Edifice Abandoned E-Book

Scott Michael Decker

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Studying ancient sites on a backwater planet, Archaeologist Nosuma Okande finds more of them than The Institute has on record.

On her first day, she digs up an odd statuette. After receiving death threats, the Institute sends Nosuma to another excavation site. Later the same night, she stumbles upon a strange ceremony in the village square.

Undeterred, Nosuma decides to unearth the mysteries the planet holds. But can she untangle the enigmatic past of an Edifice Abandoned?

Leseprobe

EDIFICE ABANDONED

ALIEN MYSTERIES BOOK 1

SCOTT MICHAEL DECKER

Copyright (C) 2021 Scott Michael Decker

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

CONTENTS

Titles by the Author

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

Next in the Series

About the Author

TITLES BY THE AUTHOR

If you like this novel, please post a review on the website where you purchased it, and consider other novels from among these titles by Scott Michael Decker:

Science Fiction:

Bawdy Double

Cube Rube

Doorport

Half-Breed

Inoculated

Legends of Lemuria

Organo-Topia

The Gael Gates

War Child

Alien Mysteries (Series)

- Edifice Abandoned

- Drink the Water

- Glad You're Born

Fantasy:

Fall of the Swords (Series)

- The Peasant

- The Bandit

- The Heir

- The Emperor

Gemstone Wyverns

Sword Scroll Stone

Look for these titles at your favorite e-book retailer.

FOREWORD

Fiction typically needs no foreword. It stands alone, availing itself to the reader through a contract known as the suspension of disbelief, aloof to the literary graces sometimes required of its factual counterpart, Non-fiction.

Edifice Abandoned is unusual.

The description of the Great Zimbabwe in this novel is not entirely fictionalized, and neither are certain salient facts about this edifice, for which the country is named. The cover background, for instance, is a photo of one of its portals. The size of the complex at eighteen hundred acres is factual, as is the estimate of twenty-thousand people housed there at its apex.

In my fictional peregrinations, I have found it easy to delve into cultures having solid representation in the pantheons of western literature and the liberal arts education: Japan, Russia, Persia, and India, among others.

Not so with Edifice. The history of Zimbabwe and its peoples are virtually ignored in western education. With the exception of Egypt, the ancient history of Africa is all but unknown to most people in the Americas. It is not a stretch at all, in fact, to assert that the history and archeology of sub-Saharan Africa has been studiously neglected.

I have not in these pages attempted to remedy that neglect. It will take a considerable number of scholars and a concerted effort by our educational institutions and media to do that. What I have tried to do is to represent the Shona culture and language as faithfully as I could and to tell a compelling story in the process.

If I've fallen short in either regard, I take full responsibility, for which I ask the reader's forbearance.

Many thanks to the beta-readers:

Anne Potter

Scott Skipper

1

“Attention, everyone, this is your captain. We hope you've enjoyed your interstellar flight from Alpha Caeli. We'll be landing on Achernar Tertius in approximately twenty minutes. At this time, due to the unique conditions, we do require that all passengers return to their seats …”

The announcement waking her, Archeologist Nosuma Okande sighed, the trip nearly over. She wondered what conditions the pilot referred to, wanting to ask the stewardess but reluctant. The flight hadn't started well.

Nosuma's view from the middle seat consisted of the seat back in front of her and the backs of several heads, nearly all having straight, lifeless hair, so unlike her thick black curls. She counted herself among five individuals of African ancestry on the flight. An isolated planet in the Achernar subsystem adjacent to Triangulum Australe, Achernar Tertius sat above the galactic plane like some abandoned stepchild.

Nosuma wasn't terribly happy with the position she'd taken. Known to its primarily African inhabitants as Babwe, Achernar Tertius was considered a relative backwater among archeology sites along the Perseus Arm. And if the flight hadn't begun so badly …

Among the first to board, the seats unassigned, Nosuma had chosen an aisle seat three-quarters of the way back and had read her Archeology journal while the cabin had filled. Someone had taken the window seat, leaving the middle seat free, while a similar configuration had assembled itself in the row in front of hers. Inevitably, minutes before departure, last to board was a couple, the last two seats beside Nosuma and the seat directly in front of it.

