The White Hunter

by Gilbert, Morris

  Jeanine could not keep the tears from running down her face. When John stepped out of the darkness, she cried, “How did you find me?”

  “I heard the shots. Let’s get out of here.”

  “I can’t walk.” Jeanine found it suddenly hard to talk. Not only was her ankle very painful, but her legs were weak as well from the ordeal. She began to breathe very shallowly, and John Winslow reassessed the situation. “Tell you what. I can’t carry you all the way to camp. We’ll make a fire here, and in the morning someone will come looking for us.”

  Jeanine found herself gasping as if she had been underwater, and John said, “Here. Sit down. It was a close one, but you’re all right now.”

  Jeanine Quintana sat with her back against the tree, her eyes closed. Her hands were trembling, and from time to time her lips would jerk in an involuntary fashion. Finally she opened her eyes and her breathing grew more regular. She watched as John found some dead wood and efficiently built a fire. Soon the very crackling of it and the smell of the smoke and the bright yellow and red flames seemed to bring her back to normal.

  John sat down close beside her. “Not much to eat, but I got my canteen. It’ll have to last until morning. Here, I have the remnants of two sandwiches. Half and half.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Don’t argue. Eat it.”

  Jeanine normally would have snapped back at John, but every time she closed her eyes, she seemed to see the eyes of the hyenas as they surrounded her. Obediently she took the squashed sandwich and ate it, chewing slowly. When she was through, he said, “Drink a little water. Wish it were coffee.”

  The two sat there and John spoke quietly. He had seen fear shake people up like this before and understood that it had been a terrifying experience for Jeanine.

  They were sitting rather close together when suddenly a hoarse cough from somewhere out in the jungle sounded, followed by a terrible roar. Jeanine could not help herself. Ordinarily she would not have done so, but now she grabbed at John. When he put his arm around her and held her close, she clung to him as if she were a child.

  “It’s all right. It’s only a lion. He won’t come into the fire.”

  Jeanine heard his words, but she found his arm around her comforting, and she held on to him. She could feel the strong muscles of his lean body as her arms encircled him. Since Clive Winters, she had not shown herself so vulnerable to any man, but neither had she ever been nearly torn to bits by wild hyenas before.

  She looked up after a time and saw that he was watching her. The silver moonlight coated his face with its light, and he had an expression on his face she had never seen before. “What is it, John?” she whispered.

  John Winslow had known women, but none seriously. He had been attracted from the first by Jeanine Quintana’s beauty, as any man would be. And now as she lay in his arms, yielding and soft, he suddenly lowered his head and kissed her. She returned his kiss, but somehow he knew that her clinging to him was merely the result of her terrible fear. Still he held her, savoring her loveliness. She seemed to give him back as much as he gave her, and finally it was John who pulled away.

  As John lifted his head, Jeanine Quintana realized she had been stirred by his kiss in a way that she did not understand. She knew men well, and she also realized she had held on to him and kissed him back more out of fear than of genuine affection. There was a weakness in her as a woman as well as a strength, and yet she did not want to admit this. She shoved him away and moved stiffly to put distance between them.

  “Don’t tell me you’re insulted,” John said.

  “Don’t ever touch me again!”

  “I probably will, and you’ll like it then just like you did this time.”

  Jeanine swung her arm, attempting to slap his face, but he was too quick. He pinioned her wrist, held it there, and shook his head. “You are what you are, Jeanine. Annie can be a missionary, but you will never make it.”

  “How can you say that? You don’t know me!”

  “Yes, I do! I’m no expert on women, but from what I’ve heard all my life about those who serve God, they have to have a streak of gentleness and generosity. I’ve never seen either in you.”

  His words seemed cold inside Jeanine’s head, and she was hurt, for she knew there was truth in what he said. She would not admit it, however, and drew herself back. As the fire crackled in the darkness, making a tiny dot of brilliance in the blackness, she made up her mind. Although she did not speak out loud, she was thinking fiercely, I will be a missionary! I will, and John Winslow will have to admit it!

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A Matter of Time

  The weeks seemed to drag for Jeanine Quintana, for in Africa time moves at a different pace—or appears to. She had been warned by Barney Winslow that she could not expect the Masai to keep her time.

  He had grinned as he had said, “It’s a matter of time, Jeanine. All of us who grow up in America are slaves to watches and calendars and clocks. The Masai’s time is built in his spirit. He has no appointments to make or keep except those that concern his cattle or his rituals. You’ll just have to realize this if you’re going to be a successful missionary.”

  And Jeanine had sincerely tried to slow herself down. Being an impulsive woman of quick spirit, accustomed to a fast-paced life-style, it had been very difficult for her. Late one Saturday afternoon she was standing just outside the village watching a group of herdsmen. They were, she had to admit, a colorful group of men. She had long ago decided that the Masai were perhaps some of the most handsome human beings on the face of the earth. Both men and women had slender bones and narrow hips and shoulders, but with beautifully rounded muscles and limbs.

  Now as the herdsmen plodded along with their cattle, she noticed that some of them still carried the leaf-bladed spears that had made them a terror to their enemies for decades.

