by Nancy Morse
Kibbi came in with a glass of lemonade, exchanged a perplexed look with Jonathan, and retreated.
Jonathan held the glass to her lips, recalling how much she liked lemonade, hoping the cool, sweet drink would bring her around. Questions hovered like vultures in his mind, hungering for answers. But when the lemonade failed to rouse her, with frustration tearing at him, he drew the mosquito netting around the bed and left the room.
He found Kibbi sitting in a cane rocker on the wide, colonnaded veranda, rocking and smoking a cigarette in silence. Sitting down on the top step of the veranda, he flicked a disapproving look at his friend. “When are you going to stop smoking those things?”
“When are you going to stop going after poachers?” Kibbi responded.
Jonathan rolled his eyes. The last thing he needed now was a lecture, particularly from someone who knew him as well as Kibbi did. “That’s not what I went to the reserve for today. I went to look at the damage from the drought.
Kibbi gave an unconvinced shrug, and asked, “What did you see?”
“Some old elephant bones. Nothing fresh.”
“I was speaking of the drought.”
Jonathan’s frown deepened. He shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair, sweeping the sandy locks from his forehead in a gesture of aggravation. “If the rains don’t come soon…”
The rains brought life to the land. From January to April the waterholes were filled with rainwater and the earth was almost obscured by hundreds of thousands of animals on the move. The comings and goings of the great herds signaled the changing seasons like a clock, always bringing the rains. But it was December now, the heart of the summer, and the short-rains from November were long overdue.
Kibbi spoke softly over the steady creak, creak of the rocking chair. “The rains will come.”
“But do we have to lose our whole crop before they do?” He brought an angry fist down upon his knee. “Damn it. Why can’t I go out there and chase down a storm the way I chase down those miserable Abyssinian raiders that are poaching ivory?”
Kibbi frowned. “I understand your frustration, but I do not always agree with the way you deal with it.”
From early boyhood, Jonathan had developed an intolerance for poaching. But the world had a penchant for carved ivory, and for every poacher he caught, there were ten more he didn’t catch. Some poaching rings led directly to government posts.
“My friend,” said Kibbi, “there are some things that even you cannot change.”
Although they shared a friendship, the two men were as different as night and day. When Kibbi wasn’t helping on the farm, he was tending cattle and goats with his Masai tribesmen. Jonathan envied Kibbi’s cultural identity and his contentment to exist without questioning. He, on the other hand, questioned everything. The woman inside, for instance. For two years he questioned what had happened that sent her running. What had he done wrong? Had he been too eager to love her? Too available? Too stupid to realize that he was being used? For two years he’d been questioning the instincts and emotions that had turned on him like a cornered animal. Kibbi was wrong. There was something he could change. He could guard against ever feeling that way again.
Jonathan shot his friend an unappreciative look. “Did I ever tell you that you talk too much?”
Kibbi’s ebony face broadened in a grin. “It was you who taught me English when we were boys. Do you prefer Swahili?”
Ignoring the sarcasm, Jonathan said, “At least there’s one thing I can change. I saw Black and Tan today in the reserve. I’m going back for him in a few days and see if I can move him into the Serengeti.”
The Masai’s dark eyes strayed tellingly toward the house. “It looks like you found more than Black and Tan in the reserve.”
Jonathan’s body tensed. In a low voice that he hoped would disguise his inner turmoil, he told his friend about the chilling rescue from the lions.
“But Jonathan,” Kibbi exclaimed, “what is she doing here?”
“I don’t know. I’m as surprised to see her as you are.”
“Surprised, yes. But not very pleased, I see.”
“Why should I be pleased? I’ve been down this road before and I’m not about to travel it again. Besides, something’s wrong.”
“In what way?”
“I don’t know. It’s the way she looked at me. She was in bad shape when I found her, but when she opened her eyes…” He shuddered, recalling the vacant stare. “It was as if she didn’t know me.”
“The sun, Jonathan. It does strange things to the mind.”
“Maybe you’re right, but it doesn’t explain what she’s doing here.”
“To take pictures of the animals like before.”
“There was no camera equipment in the car.”
“To see you, then.”
“Hardly likely.” This time he could not disguise the bitterness in his tone.
“Does this change your plans for Black and Tan?” Kibbi asked.
“This changes nothing,” Jonathan flatly replied. “The cat still has to be caught, the crops are still failing, and there are still men out there killing elephants for their ivory.”
The steady creaking of the rocking chair ceased. Kibbi got up and pulled the ends of his shuka tighter about himself. “Raj Singh put a plate on the stove to keep it warm before he left. I will get it for you.” With long, lazy strides, he disappeared inside.
Jonathan remained alone on the porch, listening to the sounds of the night. Hyenas wailed in the distance. A lion bellowed. A troop of olive baboons nesting in an acacia tree began to squawk. A go-away bird cried “Waaa-waaa.” Something shrieked. They were familiar sounds, comforting sounds to a man with precious little to believe in these days. He had learned the hard way that the only things he could trust were his boyhood friend and the animals. He couldn’t trust the weather. He couldn’t trust the word of the poachers he caught who swore they would never poach again. He couldn’t even trust his own emotions.
