The Winter Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  "Seamie, we've worked too hard--"

  He angrily cut her off. "Your bones are sticking out of your skin and all you're worried about are the bloody photographs? Do you understand that you will die if we don't get you to a doctor?"

  "One plate," she said. "Please. Just one. I'll leave my boots here. And my belt. To cut the weight."

  They'd argued bitterly until finally it was decided that they'd bring one plate, Willa's notebook, a canteen of water, a compass, money, and the rifle. They would pack the other photographic plates in her pack, their books in his, then wrap it all up--together with their valuable instruments--in the canvas tent and shelter it all in the overhang of a nearby boulder in the hope of returning and collecting it.

  Seamie had filled the canteen then. He'd stuffed what little dried meat and cheese they had left into the pockets of his jacket. He stashed their gear, then used a length of climbing rope to fashion a sling that would allow him to take Willa's weight on his back. He could see that she was already weak. She wouldn't be able to hang on by herself the entire way. Then he'd had to do what he was dreading most--deal with her leg.

  "We have to do something," he'd said. "We can't leave it as it is, just hanging. It'll bounce with every step. Catch in the undergrowth when we reach the forest."

  Willa hadn't hesitated. "Pull it straight and splint it," she said.

  "It's going to hurt."

  "I've no choice."

  He gave her a bit of rope to bite on, braced her knee, and pulled her damaged leg. She arched her body; her fingers clawed at the dirt. The leg straightened some, but the jagged bones still protruded. He didn't know what else to do, so he wrapped the wound with a length of cloth he'd torn from his shirt, then splinted it with covers he'd ripped off one of their books.

  "Are you ready?" he asked.

  Willa, still panting from the pain, said, "Are you?"

  He nodded, got her up and into the sling, and they were off. He climbed down as far south as he dared to get them below the peaks and into easier terrain, then he headed northeast. His plan was to get to Tsavo--a station on the Uganda line--and take the train from there to Mombasa.

  Tsavo was about eighty miles from their camp. Seamie knew he could have made twenty miles a day on flat, easy terrain. But the trek ahead of him was neither flat nor easy and he was carrying Willa.

  Maybe if we're lucky, he'd thought, we'll come across a village where we can hire men to help us. If we're really lucky, we'll stumble across a plantation with oxen and wagons. But they weren't lucky. They'd found no villages, seen no people. It had rained two days straight, drenching them. Their food had run out. They'd found a stream on the third day and filled the canteen, but it was low again and Willa, half-delirious with fever, needed to drink.

  As he plodded on now, his back aching, his legs like pillars of lead, he wondered if he'd miscalculated the distance. Had he turned too far south when they'd gotten off the mountain? If so, they'd miss the railway completely and it would be another seventy miles--at least--to the coast. They'd never make it.

  "We can't be far," he said out loud, to comfort himself as well as Willa. "We just can't be. I'm not the world's best navigator, but I can't have taken us too wildly wrong. And even if I've gone too far north and we miss Tsavo, we'll hit something. Bound to. Kenani station, maybe, or Mtoto Andei. We're going to get there, Wills. You're going to be all right."

  There was barely a response from Willa, just a few mumbled words. He was about to start up yet another hill when he heard a long, loud whistle. Way off in the distance.

  "Willa!" he shouted. "Did you hear that? It's the train! The tracks must be just beyond that hill."

  If he could get to them, he could try to flag the train down. Get the engineer to stop it. And if he couldn't, they'd have to spend another night walking, trying to find the nearest station, but Willa didn't have another night.

  "Wills?" he called out.

  There was no answer.

  "Willa, wake up."

  "No more, Seamie, please..." she whispered.

  "I'm going to put you down now," he said, lowering her into the grass. He put the rifle near her, in case of animals, and the canteen. "There's a train coming. I hear it. The tracks have to be close. I'm going to make a run for them." Her head was lolling; her eyes were fluttering closed. He dug his fingers cruelly into her shoulders and shouted at her. "Willa, wake up! You've got to stay awake."

  And then he ran. As soon as he was over the hill, he saw them--the tracks. They were about a quarter of a mile away. He saw the train next. It was small and black in the distance, trailing a plume of smoke. It was heading west, not toward Mombasa, but Nairobi, and it was moving fast.

  Seamie tore down the hill. He stumbled at the bottom, righted himself, and then ran faster and harder than he'd ever run in his life. The long plains grass whirled around his legs and snarled his steps. He ploughed through it, heedless, stumbling again and again. The tracks were coming closer. Only a hundred yards, then twenty, and then he was on them.

  The train was coming on fast. It was only a mile away at the most. He stood on the tracks, jumping and waving, shouting at it to stop. He took off what was left of his shirt and waved it over his head. But the train kept coming.

  "Stop, you bastard!" he screamed at it. "Stop!"

  But it didn't, it barrelled toward him, whistle shrieking. He jumped clear of the tracks at the last possible second.

  "No! Goddamn you! No!" he cried, watching as it sped past him.

  It was leaving and taking Willa's last chance with it.

  But then he realized it was slowing, ever so slightly. He heard the brakes screeching. He saw faces, some puzzled, some worried, looking at him from the windows.

