The Kenyan Expedition

by Steve Stevenson

  “Guaranteed!” Agatha smiled. She hoped she was right.

  When the smaller boat moved into the Bright Star’s path, the ferry’s alarm horn sounded.

  TUUUUUUUUM!

  Some sailors leaned over the ship’s bow, signaling them to get out of the way. They called out to others working on board, but their cries were scattered by the sea breeze and the sound of the enormous engine.

  TUUUUUUUUM!

  Agatha recognized John McDuff’s mustachioed figure on board. Even though it was nowhere near teatime, he was standing on deck with a steaming cup, calmly munching a digestive biscuit. “It’s him!” she yelled to her cousin.

  The young detective used his EyeNet to call the Bright Star’s captain on his marine radio. Dash explained that the elderly trophy hunter had forgotten to bring his heart medication and was in grave danger.

  TUUUUUUUUM!

  “Yes, his wife Cordelia sent us!” cried Dash. “Ask him yourself, if you don’t believe me!”

  A tense minute passed as McDuff was joined by a ship’s officer. They exchanged words. The hunter squinted curiously at the small boat, where Chandler held the pill bottle aloft in his best English butler posture. McDuff nodded his assent to the officer, who turned his gaze to the navigation cabin and spoke into a radio.

  The captain offered no further communication with Dash, but the Bright Star’s engines stopped churning and a rope ladder was thrown over the side. Agatha and her companions climbed up on deck and were immediately surrounded by half the crew. The young beach boy turned his skiff and sped back to the dock.

  “What a reckless thing to do!” the captain raged at the group. “Couldn’t you have contacted us before we left the dock?”

  John McDuff stepped forward, his hunting cap in his hands. “These fine English people are friends,” he said in a gentlemanly tone. “If they’ve angered you, I shall accept full responsibility.”

  “Fine, McDuff,” replied the captain. “Get it over with, then. We need to keep going.”

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to return to port,” Dash said, grinning strangely.

  Agatha elbowed him in the ribs to make him stop smiling. As the crew returned to their posts, she gave the pill bottle to John McDuff, along with a sharp rebuke. “Your wife is very angry. You promised her you wouldn’t go on any more dangerous hunts!”

  “I know, I know. I’ve resisted the temptation for years,” he apologized. “But I received such an enticing request that I couldn’t resist the call of adventure.”

  “We know you were employed by the prince,” said Dash. “Where is the white giraffe?”

  The gentleman looked as if he could be knocked over with a feather. “But how on earth . . . ?” he stammered. “Did Cordelia . . . ?”

  “We’ve brought you your heart medication,” Agatha interrupted. “And in exchange we want you to free an endangered and sacred animal!”

  McDuff looked confused. Agatha outlined their meeting with the Masai oloibon and all that had happened until their pursuit of the ferry. When she finished, McDuff leaned against the railing, visibly shaken. “We must rectify this embarrassing situation at once,” he declared solemnly.

  He summoned his three assistants, spoke a few sentences in Swahili, and sent them to take a message to the captain. Then he led the group down to the hold, where they were keeping Hwanka. As they descended belowdecks, the elderly man smoothed his handlebar mustache and said, “I only accepted the job on the condition that the white giraffe would be transported safely and no one would harm the fine fellow!”

  Agatha was happy to hear it. She suspected that John McDuff was a good-hearted person underneath all his bluster. His only weakness was an unbridled passion for hunting big game, a remnant of the days before it was illegal. Now, however, he seemed to regret his actions, particularly because of the distress it had caused the Masai tribe.

  “Here is our lovely friend,” he said, eyes full of joy. “He’s a capital fellow.” They’d set up an enormous cage in the hold; the giraffe had room to move around, drink from a large dish, and eat acacia leaves dangling from a tall tree-like stake.

  Agatha and Dash moved closer to pet Hwanka’s astonishing milk-white coat, and told McDuff they would need to release him in the Masai Mara as soon as possible. He informed them that the ferry was already heading back to Mombasa.