The couple exchanged a glance, looked at the two seats, and then looked at the stewardess. “Is there any way we could sit together?”

“The seats aren't assigned, Sir, my apologies.”

The couple again glanced at each other, and then the man said as if addressing a group, “My wife and I would like to sit together, please.”

No one moved, and no one looked at them.

The couple looked at the stewardess, as if expecting her to do something.

“I'm not able to ask anyone to move, Sir.”

The lady looked at the four people seated around the two empty seats and cleared her throat. “Forgive me, but my husband and I are going on our honeymoon, and we would like to sit together, please.”

Again, no one moved. Only Nosuma looked at them.

“The flight is preparing to depart,” the stewardess said. “You're welcome to have a seat in the available spaces, or you can take the next flight. Which would you like to do?”

The couple exchanged a glance but neither moved.

“My wife and I would like to sit together, please,” the gentleman said. His voice hadn't changed, but it was clear to Nosuma that he was willing to cause a delay in their departure.

“This flight isn't able to accommodate that, Sir. You'll need to take the next flight.”

“I'll move,” Nosuma said, standing and moving into the aisle.

Once everyone was settled, Nosuma in the middle seat, the woman leaned over from the row behind her.

“I just want to say thank you. I'm Lucy Muluba, short for Lusiba. Your kindness won't be forgotten.”

“You're welcome, Lucy.” Nosuma wondered at the other woman's name, her features Caucasian. “Are you Babwean? Your name certainly sounds like it.”

“I am by adoption, yes. And you?”

Nosuma introduced herself, and they shook. “Enjoy your honeymoon.” She could feel the stewardess's baleful glare, the red seat-belt sign flashing imminently.

The woman had then sat down, and Nosuma didn't exchange another word with them throughout the ten-hour flight, sleeping and reading by turns.

Now, the flight ending, she tidied her tiny space in preparation for landing. Nosuma saw something in the seat-back pocket right in front of her, wondering why she hadn't seen it before.

Slim, a half-inch through, just the top protruding above the pocket edge, the pole sculpture was instantly recognizable. The rounded top was carved with intricate interwoven lines, representing braids. Nosuma already knew what the remainder looked like, even before she reached for it. A female procreation figurine, with face, breasts, and abdomen vaguely emphasized, and the pubic area highly detailed.

She grasped it between her thumb and forefinger, and the interstellar ship fell away.

The vast interior plateau of Babwe's major continent spread before her, a single chain of mountains to the west, the plains extending nearly all the way to the eastern seaboard, spidery branches of two major rivers splayed across the mostly-grasslands terrain, barely a tenth of it forested. Bright points glowed across the plain, like cities at night.

The Zimbabwe, or as translated from Shona, “Large houses of stone.” The archeological sites Nosuma had come to study.

She knew she was seeing far more sites on the plains below her than any map would indicate. She gasped and let go of the pole sculpture.

The passenger cabin snapped back into place around her. The ship shuddered as it entered the Babwean atmosphere, the wings outside the window aglow with the heat of reentry.

She snatched the figurine from the seat back pocket and slipped it into her bag, but as quick as she was, the figurine still jerked her from the cabin briefly.

What is that thing? she wondered, sweat beading on her forehead.

“Are you all right, miss?” the stewardess said.

“Fine, thank you. Touch of anxiety, is all,” Nosuma said, not meeting the woman's gaze. The stewardess continued down the aisle, checking seatbelts and trays.

The flight landed without incident.

Standing to disembark, the couple invited her to deplane first. Nosuma saw the woman glance at the pocket where the pole sculpture had been.

After gathering her luggage in the terminal, Nosuma approached the couple. “How was your flight?”

“Quite pleasant, thanks to you,” the gentleman said. “Greatly appreciated, your changing seats to accommodate us, Ms. Okande.”

