. Heart big as all Africa.”

“Nonsense. You’re the first man, Mudahid Asafu-Adjaye, to accuse me of having a heart. I’m an empty shell. Cold as a dead man’s prayer.”

“Not necessary be warm have heart. And Bossman shell fill fast enough. All said, Bossman rock world. Someday Bossman be Africaman.”

Vane sank deeper into his seat. Well-meaning words couldn’t undo reality. He’d run from responsibility like a hypochondriac from a handshake. And the world he’d run into didn’t appear a whole hell of a lot better. It was simply different. He’d flattered his species, pretending that human beings, stripped of the encumbrance of having, would be devoted to intellectual and ethical pursuits, that they would be fundamentally wise, eager only for spiritual enrichment.

All the people he’d encountered on this side of the world were just a poorer, grittier breed of buzzard. Stripped of their religious and cultural trappings, the only real difference was a lack of sophistication in chicanery. Anything could be had with a wink and a Jackson. Pirated cargo was sold on the Red Sea, unresistant orphans on either coast. Islam, on the surface affecting every aspect of this world’s consciousness, was just as open to corruption as Christianity, as politics, as liberal ideology…

The pastoralists Vane observed were beyond ideas, hardened to a wretchedness he would have previously found unimaginable. The most pathetic dumpster diver the States could offer lived like a king compared to the blank-eyed skeletons staring back from pastoral Africa. So he drifted uneasily between philosophical extremes. He despised the flashy avaricious almost beyond words. But he was having a real tough time falling in love with the other side.

The other side was dumb, it was diseased, it was repulsive. He felt more akin to that hollow spouter Preston than to this dirty black horror that was too depleted to care.

Paving on the An’erim-Mamuset road, under construction for four months, was from both ends toward the middle.

That middle was all but complete.

Now the vibrations of Vane’s trailers shook up the quiet afternoon as they slammed around vehicles entrenched for the long haul. Clusters of workers, looking like limp black coolies, sifted from burrows with spades and picks. They immediately set to: breaking up rocks, shoveling clumps and grit onto rousted dump trucks. These trucks began distributing dirt onto unfinished patches of road too weak to support the heavy tractor trailers. It was slow, hot work. The convoy crept along for a few miles, only to halt for an hour or more while the larger rigs pushed out trucks caught in sudden shifts of earth. There was no end to it.

Vane’s Mamuset Highway was in no manner a direct route. Heavy equipment had worked it over those months, compromising often. Wherever the new road encountered tricky chasms it simply went around, despite great distances, or followed rims until their walls were low enough to cut ramps down one side and up the other.

At 0130 hours the convoy ground to an inevitable halt, mired by hunger and exhaustion. Mudhead, approaching to wish his boss a good night, was mildly upset to find Vane flat on his back on Isis’s hood, staring dully at the stars.

“Mudahid not sleep,” he muttered, “when Bossman fidget.” He looked up. “Sky too big?”

“It’s not the sky,” Vane said after a minute. “I’ve been listening to Mamuset, Mudhead. Long distance. I can hear all those frustrated stomachs growling from here.”

Mudhead rapped his knuckles on Vane’s temple. “Bad connection. Bossman hear own stomach.”

The American propped himself on his elbows. “Goddamn it, this road was supposed to be ready! My people shouldn’t have to suffer a single minute because the freaking road crew can’t get it together. That’s not fair; it’s not fair at all.” He blew out a sigh. “Now Mudhead, I want you to make a few enemies. Go roust all the drivers and tell them we’re pushing on or they’re fired on the spot.” He ran a hand over his face. “Wait, wait! That won’t do. Offer a hundred US dollars to every man who’ll pull with me.”

Mudhead’s teeth and eyes gleamed under the stars. “No problem, Bossman. Muslimman not afraid step on sleeping snake. Hang on money. Mudahid know secret tongue.”

In ten minutes the trucks and buses were idling, waiting for Isis to lead them on. The laborers, having scrambled back out from under the trucks, were huddled on the hillside. Vane turned around in his seat, trading stares with the driver in the rig behind. He knew he was trading stares because he could see two cold pools suspended behind the glass, trained on him without blinking or shifting. It was like being in a dark cave, watching something watching you back. The stare went on and on. Finally the great windshield wipers swept the glass thrice. Vane waited another half minute. The wipers swept once more. He turned to Mudhead, who pumped the clutch and shifted into first.

“So how’d you get them up so fast?”

“Mudahid tap door eleven time. Driver look up, see Mudahid hand show seven finger total. Driver up fast enough.”

“Eleven and seven? What’s the significance there? Those are pretty lucky numbers.”

Mudhead shook his head. “No, Bossman. Not to Shankiliman. To Shankiliman 5, 10 important.”

Vane nodded. “I’m guessing that’s because there’s five digits on each hand and foot; ten fingers and ten toes altogether?”

