Free Rare Earth by Davis Bunn Page B

could slip away easily to the medical tent. She remained crouched on the bench, her elbows planted on her thighs and her face in her hands. When the service was over, several women leaned in close to Kitra and spoke to her with quiet intensity.
    After everyone else had departed, Marc walked down the central aisle and settled onto the bench next to Kitra. Marc waited, content to remain as long as was necessary. There was a wind from the north, holding the night’s chill a bit longer against the rising sun. The baobab’s branches rattled. A child wailed in the medical tent and was quickly soothed. Marc found himself thinking back to his old church in Baltimore, the way he had sat through the services and the singing, often holding his late wife’s photograph and wondering if he would ever truly live again. Do more than go through the motions of an endless line of empty days. He stared beyond the chapel’s shadows, out the open side to where the corrugated roofs glinted in the sunlight. Ironically he felt at home here. Being comfortable with such upheaval probably meant there was something seriously wrong with him. But this was where he felt he belonged. Dealing with chaos, giving strength to the weak. Protecting those who were wounded and hurting. Just like now.
    He said, “Tell me how I can help.”
    The words were enough to lift Kitra from her crouched position over her knees. Her hands came away as wet as her cheeks. “Last night I dreamed that Serge spoke to me from beyond the grave.”
    Marc reached over and settled his hand on her shoulder, as he had seen the local women do. Only later did he realize it was the first time he had touched her.
    Kitra went on, “When I woke up, I felt as though he had come to me for a purpose. Ever since I’ve worried that I haven’t done something. Or missed something. Or . . .”
    Marc waited until he was certain she would not speak again, then said, “My wife died four and a half years ago. I used to have these long conversations with her, sometimes in church, but mostly in dreams.”
    She wiped her face with shaky hands. “What did she say?”
    Marc recalled vividly the burden he had carried for over a year, that she wanted him to move on. But this was not the time to say such things to Kitra. “Usually I didn’t hear the words. More like, the vacuum of her not being there had to be filled somehow.”
    Kitra’s voice broke as she asked, “Is Serge dead?”
    Marc tried to reply as gently as possible, but he did not mask the truth. “Uhuru, the UN administrator, doesn’t give your brother much of a chance of survival.”
    She shuddered her way through the news. Marc waited with her. Finally she asked, “Should I leave here? Go back to Israel?”
    Marc let his hand slip away. “I can’t tell you that. Do you have family there?”
    â€œMy parents.”
    â€œDo they know?”
    â€œIt was the hardest call I have ever made.”
    â€œI’m sorry you had to endure that, Kitra. But I think it was important they heard the news from you.”
    She swallowed again. “I keep thinking Serge would want to find me here if he returns.”
    Marc recalled how he had himself been anchored by the home he had once shared with his wife, how he had spent four years clutching frantically at fading memories. He said simply, “I will pray for you both.”
    That was enough to calm her. “I am asking. What do you think I should do?”
    â€œI spoke with Lodestar headquarters last night. They want me to return to Nairobi. I think you should come. The answers we seek aren’t here.”
    She was silent a moment. “All right, Marc.”
    He started to rise, then, “There’s something you said yesterday. I agree with the question Serge asked. Why should the administrators make a land grab here? I mean, after the volcano erupted. The village is