Green City in the Sun

by Wood, Barbara

  She ran to the door and pressed her ear to it. Smoke billowed out through cracks. The roof was a cone of fire. Grace listened. She heard the children's voices, calling feebly.

  "Mona!" Grace tried to open the door.

  Men came running with banana leaves. They pounded the flames that were licking down the walls. Someone threw handfuls of dirt. Grace pushed at the door with all her might; then one of the Africans pulled her away and shoved with his own body.

  The hut started to cave in. The cries of the children could no longer be heard.

  Soon the entire compound was a blazing hell, and the Africans began to retreat in fear.

  Grace screamed and pounded on the door. Cinders and sparks showered down on her. Heat seared her face and lungs. "Mona!" she cried.

  Finally the door gave way and smoke poured out. Covering her face, Grace fell to her hands and knees and reached inside. The ceiling was starting to come down. She felt a limb and seized it and pulled with all her strength. David's body came out just as a chunk of flaming papyrus fell. It struck Grace on the head. She tugged at David until he was out of danger. Then, fighting heat and smoke, she ran back for Mona.

  And then the rain broke.

  It burst from bulging clouds and washed down on the inferno. The flames shrank; a great hiss began to fill the air. The thunder and lightning moved on; the rain came down hard until it was falling like a river.

  Grace slogged in the mud, tripping on her nightgown. Thatch once flaming now grew sodden and heavy. She plunged through steam and smoldering papyrus, slipping and sliding, searching for Mona.

  The Africans withdrew, then vanished into the deluge.

  Grace found Mona, trapped beneath the instrument cabinet which had fallen over. Before she could get hold of the child, the roof collapsed beneath the force of the storm and buried the girl. Grace dug frantically, tearing at the soaked thatch until her hands bled. Mona lay motionless, one pale arm flung out at an unnatural angle.

  The rain came down on Grace with punishing force, plastering her hair to her face. She tried to lift the cabinet but could not. She called out for help, the wind driving rain into her mouth. Grace could not see more than a foot or two in front of her. The rain was like a solid wall. And it was quickly turning the charred floor of the hut into a lake. Mona had only moments before been in danger of burning to death; now she would drown if Grace did not get her out in time.

  "Help!" she cried. "Someone! Mario!"

  She looked around in desperation. The compound was deserted; black remains of huts and hospital furniture hissed in the downpour. "Help!" she screamed. "Where is everyone?"

  Then she saw a shape emerge through the driving rain. It came slowly toward her.

  "Please help me," Grace sobbed. "My little girl is trapped. She might still be alive."

  Wachera stared down with a stony expression.

  "Damn it!" cried Grace. "Don't just stand there! Help me lift this cabinet!"

  The medicine woman said just one word: "Thahu."

  "This is no bloody thahu!" shouted Grace, tugging at the cabinet, ripping her nails. "It's a storm, nothing more! Help me!"

  Wachera didn't move. She stood in the downpour, her leather dress drenched, rain running off her shaved head.

  Grace shot to her feet. "Damn it!" she shouted. "Help me save this girl!"

  The eyes of the medicine woman flickered to the pathetic arm stretched out from under the cabinet. The water level was rising around Mona's lifeless body.

  "I saved your son!" Grace screamed.

  Wachera turned her head. When she saw David, stirring to consciousness in the mud, her expression changed. She looked from the boy to the white woman, then down at the cabinet. Without a word she bent and took hold of one end. Grace seized the other, and together, panting and struggling, the two women managed to drag the heavy piece of furniture off the girl's body.

  Grace dropped to her knees and gently turned Mona over. Wiping hair and mud from the shockingly white face, she said, "Mona? Mona, darling? Can you hear me?"

  Grace felt the side of the girl's neck and found a pulse. She put her cheek to the gray lips and detected a faint breath. Alive. But only barely.

  She tried to think. She sat up with her niece in her arms and looked around the compound. Where was everyone?

