HEARTS AFLAME

by Nancy Morse

  At the sound of his voice, she turned from the window and hurried back to the bed, trailing the sheet behind her, and slid in beside him.

  His arm closed around her shoulders, hugging her close. “What were you thinking about over there?”

  Nestling against him, she buried her face in the crook of his arm, breathing his morning essence into her being. “I was wondering, if I never regain my memory, can I ever be truly happy?”

  “And?”

  She turned her face upward and smiled shyly. “I think so.”

  “Is it possible that I might have something to do with that?” he dared to ask.

  She lowered her lashes demurely. “After last night I think that’s entirely possible.”

  “I see,” he said, feigning gravity. “So you want me only for my body.”

  “I’d be lying if I said that has nothing to do with it. You are, after all, quite a magnificent specimen.” Her fingers curled around his bicep and then moved insinuatingly to toy with the soft tufts of hair on his chest. She touched him lower, slipping her hand beneath the sheet to caress him, and smiled with secret satisfaction at his shuddering response.

  In one quick motion he had her on her back and covered her body with the lean length of his. His mouth was on hers, sucking the breath out of her lungs with his hungry kisses.

  Their bodies entwined beneath the tangled sheet, each one driving the other to the point of no return, where nothing mattered except the sweltering passion that raged between them.

  The shudders continued to race through her body even after he slid off her and lay quietly gathering himself beside her. Once again he had taken her to the pinnacle and made her forget everything except him. The feelings that had been slowly building over the last weeks could no longer be suppressed. Yes, she wanted his body. Oh yes. But it was so much more than that. If she had doubts before, there were none now. She didn’t know how it happened. She knew only that she had fallen in love with this blue-eyed coffee farmer. It made her feel giddy and silly and frightened all at the same time. Yes, she wanted his body for the way it fit so perfectly with hers and the incredible way it made her feel, but how could she tell him that she wanted more than his body? She wanted his love.

  His teasing voice broke the silence. “Now that you’ve used me again, is there anything else you’d like?”

  “I’m hungry,” she said. “Why don’t you wash up and I’ll get dressed and get us something to eat. There’s a little Indian shop that makes the most delicious dosas. You know, those thin little crepes made of lentils.”

  A queer look passed over his face. “How do you know that shop?”

  The expression on Julia’s face went from contented to befuddled in a heartbeat. “I—I remember it. So I must have been there.”

  Cautiously picking his way around his words, he said, “Didn’t you say that you were found wandering around in circles not far from here?”

  “Yes, but what was I doing here in Arusha?”

  He got up and reached for his clothes. “Your guide must have brought you here.”

  “My guide, yes. The one who was killed by that lion.”

  Jonathan sucked in his breath. The guide who was killed by Black and Tan didn’t bring you here, he thought. He brought you to me, and I’m the one who brought you here.

  “Get dressed,” he told her. “We’ll both go out and get something to eat.” He couldn’t let her go by herself and take the chance of her disappearing again.

  While Julia dressed Jonathan splashed cold water over his face. He had saturated himself with her last night and again this morning and still it wasn’t enough. Falling asleep with her in his arms and waking up with her warm body beside him only prolonged the torture. Was she ever going to recognize him as the man who loved her as deeply as it was possible to love? Would she ever remember the way it was between them? She claimed she could be happy, but without her memory there would always be something unfinished between them, words not spoken, dreams not fulfilled, promises not kept.

  His dull despair was pricked by a splinter of hope. A memory had returned. Granted, it was of lentil crepes and not of him, but it was a memory nevertheless. And with it came the desperate wish that she would come to know him for who he was.

  The day was already heating up when Jonathan and Julia checked out of the New Arusha Hotel. Slapping his wilted terai on his head, Jonathan said, “Let’s go to that Indian shop and see if anything about it is familiar to you.”