“You're welcome,” Nosuma said, nodding. She looked directly at the woman. “I'm grateful for the little gift, Lucy, something I'm sure to treasure.”

Lucy Muluba's eyes widened. “Gift? What gift?”

“The pole carving? The figurine in the seat-back pocket in front of me?”

Again, Lucy looked at her blankly, shaking her head. “I don't know what you're referring to.”

Nosuma dug into her bag. “This little mother-goddess figurine…” She didn't see it and dug a little farther. “Don't know where it went. Braided hair, carved from teak.” She saw the woman's complete bewilderment. Did I just imagine it all? Nosuma wondered, becoming uncomfortable, sure she put it in her bag in the outside pocket right beside her blush compact, the only two items in that pocket. Now there was only one item, the compact.

“Sorry, uh, I must have been dreaming. Very nice to meet you, enjoy your honeymoon,” she said and abruptly took her leave, heading for the terminal entrance.

In the hovertaxi, en route to the hotel, Nosuma checked her bag again.

The figurine was tucked under her blush compact.

She stared at it, knowing there was no way she could have missed it in the outer pocket, leaving her with only one conclusion: It hadn't wanted to be found.

That's ridiculous, she told herself.

2

Nosuma looked over the map on the wall, where five excavation sites were marked, edifices of stone abandoned by the native people some six hundred years before the restoration of interstellar travel. Not one percent of the number she'd seen entering the atmosphere, when she'd first touched the figurine.

She sat in the corridor outside the office of her new supervisor, Otiji Benguela, dressed uncomfortably in skirt, blouse, jacket, and pumps, the clothes insubstantial. Slender to the point of skinny and just five-five, Nosuma didn't have the figure for business formal. She couldn't wait to get into her khaki digs and get out to the Zimbabwes, spread across the main continent on Achernar Tertius. In her tool satchel at her feet was a pair of boots, but she hadn't brought khakis, not on her first day.

Institute Headquarters was utilitarian in design, its purpose to support the teams at the dig sites. The speckled tile showed wear in the center, buildup along the edges. The off-white ceilings might have once been brighter, dust and time having tinged the paint. The waist-high wainscoting was chipped and scored from specimen carts. A patina of dust speckled the light fixtures, lintels, and picture frames.

Through the supervisor's door she heard voices. “There's little more here to be found. Why bring her on? It's Chaos throwing his weight around, butting heads with the board, I tell you.”

“Keep your voice down, for Mwari's sake. She's out in the corridor.”

“Chaos” was Doctor Tugulu Kaonde, Chief Archeologist at the Institute, called such behind his back for multiple reasons, primarily his blizzard of journal articles, books, and vids on the Zimbabwes. Doctor Kaonde had also peer-reviewed Nosuma's doctoral dissertation.

The door opened, and two men came out.

Nosuma stood, trying to act as if she hadn't overheard.

“Doctor Okande, I presume?” said the taller man in a pretentious English accent, mocking a famous event on Earth. “I'm Otiji Benguela, and this is Laurentius Sese Nyari, President of Shumba Industries, a member of our board of directors.”

“President Nyari, a pleasure to meet you,” she said, extending her hand.

He shook. “Pleased, Doctor Okande. I pray you find Babwe as exciting as Doctor Kaonde paints it.”

“I'm sure I will. The view from the incoming flight was magnificent.”

“See any aliens, Doctor?” Nyari asked. “According to a small group of crackpots and conspiracy theorists, Babwe was occupied by aliens some millennia ago.”

“No sightings from space,” she replied. “Any chance I might happen upon an artifact or two, President Nyari?”

“No one has yet, Doctor Okande. Thanks for your time, Mr. Benguela,” Nyari said to the other man. “I'll see you soon, I'm sure, Doctor Okande.” And he strode down the corridor.

“Come in, Doctor Okande, pardon the delay.” Otiji led her into his office, where another map hung on the wall, similar to the one in the corridor.

She sat across from his desk, setting her satchel at her feet. “I'm sure there are a hundred formalities to get through, but I want to know whether you received my message.”

