EarthUnder (The Meteorite Chronicles Book 1) (4 page)

The evening droned on and I listened. I was not really included in their conversation, but often in our travels together Ali Baby would leave me out for long periods of time before he would bring me up to speed with details. I learned years ago that he would tire easily of having to think in two languages and sometimes three or four. He always needed time to think before he would come to me for advice or decree. That night little was said to me, but Ali did make it known how pleased he was that we were rejoined. Next day the morning conversation turned to me and my purpose and intent. From what he was asking, I could tell they had been discussing the stone.

Ali turned to me and smiled, saying “Ah, so, you know of our legend?” I smiled and nodded as he looked at the others. “And what do you think of this thing?”

I began to answer when he interrupted with, “Do you believe in this thing?”

“Well, sure,” I shrugged, displaying neither hesitation nor reserve, in reply.

“Good,” said Ali with conviction and relief. “And do you believe this stone fell from the sky as a gift from God?”

It was easy to answer this quite convincingly because I was one of the few humans who actually tracked these things down. I didn’t address the gift issue as I had learned years ago that it is important to let people believe whatever they needed to. In this case there was, in fact, a sacred touching stone that fell from the sky. I would do nothing that might lessen my chances of getting to see it or, even better, obtain a small piece of it. All I needed was a fragment no larger than a small finger for making a thin section and doing some probe work to figure out where this shooting star had come from. If it were wildly new material it might help add to the model of the formation of our solar system. But the real modern-day space race is about finding life. And if this stone is an SNC (Shergottite, Nakhlite, or Chassignite), then it may hold the key, a never before seen clue of where life came from in our solar system. The men had countless questions for me that eventually led to the stone’s value.

I thought for a moment and said, “For me this treasure has no value, I simply wish to see it. If Sharif asks me to have a fragment analyzed, I will do as he asks. But for you this stone is priceless. If it holds the power that you tell me it has, then it is beyond insulting with a value.” We all laughed a long, loud belly laugh. We continued to laugh as my two protectors joked about what the stone’s power and blessing might do for me. They joked about how I needed lots of saving and how we all needed lots of help in walking the straight path. The laughter continued to grow louder as more humor fueled the group.

Later, following more laughter and conversation, hugs and handshakes, blessings and thanks, Zed left to return home. I insisted that he take money for driving us here. He refused my offer, saying, “It is a gift.” It would be hard for this proud, poor gentleman of honor to refuse my offer. For him this was a lot of money.

As I’ve always said, “Any amount of money is a lot when you have none.” Quickly I replied, “Ok, let me buy all of your chickens for one hundred dollars.” He agreed and said that twenty of it would go to Fatima for caring for the family chickens. After we watched Zed drive his tiny truck off into the blowing dust and desert heat, we gave the chickens to the hotel kitchen. They were delighted and insisted that we stay for lunch. This was a chance for Ali Baby and me to catch up.

Ali queried wryly, “I hear that you gave $20 to the old man’s granddaughter?” I nodded yes, knowing that Ali would scold me for giving too much as a gift. I know how much he does not want me to spoil his sources. Ali held up the flat of his hand as if to silence my defense. He continued, “That gift saved your life. This man would not have accepted money from you, but he could see that you intended it for the granddaughter. You sidestepped his pride and you touched his heart. You impressed him as another man of honor who understood life as it should be lived, and he had prayed to meet you again someday to repay your gesture. You two are now bonded for life by this memory of honor.”

I was stunned by the magnitude of this life lesson learned from what I thought of as a small gesture of consideration. We both stood gazing at the sun-baked horizon as our friend disappeared into the skyline. Ali went on to say that he had never seen Sharif take a liking to any stranger as it seems he had with me. He added what an honor it was that this small gift of limitless value was coming our way. As we walked back into the hotel, I reflected on my own good fortune for having such fine friends in my life. So there we sat, three of us waiting for Sharif to join us. We all had the same “split and run” plan in our heads. We needed to discuss how to move on. Zen had ditched our car the night I was shot, and he called his loyal friend Samir to bring us another car to use.