  It's stopping, he thought. It's stopping! Oh, thank God!

  He started running again, desperate to catch up to the engine, but a conductor hailed him from one of the passenger cars.

  "Please!" Seamie cried, when he reached him. "You've got to help us. My friend's badly injured. She's just over the hill. We have to get on. I have to get her to a doctor. Please..."

  The train stopped dead. Giant whuffs of steam came out from under it. The conductor hopped down. "Hold on, son, I can barely hear you. What's happened?"

  Seamie explained. He said he'd been trying to get to Mombasa and asked if there was a doctor at Nairobi. The conductor said there was. He said he'd hold the train and asked Seamie if he needed help fetching his friend. Seamie said he did and the conductor shouted for the stoker.

  Weak with relief, Seamie turned to point to where he'd left Willa, and that was when he heard it--sharp and unmistakable--the sound of a single gunshot.

  Chapter 106

  "It was the McGregors' stallion that was here around lunchtime, I'm sure of it. Joshua, he's called." Maggie shaded her eyes with her hand. "Reckon it was that lovely Mrs. Lytton. Saw her out yesterday, too, but she was riding the mare then."

  Sid knew Maggie wanted a reaction from him. He didn't give her one; he just kept hoeing. The sun was low over the horizon. Wainaina and the other Kikuyu women had gone home an hour ago, but he was still at it. He'd gone out into the fields at daybreak and hadn't stopped, not even in the blistering noon sun. He welcomed the pain in his hands and arms and back. It blocked out the pain in his heart.

  "I know she came by, Sid. I know she spoke to you," Maggie said, fingering a clutch of coffee berries. "Baaru told me. Were you ever going to tell me?"

  "No."

  "What happened?"

  "Nothing."

  "Nothing? How'd you get that mark on your face, then?"

  Sid drove his hoe into the ground viciously, irritated by Maggie's meddling. She'd come out to the north field to look at the plants, she'd said. He doubted that. She'd come out to the north field to needle him.

  "We had words, all right? She belted me," he finally said, hoping the admission would satisfy her.

  "Did she? Well, I imagine you deserved it. Probably were horrible to her." S
he paused, then said, "My eyes aren't as good as they used to be, but I could swear whoever was riding Joshua earlier was wearing trousers. Can't be Mrs. McGregor. She always wears a skirt. Mr. McGregor barely rides at all. Too tall to be one of the boys. There's no one else there. Must be that Mrs. Lytton wears breeches when no one's looking." She sighed. "Poor woman. Always alone. Just like you."

  "I like my own company," Sid said.

  Maggie moved off down a row of bushes--sampling berries, checking leaves, pinching off shoots here and there. She wasn't finished with him, he knew that. He could feel her eyes on him. She had more to say and when she worked her way back to where he was, she said it.

  "You coming in for supper? Alice is roasting a haunch of that gazelle you bagged."

  "I'm going to keep hoeing for a bit."

  "Are you?"

  "Aye."

  "It's angry work, hoeing."

  "Bloody hell. Here we go."

  "Tell me, Sid. Who are you angry at? Mrs. Lytton? Or yourself?"

  "I'm not angry at anyone, Maggie," Sid said, working to keep his voice even. "I'm just trying to keep the plants healthy. So we get a good harvest. You do want a good harvest?"

  "You've been at it since five this morning. It's seven now. That's fourteen hours. You had no dinner. I checked. Your clothes are soaked with sweat and your hands are torn to bits."

  "My hands are fine. I've a few blisters is all."

  "Still doing penance, eh?" Maggie asked. "Still looking for forgiveness?"

  Maggie's words hit home. "For Christ's sake, leave me alone!" he snapped. "I don't need to be forgiven. I'm only getting what I deserve. No more. No less."

  But Maggie had no intention of leaving him alone. "Who are you to say what any of us deserves?" she snapped right back. "Are your sins so much worse than everyone else's? Your soul beyond redemption? What sets you so far apart from the rest of us?"

  "You don't know what I've done. You don't know what I was."

  "No, I don't. I know what I've done, though. And what I was."

  "Rob banks, did you, Maggs? Steal from people? Break heads?" he asked acidly.

  "No."

  "Didn't think so."

  "I killed a man. My husband."

  Sid stopped hoeing. He straightened. He'd worked for Maggie for six years, yet he could count on one hand the number of times she'd mentioned her husband.

  "Sam, his name was," she said. "Samuel Edward Carr. We had two children. A boy of four named Andrew. And a two-year-old girl, Mary. We were in Australia before we came here. And in Devon before that. I loved it there. Would have stayed forever, but Sam was restless. He wanted land. Open spaces. So we sold our place, packed up the kiddies, and set out. Bought five hundred acres of ranch land in New South Wales. Planned to raise sheep..."

  Her voice trailed off. Her eyes were far away, seeing things he couldn't see, things from long ago. "What happened?" he asked quietly.

