While not the strangest African settlement known to Ndakala, Marange certainly struck him as the most spiritual. There was a oneness with the land here that tightened the bond of his soul to the blood of his ancestors. Perhaps it was some ambient psychic resonance of the crystals in the cavern ceiling, but he certainly felt more belonging here in a place hitherto unknown than in the monotonously familiar Aldi at Cape Town. 

In addition to his connection to the soil, there was an abundance of individuals whose possessed, in his view, capabilities beyond those belied by a casual glance. How else would dirt and stone deftly morph into tunnels before his very eyes? Certainly, given what was before him, they lacked technological means to do so, thus their capabilities emerged from elsewhere. Moreover, the array of stone, metal, and fiber structures that loomed around him were clearly the product of imagination, not tools, not efficiency. That unsettled him far more than the vast amount of weaponry, most of it, he deduced by a brief survey of what was on proud display round about, pilfered from Xanathan, but some acquired through illicit trade.

[i]“Thank you for your hospitality, General Assad,”[/i] Ndakala said with deferential caution. 

His pretense of respect was dispelled by an acerbic chirp from the American woman, [i]“A hot meal would be hospitable.”[/i]

Appalled, particularly by how unimpressed she seemed by the environ, he was nevertheless use to such behavior from foreigners, and interjected, [i]“Miss Benson means she is grateful for the safety you provided. Were it not for you, Xanathan soldiers would have filled our bodies with bullets.”[/i]

Assad nodded sympathetically then frowned. It seemed as if guilt momentarily etched finely into the lines around his eyes. In a measured voice, he replied in Xhosa, [i]“I fear that, were it not for us, there would not have been danger for you to be in.”[/i] That said, his eased the jeep to a stop in front of a large structure built into the cavern wall, a protrusion of metal sculpted in the likeness of a close forest path comfortably illuminated by celadon photoluminescence. There, he switched to English, [i]“You will be well looked after, I assure you, but for the moment I must leave you two here in the care of another.”[/i]

He pointed to the opening.

Ndakala helped himself and the lady out of their transportation, which by then they were weary of. It felt good to stretch again. Miraculously, despite the many hours between here and Johannesburg, the lady’s parcel remained with her and undamaged—it was, after all, the same jeep in which they initially departed. On it was a cross that indicated medical supplies. What did she say it contained—vaccines? No doubt useful.
 
[i]“Makemba!”[/i] shouted Assad, then drove away without waiting for a response. He took their vehicle with him, but without opportunity or will to complain, Ndakala merely sighed while Lydia clutched wrapped her arms around herself in fearful irritation. Soon, a woman materialized in the archway and gestured with flour-covered hands for them to come inside.

[i]“Welcome,”[/i] Makemba warmly brought them into a room with a cozy fireplace girded by several chairs. [i]“What brings you to Marange?”[/i]

Lydia sat down and moaned, [i]“Fate! Terrible fate! I was at the seaport in Cape Town awaiting my journey home when all world travel was suddenly suspended. I heard over the radio in the executive lounge that Spain was gone—how does a country go missing? With no way off this accursed continent until God knows when, I decided to extend my trip and visit the children in Phalaborwa my charity provides for when we came across the most dreadful carnage on the road. I don’t want to think about the rest—it is all so horrid.”[/i]