“I did, Doctor Okande.” Otiji Benguela frowned at her, his eyebrows climbing his forehead. “That's an unusual request, Doctor. Why twelve-hour shifts? Nearly everyone else works eight-hour days.”

“Simply put, I can get more done, Mr. Benguela,” she replied, making an effort to keep her eyes on him. Her gaze kept going to the map and the paucity of sites marked upon it.

“Are you sure, Doctor? The work is grueling, quite a contrast to research, content analysis, and the like.”

Nosuma gazed at him, seeing little of the weathering common to their ilk, who spent year after year in the trenches. The amusing phrase, a legacy from a bitterly fought war on the planet Earth some two centuries before the diaspora, had fallen out of common use but was still in vogue among archeologists and excavation crews, its literal meaning highly relevant to their profession. The man across from her bore little sign he spent any time in the trenches, his face baby-skin smooth, his hands soft, his fingernails clean.

Hers weren't much different. She saw him glance at his bookshelf, where a copy of her dissertation sat, protruding from among the other literature as if recently consulted. A hard-bound copy, she thought, Benguela still adheres to the old ways. Print editions were extremely expensive, bulky, and difficult to find. Two and a half years of her life had gone into its composition, and four years of university curriculum before that. Definitely not the grueling work to be found in the trenches, but grueling in its own way.

She held up her hands. “Many a night I soaked these hands in cold water, they were so sore and swollen from research, content analysis, and the like. Yes, Mr. Benguela, I'm sure.”

He blinked at her and sighed. “Very well. I'll see if I can find a crew who'll be willing to work such hours.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. Benguela. Where will I be starting out?”

“First, I'm going to have you orient with Doctor Kaonde, our Director of Research. He's fluent in Shona and negotiates labor contracts with the local villages. Perhaps he can help you find a twelve-hour crew.”

“Doctor Chaos,” she said, as he was known in academia, his research brilliant but his writing style somewhat prone to chaotic elaboration.

Otiji blanched and coughed. “Not a welcome moniker, Doctor Okande, something I'd suggest you keep to yourself if you wish to preserve the integrity of your anatomy.”

Dr. Kaonde also had a reputation for an acerbic wit and an intolerance for ineptitude.

“Too late, Mr. Benguela. He was one of the peer reviewers.” She threw a glance at her dissertation.

“Oh? And what part of your anatomy are you missing?” Otiji smirked. “He was quite gracious when it was announced you were joining us.”

“Grooming me for slaughter, I'm sure.”

The man across from her suppressed a laugh. “He'll be here in an hour. In the meantime, Sesotho in HR has a few formalities to review with you, and a hundred or so forms to sign. Good day.”

Nosuma hadn't told Otiji the real reason for her request. Three twelve-hour days would give her four days at a stretch to do some exploring on her own. But he doesn't need to know that, she thought.

She spent a perfectly good hour pushing a stylus across a signature pad. Sesotho kept apologizing for the inordinate number of forms to be signed, and the experience might have been less onerous if he hadn't stammered his every word.

“You're here, finally!” Dr. Kaonde shouted from the doorway. “We hired you six months ago. What took you so damned long!?”

Nosuma realized he really didn't want an answer. “You're here, finally! What took you so damned long?” She stood and shook his hand, imitating his accent. “Thank you, Doctor, for such an effusive and memorable welcome—and for sparing me more of Sesotho's drudgery. Oh, and it's a pleasure to see you again, incidentally. Shall we go? I'm looking to put some miles between my backside and that awful chair. Thank you, Sesotho, you've perfected the art of toil!” And she was out the door before either could object, satchel in hand.

“Don't you want to change into digs?” Kaonde asked, catching up with her in the corridor, looking over her skirt, blouse, jacket, and pumps.

“Just going to tour a site, right?”

“You won't get far in those pumps.”

“Boots in my satchel to match my skirt. Girl's got to accessorize. Where's the vehicle?”

“Out back,” Doctor Kaonde said, zipping down a side corridor.

Playing the game of who could keep up with whom, she thought, following.