  With deep sighs of relief and exhaustion, Agatha, Dash, and Chandler leaned against Hwanka’s cage, while McDuff went to phone his wife and assure her that he had survived.

  It was over!

  “Why didn’t you ask me to contact the ferry before it set sail?” Dash asked Agatha. “We could have saved ourselves all this trouble!”

  “Too risky. If they’d known in advance, they would have had time to change plans,” Agatha explained.

  Just then, the horn sounded and they realized that the Bright Star had arrived at Mombasa’s port. McDuff led them back up on deck, where they stood to admire the enchanting harbor, surrounded by white sandy beaches and crystalline waters. Before docking, they tried to reach Haida on her cell phone. As often happened in Kenya, the call wouldn’t connect, and they had to send a text message with their happy news.

  “I caused this frightful mess, so now I must set it to rights,” declared McDuff as the giraffe’s cage was winched off the boat and lowered safely back onto the dock. “We shall head back to the Masai Mara, and within days, young Hwanka will rejoin his herd.”

  “And who’s going to tell Prince Husam Fadil Sayad?” asked Dash.

  “That’s my job as well!” the elderly hunter promised, thumping his chest.

  Suddenly, Patrick Lemonde burst onto the scene pointing a rifle. “That’s not the way it’s going to go, McDuff!” he cried menacingly.

  The sailors scattered, leaving only the trio of Londoners and the elderly hunter to face the gun-toting anthropologist.

  Patrick Lemonde began to speak. “That giraffe is going right back on the boat,” he ordered. “He’s worth millions of dollars and I’m not about to lose it because this old man got sentimental!”

  “But who are you?” asked McDuff, flabbergasted.

  Agatha clenched her fist. “I suspected that you were the one who told the prince about the white giraffe. You betrayed the Masai tribe and your colleague, Annette, and you tried to sabotage our operation,” she said in one long breath. “That’s right, isn’t it, Patrick?”

  “You guessed it, brat.” He sneered.

  “I realized someone had loosened the Land Rover’s tailgate before the rain started,” Agatha continued. “Then, in the confusion, you planted a nail in the Land Rover’s tire, and later on, you drilled a hole in the biplane’s fuel tank.”

  “Excellent summary,” Patrick said with contempt. “But you’re forgetting one thing!”

  “What’s that?” asked the girl.

  “Don’t you recognize this? It’s Haida’s rifle. I’ve tied her up inside the Land Rover,” he growled. “You wouldn’t want your brave cousin to meet a nasty end, would you?”

  Agatha expected Chandler, who still had a boxer’s powerful right hook, to knock the man flat, but it was someone else who put an end to Lemonde’s threats.

  Hwanka silently lowered his long neck and plucked the gun from the man’s hands with his rough tongue. The second he was disarmed, Patrick was immobilized in the butler’s iron grip.

  “How does that feel?” Dash taunted him. “You’ll get your own cage soon enough.”

  The sailors had summoned the harbor police, and Patrick Lemonde accepted defeat. He told them where he had parked the Land Rover, and two of the officers went to free Haida.

  Meanwhile, Agatha asked everyone to listen as Lemonde explained his motives.

  “When I discovered that Prince Husam Fadil Sayad collected rare animals,” he began, “I couldn’t resist te
mptation. He’s a billionaire, and I asked for a pile of money in exchange for a live white giraffe. I used McDuff as an intermediary without revealing my identity. I knew he’d respond to a hunting challenge, so I took advantage of his weakness—”

  “I didn’t do it for the money,” the hunter interrupted indignantly.

  Agatha shushed him. “Go on,” she urged Lemonde.

  “You see, when McDuff captured Hwanka, I let Annette convince the oloibon to call Eye International to solve the investigation, so she wouldn’t suspect I was in on it. And I steered her to a London office to buy us some time. I never imagined I’d end up with these young busybodies getting in my way!”

  Agatha gave a sly smile. “It was a grave mistake to underestimate the Agent DM14’s mastermind skills,” she said happily. “Case closed, everyone!”

  Three days later, Hwanka was released back into the wild from which he’d been stolen. Before rejoining his herd, the white giraffe turned toward the small group of well-wishers and bobbed his head as if to thank them.

