The Shadow Conspiracy II

by Phyllis Irene Radford

  “Those foothills live in the shadow of Kilimanjaro,” Johannes told us before he left on his latest trek. He wanted to impress upon us just how majestic his mountain was. We were too far away, though, to witness its beauty. We never even saw its shadow. Our African experience remained at Eyasi where we kicked up clouds of biting dust whenever we walked across the landscape.

  It was just such an overlarge puff of alkaline earth that struck fear in our hearts that morning. We thought of the Maasai or some other group of Africans coming to harass us, or worse. We had heard stories of cannibalism. Without Johannes with us for protection we felt vulnerable, even with the six servants in our camp. I think we — Frieda, I, and even Baraba — felt terror.

  {Pluck.} Holy night.

  Divine power intervened and the cloud of African dust that morning became Herr Bourne in his conveyance. This strange machine ran by itself. Not well, but certainly by itself. A pipe on the top exhaled smoke, or maybe steam. Nothing frightening, really, just odd and noisy.

  How sternly Frieda looked at him when he alighted from his carriage. She remained proud with the bearing her station in life allowed. She was a missionary’s wife, an assistant in the most important work in the world. I admired Frieda for her piety. I could never be that way. I had fought with mother to be allowed to join Frieda and Johannes, not because of my belief in my cousin’s work, but because I wanted to travel to a strange land. How was I to know how frightening a truly strange land could be?

  “Guten tag,” Frieda said, dipping her head only slightly while keeping her eyes on the man. Alas, his arched eyebrows, his slender nose, his deep-meaning eyes had no impact on her. She remained aloof. And yet, how could she not be affected by those eyes, set with the fire of God within? I saw the fire immediately. I watched breathlessly, my Bible clutched to my bosom where I’d held it pressed to my heart from the moment the cloud appeared.

  The cicadas rasped in the doum palms as we stood motionlessly, wondering. The morning was already hot and perspiration lay on his upper lip. He smiled, though, as if unfatigued by the heat.

  “Guten tag,” he replied. “You must be Frau Rebmann.” His German carried a thick English accent. He bowed from the waist.

  Frieda must have been surprised that he recognised her, but she maintained her dark composure. Her pride in Johannes overcame her reluctance to engage the man.

  “Yes, I am,” she said. “You must know of my husband.”

  “Everyone knows of your husband, good lady. I have come to introduce myself to that most illustrious man. My name is Herr Bernard Bourne.”

  Frieda was used to such enthusiasm regarding Johannes. We both were, because we’d seen it in Zanzibar. Explorers interested in proving or disproving his claim that he’d seen snow on a mountain peak at the equator gathered round Johannes constantly. Those with courage introduced themselves and engaged in conversation. Others hung back and watched only. Frieda disapproved of them all, and rightly so. They were men of science, members of the Vitalists, I am sure. They studied nature. One might say they worshipped it, but that would not be correct. They liked to pull God’s work apart and analyze and catalogue it. The man before us appeared no different from the rest. I could see his light, though, even if Frieda did not.

  “I’m sorry, Herr Bourne,” she said, cold and officious. “He has returned to the mountain. You have missed him.”

  His smile disappeared at once, replaced by a glum expression.

  “That is a shame,” he said. “I was so hoping to work with him.”

  “He has all the men he needs,” Frieda answered, still coldly. “There is no end to volunteers who want to help him in his grand discovery.” She raised her chin slightly and closed her eyes on the “grand.” We felt her anger.

  The man became softly apologetic. “Frau Rebmann, I am no theorist. I merely want to work with him in his mission. I am a man of God.”

  {Pluck.} Dreams drift down.

  Frieda said nothing, of course. She was dumbfounded. Another missionary! From his accent and stiff clothing, an Englishman. A cravat, here in the desolation! She said nothing and then collected herself, turned to our African headman, Baraba, standing in the doorway of the main tent.

  “Prepare the tea for breakfast,” she said to him, then taking my hand she turned to Herr Bourne and continued. “May I present my husband’s cousin, Clara Hensel. She is still quite young, but has already decided to dedicate her life to our work.”