  She noticed one morani, or young warrior, who was painted with red ochre. As he passed by he grinned at her, and she nodded, giving him a greeting. His braids were greased and pulled up from the nape of his neck and jutted out over his forehead like the bill of a cap. There was something handsome and aristocratic about him, Jeanine had to admit, but still she was irritated.

  “I don’t see why they can’t work a little more regularly,” she muttered. Turning, she walked with a rapid stride back toward that section of the village where, for what seemed like months, she had been trying to get a church building erected. As she moved by the houses, rounded over and humped like huge strange beasts plastered with dung, she thought back over how difficult it had been just to do a simple thing like putting up a building.

  First there had been the difficulty of getting the lumber cut. Then getting the lumber hauled over land to the village had been another gargantuan task. It had not come in all together in one large load but had dribbled in sporadically, hauled in oxcarts driven by somnambulant drovers.

  Once the lumber was on the ground, Jeanine had drawn a deep sigh of relief but soon became disappointed by another delay. The lumber had come at a time when the men who would work on it had decided to go hunting. She had faced this problem before on the trail and had bitten her lips to cover her impatience.

  Another problem had arisen when she had given instructions on how to build the building.

  The warrior who had been in charge of the labor had explained things carefully to her. His name was Drago. He was like all the other warriors, tall, well formed, and with colorful beads dangling from his pierced ears. He spoke no English, which made things difficult, but Annie was able to translate his statement into something like, “It is a waste of time to build this building. We can make you one out of saplings and dung like our houses, only bigger.” He had smiled then, believing the problem was solved. Jeanine had gritted her teeth, but stubbornly working through Annie, and through the use of pictures drawn on a tablet, she had shown Drago what she wanted.

  Drago had muttered to his fellow workers, “The white-faced woman h
as no sense.” A mutter of acknowledgment had gone around, and the workers had also become impatient with Jeanine.

  Now as she walked up to where the base of the building was being assembled, she said, “Drago, you’ve got to get the men to work faster.” Annie, who had been watching, came over and attempted to translate. “Tell him that the work is going too slow.”

  Annie hesitated. “Do you think that would be wise, Jeanine?”

  “They’re just lazy. Tell him!”

  Annie did not translate Jeanine’s words in the exact form in which she had received them. She said, in her faltering manner, “Drago, we would appreciate it if you could get the men to work a little faster.”

  Drago looked amazed. “Why?” he asked.

  “What did he say?” Jeanine demanded.

  “He wants to know why,” Annie said.

  “Wants to know why to work faster? To get the building built!”

  A long and tedious argument took place then. Annie grew frustrated by her lack of ability with the language. It was like wading verbally through thick mud to put what Jeanine said into words that Drago could understand. Basically Drago was insisting that there was no hurry at all.

  “Life is long,” he said. “We have tomorrow and tomorrow.”

  Jeanine, on the other hand, was adamant and finally lost her temper and shouted, “You’re just lazy! That’s all that’s wrong with you!” Then she turned and walked away, her back erect.

  “The white God lady is not happy,” Drago murmured.

  “She’s not used to your ways,” Annie said gently. “Neither am I. You must be patient with us, Drago.”

  Drago turned to face Annie. The missionaries were an enigma to him, as they were to all his people. They had come to help, they said, but the language barrier had made it almost impossible for Drago and others to understand what form this help would take.

  A smile touched Drago’s lips and he nodded. “You are good God-woman, Mother Annie,” he said, “but your friend has no respect.”

  Annie felt that Drago had put his finger right on the problem, but she had no way of explaining this. It was too subtle for her to explain in English, much less in their complex language. Carefully she tried to repair the damage as well as she could, but it was not easy. She watched as Drago ambled back to the structure and called the men back to work. As far as she could tell, they did not increase their speed at all after the scene Jeanine had made.

  “I wish Jeanine wouldn’t do that,” she told herself, shaking her head almost in despair. But there was nothing she could do, so she just offered a prayer that a change would come into Jeanine Quintana.

  ****

  Jeb Winslow had never been so happy. The food that he ate was repulsive to him at first, but he had adjusted to that. He had had malaria, which had dragged him down badly, but he had recovered. The sultry heat, the flies, the odorous smell that hung over every African village were all difficult, but he had adapted well and every day rose up thanking God that he had been allowed to come to Africa to study the Masai.

  The sun was overhead as Jeb sat outside of the small hut he had built for himself. He was watching a group of children playing, for he had found the Masai family’s life-style intriguing. He had begun by learning that the Masai adored children. It had touched him when he had first heard a devoted mother calling her child “My fragile bones” and another “The child of my beloved man.” He had learned also that the Masai felt that a man with many children and few cattle was richer than one with many cattle and no children.

  Leaning back and tilting his sun helmet over his eyes, he thought of how seriously the Masai took the rearing of their children. They sang beautiful songs that celebrated the birth of a child. One of them was called “Naomoni Aaayai.” It was something like:

  “The one who is prayed for and I also pray

  God of the thunder and the rain,

  Thee I always pray.

  Morning star that rises,

  Thee I always pray.

  The indescribable color,

  Thee I always pray.”