  John McDuff and his wife, Cordelia, stood by hand-in-hand, visibly moved as they watched the giraffe walk away with halting grace until he disappeared among the acacias.

  “It’s up to you, now, young chap!” the elderly hunter exclaimed with pride. “Go back to the river and your Masai friends and we’ll trust that everything will right itself!”

  And so it did.

  Agatha and her friends crossed the open savanna on foot under Haida’s safe guidance. They’d already given Annette Vaudeville the news, and the anthropologist had been furious, not just because of the heinous crime leading to Patrick Lemonde’s arrest, but because her colleague had fooled her for so long and she hadn’t suspected at all. But peace in the tribe was the most important thing, so she decided to tell the tribal elders simply that Hwanka had gotten lost in the dangerous highlands and had now safely returned.

  It was the best solution for everybody.

  The oloibon decided to invite the foreigners who’d found the white giraffe to their village, and organized a big celebration.

  Feeling serene, the group continued to walk across the majestic wild grasslands of Africa in silence.

  “Do you know the meaning of the word safari, dear cousin?” Agatha asked Dash, winking at Haida.

  “What kind of question is that? Piece of cake!” snorted Dash. “Everyone knows it means hunting big game with a gun or a camera!”

  “Nope!” replied Agatha.

  “Ah . . .” Dash paused. “Well then . . . maybe it refers to observing wild animals in their native habitat?”

  “Wrong again!” Agatha retorted with a smile. “Haida, do you want to tell him?”

  Their cousin nodded solemnly, stopping in the middle of the tall grass and gesturing widely with her arms. “Safari means ‘journey,’” she said in a reverent whisper. “A journey without limits or destination. A journey that lasts a lifetime and beyond.”

  These heartfelt, profound words filled everyone with a sense of great peace, as though they were connected to all of the great mysteries of the universe.

  Agatha started walking again. “And now let’s go celebrate!” she said happily.

  It was another hour before they finally spied the remote village. It was arranged in a circle, with a wall of sharp branches and thorny shrubs as protection. There was a ring of huts inside, and an enclosure at the center for goats, long-horned cattle, and oxen, the herdsmen’s pride.

  Being invited inside the gates of this deeply traditional community was an honor they’d never forget.

  It was rumored that the white giraffe had already visited the river, spreading good fortune of all sorts, and the Masai warriors who had looked so stern with their spears now greeted the group with friendly smiles.

  Annette told them the whole village was ready to celebrate their hard work. There was only one thing left to do before the festivities could begin . . .

  The three Londoners and Haida were taken separately into low, straw-roofed huts, their wooden frames walled with woven dried grasses and mud. When they emerged, they exchanged glances. They could almost have been mistaken for members of the tribe in their red tunics and adornments of silver and beads. The village elders gathered around their guests and began to speak in their language.

  “What are they saying?” Dash whispered.

  “They’re giving each of you a Masai name,” Annette replied. The anthropologist smiled wryly every time the oloibon announced a new nickname. She translated for the guests. “Agatha, they’re calling you ‘Yellow Butterfly,’” she said with a nod. “Haida is ‘Kind Panther,’ and for Chandler they’ve chosen ‘Thoughtful Hippopotamus.’”

  “HAHAHAHAHA!” Dash doubled over with laughter. “Thoughtful Hippopotamus!”

  Silence fell over the village as everyone stared at the young detective, affronted. The elders decided to change the name they had given him as a punishment.

  “What?” Dash grumbled as they were escorted to the large hut where the feast would take place. “I don’t want to be ‘Crazy Baboon’! I don’t deserve it!”

  Chandler simply raised an eyebrow in reply. Agatha sat on a straw mat, thanking the elders respectfully. “Dash, I recommend that you don’t make another scene, and politely accept what they’ve chosen to call you,” she whispered. “I promise I won’t write it down.”

  “You’d better not! I’ll have perfect manners from now on,” he promised as he reached both hands for the bowl he had been offered. It looked like it was full of chocolate milk and he gulped it down in one swallow. The rich, savory taste reminded him of something he couldn’t quite place. Then he felt a sudden burst of energy shoot through every part of his skinny frame.