And so we waited. The hotel lobby was soon filled with the aroma of roasting chicken wafting through the air. Since we had filled their pens with new stock, they were cooking all of the birds they had already prepared for that day. Ali leaned towards me at the table and said, “Listen, man, I want to share this with you in confidence.” He spoke quietly while peering into my eyes with intense earnestness, “The sacred stone, it is a true story. A friend of mine, his grandfather touched the stone as a child. He said that the stone healed his illness.”

Curiosity carving its way into my mind, I inquired, “What does this mean to me?”

Ali went on, “I had always planned to take you to see this man. When he was young, a secret sect had brought the stone to his village to help heal the sick. The stone was carried in a cask with holes for hands to reach through to touch the stone. When his turn came the boy reached inside the cask and touched the stone, and a small fragment fell into his hand as he withdrew it from the hole he had reached into. He was terrified and he knew that he might be punished for what he had done. As he withdrew his hand he held the fragment with his thumb and clenched his fist to his side. He walked home with the fist clenched, arm at his side, afraid to look at what he held.” Ali told me that this young man was Sharif’s grandfather. He looked deeply into my eyes and made an effort to gain my full attention. “No man knows how old Sharif is, but many have said that no man alive remembers him as a younger man. And there is no illness in his family.” Ali leaned farther until we were whispering to each other. “How do you feel?” he inquired.

“Me?” I asked, looking puzzled by the suggestion of his inquiry., “What do you mean?”

Ali asked again, “How do you feel, are you tired? Do your wounds hurt? Could you drive for several more hours?”

I thought about this for a moment, my eyes trained off to the side, deep in thought, and then it struck me that my wounds did not hurt at all. The stiffness was gone along with the sting. I could raise the arm that was lifted by the hardest hit over my head and stretch it as if nothing had happened at all. “Huh, that’s weird;” I added, “I couldn’t lift my arm this morning to get into the truck.”

“Exactly, man,” said Ali, “it is magic. Well, plans have changed, and as soon as Samir arrives, we need to drive further into the desert to meet with Sharif. Word is that he too ran into bandits and he is giving us roads to drive to avoid being messed with.”

Chapter Three

The Heart Stops

S
oon Samir did arrive and before long we were off again on another drive. Things are different with Samir; he is from the city, and we call him “the Prince.” He likes to drive nice, fast cars and he listens to pop music while he drives.

So there we were, four guys driving down a dirt road in a car built for city driving. We were moving fast and leaving a wall of dust in our wake. The prince was singing to his music and tapping to the beat on his steering wheel. That afternoon we headed north to a road that would take us west and then south and deep into the Sahara to meet with Sharif. My mind never rested from analyzing detail. For me it was the smallest things that could add up to the biggest and best stories. I found in my travels that those little things made my days most interesting. A detail that caught my attention every time in this part of the world burned in my brain with tenacious fury. With all of the difficulties of transportation and communication across this harsh, undeveloped, ancient land, this question haunted my thought-filled mind. We could travel for days and when we got to where we were going, our host would be standing on the side of the road waiting and waving as if he knew we were moments away.

And here was another cluster of brain puzzlers that just ate my lunch. How is it that through thousands of years, countless armies had invaded over and over and all of them failed to conquer this land? Why did they try? Why had they always failed against a simple, unarmed people? Why did they want this land? And then, why was it that in the oldest populated area of the world, virtually nothing has changed? Things here in the desert were done as they were thousands of years ago. Maybe, I thought, they were living life as they were intended and that things here were already perfect. That would explain why people living on bare rock and sand could be so happy living such simple yet full lives.