  As if reading her mind, Wachera said, "They all have left you. They fear thahu. They fear the punishment of Ngai."

  Grace ignored her. Cradling the lifeless girl against her, she looked frantically around for shelter. All the huts were destroyed; her own house was gutted, the wind sending rain into what was left. Her mind struggled; she couldn't think clearly. She sat in the mud, trying to keep the rain off Mona's face.

  My instruments, my medicines, my dressings...

  All gone.

  Then she thought of Bellatu. Its bedrooms and dry beds. There would be some sort of medicines in one of the bathrooms; dressings could be made out of sheets.

  Grace tried to stand. The blow to her head had made her dizzy. Blood trickled into her right eye. Get to the house. But the road—it would be impassable!

  Through the rain she saw her own Ford truck sunk up to its running board in the mud. The road to Nyeri would also be one long bog. No one, she knew, would be able to get through.

  Holding Mona tight against her, Grace tried again to stand. She slipped and fell. Then she saw the ugly gash in the girl's leg. She tried to find Mona's pulse.

  I'm losing her!

  The third time Grace managed to stay on her feet. She began to stumble through the rain, toward the path that climbed up the ridge. Mona was a dead weight in her arms; the stormy world around her tilted; the ground seemed to move beneath her.

  Grace started to sob. She plodded through knee-deep mud, her feet catching on the hem of her nightgown, the rain pushing her back, Mona growing heavier and heavier. She had to get to the house, or they both would drown out here, alone, in the mud....

  And then two arms, shiny black with rain, reached out, and suddenly Grace's burden was lifted. Wachera took up Mona with ease and turned away. Grace stared after her.

  She saw the boy follow his mother; they were heading for the polo field. "Wait," Grace whispered. Her head swam. She put a hand to her forehead, and it came away bloody.

  Cold and wet and numb, Grace staggered over the ruins behind the African medicine woman, who walked in the direction of her hut.

  26

  G

  RACE OPENED HER EYES.

  There was little to see, just the smoky interior of an African hut.

  She tried to move. Every joint and muscle in her body hurt. Her mind was a fog; she couldn't remember where she was, what had happened.

  She lay still and listened to the rain patter on the thatch, recognizing the smells in the hut. They were at the same time familiar and alien. Someone was talking. Singing? She tried to move again. The hut swung around her. She felt sick.

  I'm hurt. I must go slowly.

  Bit by bit the fog lifted from her brain, and her thoughts began to coalesce into a sharper focus. The rain. There had been a storm. And a fire ... Mona!

  Grace sat up abruptly. The hut tilted. In the darkness she saw the glow of hot stones over a cook fire and the silhouettes of three people—one sitting, two recumbent. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, Grace recognized Wachera's face, her coppery features set in deep concentration. Then there was David, asleep on a bed of banana leaves, his body covered by a goatskin. Across the small hut lay Mona, white as death.

  Grace opened her mouth. Her lips and tongue were dry; she had difficulty speaking. "Mona..."

  But the medicine woman held up a hand and said, "You are not well. Your head received a bad wound. Lie down."

  "I must see to Mona."

  "I have taken care of her. She lives. Now she sleeps."

  "But... she was bleeding."

  Wachera got up from her place at the cook fire and went to the girl. Lifting the goatskin blanket, she pointed
to the wounded leg.

  Grace stared. Mona's thigh was clean, and a dressing of grass and leaves had been tied in place by a leather thong.

  "It needed suturing ..." Grace said, her head swimming.

  Wachera reached up to the circular wall, where, Grace saw now, many gourds and leather pouches hung. Taking one of these, Wachera spilled something into her hand and held it out for Grace to see. In the brown palm lay iron needles of different sizes, strips of sheep tendon, and bark string. "The wound is closed," Wachera said. Then she returned the things to the pouch and the pouch to its hook.

  Grace watched her with eyes that refused to stay focused. The image of the young medicine woman blurred; she seemed to retreat down a long tunnel. Grace heard the singing voice again and realized it was herself. Why was she singing? No, not singing ... groaning.