“Doctor, wait!” called a voice from behind them.

“Pay no attention,” the Doctor muttered to her, slowing not at all. They'd just made it out the door when the person caught up with them.

“Looking for these, Doctor?” He jiggled a set of keys, and then whipped them behind his back when the Doctor tried to grab them. “Signatures first, Doctor Kaonde.” The man turned to Nosuma. “I'm Rufiji Duala, Doctor Kaonde's administrative assistant. Welcome aboard, Doctor Okande. You want anything, supplies, driver, vehicle, shovel, axe, murder weapon, you see me. If you ask Doctor Kaonde, you'll be waiting so long, you'll contemplate homicide. Everyone around here has wanted to kill him at one time or another, right, Doctor?”

He looked up from the device Rufiji had shoved in front of him. “Eh? Stop spreading nasty, well-known facts about me. Of course. Not doing my job if anyone likes me. Being obstinate's the only way to get things done, right, Doctor?” He grinned at her.

“Nice should never be underestimated, Doctor,” she retorted. “But you've never tried it, so how could you know?”

“Touché, touché,” he said, shoving the tablet at Rufiji and taking the keys. “Back this afternoon, Rufi.”

Nosuma followed him to the hover and climbed in the passenger side.

“Helluva dissertation, Doctor,” he said as they roared away, Nosuma clinging to her seat as he swerved recklessly between other vehicles.

She was sure he was doing double the speed limit. The yellow caution lights atop the vehicle and the Institute emblems on the doors gave it the air of officialdom, but she was certain they weren't a license to drive hazardously.

On the main highway out of town, he took the hover to its top speed, the occasional tree whisking past. He drove with one hand on the wheel and the other on the horn, bleating it so often that speech was impossible. She wished the vehicle had had a set of five-points, the shoulder and waist strap almost inadequate to keep her in her seat.

“Here we are,” he said, pulling onto a side road.

They dropped to a stop at the base of a small rise where other vehicles were parked. Ahead, just over the rise, Nosuma glimpsed the top of a wall—or at least a stone escarpment too straight and even to be natural.

She opened her bag and pulled out her boots. “You go ahead if you like. I'll be along in a moment.”

“I'll wait. Your dissertation was a welcome reminder to us all that acceptance of conventional wisdom is the alluring trap of complacency. We build these ivory towers for ourselves and end up prisoners of our own devices, wondering what happened.”

She allowed herself a small smile. “I continue to ask myself if I've done the same.”

“Bless that you do, Doctor Okande. Maybe you'll be able to swing back the pendulum of knowledge so violently, you'll have expanded its boundaries.”

She tied the last lace, gratified at his praise. She swung her snug, calf-high boots out the door and shouldered her tool satchel and handbag. “Ready.”

They trudged up the hill.

At the crest, the full wall was visible. Nosuma stopped, awed.

This first, outer wall of the Great Zimbabwe soared easily thirty-five feet, made of blocks of native granite fitted without mortar, curving gracefully away on either side, the narrow end of a weaving ellipse, a well-worn track at its base, the whole structure looking indomitable. At multiple points along the base were portals, each framed with planters protruding from the wall.

“It's magnificent.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “You know its dimensions.” Dr. Kaonde said. “Eighteen hundred acres of interlocking walls, buttresses, berms, and towers, occupied by twenty thousand people in its heyday. A magnificent structure, left behind by the ancestors without a word as to how or why they built it.”

She recognized other structures in the compound beyond the wall. A conical tower poked above it, the individual stones visible, and the entire tower looking as if it defied gravity in standing so tall. Other shapes of unknown purpose jutted above the wall, the outer barrier just one of many walls within the compound.

“Why don't you go ahead, Doctor?” she said.

“I'll be at the main encampment over there.” He pointed to the northwest, nodded, and descended the knoll.

Nosuma returned her gaze to the complex.

This was what she'd worked for, to study a place long past its zenith, so ancient and glorious, one which retained its majesty long after its builders had died off, leaving behind only their bones and the artifacts of their daily lives. Nosuma could almost see the traffic, people bustling about as they conducted their commerce and explored their potential from within the security of such a monumental edifice.

