The Medusa Stone

deep valley. Through the valley’s sheer aperture, an open plain beyond was revealed in detail. The drawing was harsh in its economy of line, but there was a depth of skill and just a bit of evocative emotion in its composition. “This is the best I can deduce from the surface details revealed by the Medusa pictures. They weren’t calibrated when the shots were taken, and the above-ground features suffered the most from this. But this is what the area around the kimberlite pipe should look like from ground level. I wanted to have this drawing finished a while ago, but it wasn’t until last night that I was finally satisfied with the results. If the pipe exists, it’s going to be behind these ramparts in the valley. Habte, do you recognize any features like this?”

Habte would have easily remembered because the drawing’s detail made it very recognizable. But he had never seen the sheer mountain wall with such a narrow ax-stroke cut in its face. “No, but we can show it to the nomads in Badn; they may know of it. I’m guessing this is farther north, near the Hajer Plateau.”

“Do you know the region?”

“Bad country up there. Shifta control much of the area. The government doesn’t even bother to patrol that far north. During the war the whole area was heavily mined by the Ethiopians to prevent us from using Sudan as a safe haven. It is not safe to leave the road that passes through Itaro to the east. The nomads and shepherds avoid the area, but still a few are killed or maimed by mines every year.”

Mercer cursed because of the added danger. Military planners called them “perfect soldiers.” Once planted, landmines sat silently, effective for decades, waiting long after the wars were over. It took only a few pounds of pressure to set one off, detonating a measure of high explosive that caught its victim unaware. Children usually found and triggered the devices as they played far from their villages.

“Is there anything else up there?”

“There’s a monastery. It was abandoned during the war, but I think the monks have come back.”

The mines would never be deactivated, Mercer knew, for the cost was astronomical. Northern Eritrea would be contaminated for decades, as lifeless and unsafe as the environs around Chernobyl. “We don’t have a choice. If any of you want to abandon the search, I’ll understand, but I am going on.”

“We’re with you,” Selome said quickly, and Habte and Gibby nodded.

“Thank you.” The two men were risking their lives for him, and Mercer was deeply touched by their dedication. They barely knew him, yet were willing to make the ultimate sacrifice. Selome, on the other hand, was on her own mission, and her willingness to continue gave him a glimpse of her commitment. “I’m going to take a chance and ignore the desert between us and the Hajer Plateau. To get the excavator up here, we can use the main road as far north as Itaro, and the nomads can guide it to this point here.” He used his pencil to circle the village of Ila Babu on the Adobha River. “Now, let’s get going.”

The Toyota was sputtering when they entered Badn, its body so dusty it looked as if it had been painted with a desert camouflage pattern. There were only a couple of permanent structures in the village. The rest of Badn was mostly mounded tents of coarse fabric stretched over wooden frames. On the open plain, they resembled loaves of bread with the sun setting behind them. The town’s natu rally fed well was its only raison d’etre. Nomads from all over the Barka Province used the waters for their camels and goats.

Habte recognized the tent of the family he had hired to fetch gasoline from Nacfa and steered the Land Cruiser to the rude compound. Bundles of firewood stood a little way off from the central tent, and in the shimmering distance a caravan of camels was returning from a foray with more. From this range, their misshapen bodies appeared to float in the chimera of rising heat. Several of the bawling beasts were pegged near the camp, their soft eyes regarding the truck with ill-disguised contempt. Behind the faggots of desiccated wood sat a pile of plastic jerry cans filled with their gasoline.

Their return was seen as an opportunity for the nomad headman to throw a party. He was in his sixties with a booming voice and a backslapping greeting that, had Mercer not been prepared, would have driven him to the ground. “Fuck, fuck,” he smiled, demonstrating his command of English. “Fuck.”

“And fuck to you too.” Mercer grinned.

The chieftain turned to Habte and spoke in rapid fire, motioning for a translation for Mercer’s benefit. “He says you are welcome back to his humble home and hopes that our travels have been profitable. He also hopes you have brought him his money to cement his friendship.”

