The Martian Pendant

by Patrick Taylor

  The moon was in the west in the very early morning darkness when the guard was changed. After that, no further attention was paid to her at all. She had heard of the loosening effect of water on rawhide, but had no water, and was too parched even to make saliva when she tried unsuccessfully to chew the thongs. She was so tired that she wouldn’t have remained awake, but for her working through the night rubbing the rawhide rope against the thorn tree. She seemed to be making progress in thinning her restraints, but they remained tight. It was not until her incessant effort started bleeding from one wrist, that her blood loosened the rawhide. In the process, it also lubricated her wrists just enough to at last enable her to slip free.

  Elated, her first thought was escape, but in which direction? She considered fleeing south--if her halting limp could be termed fleeing--back to the highway. But that would bring her into contact with the men who had been left behind, who could still prove dangerous. Just then she heard the lowing of cattle to the west, and looking in that direction, she saw a momentary flash of metal in the moonlight, not a half mile away. Probably a herdsman, she thought. If he was a Maasai, he might be helpful in her flight from the Kikuyu terrorists.

  Rescue

  At that moment, two tall Maasai warrior-herdsmen had risen from their position around the remnants of their small fire. One was a man of around twenty-five, the other an adolescent. Both had wrapped themselves in the colorful red cloaks of their kind to keep warm, the younger one with a long spear, the other holding a hunting rifle. There had to be a reason for the cattle awakening well before daylight.

  “Maybe a hyena or a leopard,” the boy offered in a whisper.

  Shaking his head, the other replied, “No, you would hear a cough or some other hunting noises. And listen to her bawling in pain. She’s probably that cow that just lost her calf, and needs her milk taken.”

  With that, he picked up the Maasai equivalent of a milking pail, a brown gallon-sized leather pouch, and handing it to his young companion, pointed in the direction of the little herd. “I’ll be near you with my rifle if needed.”

  By the time the boy returned with the nearly full bag, dawn was beginning to paint the eastern skies.

  “Breakfast time,” the warrior exclaimed in the tribal tongue, pulling out his knife. “Get out the flatbread and restart the fire, while I drain some cow blood to go with our milk.”

  At that moment Diana stumbled into the clearing, literally falling at their feet, as her swollen ankle gave out. “Help me,” she cried hoarsely. Searching for words that would be understood, she pointed to the trail she had just taken, and in a raspy voice croaked, “Mau Mau, Kikuyus, Kenya!”

  The two Maasai stood dumbfounded for a moment, until the older one spoke rapidly in Maa. The boy grunted and nodded, grabbed his spear, and took off running in the other direction. The man gazed down at Diana, puzzled at first by her appearance. He had never seen a white woman in such a wretched condition. Then a big smile came over his face, and he blurted out, “Bwana Lady?”

  Somehow the word had spread among his people about the yellow-haired, green-eyed, pale young woman who had helped save the life of one of their number. That her captors were of the same band that had attacked their kinsman he couldn’t know, but he resented the Kikuyus, encroaching on Maasai lands, and hated the Mau Mau for the murders they had committed, not only of whites, but also of blacks content to live peacefully among the settlers.

  As frightened as she was of pursuit by her captors, thirst took precedence. When she opened her mouth, pointing a finger to it, he quickly picked up the leather pouch and put the opening to her lips. In her haste, and unaccustomed to the container, a good bit spilled down her neck, but at the same time, more was swallowed. Still warm, it was for her a liquid banquet.

  In her relief, after searching for the Swahili word for thank you, she whispered, “Asante!”

  At that moment, they heard screaming, and then a single shot, fired from the direction of the Mau Mau campsite. Evidently, Diana thought, her escape had just been discovered. The Maasai grabbed his rifle, poised to run in that direction. Diana put her hand on his arm to get his attention, holding up three fingers and then using two of them to signify walking men. Actually, there now were only two, but he recognized the unfavorable odds. Motioning her to follow, he turned to take the path used by the boy.