His thoughts wandered back to that afternoon, to the way something had churned inside of him at the sight of her. He thought he had his feelings under control, but his pulse quickened as he sat there thinking about her.
He’d be a fool to think her appearance was anything more than a crazy coincidence. And if it wasn’t, if she really came back to see him, well, it wouldn’t work. Things were much different. He was different. So what if she was a beautiful woman and his blood still pounded for her? Alone had become a way of life for him. He was alone before she came along, and he was alone now. He had no one but himself to blame for his solitary existence, but he was doing all right in spite of it. Until today, that is, when contrary to what he told Kibbi, everything changed.
Chapter Three
The dream was always the same. A honeycomb mist obscured the surroundings. In the absence of light it was impossible to make out the face of the man in whose arms she lay naked, but the feelings he stirred in her were stronger than anything she could remember in her waking hours. Who was he? Why did he return night after night with relentless regularity to haunt her dreams?
In the first few moments after waking, it was difficult for Julia to distinguish between what was real and what was a dream. She lay there with her eyes closed, waiting for the unsettling effects of the dream to subside. It would pass; it always did.
The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was a large swinging screen-like fan suspended from the high ceiling that kept the morning air moving. She turned her head on the pillow and inhaled. The faint traces of musk clinging to the linens told her unmistakably that she was in a man’s bed. Outside, the light grew steadily brighter. A hot, dry breeze rustled the treetops and particles of dust danced in the rays of early-morning sunlight slanting through the window. She stirred. Lifting her arms up over her head, she stretched her stiff muscles, sat up, and looked around the room.
The bed, the dresser, even the floorboards were of
dark wood. Spread over the wide planks was a flat-weave rug whose colors echoed the dusty tan of the savanna, the great brown stretches of the Serengeti, and the sprawling blue of the African sky. Before a fireplace made of crudely placed stones was an arm chair. The well-worn upholstery on the carved armrests gave the impression that the occupant of this room spent many hours sitting before the fire.
Julia wished there was a fire burning now to chase away the chill, as recent events swept back to her like a cold, dark wind. She shivered when she recalled the lions. The fear had been terrible. It had taken extraordinary will just to remain conscious. She remembered seeing a man running toward her and was only dimly aware of hearing a rifle shot. She had a dim recollection of being carried, of opening her eyes and seeing an unexplained flash of blue which she thought was the sky. Vaguely, she recalled the wetness against her fevered skin as he bathed her face and neck. And then, nothing, as exhaustion claimed her and she sank into a deep, dark unconsciousness penetrated only by the recurring dream she’d been having for the last two years.
The aroma of brewing coffee drew her thoughts away from her harrowing experience and forced her out of bed. She realized with a start that she was naked. Someone had removed her clothes. But who?
On a small table in the corner of the room she found an earthenware basin and ewer filled with water that she splashed over her face, neck and shoulders to refresh herself from the morning air that was already heating up. She spotted her valise atop an old steamer trunk. Beside it was the long riding skirt and white cotton blouse with shirt-collar neckline that she’d been wearing, freshly cleaned and folded. Unbuckling the straps of the valise, she took out a boar-bristle brush and worked the tangles out of her hair which she then swept up off her shoulders and secured atop her head with pins. She dressed and then sat down on the edge of the bed to pull on boots of soft brown leather. Snatching a big straw boater from the suitcase, she left the room.
She followed the aroma of coffee to the kitchen. Atop a pale, golden-hued farm table were bowls of fruits and vegetables, lending color to the white plaster walls and pale cotton curtains.
A tall, lean man stood gazing out the window. He was dressed in a long red wrap-robe and sash. On his feet he wore sandals, with strings of brightly colored beads around his ankles. The large pierced holes in his earlobes were adorned with beautiful red beads. His skin was dark and as smooth as polished stone, his profile proud and noble-looking.
Clearing her throat, she tested her voice. “Good morning.”
He turned around. For several moments his eyes stuck to her face.
Assuming he spoke no English, she smiled politely, and in a loud voice that people use when they think the other person cannot understand them, said, “The coffee smells good.”
He went to pour her a cup. “You must be very hungry. Raj Singh made breakfast before he went out. I will get you some.”
His accented English made her blush for having misjudged his ability to understand her. “No, thank you. Maybe later. For now, coffee will be fine.”
She accepted the cup and took a sip. It was hot and strong, restoring a bit of the strength her chilling experience had robbed her of. Extending her hand, she said, “How do you do? I’m Julia Rowan.”
He placed a tentative brown hand in hers.
Detecting a shadow of uncertainty behind his courteous smile, she asked, “Is something wrong?”
He moved away nervously, his hand disappearing into the folds on his shuka. “You are feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you, much better. I needed a good night’s sleep.”
“Pardon me,” he politely ventured, “but you were sleeping for three days.”
Three days of that confounding dream. No wonder it had seemed more intense than usual. “Did I put you out of your bed?”
“It is Jonathan’s bed.”
“Jonathan?”
“Jonathan Shane,” he answered. “He brought you here.”
“Where is he now?”
