The Descent

'What does it mean?' she asked.

'God, mum. The  hungry God.'

Ali had thought to know these  people, but they  were  something else. They  called her Mother  and  she  had  treated  them  as  children,  but  they  were  not.  She  edged  away from Kokie.

Ancestor  worship  was  everything.  Like  ancient  Romans  or  modern-day  Shinto,  the Khoikhoi deferred  to their dead in spiritual matters.  Even  black  evangelical  Christians believed  in  ghosts,  threw  bones  for  divining  the  future,  sacrificed  animals,  drank potions,  wore  amulets,  and  practiced  gei-xa  –  magic.  The  Xhosa  tribe  pinned  its genesis on a mythical race called xhosa – angry  men.  The  Pedi  worshiped  Kgobe.  The Lobedu  had  their  Mujaji,  a  rain  queen.  For  the  Zulu,  the  world  hinged  upon  an omnipotent  being  whose  name  translated  as  Older-than-Old.  And  Kokie  had  just spoken the name in that protolanguage. The  mother tongue.

'Is Jimmy dead or not?'

'That depends, mum. He be good, they  let him live down there.  Long time.'

'You killed Jimmy,' Ali said. 'For me?'

'Not kilt. Cut him some.'

'You did what?'

'Not we,' said Kokie.

'Older-than-Old?'  Ali added the Click name.

'Oh ya'as. Trimmed  that man. Then give to us the parts.'

Ali didn't ask what Kokie meant. She'd heard too much as it was.

Kokie  cocked  her  head  and  a  delicate  expression  of  pleasure  appeared  within  her frozen  smile.  For  an  instant  Ali  saw  standing  before  her  the  gawky  teenaged  girl  she had grown to love,  one  with  a  special  secret  to  tell.  She  told  it.  'Mother,'  Kokie  said,  'I watched. Watched it all.'

Ali wanted to run. Innocent or not, the child was a fiend.

'Good-bye,  Mother.'

Get  me  away,  she  thought.  As  calmly  as  she  could,  tears  stinging  her  eyes,  Ali turned to walk from Kokie.

Immediately  Ali was boxed in.

They  were  a  wall  of  huge  men.  Blind  with  tears,  Ali  started  to  fight  them,  punching and gouging with her elbows. Someone very  strong pinned her arms tight.

'Here, now,' a man's voice demanded, 'what's this crap?'

Ali  looked  up  into  the  face  of  a  white  man  with  sunburned  cheeks  and  a  tan  army bush  cap.  'Ali  von  Schade?'  he  said.  In  the  background  the  Casspir  sat  idling,  a  brute machine  with  radio  antennae  waving  in  the  air  and  a  machine  gun  leveled.  She  quit struggling, amazed by  their suddenness.

Abruptly  the  clearing  filled  with  the   carrier's   wake   of  red   dust,   a  momentary tempest.  Ali swung  around,  but  the  lepers  had  already  scattered  into  the  thorn  bush. Except  for the soldiers, she was alone in the maelstrom.

'You're  very  lucky,  Sister,'  the  soldier  said.  'The  kaffirs  are  washing  their  spears again.'

'What?' she said.

'An uprising. Some kaffir sect  thing.  They  hit  your  neighbor  last  night,  and  the  next farm over,  too. We came from them. All dead.'

'This your  bag?' another soldier asked. 'Get  in. We're in great  danger out here.'

In  shock,  Ali  let  them  push  and  steer  her  into  the  sweltering  armored  bed  of  the vehicle. Soldiers crowded in and made their rifles safe and the doors closed shut. Their body  odor  was  different  from  that  of  her  lepers.  Fear,  that  was  the  chemical.  They were  afraid in a way  the lepers were  not. Afraid like hunted animals.

The  carrier  rumbled off and Ali rocked hard against a big shoulder.

'Souvenir?' someone asked. He was pointing at her bead necklace.

'It was a gift,' said Ali. She had forgotten it until now.

'Gift!' barked  another soldier. 'That's sweet.'

Ali  touched  the  necklace  defensively.  She  ran  her  fingertips  across  the  tiny  beads framing  the  piece  of  dark  leather.  The  small  animal  hairs  in  the  leather  prickled  her touch.

'You don't know, do you?' said a man.

'What?'

'That skin.'

'Yes.'

'Male, don't you think, Roy?' Roy answered, 'It  would be.'

'Ouch,' said a man.

'Ouch,' another repeated,  but in a falsetto. Ali lost patience. 'Quit smirking.'

That  drew  more laughs. Their  humor was rough and violent, no surprise.

A  face  reached  in  from  the  shadows.  A  bar  of  light  from  the  gunport  showed  his eyes.  Maybe  he was a good Catholic boy. One way  or another, he was not amused.

'That's privates,  Sister. Human.'

Ali's fingertips stopped moving across the hairs. Then it was her turn to shock them.

They  expected  her to scream and rip the charm away.  Instead,  she sat  back.  Ali  laid her  head  against  the  steel,  closed  her  eyes,  and  let  the  charm  against  evil  rock  back and forth above  her heart.

There were giants in the earth in those days... mighty men which were of old, men of renown.

– GENESIS 6:4

3

BRANCH

Camp Molly: Oskova, Bosnia-Herzegovina

NATO Implementation Forces (IFOR)/

1st Air Cavalry/US Army

0210  hours

1996

Rain.

Roads and bridges had washed  away,  rivers  lay  choked.  Operations  maps  had  to  be reinvented.  Convoys  sat  paralyzed.  Landslides  were  carrying  dormant  mines  onto lanes laboriously cleared. Land travel  was at a standstill.

Like   Noah  beached   upon  his  mountaintop,  Camp  Molly  perched   high  above   a confederacy  of  mud,  its  sinners  stilled,  the  world  at  bay.  Bosnia,  cursed  Branch.  Poor Bosnia.

The  major  hurried  through  the  stricken  camp  on  a  boardwalk  laid  frontier-style  to keep  boots  above  the  mire.  We  guard  against  eternal   darkness,   guided  by  our righteousness. It  was  the  great  mystery  in  Branch's  life,  how  twenty-two  years  after escaping from St. John's to fly helicopters, he could still believe  in salvation.

Spotlights  sluiced  through  messy  concertina  wire,  past  tank  traps  and  claymores and  more  razor  wire.  The  company's  brute  armor  parked  chin-out  with  cannon  and machine  guns  leveled  at  distant  hilltops.  Shadows  turned  multiple-rocket-launcher tubes  into  baroque  cathedral  organ  pipes.  Branch's  helicopters  glittered  like  precious dragonflies stilled by  early  winter.

Branch  could  feel  the  camp  around  him,  its  borders,  its  guardians.  He  knew  the sentinels  were  suffering  the  foul  night  in  body  armor  that  was  proof  against  bullets but not against rain. He wondered if Crusaders  passing on their  way  to  Jerusalem  had hated chain mail as much as these  Rangers hated Kevlar. Every fortress a monastery, their vigilance affirmed to him. Every monastery a fortress.

Surrounded by  enemies,  there  were  officially  no  enemies  for  them.  With  civilization at  large  trickling  down  shitholes  like  Mogadishu  and  Kigali  and  Port-au-Prince,  the

'new'  Army  was  under  strict  orders:  Thou  shalt  have  no  enemy.  No  casualties.  No turf.  You  occupied  high  ground  only  long  enough  to  let  the  politicos  rattle  sabers  and get  reelected,  and  then  you  moved  on  to  the  next  bad  place.  The  landscape  changed; the hatreds  did not.