The Shona people who'd emigrated from Earth in the diaspora had landed on Achernar Tertius, a mostly-grasslands planet circling a hot blue star in the Eridani Constellation, and then had been forgotten when war had erupted along the Orion Spur. Interstellar trade had collapsed and halted further human expansion, leaving thousands of settled planets isolated for nearly a millennium, many colonies dying off for lack of vital manufacturing, while technological levels fell below pre-diaspora levels, spaceflight prohibitive to all but the most-densely populated core systems. Humanity had nearly bombed itself back into the Stone Age.

Among the colonies left to fend for themselves had been those on Achernar Tertius, or Babwe, as it was known to its inhabitants. The Shona had thrived on the planet in spite of the sudden collapse in trade and technology, adapting readily to local conditions, despite their reversion to early Iron Age levels of civilization.

The hills surrounding the Great Zimbabwe were granite ridges devoid of all florae but the hardiest of tree and grass. As such, it was the perfect building material for a people suddenly left to fend for themselves. The paucity of large forests had practically forced them to build in stone.

From this vantage, Nosuma could just see the outlines of the entire complex, portions visible as it rolled across the hillsides, slumbering under the early morning sun, as it had since being abandoned nearly six hundred years before.

The reason the Zimbabwes had been abandoned was still an enigma.

Built across a relatively short span of one hundred years, the great Zimbabwe had been occupied for an equivalent period, and then abandoned by its occupants suddenly and mysteriously, conjectures pointing to overgrazing, shifting trade routes, depletion of local mineral resources, and the like. In her dissertation, Nosuma had argued that these posited theories were nothing more than conjecture, and no one really knew why a city the size of the Great Zimbabwe had been abandoned.

She scanned its far edges, just visible along the slight rise across the valley, where lesser outlying structures stood outside the main wall. These were a people who hadn't feared incursion, she knew. The walls had multiple portals, each framed by a pair of bulging pillars, garden planters atop those pillars. The lintels of each portal were made of multiple beams laid crosswise. Unlike structures on other planets, the Shona had used not a single arch across Babwe, and yet every single portal stood preserved as built, defying the depredations of time, erosion, and subsidence.

Nosuma felt the presence of those ancient builders and their perseverance in the face of isolation. To them, she thought, tales handed down by word of mouth from generation to generation of strangers who came down from the sky in fantastic machines must have proved entertaining at nighttime hearths, their society having forgotten even the simple skill of writing.

She glanced east, toward the morning sun. The sun rose in the east and set in the west, no matter what world humanity had colonized, as ingrained to their evolution as the flight-or-fight response. Nosuma dug out her compass. The double arrows spun crazily around the dial, first one direction, then the next.

She wondered if this were among the “unique conditions” that the pilot had referred to on the inbound flight. Something awry with the planet's magnetic field? Nosuma shook her head, bewildered. Planetology had been her mother's field of study, not hers. I'll have to ask how people know which direction they're going, she thought.

Then she remembered the pole carving in her bag. Somehow, from the upper atmosphere, it'd given her a glimpse of thousands of ancient sites.

She reached in and grasped it, and the world fell away. Nosuma floated on nothing more substantial than a thought. Below her lay the Great Zimbabwe, all eighteen hundred acres, the figurine growing warm in her hand. The glow of ancient artifacts sparkled like diamonds in the rough landscape below her, each flaring with light as though scintillating in its effort to tell its story to these interlopers from the sky.

One artifact glowed brighter than the rest. Nosuma marked its location, and then forced herself to let go of the figurine.

She snapped back into her body, feeling a touch of vertigo, her forehead covered with sweat.

“Are you all right, Doctor Okande?” croaked an old voice.