  “Stop!” she cried plaintively, crawling after him, pointing to her swollen and now purple ankle. Seeing that, he put his rifle down, picked her up and slung her effortlessly over his shoulder. Stooping, he grabbed the firearm and the milk, and began trotting up the trail.

  * * *

  After their enraged leader had shot the man responsible for her escape, it took ten minutes before her two erstwhile captors could become organized. They had expected her to return south along the dusty track, and followed it for a few minutes. When they failed to detect fresh footprints, they headed back, circling the last night’s campsite, where they picked up her trail. The two, carrying rifles, hastily loped westward. Soon they encountered the scraggly cattle, causing them to slow to a wary, crouching walk. Cattle meant Maasai, and every herdsman was a warrior, usually armed with both spear and rifle to ward off predators. Because of their caution, they missed catching their quarry, although easily tracking her. Despite their stealth, their progress across the plain was betrayed by dust raised by the herd, as it followed them in the direction of the Maasai village.

  The tall Maasai continued trotting up the trail, his breathing only slightly labored under the weight of his burden. He had done the same for newborn calves, and once, for an injured fellow tribesman. After a mile, they reached the clearing that contained the tribal compound of huts and the large thorn-bush-enclosed Kraal where their cattle usually spent the night. It was Diana’s good luck that the herd had not been led home at sunset the evening before. She could never have made it all the way to the safety of the village otherwise.

  On entering the village circle, she was gently deposited on a bed of hides under the overhanging thatch of the biggest hut in the compound. There she was immediately tended by a number of women, who bound a poultice around her ankle, dulling the pain immediately. After they had removed her tattered clothing, and tenderly washed away the encrusted dirt, she was dressed in a bleached white doeskin wrap. As one of the women placed a large hide pillow under her head, another offered a smaller leather pouch, resembling a bota bag, indicating that she drink. It was more milk, still a little warm, but with a familiar flavor--iron, she thought--that she had not noticed earlier. She was hungry and thirsty, and so drank deeply, well aware of the Maasai mixture of cow’s blood and milk.

  As she finished drinking, a white-haired elder, evidently their Chief, emerged from the hut, smiling broadly at her for a moment. He seemed about to speak, but instead gestured toward the door for another to join him. She was overjoyed to see the tall, thin adolescent whom she had helped save, first in the rescue from the ambush, and then by flying him to Dar for the needed surgery. When he saw her, his face lighted up with a dazzling grin. His right arm was in a sling, but as he fell to a kneeling position next to her, with his good arm he took her hand and put it to his lips.

  “Bwana Lady, Bwana Lady,” he murmured thankfully. Diana put her hand over his, and knowing no words of Maa, could only tearfully return his happy greeting with a smile of her own.

  Just then a group of warriors dragged up the Mau Mau leader, bound with leather thongs, disheveled and bleeding. Strange, she thought. There had been no gunfire, and now there was only one. She recalled the reputation of the Maasai with the spear, and shuddered involuntarily as the hapless Kikuyu was roughly thrown down in front of the chief.

  There followed a lengthy interrogation in a mix of African languages, progressively more strident as the captive prostrated himself increasingly, cowering as if trying to disappear into the very ground itself. Several gestures, accompanied by more forceful words from the imperious Maasai, indicated a threat of death, whic
h finally brought the Kikuyu to recount why his band had invaded their territory.

  In a voice trembling with fear, he explained in Swahili the offer, too good to refuse, of two American oilmen to supply them with weapons and ammunition so they could continue their campaign against the British in Kenya. That brought a rebuff and a kick from his questioner.

  Diana recognized some of what was said. Of course, she recognized “Tanganyika” as well as “Uhuru,” the Swahili word for freedom. There was mention of “oil men” more than once. Some western terms had no equivalent in the native vocabulary, and these were frequent.

  The Chief then bowed to her, saying something in Maa. What he said seemed of crucial importance, but she didn’t understand. It would take an interpreter to explain it fully, but she had heard enough to suggest that a conspiracy, leading to the Mau Mau attack on the dig compound, was behind it all.