I got to ride in the back; the boys were up front enjoying music, drumming it out on the dashboard. The car seemed to dance down the road to the beat of the music. Knowing Samir’s lead foot, I thought the car would leave the surface at any moment and fly intermittently. Reflecting on Ali’s question, I reached under my shirt to check on my new battle scars. Peeling back the bandage I was shocked—flabbergasted was a better descriptive term—the wounds were completely healed. No, this couldn’t be. I was delirious from a day of motoring. Or maybe they cooked the chicken in hashish butter. But tonight I wanted to take a closer look with lights and a mirror if there were any.

We passed a tiny donkey burdened with two children and a three-foot-high stack of bundled grass. The small child on the back of the donkey rode facing behind and watched our approach. We must have appeared as an approaching sandstorm from our speed and the cloud of dust trailing just behind us. I wondered how many expletory curse words we will earn from this passing.

And so we rolled on speeding towards our destination. I found myself in envy of the happy, full lives my friends lived here. Every day was an adventure filled with life, love, and laughter. As we carved through the serene beauty of a mountain pass, winding our way along the massive canyon that once held in its breadth a raging torrent, we passed the ruins of magnificent hand-hewn stone bridges built by the Romans many lifetimes ago, ghostly architectural skeletons standing over ghost water. Scattered about the mountains were huge black tents shielding fragile lives much as these same tents had done thousands of years earlier when the failed bridges were built. We passed between mountains that pierced the blue blanket above, jagged gauntlets that have not hidden under snow in over a century.

I recalled walking through these mountains a while back teaching an ambitious group of Bedouins how to search for meteorites. Even this group in a remote mountain enclave related to me their version of the Touchstone legend. I remembered how it felt to walk with these sturdy men through the stone monoliths of these mountains. There were plants and bushes in the jagged crags but even the plants were foreboding, as every limb and blade was coated with armor and thorns. The only thing that could traverse this area was the wind.

Eventually our view changed from mountain boulders to luscious green oasis villages. Date palms and banana palms were everywhere. Here and there along the road was a wide swath of surface for vehicles pulling over between the roadway and the buildings and shaded structures. There were people walking, vehicles parked, and coming or going. The fronts of the shops and cafes were littered with tables and chairs, with both locals and travelers resting and watching the endless current of bodies and machines. The smell of diesel and gas blended in the air with the aroma of roasting chicken, lamb, beef, and black tobacco. Children pushed vending carts heaped with prickly cactus pears and watermelon. People sipped coffee, tea, or soda and stared blank faced at the blur of movement. Motor repair garages were hard to miss because of the black grease smeared onto the edges of the doorways.

We stopped for a few items and continued on our way south towards the sand once more. On a beach in Hawaii the sand is a white band of softness that draws you to the water’s edge, a shifting pillow of cool crystals worn round by the sea. It holds a beachcomber’s bounty and erases its impressions with each tide. The sand here is the foundation of existence that gives life and takes it away. The buildings are made from sand, mud, and straw, the epitome of environmentally sound recycling; the sand that is used to build is eventually taken back by the desert. Today’s modern world is invading on multiple levels, but as in the years gone by, this invasion should fail.

Driving on, it appeared the slower cars were put on the road by some benevolent being to test the deft passing skills of our self-proclaimed, race car–driving chauffeur. In the driving game of chicken, our driver had nerves of titanium alloy. He was a silent, loveable guy who calmly smiles when cars pass far too close, horns blazing. He meant no harm or disdain—it’s simply how he did what he did. Slow-moving vehicles simply represented obstacles to get around and go faster than.

Sitting in the rear and watching the outside world from behind Samir’s calm, unmoving profile, we were like pawns in a video game. I could see an almost demonic smile in his eyes reflected in the rearview mirror. He delighted in threading the needle through the craziest traffic with the cool and calm of well-rehearsed choreography, and one hand lay relaxed in his lap as if to say, “This is only a fraction of what I can handle.” But this was country touring and not city driving; he seemed bored without adding a dash of challenge as often as he could. And yet I had seen him stop a fleet of trailing drivers to allow a single stranger to cross the roadway in a land where pedestrians take lives into their own hands to risk crossing the highway. I thought back to childhood amusement rides and pondered how much would someone pay for a ride like this? The sun would be coming up soon; you could see a glint of yellow glow melding into the last of the night sky. Soon the scorching orb would rise above the edge of the dunes and consume the dark.