  Just at that moment, his EyeNet beeped with a message from his professor, congratulating Agent DM14 on another successful mission.

  Dash was thrilled. He quickly finished his meal, then ran out to dance with the Masai. He was bounding around like a gazelle, jumping higher each time, beside himself with joy. Around him, the warriors clapped their hands, laughing louder than ever at his antics.

  “I’m the village celebrity!” shouted Dash, turning to his companions as they came to join him in the clearing of hard-packed red earth. “I’m dancing with the stars!”

  Agatha smiled. She whispered to Haida and Chandler, “If Dash only knew what he just drank, he wouldn’t be so quick to gloat!”

  “Why? What was in the bowl, Miss?” Chandler asked.

  “A concoction of goat milk and ox blood,” Agatha laughed. “It’s very nutritious, but you know how finicky Dash is!”

  “I’m not gonna tell him,” said Haida, laughing.

  Dash waved his arms, urging Yellow Butterfly, Kind Panther, and Thoughtful Hippopotamus to join the circle of dancers. He continued to spin and jump until late in the night, when bonfires were lit and the savanna echoed with the timeless rhythms of African drumming.

  For a long time after that night, everyone in the village told stories of Crazy Baboon, the funny, energetic, terrible dancer who dreamed of becoming the greatest detective in the whole world.

  Dashiell Mistery was fried. While all his friends were hanging out in London parks, enjoying their freedom from school, his summer vacation had not even begun. In fact, Dash was starting to think this might be the year when he wouldn’t get any vacation at all. Ever since he had enrolled at the prestigious Eye International Detective Academy, he’d been sent all over the world on daredevil investigations.

  This time, though, his exhaustion was not the result of a top secret mission. A lanky, lazy teenage boy who loved staying up late, Dash didn’t have a clue what he was getting himself into when he signed up for an intensive summer martial-arts class offered by his school.

  On this Saturday morning, his muscles and bones ached. Dash dragged his stiff legs out of bed, microwaved three chocolate-chi
p pancakes, and shoveled them into his mouth. Then he hoisted his backpack onto his shoulder and left his mom’s penthouse apartment at Baker Palace. It was still early, and the city sidewalks were almost deserted. Dash trudged to the nearest Underground station and sprawled across two empty seats on the short ride to his destination.

  The martial-arts dojo was right in the center of London, neatly hidden among tall brick buildings. Dash knocked on a large wooden door decorated with Japanese calligraphy. An ancient Japanese man swung it open. He had white hair and a drooping mustache, and was wrapped in a monk’s cloak.

  “Good morning, Lazy Squirrel,” Sensei Miyazaki greeted Dash with a knowing smile. “Are you ready for your training?”

  Dash grunted. Snarling, he crossed the Zen garden to the wooden pagoda where classes were held. Lazy Squirrel? What a ridiculous name! Not to mention the cheesy metaphors his teacher was always using to explain martial-arts fundamentals. Dash had signed up for the class because he’d always dreamed of inflicting lightning-fast strikes like Bruce Lee, coolly dodging bad guys like James Bond, and launching himself into acrobatic moves like the heroes of The Matrix. But through all the weeks of exercise, he hadn’t learned anything even close to that cool.

  While Sensei Miyazaki waited under the pagoda with his arms folded, Dash pulled his white uniform gi from his backpack, slowly put it on, and walked barefoot to a large stone in the middle of the garden.

  “Ready when you are, Professor . . . um, Sensei,” he mumbled. “Same deal, right? I have to . . . what, free my monkey mind from negative thoughts?”

  “Black clouds always bring on a storm,” the old monk intoned. Then he rotated his palms in the air, closed his eyes, and tilted his chin upward. “Now breathe . . . breathe . . . ,” he said.

  “How long do I have to . . . um . . . breathe, breathe?” Dash asked, gulping oxygen.

  “Until your skies are calm, Lazy Squirrel,” the teacher replied. Then he disappeared inside the pagoda.