  He bowed gallantly, obviously impressed by such convictions in a mere seventeen-year-old. Before I could catch my breath and return a curtsy, Frieda said, “Clara, please set the table.”

  I know nothing of the immediate conversation between Herr Bourne and Frieda as I was inside the tent setting about my work. I placed the cups and saucers. Baraba prepared the tea and the rusks. We were very low on stores, but he smartly brought out the jam. Even he knew this was an important man.

  The meagre meal wasn’t nearly as strained as some of our breakfasts are. Our constant worry after Johannes, the dwindling provisions, the acrid smell of Eyasi, and the ever-present dangers of life in the African wasteland weighed on us. Sometimes I woke in the night and would shiver from the strange sounds of animal or man, I know not which. Even in the warmth of that equatorial region, I shivered. All this had created a deteriorating atmosphere at our mealtimes. Sometimes I believed Frieda blamed me for Johannes’ neglect of her. I knew Johannes’ better than she, though. His love of God is undeniable, but he is at heart an adventurer. His need to explore would never leave him no matter how much he loved her and Our Lord. Yes, I wanted adventure too, but I believe Johannes infected me, not the other way round.

  This breakfast was a small island of joy in a dark ocean of worry and regret. Herr Bourne provided respite from our fears and sorrows. He explained to us that he was a “culturist.” I am not sure of his translation, but that is the word he used. He liked to study the savage’s culture, he said, to fathom their dark minds. He felt there must be a way to bring them to the light. Studying their way of life would surely mark a path. He had learned the language used by many of the tribes, Swahili, but not the odd clicks and nasal hums of the Hadzabe. What cultivated person could speak that tongue? It is so very vulgar.

  Herr Bourne spoke of his compound a quarter day’s journey from our encampment. He said it lay on a small river which connected to the Nile. He traded regularly with the natives for food and other supplies from England. There was a vast network of these non-white trading people up and down this river and the many rivers between here and the Mediterranean Sea. He, alone of all the bold adventurers attempting to fathom Africa, had discovered this network and could take advantage of it.

  The line of traders would pass his order up and then the fulfilment back down. It usually took about six months for a package to be returned to him. With deliveries every other week, though, he always had supplies coming in. He remained well-stocked throughout the year. When he saw the meagre stores we had, he very selflessly offered to share with us what flour and coffee he had. He even hinted at the possibility of obtaining some good German cheese, maybe even Hirtenkase, in the future.

  {Pluck.} Moonlight in space.

  Up until now we had been in a troubling condition. Johannes had been gone to the mountain much longer than he planned. Even with Baraba’s communication through an interpreter, we did not fare well with the Hadzabe around us. I believe Frieda feared their poison arrows as much as I. Neither of us cared for their berries or wild boar. We’d been surviving solely on rusks for a week now. Herr Bourne represented an angel in appearance and deed. His golden hair settling on his shoulders reflected the goodness and strength of his heart. He was truly a man of God and our saviour.

  With the prospect of replenished stores, Frieda’s face relaxed for the first time in several days. The corners of her mouth returned to the level from a previously downturned aspect. The beating vein in her temples retreated. Her eyes sparkled. She allowed me a second rusk.


  Frieda decided that Baraba would travel with Herr Bourne in his contraption to pick up a few stores and deliver a list of essentials. Frieda did not trust Baraba entirely. I do not blame her for that. He spoke with an odd accent, English mostly, but there was something else. He wore the fall front trousers and waistcoat of the English but he was as dark skinned as the Africans. He was not frivolous like them, laughing and talking so much, but his mind often seemed to be elsewhere. He was of the Christian faith; naturally we wouldn’t have taken him on if he wasn’t, but looking at him, I often wondered if the dark mind could be brought to the light.

  I believe Herr Bourne could see her mistrust. “Perhaps, Miss Hensel would like to accompany me as well,” he said. “It would give her a chance to see my mission.”

