by Julia Ember
I rolled my eyes and went to pick up the canister. Tucking the powder into my pack, I waded through the swamp and back into camp. It was dark now, and most of the guests gathered at the central bonfire, listening to Tumelo tell stories or playing cards with each other. I yawned. Sometimes I liked to join them—I was a wizard at cards and loved winning money from the tourists—but today the call of my bed was stronger.
But as I passed Mr. Harving’s hut, I heard raised voices. I looked down at the can, knowing I should walk past, but instead I edged closer, hovering at the back of the hut.
“Have you even written to Timothy during the whole trip?” Mr. Harving’s voice demanded.
“Of course not,” Kara shot back. “We’re both happy to just pretend the other doesn’t exist for a few more years at least.”
“That’s not true. He wrote to you. We got the letter in Ekwaga.”
“His mother wrote it, and you know it. The handwritings were different! One person wrote the letter, and someone else signed it.”
“I’m sure that’s not true—”
“It is and you saw it! Just let us ignore each other. We like it that way. And it’s my engagement to manage, not yours. Stop trying to manage me.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes you are! You and Timothy’s mother keep trying to push us closer. It’s like the two of you sat down and plotted the whole thing out. Letters we didn’t write. Presents we didn’t send. It’s all so fake.”
Mr. Harving heaved a deep sigh. “Kara, we’ve been over this. You know I’d change it if I could, but it’s the law. So let’s just make the best of the situation, right? When your mother and I—”
“I know, I know. When you and Mother got engaged you couldn’t stand each other, but you built an enduring relationship based on respect and communication… blah blah blah. You still didn’t love her, even when she died.”
“That’s not fair.” Mr. Harving’s voice took on a raw edge. “I cared for your mother.”
“Care is different than love,” Kara snapped. “Just leave me alone about Timothy, all right? When the time comes, I’ll do what I have to. Until then just let me forget he’s alive.”
I heard light footsteps as Kara moved across the hut. Fearing she might emerge at any second and see that I’d overheard, I tiptoed quickly around the rear of the hut, sprinting back to camp before she could catch me.
WHEN I awoke the next morning, Tumelo stood over my bed. In one hand he held a steaming cup of black coffee. In the other he gripped the first of his morning cigars. Without bothering to lean down, he prodded my arm with the sole of his shoe. I sat up and peered out through the flap. Sunlight poured into the hut. I wondered how long I’d been asleep.
“Why are you here?” I asked, rubbing my eyes. “Bi Trembla won’t let Mr. Harving go on rides until tomorrow, and Kara and I agreed we would stay at the camp today. I’m not taking another group out the first chance I’ve had to rest.”
“It’s past noon,” he said, forcing his coffee into my hand so he could throw a green linen shirt to me. “Both Harvings are in my office. We’re all waiting on you.”
My stomach churned. I took a sip of his coffee, trying to stay calm. I’d snuck away out of fear without listening to the rest of the Harvings’ conversation. What had Kara said to her father about us?
“For what?” I squeaked.
Tumelo blew cigar smoke in my face. “It seems Miss Harving has told her father about your unicorn-tracking activities. He’s awake, and for whatever reason, he’s decided to go along with this insane information-gathering plan of yours.”
“Will you? We need both of you.”
Coughing into his sleeve, Tumelo yanked his coffee back and washed down the cigar with a long drink. “I haven’t decided anything yet. Get dressed and come to my office. I’ll hear your case.”
He marched out of the tent, coughing so hard it sounded as if one of his lungs might erupt. I pushed the shirt onto the floor and instead reached for the paper wrappings containing the dress Mrs. Dyer had left for me. I felt a long-dead yearning to look traditional, elegant. When I slid it on, the dress hugged my figure, a fraction tighter at the hip than fashion suggested, tying simply at the side with a set of golden strings. I smoothed the turquoise fabric down and slipped my feet into my sandals. The swish of loose material around my calves felt foreign yet familiar, like a memory retold by someone else.