  She rested there for two days as her ankle rather rapidly improved with the women’s treatment. First the swelling subsided, along with the pain, followed by beginning resolution of the ecchymosis, the severe bruising caused by the gross leakage of blood from the torn ligaments. She tried to find out the composition of the compresses they applied to her ankle, but apparently it was a secret remedy, and she couldn’t get near the compounding mortar where the herbs and other ingredients were crushed and mixed. Perhaps it was for the best, as the one substance she recognized was cow dung.

  On the third day, the scout car from the dig appeared, driven by Dan, accompanied by Chet Crowley and the Indian interpreter, Avtar. The Maasai had sent a runner to Arusha, where the authorities were able to notify Diana’s people by radio. Dan was beside himself with relief and love. Kneeling down, he gathered her into his arms, and covered her face with kisses. Through the interpreter, they learned of the conspiracy between the unidentified oilmen and the Mau Mau, leading to the unsuccessful attempt to destroy the exploration camp, and kill the whites working on uncovering the spaceship.

  “Which oilmen?” Diana asked, “Could they be from the Cartel?” She had difficulty envisioning Americans plotting to kill them. No one had an answer to that. And the Maasai had sent their captive packing back to Kenya, before anyone thought to extract the information from him.

  That night a great celebration was held. It was in Diana's honor, and for the two others, Dan and Chet, for having saved the Chief’s son. Men garbed in their colorful best performed dances, some acrobatic, while women served a feast, far more complex than their usual fare of milk and cow’s blood. Mainly for their honored guests, they had prepared hot bread, corn roasted in the husk, and barbecued beef, marinated with spices. They were served the strong native beer, very alcoholic and tasting of the yeast that made the brew creamy in color and consistency. Diana and her companions avoided the milk and blood mix, except for the necessary ceremonial sip when the common container was passed around.

  Toward the end of the evening, the central fire was stoked up to twice its previous size, its color made greenish by throwing in handfuls of copper filings. A trio of warriors began to dance around it, to the stirring rhythm of drums. All three carried spears, and the leader wore a magnificent lion-skin robe, complete with the lioness’s head. The drumbeat became progressively faster and more forceful, the dancers beginning to move more frenetically, as their feet beat the ground in unison with the drummers’ cadence. This acceleration continued for several minutes. Just as it seemed that the men’s feet would disappear into blurs, the drumming suddenly stopped. Instantly, the men fell at the guest trio’s feet and lay still, despite their exertion, barely breathing.

  The magic of the dance, obviously compounded by the strong beer that all present had consumed, led to absolute silence. Diana’s ears were ringing, and she experienced a feeling as if she were floating above the throng for the longest time. Then, after a few seconds, the drums suddenly crashed in unison, and the three dancers leaped to their feet. Next, to the cheers of the entire tribe, they bent, presenting their polished spears to the seated guests, tokens of their gratitude.

  The head dancer then solemnly approached Diana more closely, and placing his lioness robe around her shoulders, said a few words in their language. Avtar, stepping up behind her, translated. “All of you are being honored for what you did to save the life of their Chief’s son and heir. And Diana,” he said, turning to her, “along with the tawny robe and spear, you’ve just been given the title of ‘Warrior Princess’ of the Maasai.”

  The next morning, slightly hung over, they bade a respectful and fond farewell. Diana directed their return to the main highway by the track that had been the scene of her suffering. Nothing was found of the Mau Mau who had dropped out of the march north, except for a few scraps of the army fatigues they had been wearing, and their scattered weapons. When they reached the highway, the tail of the upended plane could plainly be seen. It would be easily retrieved with the right equipment, after their return to camp.

  * * *

  That night, everyone crowded around in celebration. Everyone except the Mafiosi, who had some decision-making to do. Certainly they would be exposed when it was learned that the oil and mineral rights surrounding the dig had been pre-empted by an Italian company, already suspected in oil circles as a front for Mafia operations. Staltieri, their leader, decided they would have to get out. He had previously discussed arrangements with Max for transshipping the wrecked propulsion unit to Dar and loading it on a waiting freighter bound for the U.S. But he was Mafioso, and hatched a plot to desert and hijack that cargo instead.

