Tyende glanced back one last time, his expression sad, as if Gray understood nothing. “Molimbo’s people explained to me long ago. She is generous with her gifts, but they are brief. Once partaken, it fades quickly. While the miracle persists, the force behind it evaporates like water on a hot summer’s day.”
Gray took a hard breath.
So, no . . .
Tyende turned away, dismissing him with a raised hand. “You have all the answers you need.”
Gray could wait no longer. He swung around and sprinted into the depths of the golden city. The countdown ticked in his head. He swore he could hear a distant whine of a plane engine, growing ever louder.
At the last second, he dove to the side, ducking into a home and sheltering behind a wall. And not a moment too soon.
The explosion struck when his knees touched the floor. The boom shook the ground, throwing him down hard. The span of a bridge cracked outside and collapsed in a tumble of gold blocks and dust. For the briefest moment, the entire kingdom flashed brighter, lit by that fiery burst. The city shone in all of its glory, polished by the blast, burning his eyes. Heat rushed like a gale through the city, searing his lungs.
Gray sprawled flat. He covered his head with his arms and shaded his face. He waited for the ground to stop shaking, for the furnace blast to subside. He then pushed to his feet and staggered toward the door. He leaned a palm on the frame. The gold remained surprisingly cool, further proof of the city’s incorruptibility, withstanding even this.
He headed out again, concerned about another.
Tyende . . .
Gray retraced his steps through the golden rubble. Ahead, limned against the light of a bright morning, he spotted the pair, still where he had left them. The blast had shattered the forest outside, stripping it away from the cliff, allowing the sky to shine on the city’s face, in surely the first time in ages.
He hurried forward.
Tyende lay collapsed behind Mbe. The mountain of the aardwolf was curled around the tribesman’s form, as if even in death, the beast sought to protect his friend. The large snowy body had become a wall between Tyende and the exit, sparing the dead man from seeing the destruction of his home.
Gray reached them, dropped to his knees, and placed a hand on the tribesman’s shoulder, silently thanking him. As he did, Tyende stirred weakly. Whether a miracle or simply due to the sheltering love of a lifelong friend, the elder still breathed, though weakly.
“Don’t move . . .” he urged the man.
Gray didn’t hold out any hope that the tribesman would live much longer, but he wanted to make sure he didn’t die alone.
Tyende’s eyes opened. The old man found the strength to reach and pat Gray’s hand, as if consoling him. “I . . . I’m surprised She didn’t find you worthy,” he said hoarsely. “I do . . .”
Gray felt a surge of guilt, of remorse.
A clatter rose behind him, along with an echo of voices. He glanced back. A flashlight bobbled through the darkness. Kowalski came into view, flanked by Benjie and Faraji.
Gray lifted an arm, guiding them to him, but he kept his other palm on Tyende. The old man wheezed softly. The others quickly joined them.
Benjie gasped at the tableau.
Faraji covered his face, as if refusing to accept it.
Kowalski merely shook his head and swore under his breath.
“Is there anything we can do?” Gray asked softly. “To make you more comfortable.”
Tyende wet his lips, tried to speak, then tried again. “Let me . . . Help me see.”
Gray understood and cradled the man up, leaning him against the wall. Tyende stared past Mbe’s body to the valley beyond. The bright morning had already darkened, the sun clouded over by smoke. This gloom was no longer the solemnity of an ancient forest, but something far more malignant.
“I’m sorry,” Gray whispered.
So much had been lost with nothing gained.
Tyende stared out at the destruction. His shoulders sagged slightly in grief, but his face remained stoic. “Sometimes it takes fire to clear a forest for new growth. Hope can even be found in flames.”
“But—”
Tyende reached and patted Gray’s hand again. “I said before . . . mothers can only warn and scold and teach for so long . . . then even their time ends. Like mine does now. Then watoto . . . watoto . . .”
As he faded, he clearly struggled to stay in the present, slipping into his native tongue with his eyes glazing over.
Faraji joined them, dropping to his knees. “Watoto . . . mean ‘children.’”
Tyende stirred. “Children, yes, they must eventually stand . . . on their own . . . make their own mistakes.” His gaze swung to the ruins. “Whether they gain hekima in time . . .”
Tyende shrugged sadly.
Gray turned to Faraji.
“Mean ‘wisdom,’ yes?”
Tyende touched the boy’s knee in thanks. The elder’s head swung toward another. He lifted a hand and weakly motioned Benjie closer. The biologist hurried and dropped next to Faraji.
Tyende tapped at Benjie’s leg, then waved weakly at a bulge in the biologist’s pocket. Benjie understood and shifted to free the ndop figure.
He lifted it toward Tyende.
A soft sigh of contentment wheezed from the old man. He found the strength to lift a trembling finger and run it over the features of William Sheppard, his old friend and teacher, clearly saying goodbye.
“The Mother . . .” Tyende whispered. “She only shares Her most precious gifts with the worthiest of us.”
That certainly was William Sheppard.
Tyende’s arm dropped leadenly, his voice going breathless. “Ngedi mu ntey . . . in ngedi mu ntey . . .”
His chin sank to his chest.
Time, at long last, had found the man.
Silence settled over the group.
After a few moments, Benjie lifted the carving of Sheppard in his hands. “Our lack of worthiness . . .” He gazed out at the destruction. “Maybe She was right.”
Gray shook his head in defeat. Sheppard had been given the means to go home, to leave the valley cured. Afterward, the reverend had preserved his story, along with a possible path to salvation. He had protected it all in the ngedi mu ntey, in the precious Kuba Box. Just as Tyende had attested with his last words, honoring his friend in the end.
But we were not found worthy, even if Tyende might think so.
“We should go,” Kowalski said. “We still need to meet that evac helicopter.”
Gray nodded and started out, but Faraji remained on his knees and whispered a prayer over his fellow tribesman. Gray waited out of respect. Benjie used the time to resecure the ndop figurine into his pocket.
Gray suddenly reached out and grabbed the biologist’s wrist. “Wait.”
“What?”
Gray squeezed Benjie’s arm hard. “Ngedi mu ntey . . . in ngedi mu ntey.”
Benjie frowned—then his eyes got huge with understanding.
“What?” Kowalski asked.
“Tyende’s last words,” Gray explained. “He wasn’t telling us about Sheppard’s gift to the world. Tyende was offering it to us.”
A man who had found us worthy—even when the tree did not.
Kowalski’s face scrunched. “Offering us what?”
“The answer.” Benjie stared down with a measure of horror at the ndop still in his hands. He shoved it at Gray. “Ngedi mu ntey in ngedi mu ntey.”
Gray translated as he accepted the carving, “Kuba Box in Kuba Box.” He stared across at the group, hoping he was right. “The Kuba keep their most precious tokens in such treasured boxes, but to preserve their most precious of all . . .”
“They might put a box inside another box,” Benjie said. “Like a pair of Russian nesting dolls.”
All eyes fixed on Gray.
He examined the figurine more closely. His fingers ran over the black wood, harvested from the roots of the mother tree. Then he finally spotted it: a silvery vein that circled under Sheppard’s chin.
With a grimace of fear, Gray gripped the figurine’s head and twisted hard. After three attempts, the top of the carving unscrewed, revealing it was as hollow as the trunk of the same tree.
Gray tilted the figure—and poured a fine powder into his palm.
Each grain glowed a bright silver.
Shining with the hope of salvation.
29