Both Harvings grazed from a breakfast tray heaped with fresh fruit and bread when I entered Tumelo’s office. Kara’s eyes swept up my dress with appreciation. Behind her father’s back, she winked at me.
Tumelo just smirked, arms crossed over his chest. “Here she is, at last,” he said. “Took your sweet time, huh, princess?”
I shot him a dirty look, still too groggy to form a real retort.
Mr. Harving had lost weight. Now that I saw him sitting upright, rather than buried under rugs and blankets, I could tell how much smaller he looked. His collarbones protruded, and both cheeks looked hollowed. Now, he tried to make up for it, making sandwiches out of the bread and fruit in order to shovel more food into his weakened body. Watching him eat, I couldn’t help the pang of sadness that hit me. He’d be up and on a horse by tomorrow, and my time alone with Kara would be over.
I pulled a chair from the side of the hut and sat down next to them, helping myself to some of the breakfast. Tumelo touched nothing. Despite his bulk, Tumelo usually only ate once a day. He gorged himself to capacity on Bi Trembla’s elaborate evening meals and ran off the energy for the whole of the next day.
Today he breakfasted on yet another cup of black coffee. Before I left home, Mama always used to say that Tumelo’s body rotted from the inside out, fresh complexion concealing the old man who lived under his skin.
Mr. Harving swallowed down his food and cleared his throat. “My daughter finally saw fit to tell me what the two of you have been sneaking around looking for. I have to say, I was shocked that you girls would attempt something so dangerous on your own. But after Kara explained to me what you saw with that stallion… well, after all our hard work, to hear about such magnificent creatures mutilated in such a way… of course you have my assistance.” He looked at me out of the corner of his eye and grinned. “Just don’t put me on another horse that will dump me in a bush.”
We all looked to Tumelo.
My cousin calmly lit another cigar, taking his time in the typical Nazwimbe way. He put his feet up on the table. Both Harvings winced in distaste. “Let me make sure I understand you. You want us to pose as dealers. Dealers of what? What are we selling?”
“Materials,” I said, through gritted teeth. He always had to be difficult. “I don’t know, Tumelo. We didn’t have any trouble before. Metals, probably. What else would they need from Echalend?”
“You want me to sell something when I don’t know what it is?”
“Nobody is asking you to sell anything! You go in, you survey, you ask questions. And while you distract them, Kara and I will steal the moonstone.”
“Steal the moonstone,” Tumelo echoed. “And do what then? Bring it here? Forget about everything we’ve seen?”
“No,” Kara said. “Of course not. Mnemba said we might write to her father—”
“Ah yes.” Tumelo reclined in his chair. “Write to her father, which will take a week. Another week while he alerts the General. Another still, while the General plans what to do about it…. In this time, these men could figure everything out. They could come here. They could torch this camp or enslave us.”
“Enslave us?” Mr. Harving spluttered, pushing the tray aside to glare at Tumelo. “My daughter and I are high-ranking members of our realm….”
Tumelo raised an eyebrow. “Do you think they care?”
I was starting to see what he was after. For Tumelo, the safety of his investments and his own person came before everything. And for me, this camp was my home. He had a point. We had to protect it. “We will steal the moonstone so they
can’t get any more unicorns. The sight of a newly captive unicorn terrifies people. You know it does. You know our stories. If you help us now, I will ride directly to my father for his help. No letters.”
He stroked his chin, thinking.
I pressed on. “And, think about it. If all the unicorns are gone, and they expand this shantytown of tents out here, how much longer will you have custom? What are they planning to bring in on the iron road? If it’s being done here, without the General’s knowledge, it won’t be anything you want near your business.”
Tumelo sighed, swinging his feet off the table. Seeing him prepare to get up, I knew I’d won. “I still don’t like it,” he said. “They’ll ask us questions, and we’ll have no answers to give them. We shouldn’t underestimate any man who can figure out how to make slaves of unicorns. You know the legends, Mnemba.”
Mr. Harving tapped the table to interrupt us. “On this, I have to agree with Mr. Nzeogwu. We have to have backstory. It’s a miracle you girls got through without being caught, and probably because you didn’t speak to the man in charge. Let’s evaluate what we know.”