The relic in front of her was so old, she might have once occupied the Great Zimbabwe. Braids of black and gray stuck out at odd angles above a forehead as wrinkled as rhinoceros hide. The braids stuck out from beneath a beehive headdress, and a bright shawl started at her shoulder and wound around and down past her knees, her legs no more than two ungainly sticks holding up a tent. A perpetual stoop freighted her shoulders. A half-toothed mouth grinned, looking like the windows of a long-abandoned factory. The grin might have been a lecherous leer, except that the poor old soul looked as if she would fall apart at the thought of sex. Bracelets rattled on both twig-like forearms, and earrings tinkled against the shoulders beside a neck built of corded pillars. A desiccated claw clutched a staff smoothed by years of handling. In the other hand was a trowel.

“Am I all right?” Nosuma repeated, wondering how the old woman had managed to get up the hill. How did she even get out of bed today? “Am I all right?”

“Well, if you can't answer your own blessed question, the answer must be no. Anything I can get you, child?”

“A new pair of glasses,” she retorted, “since I can't believe I'm seeing someone as old as the Zimbabwe itself.”

“No respect for the elders, these days,” the old woman muttered in Shona, and she turned to descend the hill toward the wall, picking her way carefully with the staff, bracelets rattling.

“Forgive me, Mother, I spoke rashly,” Nosuma said in the same language. “You're right, of course, and I apologize for speaking disrespectfully. Lend me your guidance that I may return to the true path of our ancestors.” She bowed elaborately and held it.

The rattling stopped.

Nosuma looked up at the silence.

The old, yellowed eyes regarded her doubtfully. “You speak the ancient tongue and ask for ancestor guidance. You are not like these other strangers from the sky who speak from the sides of their mouths. How do I know you're not a spirit, a mudzimu newly departed from among us and come to bedevil me with your mischief?”

“Me? An ancestor spirit?” She laughed lightly. “You dig alongside the others with that trowel, yes? Show me where you dig, and I'll guide your hand to richer ground.”

One graying brow wrinkled the forehead further. “Follow me, Shona-speaking one.”

Nosuma straightened and realized the older woman was already entering the compound. She hurried to catch up. “What's your name, please?” she asked, ducking through the portal despite its easily clearing her head by a foot.

“Teke Bapoko,” the old woman said, throwing a glance at her. “I am N'anga of the Madziva Mutupo.”

Medium of the hippopotamus totem, Nosuma translated, but the way she'd said it didn't sound quite the way Nosuma heard it. “Doctor” or “priestess” were also possible translations. “Mother Bapoko, forgive me my ignorance, but when you say 'N'anga,' do you mean you worship the hippopotamus?”

“ 'Worship' is an odd word, child Nosuma. No, it is more apt to say I intercede with the Madziva to bring healing to members of our totem. The Madziva requires no worship, other than we respect its watering holes and its young.”

A threatened hippopotamus was no easy adversary, Nosuma knew. “Thank you, Mother Bapoko.” Nor a displeased N'anga.

They passed numerous trenches, one or two workers in each. All glanced up at the woman in the professional business suit and dirt-stained digging boots. “Greetings,” she said in Shona, nodding at each, some replying and others looking surprised.

“Rare to hear a person in your dress speaking our difficult tongue,” Teke said, stepping to a small pit in the shadow of a thirty-foot wall. The red-brown soil had been dug from a trough a foot wide and two feet deep. Six inches from the base of the wall, diagonal stakes held thick planks in place, buttressing the trench wall right below the fitted stone. She was surprised they'd excavated so close, but she also knew some walls were as thick as eight feet and fitted so well that they could be tunneled under if need be.

“I've turned up a dozen artifacts from this trench alone,” Teke said proudly.

“How long have you been working it, Mother Bapoko?”

“Six months, child.”

Nosuma wondered how the frail old woman had lasted that long.

“But before that, I dug another trench over there for a year, but with less luck. This has been a fruitful dig, this one.”

Subtly, without letting the old woman see, Nosuma touched the pole sculpture in her handbag, peering in as if looking for something. Several spots on the ground lit up for her, one of them flaring with the brilliance of a spotlight. The one she'd seen from the ridge before entering the compound. She released the figurine and grabbed a miniature trowel from her tool satchel.