  The moment they entered the little shop they were greeted by the magical, exotic aromas of smoky cumin, lemony coriander, sweet cinnamon, cardamom and brown mustard. Arrayed on the counter were little baskets of colorful spices, browns and yellows and deep reds, each with its own unique fragrance from sweet to pungent. Julia went from basket to basket, but the aromas failed to trigger any memories. Her shoulders slumped, and she gave Jonathan a withered look.

  “That’s all right,” he said consolingly. Clipping an arm around her waist, he escorted her from the shop.

  Outside, the wide brim of Julia’s straw hat shielded her face from the sun but could not hide her crestfallen look.

  “Well,” Jonathan said, hoping to convey an optimism he didn’t truly feel, “if it happened once, it will happen again.”

  At one of the town’s restaurants they sat down to a breakfast of poached eggs on toast, potatoes, and coffee. The proprietor, an American whose fleshy cheeks wobbled when he laughed, was telling his patrons what the war had been like on the home front, about victory gardens and Liberty Bonds, and how he’d been wounded driving an ambulance at the Italian front.

  Julia could feel Jonathan tensing up and hastily swallowed down the last of the coffee in her cup. Reaching across the table, she took his hand. “Come on,” she said, “let’s get out of here.”

  Memories of the war had returned with a vengeance, and he was grateful for the rescue. But more than that, he was struck by how well she seemed to know what was going on inside of him without a word passing between them.

  They stocked up on provisions and left Arusha, averting lorries laden with sisal and maize and ox-drawn wagons lumbering along the road leading out of town. Julia cast a look back over her shoulder at the town that held no real memories but which felt familiar in ways she could not define.

  As the afternoon wore on, they trudged over broken land wooded with Miombo trees. From there, the landscape changed to dry scrub and thorn bush. When the sun was directly overhead, they stopped to rest beneath the shade of a large baobab tree and eat some biscuits that they washed down with water from their canteens. Refreshed, they continued on.

  Sometime in the late afternoon they came upon a V8 Ford lorry. Upon examination, Jonathan said, “It looks like they ripped a hole in their sump and all the oil drained out. These roads are atrocious in dry weather. The dust is as light as flour and hides some monstrous potholes, which is obviously what they ran into.”

  Peering inside, he spied what looked to be chips of ivory scattered over the floor of the bed. He knelt to examine the crushed vegetation and spotted tracks leading away from the lorry. Many footprints made by flat sandals left impressions in the soil, a sure sign that the men who made them were heavily burdened with ivory. One set of tracks was fainter than the others, leading him to suspect that an armed man was traveling with them. He was about to rise when the sunlight fell upon an object half-hidden under the leaf litter.

  “They must have been transporting ivory in the lorry when it broke down,” he said. “They carried it the rest of the way. And I found this.” He opened his palm to reveal a gold Tabora pound. “It’s from the former German East Africa.” He turned the coin in his hand. One side bore a crowned eagle, the other a charging elephant. “Even with Germany’s defeat these things must still be valuable. Someone’s being paid in Taboras. I would have guessed Abyssinian coins, maybe silver talaris or thalers.”

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully as his blue eyes
surveyed the surroundings, and concluded, “We’re getting close. Look, Julia, I promised to take you to the ivory cache, but so far, the only thing that has jogged your memory was lentil crepes. We can turn back now and—”

  She was shaking her head as he spoke. “I’ve come this far. I can’t turn back now.”

  “All right. But after you’ve seen it we’re heading back, and I won’t take no for an answer.” He looked around, and satisfying himself that there was a tree close by that they could climb in a hurry, he tossed his pack on the ground. “We’ll camp here for the night.”

  When darkness covered the land, Julia snuggled beneath the scratchy woolen blanket Jonathan pulled from his pack. “Aren’t you going to sleep?” she asked.

  He sat with his back pressed against the trunk of the tree, his rifle across his knees, listening to the sounds of the African night. “Go to sleep, Julia,” was all he said.

  She awoke during the night to find him still sitting there, keeping watch, his handsome face caught in moonlight and shadow. She wanted to go to him, but he looked to be a thousand miles away, lost in solitude, so she left him to his silent brooding and went back to sleep.