He took a breath, and I saw a scientist’s mind at work, cataloging the situation like one of his research notebooks. “They are getting materials not native to Nazwimbe and labor from somewhere. We know how they get the unicorns. Men from Echalend can’t provide them with labor. There is no official slave market here. I will go to offer them metals, and Tumelo must provide labor.”
“You want Tumelo to pretend to be a slaver?” I demanded. People who enslaved their own were the lowest of the low. I wasn’t sure even Tumelo could pull off that role. “It’s illegal. And those who sell abroad are scum. Everyone hates them.”
A smile spread over Tumelo’s face, and he sat up straighter. “No, I can be a chief.”
FOR THE first time I could remember, Bi Trembla looked afraid. She crouched low to the ground, stitching gold thread into the hem of Tumelo’s robes while he stood like a statue. Her fingers shook as she pulled the needle through the fabric. I expected her to scold us for our rash stupidity, but she said nothing. Her eyes were fixed on her work, mouth moving without sound as she recited prayers to herself.
I stood on a stool behind Tumelo, weaving a headdress of nkombe feathers into his hair. If this was going to work, he had to truly look the part. We didn’t want a repeat of the transparent disguise Kara and I had tried to pass off before.
Kara helped her father into dress pants and a jacket. Mr. Harving fastened the collar tightly and put bits of gold into holes in his sleeves. Dressed in his best clothes, he looked like I had imagined he would before they arrived: clad in tweed, sweating under the weight of his woolen overcoat. In a way, being sick helped him look the part. His muscles were less defined, and his once-tanned skin had a milk-colored paleness with twinges of green around his eyes. Like this he looked less noble, less wealthy—more apt to travel the unknown world seeking to make his fortune.
“They’ve seen us already,” Kara said as she brushed dust off her father’s coat. “We should just wear our normal clothes. If we try to dress differently now, they might grow suspicious.”
I looked between the two Harvings. Although Kara had a finer build and much brighter eyes and hair, she shared her father’s broad smile and pronounced jaw. If anyone studied them too closely, the resemblance would be plain. Tumelo and I looked nothing alike. Our mothers were sisters, but where my mama was wiry with a dancer’s neck and a haughty bearing, his mother was petite, round, and always smiling.
“You two will have to ride apart. And Kara should wear a headscarf or something. You look too much alike.”
Mr. Harving beamed. Kara rolled her eyes.
Tumelo inspected his appearance in the mirror by the door. He turned to me, grinning triumphantly. “What do you think, Mnemba? Do I look as good as your father in this?”
The clothing suited him, and his cocky bearing and thick girth made it even more believable. But I wouldn’t say that to him or we’d never hear the end of it. “You’re too fat. My father has better carriage.”
Tumelo slapped his huge belly. “It makes me look distinguished.”
“Your father’s a chief?” Kara asked, eyebrows raised. “You’re a princess, then? For real?”
“Of a very small village,” I said quickly. “And I’m not a princess. Our village has less than a thousand people. And our chiefs are more like mayors in your land than kings.”
“Why are you here, then? Working like this?” Mr. Harving asked. I braced myself against the question I knew would follow. “If your father is a chief then you’re important. I’ve read enough on culture here to know that. Shouldn’t you be married? Or thinking about it?”
Only silence answered his question. I saw Kara step warningly on her father’s foot. Mr. Harving shuffled his feet, immediately sensing he’d made an error.
After a long moment, Bi Trembla patted my back. Our eyes met, hers crinkling at the corners. “She is too good for any suitors. My girl must have the best,” she said.
Something twisted in my stomach, a mix of butterflies and pain. Bi Trembla was usually so stoic and gruff, that coming from her, the words meant a lot.
“Plus she couldn’t stand the thought of being away from me.” Tumelo chuckled as he tied a gilded sash over his shoulder. “She’s stalked me since we were children. Followed me all the way here, crying like an abandoned puppy. Admit it.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” I said, giggling.