  She sank back onto the bed of banana leaves. There seemed to be not an ounce of strength in her body. My patients, she thought. Where was everyone? Mario. Her head throbbed. She put a hand to her temple and felt something leafy there.

  Grace closed her eyes and lost consciousness.

  WACHERA SQUATTED NEXt to the little girl and murmured magic spells as she removed the leaves and inspected the wound. There was a lot of angry redness and swelling, which meant evil spirits had invaded the flesh, so she took some leaves from a pouch on her belt, put them in her mouth, chewed for a moment, then applied them to the wound that had been stitched with bark string. When new dry leaves were tied in place, Wachera examined the burn on the little girl's back. There was enough aloe juice in the gourd for one more treatment; then she would have to send David out for more. But where was he?

  She looked at the doorway. It was still raining. The downpour had not stopped since its onset; the whole world was gray and watery.

  Wachera covered the little girl again with the warm goatskins and turned to the memsaab, who was still unconscious. Wachera studied her. She had never been this close to a white woman, had never touched one. She stared at the curiously colorless skin, at the brown hair flimsy as cornsilk; she lifted the hands and marveled at their lack of calluses. This mzunga was like a newborn lamb, all white and soft. It amazed Wachera that such women survived in Kikuyuland. Yet they did, and more were arriving every day with their helmets that were wider than their shoulders and their clothes that protected every inch of their vulnerable skin.

  What made them come? Why were they here?

  The medicine woman sat next to the sleeping memsaab and laid a hand on the cool, dry forehead. The throb of life at the memsaab's throat, which was the energy of her ancestral spirit, was strong. She was healthy. She would live. But she would be half blind. There was nothing Wachera could have done about the memsaab's loss of sight.

  David came in, shook the rain off himself, and squatted by the fire. He stole a glance at the white girl sleeping in his bed. He wished she would die.

  Dropping some bark and roots into a pot boiling on the cook stones, Wachera instructed her son to go to the river and collect three lilies the "color of a goat's tongue." But he must not try to cross the river to the other villages, she warned, because the water was rising and its spirit would grab him and pull him under. She embraced David, thanking Ngai for sparing him, then watched him go back into the rain.

  When she returned to the preparation of the infusion, Wachera found the memsaab awake and looking at her.

  "How is Mona?" Grace asked.

  Wachera nodded to indicate that all was well.

  Grace tried to sit up. She was surprised to find her nightgown dry and herself clean. Then she realized the medicine woman must have bathed her.

  The hut was smoky and dark. The daylight coming through the doorway was pale; a curtain of rain fell steadily. Grace tried to orient herself, blinking in confusion. It was then that she realized there was something wrong with her sight.

  Reading the memsaab's face, Wachera said, "You were struck on the head. Here," she added, pointing to her own temple.

  Grace felt the leaf dressing on the right side of her forehead. She didn't remember being struck by the burning thatch. Then she moved her hand in front of her right eye and couldn't see it.

  "I could not save your sight," Wachera said.

  Grace looked at her in surprise. "How did you know I could not see out of this eye?"

  "It is the old knowledge. When a head is struck here, the sight is lost." She reached for an empty gourd, filled it with the infusion, and handed it to Grace.

  "What is it?"

  "It will strengthen you. Drink it."

  Grace looked down at the hot liquid. Its steamy aroma was not unpleasant, but she didn't trust the medicine woman. "What is it?" she said again.

  Wachera didn't answer. She turned away from the memsaab and went to the little girl, who had begun to stir. Cradling Mona in the crook of her arm, she brought a gourd to the dry lips. Mona drank, her eyes closed, her body limp. Grace started to protest. She wanted to push the medicine woman away from her niece and take care of Mona herself. But Grace felt sick again. She lay back down, setting the gourd on the earth floor.

  She thought about her eye. She knew that a blow to the temple could detach the retina; the same wound had blinded Admiral Nelson. And there was no cure for it. But how had this African woman known that?