  In the morning, Jonathan checked his Winchester for ammunition, added a few rounds, and pocketed more before starting out. The effects of the drought could be seen in the parched landscape and withering waterholes. Julia was grateful for the ancient trees that shaded the ground. With little undergrowth to hide a rhino or buffalo, the rustling from the bush came from smaller animals scattering at the passing of the humans.

  From somewhere within the forest came the sound of elephants purring to each other. A slight breeze carried the scent of the herd.

  Jonathan’s eyes darted about for any sign of danger, for if a herd was in the vicinity, poachers would not be far behind. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s keep moving.”

  They had not gone far when one of the poachers stumbled through the bush.

  Jonathan shouldered his rifle and aimed down the barrel. “Drop your weapon,” he ordered.

  For several moments the startled man didn’t move.

  “Maybe he doesn’t understand English,” Julia said

  “He’ll understand this.” Jonathan followed up his order with the clicking of his rifle’s lever action.

  The man lowered his rifle to the ground.

  “Get it,” Jonathan told her.

  Julia took a fortifying breath and darted forward to scoop up the rifle, then hurried back to Jonathan’s side.

  “If you let me go, I will give you much gold,” the man said. His gaze shifted to Julia. “White women like gold.”

  “Where are the others?” Jonathan demanded.

  The Abyssinian’s dark eyes widened with fear. “Do not take me to them. He will kill me.”

  “Who will kill you?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “Cannot or will not?”

  He took a faltering step toward Julia. “Lady, you must not take me there.”

  Jonathan stepped between them, aiming the rifle at the captured man’s heart. “Julia, there’s rope in my pack.”

  Setting the Abyssinian’s rifle against a tree, she ran to Jonathan’s pack and returned with a coil of rope.

  With the rifle trained on the man, Jonathan said, “Tie his hands behind his back, good and tight.”

  When he was confident that the poacher’s wrists were lashed together, Jonathan lowered his rifle and approached. He drew his panga from his belt. With the broad-bladed knife he used to cut through heavy jungle growth pressed against the Abyssinian’s jugular, he loosened the bandana from around his own neck and stuffed it into the poacher’s mouth. “You’re going to take us to the ivory. Get moving.”

  They had not gone more than a few feet when a shot rang out. The poacher’s eyes went wide. He froze in mid-step, then crumbled to the ground, blood seeping from a bullet hole in his head.

  Julia screamed.

  Jonathan pulled her close to his side at the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. Several Abyssinian raiders rushed out of the tangled jungle and surrounded them.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The heat rose up from the ground in waves as Jonathan and Julia were forced to march forward. Several of the raiders had bows with arrows nocked and ready, a couple had rifles slung over their shoulders, and the one in front carried an elephant gun.

  Rough, dry leather bound Julia’s wrists, slicing into her skin. After several hours her strength began to ebb. Finding it harder to put one foot in front of the other, she stumbled on a jagged stone and fell. One of the Abyssinians yanked her roughly to her feet and shoved her forward.

  “Keep your bloody hands off her!” Jonathan yelled. He lunged, but with his own wrists tied and the rifle butt jammed into his back, there was nothing he could do to help her. A thin, tight line formed across his mouth, and his blue eyes blazed with hatred at their captors.

  The sun heated the red glass at Julia’s throat. The story that passed from generation to generation of her family told of the negative power it carried. She’d always been quick to dismiss it with a laugh, but in view of her circumstances stretching back two years, and the dire straits she found herself in now, she wondered if the glass with the ancient palindrome was indeed cursed.

  Her lungs burned and her ankles hurt from twisting over the uneven ground. But nothing compared to the throat-parching thirst. Oh, what had she gotten them into? This was all her fault. If only she hadn’t insisted on continuing with this crazy quest. And for what? For memories that might never return? She aimed a wan, helpless look over her shoulder at Jonathan.

  “She needs water,” he snapped.