Bi Trembla sighed, moving about the hut and picking up Tumelo’s discarded clothes. “I couldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t try to persuade you all to see sense once more. Nothing I say can stop you from doing this idiot thing?”
“We’re doing it, Bi Trembla.”
Mr. Harving laughed, rubbing the back of his head. “Two safari guides and a pair of foreigners out to the save the world. What could go wrong?”
Bi Trembla didn’t even smile.
Tumelo hugged her with one arm. “We’ll be home for dinner tomorrow night, Nyanya.”
Grandmother. Tumelo had chosen his words with care, and I saw Bi Trembla’s shoulders relax.
She gave a curt nod. “See that you are. If your food gets cold or you go hungry, you’ll only have yourselves to blame.”
SMOKE ROSE off the savanna, giving the illusion of dark volcanoes on the horizon. Thick clouds of birds flew overhead, cautioning us away, while the smoke and the song of metal beckoned. We let Tumelo ride out front. I gave directions from behind him, but trailed far enough back to show deference to his fake rank. The nkombe feathers on his headdress gleamed in the sun. Bi Trembla had done her work well. Every part of his outfit, down to the silver stars embroidered on his collar, looked like a real chief’s outfit. Tumelo sat straight in his saddle, holding his reins in one hand and an ornamental spear in the other.
Beside me, Mr. Harving mopped his forehead with a wet cloth. I offered him more water from my canteen, as he’d drained his on the first part of the journey. He drank greedily, but the heat still made him sway in the saddle. I was grateful for the simple linen clothing Kara and I could wear. Today the intense sun baked our skins like clay bricks.
Tumelo glanced back at us. He grinned, but I knew him well enough to see the worry in his eyes. He tossed a few of the feathers back over his shoulder like locks of hair. “This is it. Time for my debut.”
“You’ve been showing off your whole life,” I said.
“I’m a born star,” he said. “Perhaps when we’re done here, I’ll give up this safari business and audition for a position in the General’s household players’ troop.”
“They’ll cast you as the beast every time,” I said, giggling. Tumelo put his hand over his heart, swaying as if I’d wounded him.
Mr. Harving loosened his collar. “I’m happy for Tumelo to take the lead role in this. The less I have to say, the better.”
“The one who showed us around before didn’t speak Echalende,” Kara said. “Chanc
es are good you’ll barely have to say anything. I didn’t.”
“I think he understood more than he let on,” I said. “Just be careful, okay? Stay in character the whole time. Don’t assume they don’t understand you.”
As we reached the edge of the poacher’s camp, Mr. Harving put his handkerchief to his nose. I resisted the urge to gag. In the space of just a few days, conditions in the camp had gone even further downhill. The terrible stench of rotting egg, meat, and bodies wafted over us. The smell got trapped in the humid air and hovered all around us like a putrid mist.
“My God,” Mr. Harving whispered, hand covering his nose. “What is that?”
“Over two hundred men without a clean water source or a privy,” Tumelo said, grimacing. He schooled his features into a frown and adjusted his position, sitting as tall and proud in the saddle as possible.
Mr. Harving rode up closer to Brekna’s flanks, with Kara and I trailing behind. Kara’s hair hung loose at her shoulders, partially obscuring the telltale line of her jaw.
Before we reached the worksite, two men on horses approached us. I recognized the first immediately. His thigh no longer sported a bandage from the filly’s horn, but the openmouthed gaping at Kara and the hunger in his eyes was the same. Leaving his companion’s side, he trotted directly over to her. He extended his hand to shake hers, but as she nervously held her hand toward him, he reached out and rested his hand on her thigh. His brazen disrespect left me speechless.
Tumelo’s spear whizzed through the air. The shaft connected with the man’s wrist. He reeled back with a howl, cradling his arm against his body. His companion glanced up sharply but shrugged and did nothing to intervene. That boded well. If they believed Tumelo really was a chief, no one would dare question his actions.
“What is the meaning of this?” Tumelo boomed in our language. The feathers around his face quivered when he raised his voice. “I have ridden all the way here to meet with your master, only to have one of my escort touched by the likes of you? Fetch your employer this second.”