  This is the song that every Masai mother would sing the day after a child was born. The next day a plump sheep would be slaughtered. Its fat would be melted down, and the mother would drink of it. The midwife was always given a choice portion of this animal.

  Some families gave a first name when the baby was still very young. At this ceremony both baby and mother would have their heads shaved. He also learned that a child was often given a second name that was added to the first. The naming ceremonies were very colorful, for the mother would put on her best clothes made of soft lambskin. She would coat her face with heavy ochre and wear many beads and necklaces and earrings.

  The mother cared for her baby, of course, but the baby also received much attention from sisters and from grandmothers. They would all tickle the baby, dance with it, and toss it in the air as the mother would sing,

  “Grow up my child,

  grow up like a mountain.

  Equal Mount Meru,

  Equal Mount Kenya,

  Equal Kilimanjaro.

  Help your mother and father.”

  All of this, and many other facts about the Masai people, Jeb Winslow recorded faithfully. He had remarked once to Annie, “I wish you had your typewriter here. My fingers ache from all this writing.” Indeed, he had stacks of notebooks already, and now as he sat there in the warm sunlight, he was fascinated by the children playing before him. A boy of no more than three or four was holding a stick. This would be his fate, for all Masai boys became cattle herders and used sticks. This young lad was soon joined by a second. His stick had a sharp point, which Jeb saw was the forerunner of the spear that all warriors were privileged to carry. They started playing games, and one of the boys took a sharp cut, but he was not permitted to show pain or express anger during these games.

  All around there were young children playing. The boys constructed miniature kraals out of the earth, just as English boys would make castles and American boys would make forts. Young girls played with dolls made from mud. They even had a game very much like jacks using stones or berries. Sometimes they played together, their favorite game being hide-and-seek, and like all children, they pretended to be grown-ups.

  Getting to his feet, Jeb wandered through the village. He was greeted by many who spoke to him politely. The children were taught to call all elders “father” and all women “mother.” He had learned that sometimes the children addressed adults by the name of their offspring, for example, Koto Meto would be the mother of Meto.

  One of the warriors ambled up and said with a smile, “Good morning, Jeb.”

  Jeb returned his greeting. He was pleased that the man used his first name. “How are you, Talbi?”

  Talbi indicated that all was well with him, and for some time the two men stood there talking. Jeb was especially gifted, it seemed, in languages, much more so than Annie, and did very well in the conversation. He also understood very quickly that Talbi had something on his mind. Jeb had fallen into the rhythm of life adopted by the Masai. If he had been at home in America, he probably would have said, “What’s on your mind, Talbi?” But such a direct question was not asked here. There were certain rituals to be observed, and it was easy to insult the Masai by rushing into things.

  Jeb simply stood there speaking idly, his eyes running over the village, waiting until Talbi finally felt that it was the time to bring up whatever was on his mind.

  “We are glad you are in our village, Jeb.”

  “Thank you, Talbi. It’s good of you to have me here as a guest.”

  “Mother Annie, she is a good woman.”

  “Why, yes. She certainly is.”

  A silence then seemed to fall upon the conversation, but Jeb knew that Talbi had not said what he intended to say. He seemed to be having difficulty saying it, and finally he seemed to postpone it by saying, “It is time for me to eat.”

  Jeb grinned, for he knew that Talbi was making sp
ort of him. “I’ll join you,” he said.

  Talbi did not laugh openly, but his dark eyes showed a flash of humor.

  “Come,” he said.

  As Jeb strolled alongside Talbi, he thought about how vital cattle were to the life of these people. Their herds supplied milk, the staple of the Masai diet, and the people had learned to make a sour form of yogurt from it. Babies were given ghee, which was their name for butter. It had been strange to Jeb, but he discovered that animals usually were not slaughtered for their meat, except on special occasions, such as when a woman gave birth or when warriors went on retreats to gain strength. Most food was shared in the Masai community, and whenever one killed a cow, everyone who wanted to eat meat that day joined in. However, he had also had to learn that milk and meat must not be eaten at the same time, since the people there were convinced that tapeworms were the results. He asked, “Talbi, why will your people never eat meat and drink milk on the same day?”

  “Because it would betray the animal to feed on it while alive by drinking its milk, and then also after it is dead to eat its meat. So we must decide which we will do that day.”

  They reached the herd and Jeb stood by as Talbi, with the help of one of the other warriors, selected and held a cow firmly by the head. Talbi borrowed an arrow and wrapped a thong just behind its tip. Carefully he knelt and drew the arrow back only a few inches. When he released it, it pierced the jugular vein of the heifer, which gave a start but was firmly held. A calabash, a hollow gourd, was placed beneath the cut and the blood was drained into it.

  Quickly Talbi staunched the flow of blood, then drew off some fresh milk into the calabash. He sloshed it around, then the Masai warriors gathered around, their eyes gleaming with fun.

  “Here, you first, Jeb.”

  This had happened before, and Jeb knew that very few white men had been able to join the Masai in their favorite food. He had steeled himself to it, however, and had come to the conclusion, “Well, we eat livers and hearts and gizzards of animals. What’s the difference?”