Mudhead frowned at his employer’s lameness. “No, Bossman. 5, 10 sacred number. Magic number. Take number 5, add together number either side. 4 plus 6 equal ten. Keep moving. 3 plus 7 equal ten. 2 plus 8 equal ten. 1 plus 9 also. Amazing.”

“A child’s game.”

“Pretty amazing child. Same go order. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 equal 15. 15 divide by five. Sacred number. Go higher. 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 equal 40. 40 divide by 5. Sacred number. Or five in row start anywhere. 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 equal 20. 20 divide by 5. 7, 8, 9, 10, 11 equal 45. 45 divide by 5. All sacred number. 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 equal 25. 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 equal 30. Incredible. 8, 9, 10, 11, 12 equal 50. 50 cardinal number: divide equal by five or ten! 5, 10 very deep spiritual healing number, use center every Shankiliman ceremony, childbirth through funeral. But 7 alone, 11 alone? Bad number, two of worst. When Shankiliman see 7, 11, like see whole life odd number: birth odd number, death another. Bossman watch. Bossman before not notice sometime extra space between number 5 truck and 6 truck, between number 10 truck and 11 truck. This because Shankiliman alter order according to message pass down line. But now Shankiliman get message from up front! Truck now drive permanent group five. Also, Bossman see driver show hand every bad pass; show maybe four finger, maybe three, maybe two, maybe one. All depend how bad pass. Sign language deeper than superstition, Mr. America.”

Vane laughed. “What if you’ve got a driver who’s lost a finger? Talk about a chain reaction fender bender!”

Mudhead didn’t smile. “No Shankiliman drive four finger. Maybe only one hand, all finger. Maybe no hand. Never both hand, one with evil number finger.” He looked to the side guiltily. “All big joke to modernman in dirty black Africa. See superstition, magic, must laugh. Bossman see Mudahid as ignorant black Muslimman. But Bossman not know Africa. Here blood, terror, premonition equal logic. Whiteman see dead wildebeest under duoma, think see innocent nature in infinite give, take. See Afar woman, mushal wrap left, think she make fashion statement.” He clucked schoolmarmishly. “Bossman, every beauty Africa cover horror unimaginable to modern, civilized Western Americaman. Mudhead try point beauty, but Mudahid very serious recommend Bossman be suspicious anything off-pattern. From now, when give direction driver, Mudahid translate so driver know Bossman odd number. Man to fear.”

“Thanks very much. But I already know I’m an odd number.”

“Look trunk.”

Turning, Vane for the first time noticed that his driver had drawn a series of vertical slashes with a broad-tipped felt pen. He counted thirteen lines.

“That’s an unpleasant number where I come from, too.”

“Protect like guard dog,” Mudhead said matter-of-factly. “Bossman sleep Isis, back seat. Mudahid sleep front seat. Bossman watch for odd number.” Mudhead gripped the wheel tightly and stamped his left foot. “Bossman not laugh! Mudahid cannot be all-vigilant.”

But Vane couldn’t help himself, laughing out loud under the warm gorgeous sky. He grabbed a couple of Heinekens from the cooler, broke the caps on the dash and thrust a foaming-over bottle at his friend. “Cheers, Mudhead! Drink to the hot African night, for tomorrow we die. God willing, there’ll be no DUIs tonight, but I want you to keep at least one mystical eye peeled for the rabid intangible. You never know when the desert will erupt with censer-shaking ghouls and witch doctors hitching a ride. But at least we’ll be ready. If they’re hitching with a thumb, pass ’em by. But all five fingers, load the b******s in. It’ll be clear sailing all the way.”

Mudhead frowned at the alcohol, then nodded five times quickly to the east and snatched the bottle. “Noman hitchhike desert, Bossman.” He drove intuitively, his eyes glued to the rear-view mirror. Vane knew Mudhead was doing what he could to hold the gaze of the driver just behind them. The great rig’s headlight beams swept left and right and up and down as its enormous tires negotiated the Highway’s rough edge. The convoy moved with extreme slowness, in groups of five and ten, feeling its way around the ancient lava spills and rolling hillocks that bordered the flat plain of the desert with a pattern like that left by a retreating tide. The air grew hotter as they gradually descended into the depression, the sky wider and more intense than Vane had ever imagined. It seemed to be exploding with brand new stars as he watched.

And the jackals stopped walking in the hills to stare at the minuscule worm of the rich boy’s segmented convoy below, painstakingly making its way nowhere, all its itsy headlights, taken together, producing a slowly sweeping white mark feebler than the faintest star. The jackals, yawning at the moon, laid down one by one to watch the worm wasting precious energy as it pushed itself into that insatiable, bone-dry hole. It would take a while for the worm to expire, and a while longer for its strange metal skin to crack and expose the vital juices within.

But Africa could wait.