  He was elated. They would turn the valuable cargo over to their resident agent, Cavalieri, in Dar, where its shipment to their warehouse facility in Messina would be accomplished, along with their passage. The stolen Martian technology would then be sold to the highest bidder, the Soviet Union, or perhaps China, possibly both. The sum would be astronomical. He would be rewarded when they reached Sicily, he assured himself. At last, a life of leisure would be his!

  When the precious cargo had been loaded on the big flatbed truck, to his dismay, two armed Pinkertons were waiting to ride shotgun, assigned by Chet to the little convoy.

  Well, we outnumber them, Staltieri mused. No one suspects that we keep pistols hidden in our trucks. It will be a simple matter to do away with the unwelcome guards, just as our own wounded comrade had been disposed of on the way to the hospital after the Mau Mau attack. That had been easy to explain to the authorities there. He had died of his wounds en route. No need to tell them the coup de grace was delivered by a Mafia pistol. The vultures would feast again, he thought, rubbing his hands together with anticipation.

  The unsuspecting guards were eliminated as planned along the deserted highway, and everything went well for the Mafiosi until their vessel, the cargo ship Ancona, had crossed the Mediterranean. By the time they were halfway between Malta and the Strait of Messina, the theft had been discovered, and at the request of the American Government, they were stopped by a Corvette of the Royal Navy.

  Rather than submitting to boarding, explosives were detonated in the ship’s hold, sending it to the bottom within two minutes. The needed demolition charge had been grossly overestimated, resulting in all the culprits, and most of the crew, going down with the ship.

  * * *

  After the truck with the propulsion unit had left the camp, Diana and Dan took another rig to the crash site to salvage the plane. When they arrived, much to their shock, the craft was nowhere to be seen. It was well known in Africa that certain tribes would descend on aircraft, or anything else left in their territory, dismantling them and making off with everything they could carry. Even large airliners would be reduced to the point that the only thing left would be an empty shell. Tires, engines, upholstery, everything removable, gone. In the case of the L-5, there was no trace at all, except for the trampled earth surrounding the location where the plane had been upended in the ditch.

  “Well, there goes our regular mail delivery,” Dan said facetiously, attemp
ting to cheer Diana, who seemed on the verge of tears.

  “Thanks,” she replied, “that little plane has served us well indeed, and has helped save at least one life. It’s sad to lose it.”

  Standing there in the hot, dry grass, Dan felt renewed warmth for her. Impulsively, he put his arms around her, and affectionately kissed her on the cheek, missing her lips only because of her last-second avoidance.

  “Don’t, Danny,” she said imploringly, as she disengaged and limped hastily back to the truck. She called to him, starting the engine, “Come on, it’s rather too far to walk.”

  When they arrived at the camp, everyone was in a festive mood, for a reason at first obscure to the two. Mystified, she asked Max, who was standing nearby with an expectant look on his face. “What in the world is going on? Has there been an important discovery in the spaceship?”

  “No such breakthrough, I’m afraid,” he replied. Then, with a broad grin, he pointed toward the airstrip, saying, as he held out a beer, “You’re back in business as a pilot again, girl.”

  Despite her thirst and her still-healing ankle, she happily limped the hundred yards over to where the aircraft sat, finding it totally intact. The splintered propeller had been replaced, and the craft, at least outwardly, appeared perfectly airworthy.

  “Not so fast,” she called back to Max, who was trotting after her. “About the reason for the forced landing. Whatever caused the rudder controls to fail?”

  Max slowed to a walk, out of breath, but able to puff out, “Ted, our mechanic, found the cause and fixed the problem. The rudder control cables had been sabotaged by the Sicilian drivers, almost cut through. One had completely parted. You’re one lucky lady. If both had failed on that flight, it might have been the end. But you haven’t heard how the plane found its way back here,” he continued. “Listen, you wouldn’t believe it! Up the road came a chanting mob of natives, lifting the tail of the plane by shouldering the fuselage and pulling it along backward on its landing gear. We thought from a distance they might be the Mau Mau returning to mount another attack, and we were about to circle the wagons, when we saw the plane, and recognized them as Maasai.