Mercer reached into one of his vest pockets for a sheath of ten-dollar bills and handed the entire roll across. The money represented more cash than the family saw in a year. The nomad smiled again, slapping Mercer soundly on the shoulder. The few teeth remaining in his smile were jagged yellow stumps that had been filed to points so their sharpness made up for their diminished numbers. “Fuck.”

“Fuck, fuck,” Mercer rejoined.

Habte translated when the headman spoke. “We must spend the night as his guests. He says he will not allow us to leave until he has shown us his hospitality.”

“Tell him we would be honored. If it’s permitted, I have a bottle of brandy to bring to his table.”

The old headman’s eyes lit up with delight. “Fuck, yes.”

Two hours later, having bathed, Mercer ducked into the headman’s tent with Habte, Selome, and Gibby in tow. He was stopped by the rank odor of the tent and the smoke coiling up through the chimney slit from the small fire. Oil lamps lit the center of the tent, revealing an expanse of beautifully woven rugs on the bare floor. The headman sat amid a circular ring of men, a space opened at his right for Mercer and his party. Inside the circle was a huge hammered brass plate with several matching pots surrounding it. Next to each man was a platter of injera, the unleavened bread that was the staple of most Eritreans’ diets. There were at least fifteen children in the tent, laughing and squealing with some noisy game, their play adding to the din of the twenty adults. Incongruously, a Michael Jackson tape played on a portable radio. The King of Pop sounded like a baritone because the tape deck’s batteries were nearly dead. Selome took Mercer’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Looks like you’re going to get that traditional meal after all.” From around the cooking fire the heady aroma of their meal wafted across the room, and even at this distance the spiciness made Mercer’s eyes swim.

The headman indicated that Mercer was to sit beside him, and Selome slid into a place on Mercer’s other side. The Eritrean thrust a brass cup into Mercer’s hand and toasted him with a drink of his own. Mercer recognized the smell of tej, a delightful honey wine made only in Ethiopia and Eritrea, and he drank down the tumbler in one quick toss. Unlike the polished, sweet wine he’d enjoyed in Washington’s Ethiopian restaurants, this fiery brew was as smooth as sandpaper, with the subtlety of a stick of dynamite and twice the kick. It took all of his will not to cry out as the liquor exploded in his stomach. He finally caught his breath. “Oh, fuck.”

It took four more shots of tej for Mercer to get into the spirit of the party. He took the bottle of brandy Gibby had been holding for him and handed it ceremoniously to the chieftain. The nomad prince opened it gleefully and tossed the cap over his shoulder, where it landed unerringly in one of the cooking pots. Disdaining his cup in his desire to drink such a delicacy, he tilted the bottle to his lips, his throat pumping. He handed the bottle to Mercer. Hoping the brandy would kill whatever swam in the Eritrean’s mouth, he, too, took a long gulp. “Oh, fuck,” he muttered again. It was going to be a long night.

The women finished preparing the meal and tipped the cooking pots directly into the three brass bowls around the giant platter. The assembled tribesmen went at the food like a pack of wild dogs. They tore off slabs of injera, dunking them into the bowls so their hands came away smeared to the wrist with stew, clots of meat, and vegetables dripping onto the huge plate as they bent forward to cram the mass down their throats. Habte and Gibby ate with equal gusto, though Selome showed a bit more decorum with the size of the bites she took. The wat in the bowl closest to Mercer was made of lentils, chickpeas, and oily mutton. The bread helped absorb some of the grease, but he could feel his arteries hardening with every bite. The only thing that cut through the food’s spicy edge was the tej that the women encouragingly refilled every time his cup was only half emptied.

Unbelievably, the huge amount of food was eaten in just a few minutes, and no sooner had the last of the three bowls been emptied than the women approached and poured fresh wat for the men and replenished their stacks of injera.

“How are you doing?” Selome asked, wiping her hands on her pant leg. Her eyes were bright and glassy with wine, and the food had brought a flush to her perfect skin.

Mercer could see she was enjoying herself as much as he. He wondered what this was like for her, to sit with her people after so many years of isolation and enjoy the simple pleasure of a communal meal. “A few more cups of