  Frieda looked at me for a moment as she thought about it. I was sure she would never assent, but she surprised me with her answer. “I shall do your chores this morning, Clara. You must leave right away. The sooner you go, the sooner we’ll be able to get on with our higher purpose. I will remain behind with the others to make sure work on the church continues.”

  “Yes, Cousin,” I responded, trying to restrain myself from jumping up and kissing her. Johannes forbids any outbursts of emotion and Frieda has always agreed with that. She would not remonstrate, but certainly she would be displeased. I hastily recited my noon prayers to myself while retrieving a travelling shawl from my trunk.

  Naturally I was elated. I had so much to discover about Herr Bourne. And the thought of riding in his conveyance, his “range rover” as he called it, delighted me. It moved faster than a normal person walking, but not as fast as a horse galloping. It growled like the lions do at night — in fits and starts — while the smoke hissed from its short stack. It seemed to work entirely on its own with Herr Bourne speaking instructions to it. Often it didn’t follow his direction, though. He would order it right and it would turn left. Or he would ask it to take the road to some village and the contraption would head down the road to another. At those times, he would give up and take up the lever in his hands, turning the carriage wheels himself.

  Within a few hours we had made it to his compound on the banks of a nameless and slow moving river. The pretty little chat-chat birds babbled in the bushes growing amongst the huts. These shelters were large and more sturdily built than those of the Hadzabe who prefer the open air to any confining house. Herr Bourne’s buildings were constructed of mud brick with thatched roofs like those of the Maasai and the other strange peoples we had passed on the trek from Zanzibar to our place amongst the hunters all those months previously.

  Just as we entered the compound, Baraba left our side, making an excuse to do an errand I blush to mention here. I nodded when he alluded to it, not wanting to hear the particulars for propriety’s sake. Herr Bourne had been relieved as well. Like me he preferred not to discuss such a vulgar subject.

  Herr Bourne led me to the largest of the huts, his “church,” he called it. It may have been a house of worship, but it would have been for a very odd god.

  I stood in the doorway amazed, at first, and fascinated. Throughout the room soldier, musician, juggler, clown, and acrobat toys walked or jumped about. In between and around them, a large two-wheeler rolled about the room. It too moved by itself.

  If Frieda had seen this room with its whirring gadgets and flying miniature airships, she would never have allowed me to come.

  When I caught my breath I asked, “Who has wound these things? These toys?” Herr Bourne had been away from his church for several hours and I did not see anyone else about. I looked at him. “Where are your helpers?”

  He was watching me like a father watches a child on Christmas Day, but when I spoke, he laughed. “I have no servants. These ‘toys’ work almost limitlessly.”

  I stepped into the hut proper then and saw a small wooden dog chasing after a coloured ball that bounced about the room. I picked the little dog up for a closer look. It simulated barking through the opening and closing of hinged jaws, but it was voiceless. I was mystified by its workings as I found no crank.

  “But how does it work?” I asked as I turned it over.

  “Its impetus comes from vibrations in the air,” he said.

  I nearly dropped it when he uttered that. I turned to him and could have cried. I know he must have been disappointed, but I couldn’t help it. I felt so betrayed. He had said he was a man of God, but clearly science was his master.

  I wanted to escape from there, call Baraba and run all the way home. I am sure Frieda would not have accepted flour or cheese from such a man. But I stood and stared at Herr Bourne, the silent barking dog’s legs moving as if to run instead of me.

  I stayed then, I know not why. I can only say my confusion prevented me from making a decision.

  I watched him as his subjects in the room played against the backdrop of chat-chat birdsong. His hair shone in the light coming through the doorway and window openings. His eyes sparkled, danced with delight. I could not look away.

  Herr Bourne and I were alone in this church of science. Usually I would have been alarmed, but I remembered how Baraba had excused himself earlier. Herr Bourne had been as uncomfortable as I at that. Such gentlemanly sensitivity could only come from a respectful man of God. Whatever in his nature pushed him towards science must have also caused a rift in his soul. He must wrestle each night with his conscience. Such a sad and beautiful man. I knew I must help him. I must, for wasn’t that what I was sent here for, to save souls?

