The Descent

Lately,  Ali  had  begun  dreaming  about  it.  The  delivery  would  be  in  a  hut  with  a  tin roof  surrounded  by  thorn  brush,  maybe  this  hut,  this  bed.  Into  her  hands  a  healthy infant  would  emerge   to  nullify  the   world's  corruption  and   sorrows.   In   one   act, innocence would triumph.

But this morning Ali's realization was bitter. I will never see  the  child of this child. For  Ali  was  being  transferred.  Thrown  back  into  the  wind.  Yet  again.  It  didn't matter  that  she  had  not  finished  here,  that  she  had  actually  begun  drawing  close  to the truth. Bastards. That  was in the masculine, as in bishoprick.

Ali folded a white  blouse  and  laid  it  in  her  suitcase.  Excuse  my  French,  O  Lord. But they  were  beginning to make her feel like a letter  with no address.

From  the  moment  she'd  taken  her  vows,  this  powder  blue  Samsonite  suitcase  had been her faithful companion. First  to Baltimore for some ghetto work, then to  Taos  for a little monastic 'airing out,' then to Columbia University  to  blitzkrieg  her  dissertation. After  that,  Winnipeg  for  more  street-angel  work.  Then  a  year  of  postdoc  at   the Vatican  Archives,  'the  memory   of  the   Church.'  Then   the   plum  assignment,   nine months  in  Europe  as  an  attaché  –  an  addetti  di  nunziatura  –  assisting  the  papal diplomatic                 delegation      at              NATO                     nuclear nonproliferation talks.  For                a twenty-seven-year-old  country  girl  from  west  Texas,  it  was  heady  stuff.  She'd  been selected  as  much  for  her  longtime  connection  with  U.S.  Senator  Cordelia  January  as for her training in linguistics. They'd  played her like a pawn, of  course.  'Get  used  to  it,' January  had  counseled  her  one  evening.  'You're  going  places.'  That  was  for  sure,  Ali thought, looking around the hut.

Very  obviously  the  Church  had  been  grooming  her  –  formation,  it  was  called  – though  for  what  she  couldn't  precisely  say.  Until  a  year  ago,  her  CV  had  showed nothing  but  steady  ascent.  Blue  sky,  right  up  to  her  fall  from  grace.  Abruptly,  no explanations offered, no second chances offered, they'd  sent her  to  this  refugee  colony tucked  in  the  wilds  of  San  –  or  Bushman  –  country.  From  the  glittering  capitals  of Western  civilization  straight  into  the  Stone  Age,  they  had  drop-kicked  her  to  the rump of the planet, to cool her heels in the Kalahari desert  with a bogus mission.

Being Ali, she had made the most of  it.  It  had  been  a  terrible  year,  in  truth.  But  she was tough. She'd coped. Adapted. Flourished, by  God. She'd even  started  to  peel  away the folklore of an 'elder' tribe said to be hiding in the backcountry.

At first, like everyone  else, Ali had dismissed the notion of an undiscovered  Neolithic tribe  existing  on  the  cusp  of  the  twenty-first  century.  The  region  was  wild,  all  right, but  these   days   it  was   crisscrossed   by   farmers,   truckers,   bush  planes,  and  field scientists  –  people  who  would  have  spied  evidence  before  now.  It  had  been  three months before Ali had started  taking the native rumors seriously.

What  was  most  exciting  to  her  was  that  such  a  tribe  did  seem  to  exist,  and  that  its

evidence was mostly linguistic.  Wherever  this  strange  tribe  was  hiding,  there  seemed to be a protolanguage alive in the bush! And day  by  day  she was closing in on it.

For the most part, her hunt had to do with the Khoisan, or Click, language spoken by the  San.  She  had  no  illusions  about  ever  mastering  their  language  herself,  especially the  system  of  clicks  that  could  be  dental,  palatal,  or  labial,  voiced,  voiceless,  or  nasal. But with the help of a San ¡Kung translator, she'd begun assembling a set  of words  and sounds  they  only  expressed  in  a  certain  tone.  The  tone  was  deferential  and  religious and  ancient,  and  the  words  and  sounds  were  different  from  anything  else  in  Khoisan. They  hinted  at  a  reality  that  was  both  old  and  new.  Someone  was  out  there,  or  had been  long  ago.  Or  had  recently  returned.  And  whoever  they  were,  they  spoke  a language that predated  the prehistoric language of the San.

But now – like that – the midsummer night's dream was over.  They  were  taking her away  from her monsters. Her refugees. Her evidence.

Kokie  had  begun  singing  softly  to  herself.  Ali  returned  to  her  packing,  using  the suitcase  to  shield  her  expression  from  the  girl.  Who  would  watch  out  for  them  now? What  would  they  do  without  her  in  their  daily  lives?  What  would  she  do  without them?

'...uphondo   lwayo/yizwa     imithandazo    yethu/Nkosi   sikelela/Thina    lusapho iwayo...'