This is the prologue and a segment of the first chapter of a book. I kind of started it on a whim. And the first part is supposed to be through the eyes of a small child.
Lizzie always told me not to go into the desert at night, and I never did because Lizzie was always right. She told me the stories of those foolish nomads that never ever came back. They would venture in during the winter solace; they thought the monsters were sleeping then. Sometimes, Lizzie said, their camels would come stampeding back with their eyes wide and bloodshot and their mouth covered with thick, white foam. Not a spark of sense was left in them. The desert terrors had made them dead crazy, and they never stayed alive for long after. But not a single human had ever come back from crossing the Devil’s Hand.
Mother told her not to frighten me with such nonsense, but she knew it was true. We lived as close as any human could to the heart of the African Desert, and everybody knows that the desert is about the most unearthly place on earth. If there were any creatures left in this world that would chill your blood, they’d all go the desert for privacy. That’s why nobody dares go near it. Only us, because father was an archaeologist, and he wanted dig sites to himself. He’d been telling us he was on to something big ever since we came there. He seemed so excited whenever he talked about it at dinner, but he never told us exactly what it was. “It’s a surprise,” he’d say. “You’ll find out soon enough, don’t you worry.”
That was when he disappeared.
* * * *
A small monkey chattered impatiently as Joanna Hardy rolled the window of the jeep up. It was no use now, as desert sand had already filled the car and infested her nose, eyes, and mouth. But her mysterious driver seemed nonchalant to both the heat and the sand. His dark African skin blended with the cruel desert climate, and either his headscarf shaded his eyes, or he had an uncanny lack of friendliness about him.
“Faraji, kalm,” Joanna commanded as the little monkey once more scrambled around her neck in his own form of excited pacing. “Hoeveel langer?” she asked the driver. “How much longer?”
“Not far. Five miles,” he responded. Joanna’s gaze returned to the road after she decided the driver was not in favor of conversation.
The scenery, or rather lack of it, had been the same for the last fifteen miles. Fields of tall savannah grass waved on either side of the road, and though her view stretched for miles on the flat landscape, trees were absolutely minimal. But something on the horizon caught Joanna’s eye. Her first thought was of an oasis. It was a patch of green surrounded by swaying willows and cottonwoods. As they drew closer, she could see a neat white mansion nestled in a thriving garden. Her subconscious noted that a thriving garden was rare in such harsh conditions, but her conscious self was brimming with excitement. The driver rolled into the paved driveway and Joanna hurriedly searched her bag for payment. She was pulling her suitcases from the back when the front door opened, and a young African man strode out to meet her, arms outstretched.
“Jojo, it has been too long,” he said. His tone was deep and calming and thick with an accent.
“Dabir,” she laughed as he smothered her in a hug. “You make it sound as if we haven’t seen each other for ten years.”
“What’s the difference?” he chuckled. Jo could have sworn the ground shook.
“Let me take your bags to the guest suite. Come, it is in the back.”
The door opened again, and a handsome adolescent flew down the front steps. He had messy black hair and looked American, for all Joanna could tell. Her suspicions were confirmed when he spoke in English with no trace of an accent.
“I’ll carry one, Dabir,” he offered. Dabir handed the teenager a bag as he addressed Joanna.
“This is Luke, the son of one of my colleagues.”
“Hi,” he said, smiling to Joanna. As Luke led the way to the guesthouse, Dabir turned to Joanna and talked in an undertone.
“Luke’s father was a professor of archaeology at Harvard and a very close friend of mine. We were working together on a project in India and he was killed in a cave-in. In his will, he stated that he wished me to take care of Luke should anything happen to him. The boy has no other close family that I know of, but I cannot imagine why he chose me. I have no children of my own, and I know nothing of raising them. But he is an extremely intelligent boy for his age. Already he is a skilled archaeologist.”
“Who was his father?” Joanna asked.
“Marshall Carrier,” said Dabir. The name was familiar to Joanna. She could recall a friend of her father’s with a similar name.
Dabir said no more as they entered the guesthouse. It was a small apartment with an entry hall leading to a living room in the back of the house. The bedroom and bathroom led off to the side of the hall, and a small kitchen was adjacent to the living room. Joanna inspected the view from the sliding glass doors as Luke and Dabir took her bags to the bedroom. She was looking out upon a backyard separated from the endless African savannah by a neat row of trees.
“It isn’t beautiful, but it’s home,” Dabir said as he returned to the living room.
“I’ve always thought it had it’s own mysterious beauty. When my father brought us here every summer, my sisters and I called it our ‘woestyn speelgrond.’”
“Desert playground. Very fitting.”
“We pretended that we were the queens of the savannahs and the animals were our subjects,” Joanna smiled. “It seems like centuries ago. I’d forgotten how much I love this place.”
“Well now you will have plenty of time to reminisce. The site is about five hours from here. We leave the day after tomorrow.”
“No rest for an archaeologist, is there?”
“Certainly not,” Dabir laughed. “I’ll leave you to get unpacked. Dinner is in an hour.”