“Today,” Zen said, “we will drive until the heat stops us.” Zen announced that today we would visit his adopted aunt’s home and rest through the heat of the day. The so-called aunt is Maryam’s sister. Zen is so fond of her that he likes thinking of her as part of his family. This reminded me of my childhood, growing up with countless aunts and uncles and grandmas and grandpas. As I grew older I learned that they were just close family friends. I still have vivid memories of greeting Grandma Johns early every morning in her vegetable garden puttering with her plants as I walked through her yard on the way to school. I grew up believing that she was family.

We arrived at Zen’s aunt’s home just as the heat of the day began to force humans and animals alike to seek shade from the sun’s searing rays. Turning down a narrow dirt lane, we soon pulled up to a cream-colored block building with olive trees planted around the house and rows of citrus trees behind the house watered from a tiny irrigation ditch flowing past the home.

As the car came to a halt, Zen cheered, “Ah there’s Auntie!”

I was struck dumb by the stunning, simple beauty of this tall, green-eyed matriarch. I clumsily clambered out of the back of the car, legs stiff and half dead from our time driving.

Zen youthfully sprang towards his aunt, calling out her name, “Kadishya!”

I froze at the door of the car as my eyes winced from the light. That name grabbed at my heart like the clawed talons of a raptor in flight. I could feel my heart heave into my throat as I put the name with the exquisite face of my first love. How could this be? The young girl who had hosted me on my first stay in this land, a girl turned woman whom I had fallen intensely in love with when we were both still just kids, is standing here just a few paces from me. As much as I believed I would never see her again, I also knew she would always be with me in mind and heart. This pain in my heart was beyond description. The rest of me was simply numb. I couldn’t talk or walk. I stood there in absolute question of everything. How could this happen? Where had she gone? Why was she part of this quest? She knew everything about me. I felt I knew nothing of her. She had disappeared mysteriously ten years earlier and left behind a broken young man filled with doubt and the pain of lost love. Each day since that day I had thought of how I might handle such an encounter. I was frozen, overwhelmed by the thousands of hours of thought, hurt, and reflection. I had been then just eighteen years of age; she was fifteen. She had taught me French and I had helped her with her English. We had been like brother and sister until the time together changed us both. The fun and laughter had turned, day by day, into love and adoration. But some intangible thing tore us apart in a day, and that day was followed by years of unrequited questions.

The guys had gone in. I stood there petrified with no clue of what to do next. The realization washed over me that all of my companions knew each other. There was some mysterious, underlying connection between all of us. There were relations here that I was not ever aware of. I was sensing some kind of grand deception. The more I learned, the more questions arose.

Kadishya knew I was coming. She too had no idea of what to do next. She took a deep breath, lifted her arm to offer her hand, and invited me into her home with words that came to my ears like a song. As I hesitated, she turned her head to peer out of the corner of her eyelids and asked the word I had heard her say so very many times in my dreams…“Compri?”

When we were just children, teaching each other our ways and customs and words, she would often look at my puzzled, struggling face and say that word. It was an up word, a single word that meant: do you get it? It was the thing I loved the most about her, she always took the time to make sure that I was with her on the same page. It made me feel safe and at the same time it was so intensely adorable. The word always ended on a high note as if musical. Here we stood ten years later and it came out of her as if she had spoken it on the last day we had seen each other. A rush flooded over me. This was going to be a very difficult day. Kadishya stepped toward me, gently reaching for my hand to lead me into the house. She said nothing and looked to the ground as if deep in thought or searching her own mind for how to deal with our encounter. I could feel in the touch of her hand that this was real. I could feel her everything: her warmth, her compassion, her gentle nature, her strength and confidence.