  "The dusk was coming on one night. Just like it is now. Our house wasn't built all the way yet. We were still living in a tent. We'd finished our supper. I collected the dishes and went to wash them in the stream. Usually I took the children with me, but Andy had twisted his ankle and I didn't want him hobbling after me. I asked Sam to keep an eye on them while I was gone. We had an open fire by the tent, you see, and I didn't want the children near it. I shouldn't have done that. I should never have done that. Sam wasn't used to minding small children. He had no idea how easily distracted they are.

  "Just after I left, our dog started barking. We had a few sheep in a pen and some hens in a makeshift henhouse. Sam was always worried about the dingoes--they'd carried off a lamb and some hens--so he went to check on the animals. He told Andy to watch his sister. I'd just finished the washing up when I heard the screaming. I dropped everything and ran. It was almost dark then and I saw my children. Their clothes were in flames. They were running. Trying to escape it. They didn't know not to. Sam got to Mary. I got Andy. We rolled them into the dirt to put the flames out."

  Maggie stopped talking suddenly and it was a good long minute before she could continue. Sid couldn't imagine what was going through her head--the memories, the images.

  "Mary kept screaming," she finally said. "Right to the end. Andy took longer. He hung on for almost a day. He didn't scream. Just moaned. He told us he'd tried to keep her from the fire, but she'd gotten too close and her dress had caught. He'd tried to put it out, but his own clothes caught. I couldn't hold him as he died. Couldn't even touch him. His skin was gone. He kept saying, �I'm sorry, Mummy. I'm sorry...' "

  "What happened then?"

  "We buried them. Sam wanted to stay. We couldn't, though. I burned the house to the ground. Wanted to throw myself into the fire, but Sam caught me and held me down. He sold the animals and our land. Didn't get much. He brought me here. It was the only place we could go, really. He'd heard the government was looking for settlers. That they were leasing land cheap. Five years later he was dead. Because of me. Because I couldn't forgive him. I blamed him for our children's deaths. I couldn't let go of my rage. My grief. We lived together and yet we were totally apart. There was no warmth. No kindness. He used to look at me across the table, you know. Or out in the fields. His eyes always asking me ...pleading. There was so much pain in those eyes. It killed him, finally. He was a good man. He deserved forgiveness, but I couldn't give it to him. It would have meant forgiving myself, you see."

  Maggie stopped talking. She seemed to him to have aged a hundred years in the last few minutes. He saw that it had cost her dearly to tell him these things. Finally, she said, "It's getting on. I'm going to head back to the house."

  The dusk had settled now. It would be dark soon. She always insisted on being in the house before dark. Now he knew why.

  "I'll have Alice keep your plate warm," she said. Never had her voice sounded so old, so weary.

  "Maggie, I..." he began, searching for something, anything, to say to her.

  She laid a gentle hand on his arm. "You want to be forgiven, Sid?" she asked softly. "Then learn to forgive."

  Chapter 107

  India stared at the plains of Thika for the last time. They were leaving tomorrow, she and Freddie and Charlotte. She wouldn't be seeing this place again. She had ridden out here every morning for the past few days. She wanted to impress the place upon her memory--the way the grass moved in the breeze, the scudding clouds, the distant hills. She wanted to be able to remember it, because it was where Sid Malone lived.

  Seeing him again had devastated her. She was not able to eat. She barely slept. She felt disoriented, unreal, as if she were moving in a dream. The world, once solid under her feet, was solid no longer. Despair engulfed her. For herself, and what she had lost so unnecessarily. For Charlotte, because her real father was alive, but she would never know him. And for Sid, because he would never know his beautiful daughter.

  She moved woodenly through her days, wondering at the cruelty of the gods. How could they take Sid from her once, only to do it again? How could Charlotte grow up under the cold eye of a man who despised her instead of in the arms of a father who loved her? How could she, India, live, day after day, year after year, with a vision of what might have been and the unbearable knowledge of what was?

  She was seated on the McGregors' mare, still gazing toward the Carr farm, when she saw a horse and rider leave the farm. She figured it was Maggie on her way to a neighbor's. But the rider turned out of the drive and headed toward her, getting closer and closer, never veering, and India realized, with a cold dread, that it was Sid. Why was he coming to her? Did he know it was her? Or did he think she was someone else?

  Panic-stricken, not wanting to face his anger a second time, she touched her heels to her horse, turning the animal toward the McGregors'.

  "India!" he bellowed from behind her. "India, wait!"

  She wanted to stop, wanted to answer him, but she was afraid. Instead, she dug her heels in harder, spurring her horse to a gallop. But Sid's
horse was faster and in only a few seconds he was alongside her.

  "Stop!" he shouted.

  "No!" she shouted back.

  "Please, India!"

  Finally, she did.

  "I thought it was you," Sid said, as the horses slowed to a walk. "Well... Maggie said it was. She said you ride out here every day."

  "I did. I do," she said quickly. "I mean ...I won't anymore. We're leaving soon and I--"

  "Look," he said, cutting her off. "I'm sorry about the other night. I was awful to you. I shouldn't have shouted at you and I shouldn't have ...oh, sod it... it's no good, this. Why did you come to Maggie's, India? Why?"

  "I didn't mean to!" she cried. "I'm sorry. How did I know Sid Baxter was you? You can't blame me for that. I had no idea."