  Previous to this morning I often wondered what misstep of fate had made me want to accompany Johannes and his new bride to this unforgiving landscape. These people here, these Africans, had no desire for the grace of God. I could see them laughing at Johannes, my pure-hearted relation. I knew it was hopeless, but there had to be a reason for God to call me here and now I knew. It was for Herr Bourne’s sake. I had to save him. Help him. Work with him.

  He led me around his laboratory then, for that is what it was. Not a church as he called it. It would one day be a proper house of worship, but now it remained Herr Bourne’s workshop. I relaxed upon that realisation and delighted in the wonders of that room. I considered that old-fashioned saying: “The devil who is the strongest is the easiest to conquer.” So true. The devil feels invulnerable. But I know the secret. It is love.

  As we walked through the rolling gadgets and flying balloons, I fell deeper and deeper into love. How could I not fall for one so beautiful, so giving? He deserved my heart and when he discovered how full it was, he would be brought to the light on his knees.

  He drew me to a crude bench of wood held up by two boulders, one on either end. Such a refined man could not have moved these boulders that were nigh on a meter in height and not haphazardly placed. Someone must have helped him, a pair of savages most likely. My heart leaped at the thought. He had been converting natives after all. Perhaps he did have a new technique for reaching them.

  From the back of the bench, he retrieved a small box covered in crimson velvet. It was richly textured, out of place in the coarse surroundings. It was perhaps more suited to the dressing table of a Burgermeister’s frau. Inside the box was a smaller box constructed of glass panes encased in a brass frame. The top was hinged, and through the glass we could see the workings of a music box. The tiny side crank, the spindle, and the levers were, like the frame, made of brass. A delicate knob of rosewood was affixed to the tip of the crank.

  Herr Bourne held the box out to me, inviting me to engage it. I turned the box over, delighting in its delicate construction. Righting the box, I turned the crank a few revolutions and watched the spindle plucking at tiny levers. It reminded me of the zithers in the Zanzibar market. The music of the box, Nacht und Traume, was much more beautiful, more sweet and melodic, than the music of the crude Africans, though. I could not tear my eyes from the workings.

  “I saw this in Heidelberg, in a little shop, years ago,” Herr Bourne said. “When I heard a missionary and
his family from Germany were to be coming soon to these parts, I had the packet bring it to me. I wanted you to have something from home when you got here. I knew it would be hard on you at first.”

  {Pluck.} Quiet heart of a man.

  I looked up then in spite of the tears forming. I stared into his strong eyes, into his pupils so deep and meaningful. I drowned in those eyes, thinking of this magnificent man and his thoughts of us. Of me, I was sure. With the strains of Nacht und Traume playing in the background, and the chat-chat birdsong outside the open windows, I drowned.

  I loved him deeply and sensed that soon we would be alone, away from this place, this den of science. We would exist in our own night and dreams.

  {Pluck.} Return, holy night!

  Fair dreams, return!

  Those eyes, her eyes, they drew me into them, as eyes always do — count on it — just at the point of consummation. I trembled at a depth and strength I had not discovered before. She was an innocent, pliable, but at the same time strong. At seventeen, she was a woman, yet with the purity of a child still. I suggest I could do nothing less than love her.

  And love her I did, in my way. After ten years of exile in this god-forsaken terrain with its godless people as my only contact with humanity, I loved her for what she was to do for me.

  I had planned and worked well. Efficiently. I had heard Rebmann was off again to the mountain, to prove his claim of finding snow there, which no one believed. The fool. His vanity got the better of his pious spirit. What had he hoped to accomplish? Did he really think snow existed in an equatorial region? And if he succeeded in obtaining a sample, what did he think would happen to it when he brought it down from the mount? If it didn’t melt, it wasn’t snow. The fool. His foolishness was my advantage.

  That morning I travelled in my rover to his encampment near Lake Eyasi. Even in its uncooperative state, the machine intimidated my intended guests before I stepped out. That was also to my advantage.