Her voice was music as she asked in flawless English, “Are you good?”

I mumbled something with no idea what I said. She left me in a magnificent front room, tiled from floor to ceiling, and disappeared into the next room.

I stood on a thick hand-woven rug and stared at the vibrant colored tiles in the room. Soon my three travel companions came into the room. They all tried to speak, but I only wanted to pump Zen with questions about his aunt. I knew that Kadishya had an older sister. Kadishya had told me that she was her older sister’s favorite. Her older sister, Maryam, was Zen’s mother. Kadishya had a younger sister Jasmina, who had spent much of the time with us when we were together. Question turned to shock as I realized that many of my long-time friends were actually family. This realization simply raised more questions. It also raised doubts about my trusted friends. Why would this be kept from me? Who are these people, really? How many more are there? Can I still trust them? And where was Jasmina?

Jasmina had her sister’s brilliant, piercing green eyes. She was always the imp. When she saw the friendship developing between her sister and me, she did not like it at all. Jasmina would constantly devise plots to trip us up. She was extremely clever and resourceful for an eight-year-old girl. She seemed to have the entire village wrapped around her finger. More than a few times through the years I had wondered if it had been Jasmina who made her sister disappear.

Kadishya walked into the room, her footsteps so soft and silent that she seemed to float. She brought towels, which she gave to Zen. She whispered a few words in her softest tone and turned again to breeze away. As she left the room, I could feel that I didn’t want to let her leave my sight. Then it struck me that maybe our parting was her doing, and immediately my angst to learn what happened lost value. All of the reflections and emotions of the past decade were just snapped like an arrow from a bow, and all of those questions were rolling through my brain.

The bath did nothing for me. I felt I might lie awake for hours and listen to my inner voice scream. Eventually sleep came to us all. I dreamed the dreams that were burned into my night mind’s eyes years before. When we wakened our clothes lay washed and folded near each bed. We walked together down the hall from our room to tiled stone steps leading down to the ground floor.

Waiting for us in the front room was Sharif. He had arrived early and was quietly anticipating our awakening. My head was clearer this morning and it began to occur to me that I was surrounded by many members of the same family, and the love of my life was here and part of this family. Had I been led here? Was this some kind of huge, elaborate scheme or was this a most ornate example of happenstance? How could I ever know? Could anyone possibly tell me what was happening? Was I simply following the trail of a mysterious new find or was all of this orchestrated by some divine guidance?

We sat circling a low table in the front room. Sharif had deliberate purpose as he lifted from his pocket a small linen-wrapped item. As he unfolded his linen, I caught a glimpse of what looked like just a piece of common concrete. As he uncovered the entire fragment, I could see the matrix and my eyes grew as my pulse raced. At first glance I was certain that he had just revealed a piece of Chassignite. This was the rarest of the rare: a Martian meteorite, but from an extremely rare group. It looked like no other meteorite except maybe an Angrite. It’s a meteorite that looks more like concrete, and this piece had obvious fusion crust on it from falling to Earth. There was no speaking, no sound; we all just sat and stared at the specimen resting there on the table. Zen, Ali, and Samir could not bring themselves to even consider reaching out to touch the sacred fragment, and I would not for a host of reasons. And there was no need. I could see what it was. And yet the matrix made no sense to me. It was unlike any other meteorite I had ever seen. It was almost like someone had taken a piece of the Berlin Wall into space and dropped it just to see what it would do. I smiled as I visualized some Russian nerd, cosmonaut/pyro technician, trying to create the ultimate skyrocket from the ISS during his or her spacewalk by chucking a chunk of concrete at the Earth. That would make a dazzling fireball to witness from above. And who would ever know? The boys were puzzled by my silent smile.