He gestured toward the window.
Julia looked out. In the distance a ribbon of worn earth led to a gently sloping hillside covered in neat rows of coffee plants. She swallowed down the rest of the coffee and placed the cup down. “I must speak with him.”
Kibbi pulled a canteen off the back of a chair. “Will you bring this to him? It is not like Jonathan to forget something as important as water.”
Julia slung the canteen strap over her shoulder and left the house.
Outside on the veranda, mahogany and cane chairs and a wicker table were placed about the wide floorboards, creating a relaxed atmosphere from which to view the dramatic landscape. She descended the three steps down from the veranda and turned to look back at the house. It was in the Dutch Colonial style with tall, rounded windows and batten shades partly rolled up to keep the morning sun off the veranda, an unexpected treasure of quiet comfort and civility in the middle of the primitive African highlands.
She started up the hillside. The air was dry and bracing with a sparkling quality to it. The landscape stretched from the Rift Valley to the surrounding highlands. To get here she had taken the Uganda Railway from the port of Mombasa to Nairobi, passing through cattle country and fields of flax and tobacco beneath a sky that hedged between pale blue and violet. Elephants, rhinos and buffalos roamed the plains and forests, and immense dust clouds rose toward the sky from the hooves of the great herds of antelopes and zebra. Yet animals out upon the open plain meant no more to her than the ones she saw at the zoo. And here in the hill country that stretched all the way to Kilimanjaro she felt lost and alone, a stranger to herself and to the man she was about to meet.
Chapter Four
He was working with a shovel on the hillside. His hat and shirt lay in a heap on the ground. Naked muscles streaked with sweat strained beneath the sun as he dug into the earth. His waistband was soaked. His pants, tucked into knee-high boots, were stained with the red African dust. The rolled-up bandana that kept the hair from falling into his eyes had absorbed all the moisture it would hold, and droplets of sweat fell to his sun-browned shoulders that glistened in the sunshine.
Julia felt a sudden constricting of her breath at the sight of him. His back was broad and sinewy, his biceps strongly muscled. Locks of damp hair, the tips lightened by the sun, fell across his brow. In his sweaty, grimy state he was an unexpectedly electrifying sight.
The climb to the top of the hill was more arduous than she had expected. Beads of perspiration trickled down her back and between her breasts, matting the cotton shirt to her damp flesh. But it was the sight of him that flushed her cheeks.
Gathering her composure, she said, “Excuse me.”
Hard at work shoveling dirt out of an irrigation ditch to keep the water channels open in case a miracle happened and it rained, Jonathan hadn’t heard her approach. At the sound of her voice, he stopped shoveling and looked at her from across the ditch with eyes that matched the African sky.
That was it, she thought. The flash of blue she’d seen had come from this man’s eyes. The dry wind carried the aroma of earth and savanna to her nostrils. It was the same stirring scent her senses had detected as he carried her, confirming that this was the man who had rescued her. She struggled to shake herself loose from the discomfort of his sweating, half-naked body.
“I—I’d like to thank you.”
Jonathan thrust the shovel into the earth and placed one boot up on it. “For what?”
“Saving my life.”
“I’m the one who should thank you. That was a good piece of shooting.” A small part of him couldn’t help but feel pride in the knowledge that he’d been the one to teach her to shoot like that.
“It must have been a lucky shot,” she said. “I don’t know how to shoot.”
He looked at her curiously.
“The lioness?” she asked.
“Dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don�
��t be. You did what you had to do.”
Stepping over the ditch with a wide stride, she said, “You forgot this.”
She handed him the canteen and was unprepared for the heat that singed her skin when his hand momentarily grazed the back of hers.
He took several long swallows and then poured some water over his head before replacing the cap and dropping the canteen to the ground.
Julia gestured to the ditch. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to save what’s left of this season’s harvest, although it doesn’t look like it will do much good. The drought’s already taken half of it.” He glanced at the plants that were straining for life beneath the relentless sun.
“It takes three years for the plants to reach maturity. A year after that they bloom. Six months later the green berries ripen with water and sun until they’re bright red. But without the rains the berries will have to be picked by hand before they turn red. If there are any berries left by then. The way things are going, I’ll be lucky if I can harvest any of this crop at all.”
“Isn’t there anything you can do?” she asked.
“A hefty influx of cash would keep me in business until next season. But I’ve already been to the bank for a loan and been denied. As for these plants…” He shook his head dismally.
“I see it hasn’t deterred you, though,” she observed, pointing to the shovel.
“Africa has taught me two things, practicality and perseverance.” He bent to pick up his shirt and shook it to dislodge any small creature that may have crawled inside before putting it back on. “Did Raj Singh make you breakfast?”
“There was a man in the kitchen, tall, very regal-looking, dressed in native attire.”
“That would be Kibbi.”
“He offered to get me something to eat, but I don’t have much of an appetite. He told me I slept for three days.”
She lowered her gaze from his steady stare. What was it about the men around here? First, the man in the kitchen had looked at her as if he’d seen a ghost, and now this man was looking at her as if he expected something. “You’re very kind,” she said. “I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you too much.”