  One man with a gaunt, pitted face said something to one of his companions, but the other shook his head. An argument ensued. Finally, the second man pulled a goatskin from his belt and thrust it at Julia. She cast a wary glance at Jonathan, who nodded.

  With the bag in her shackled hands, she pulled out the leather bung stopper with her teeth and lifted the bag to her mouth. She coughed at the foul smell of the goatskin and turned her face away, but Jonathan’s order of “Drink”, made her force the stale water into her mouth.

  As they continued on, Jonathan took advantage of the last bit of daylight to assess the surroundings. From the position of the sun slowly setting, he knew they were heading south, deeper into Tanganyika and further away from any chance of rescue. When shadows of evening stretched across the land, they finally halted for the night alongside a dried watercourse.

  Julia sank to the ground. The heat of the day dissipated, and she could not remember ever feeling so cold. Despite the small fire their captors got going, her teeth clattered and she couldn’t stop her body from shivering. She longed for the strength and warmth of Jonathan’s body close to hers and the powerful shelter of his arms to shield her against the bone-crushing weariness and the fear that consumed her. But the Abyssinians kept them apart, and all she could see of him was the solid silhouette of his form through the darkness. He was so self-assured, so confident. Even now his face in the glow of the fire showed no sign of weakness while she hovered on the edge of panic.

  A shadow loomed over her as one of the Abyssinians dropped the goatskin beside her, along with a few dates which she gobbled down to staunch the sickening emptiness in her stomach. But none of them approached Jonathan with water or sustenance. Her heart went out to him. She wanted to tell him how sorry she was for getting them into this mess. But mostly, she wanted to tell him that she loved him.

  When life came down to this, the mere act of staying alive, lost memories seemed somehow trivial compared to this thing that had grown between them over the weeks. She had returned to Africa in search of the past and discovered something more real than anything she could have imagined. How strange that it should happen like this, so different from how she thought it would be. It didn’t matter if she knew him for several weeks or several minutes. Something about him seemed
so familiar. It was like coming home.

  She looked at him across the fire-lit distance. He sat on the cold ground at the base of a tree, his head tilted back against the trunk. His eyes were closed, but she knew he wasn’t sleeping.

  Jonathan was mired in thought. He was thinking about the farm, how the coffee flowered like a cloud of chalk and how, when the rains came and the blossoms smelled bitter, he would tour the farm in his wet-weather outfit of khaki trousers and rubber boots with Molo at his side.

  He thought of the drought that plagued the land, how the earth hardened and the berries withered, and only the vultures grew fat.

  But no matter which way his thoughts turned, they invariably came back to Julia and how it used to be.

  They would sit for hours on the veranda watching green parrots whir at the edge of the camphor forest and the thorn trees standing in sharp silhouette against an orange sky as the sun slowly sank over the horizon. On bright sunny days they lay in the grass, peeling oranges and picking off segments as they watched eagles coasting overhead. After dinner they would sit on cushions spread before the fire while he read Shelley aloud. They would listen to records he played on the gramophone. He liked Beethoven and the old composers, while she preferred more upbeat American jazz, like the Bow Wow Blues that wound up in his record collection courtesy of an American who passed through on safari earlier that year. But that was before she lost all memory of him, when she knew him as the man he was and not some random coffee-farmer who agreed to take her on a crazy quest for the sum of five thousand dollars.

  Why the bloody hell hadn’t he refused her request, he thought on a fresh burst of anger. Why had he let her talk him into making this dangerous journey? But even as the question burned in his mind, he knew the answer. He did it as much for himself as for her. It was his need for her, the kind of consuming need that made him go against his better judgment and ignore his instincts. A need that only she could fill.

  It wasn’t just that low, husky laugh, the creamy-as-butter skin, and all that soft brown hair. It was her. She possessed all the things he’d ever wanted in a woman—intelligence, warmth, humor, a steamy sensuality, an unwavering streak of independence that brought her to Africa the first time, and a fearless stubbornness that brought her back—and everything he never knew he wanted. There was nothing he would not have done for her. The only thing he seemed unable to do was protect her.