“So, now for the serious discussion,” I said. We had all come a long way to get to this place. Something magical had brought us all together. Zen and Ali began to speak with Sharif when Kadishya came into the room. Behind her, children followed with trays of pastries and pots of tea, coffee, and juice, which they set on tables near the door. The children left the room and Kadishya sat next to Sharif. She began to ask him questions in desert tongue and soon she translated in perfect English with the loveliest and the slightest accent of both French and Arabic. The beauty of her eyes and face were only rivaled by the supple tone of her melodic voice. Her voice commanded the room.

We all fell silent as she spoke. Something in her tone made all stop and listen. It was such an overwhelming joy to see her again and to know that she was safe and thriving. But the questions running through my thoughts were a huge distraction to everything in the moment. I was able to suppress these thoughts long enough to listen to what Sharif was saying. He wanted us to get this fragment off the continent and into the hands of researchers with the wherewithal to rush the research and identify this stone. He said this was for everyone. He implied an intense sense of urgency. I could see in his eyes true concern and dire emotion. The message and the task were fairly simple on the surface. But the doing would be another matter. Zen, Ali, and Sharif all had reports of other teams that were trying to intercept what we were planning.

As I have said before, “the sharks can smell blood in the water.” At this point I had no interest in even seeing the mass from which this piece had been taken. It would be of no use to me. But that might play out in our favor as we made a run for the borders. Those groups of thugs and bad shots with rifles would be lured towards the main mass and not towards us if they thought we didn’t have it. Kadishya finished Sharif’s message to me. He could see by my face and eyes that I took this in earnest, and I nodded my head yes and shook both of his hands, agreeing to do all I can. He seemed very pleased and relaxed back against the wall behind him. Tea was brought to the table. I looked to Ali and acknowledged, “Ah, more tea.”

He laughed in response, saying, “Soon you will be one of the green people, man.”

We were in the land of the blue people. The people here use dye made from copper minerals to color the wool from their sheep. Over time this turns them blue: skin, eyes, finger and toe nails and hair, all a deep dark blue. One of the first reasons I came here as a younger man was to see the blue people.

Ali said, “Yeah, man, you drink so much green tea that we call you one of the green people.” The room erupted in laughter as he repeated his words in Berber. Again Kadishya quietly left the room.

This was a happy home, I could hear children playing on the roof, happy voices speaking from room to room. Brooms brushed floors and kitchen utensils clanged while cars and scooters purred by on the road in front. Ali referred to me as a walking bag of green tea in laughter as we walked the halls and staircase winding through the labyrinth of this joyful home. I heard the calm commanding voice of Kadishya calling for one of her children to come help her, and in my mind’s eye I could see her calling to me to come practice my French. “Vite, Vite,” she would call to me and clap her hands. It was her voice, her expression, her energy and spirit. It hurt so bad to be so close after so long and feel so far away. She had children, which meant she had moved on and had married. Where then was her husband, and why was there no mention of him?

Through the day we had all scattered to rest. I walked down a hall listening to the sounds of the house and humming to music from one of the rooms. Growing closer to a doorway, I could tell whose voice was humming the tune, and as I passed, I caught just a flash of a glance from her eyes. I stopped just past the doorway to listen to her lovely voice reverberate with more volume. There was just a moment of silence, which reminded me of all the years I had missed her friendship and company. The emotion gushed from the eyes as I labored to calm my heart. I turned to move back to the opening and there she was: standing, eyes littered with tears and arms outstretched towards me. We collapsed together arm in arm, tear on tear. Both of us had held back our emotion for so many years, and it all came out right there in each other’s arms. The encounter in front of the house the day before had been so hard for both of us. Neither one of us knew the right words to say. We were both in a daze, neither of us able to fully believe this was happening. The future and the past no longer mattered; only this moment right now mattered and we were both right there in that moment, tasting our tears and letting all of it go. It was as if we had both died and then both came back from that dark place and found each other. It was on this day that I learned that a part of you can die and still come back to life.