  Grace tried to fathom her strange weakness, her inability to get up off this primitive bed. I must get help. I must get word out. . . . She thought of the mission workers, of her patients, of Mario. They had to be brought back to the mission, to rebuild the clinic. She pictured Birdsong Cottage as she had last seen it, charred and gutted with the rain pouring in. Everything ruined.

  She listened to the rain. It lulled her. She watched the medicine woman patiently feed tea to a half-conscious Mona. The pungent scent of the infusion filled the hut. It seemed to invigorate, even in vapor form. What was in the tea? Grace reached for the gourd; her trembling hand knocked it over, and black tea spilled out, seeping into the floor.

  Wachera worked silently and slowly. She turned Mona onto her side, checked the dressings again, then tucked the goatskins in all around. Returning to the cook fire, she picked up the gourd Grace had knocked over, refilled it, and came to sit at the memsaab's side. This time, when Grace struggled to sit up, Wachera put a strong arm around her shoulders and supported her. The medicine woman brought the tea to Grace's lips, and she drank.

  "Do you have pain?" Wachera asked.

  "Yes. In my head. Terrible pain ..."

  David came in then. He set the three lilies down and retreated to the wall, where he sat cross-legged and watched. Wachera left the memsaab to work on the flowers. Separating roots and leaves, she dropped the petals into a measure of hot water, stirring it as it boiled. Grace lay helpless as she observed the simple process of making a decoction. Her head throbbed. She began to feel ill again.

  When the new brew was cooled, Wachera returned to Grace's side, helped her sit up, and brought the gourd to her lips. But Grace drew her head back. "Water lilies?" she said weakly. "I can't drink this."

  "It is for head pain."

  "But... it might be poison."

  "It is not poison."

  Grace looked up into the dark face inches from her own. Wachera's eyes were like the brown pebbles found in the river bed. They seemed depthless. Grace looked at the pinkish tea. Then she drank.

  "How do you feel?" Wachera asked a short while later, as she began to prepare millet stew on the cook fire.

  "I'm feeling better," Grace said, meaning it. The pain in her head was subsiding, and strength seemed to be returning to her body.

  She was able to concentrate now, to organize her thoughts. She looked at the boy sitting sullenly against the wall, wondered what he and Mona had been doing in the surgery hut, then asked Wachera if it was possible to get word to others where she was.

  Wachera stirred the millet, the beaded bracelets on her arms making a clacking sound. "The rain is very bad. My boy cannot go. I cannot go. When
the rain stops, we will try."

  Grace imagined the world beyond the mud wall; she had seen storms like this before. The river would be swollen and churning; all paths and roads would be ribbons of mud; wherever people were they would be stranded there; and of those unlucky to be caught abroad in the rain, some would drown.

  When she was given a gourd of millet stew, Grace found she had appetite and ate with relish. Wachera first fed Mona, who seemed to hover in a half-awake limbo; then she took some stew herself. David gobbled his down and curled up on his side to sleep, his back to the others in the hut.

  GRACE WAS THE first awake. She stared up at the underside of the thatch, listened to the continuing rain, then slowly sat up.

  Wachera was still asleep on her side next to David, her body curved spoonlike against his, her arm covering him. Grace fought a spell of vertigo, then was able to shift from the leafy bed. She went to Mona and immediately checked the girl's vital signs.

  Grace sat back in alarm. Mona was burning with fever.

  She undid the leaf dressing on Mona's thigh and gazed in astonishment at the track of neat stitches. There was redness but no drainage. Then she inspected the burn on the girl's back. It would leave a scar, but because of Wachera's quick action, there was no sign of infection.

  So Mona burned from some other cause. And it could be anything; the cold rain; the medicine woman's mysterious brews; something brought on by the bite of an insect, which lived in disconcerting profusion in this hut.

  Mona needed something to reduce her fever, and quickly. Without a proper thermometer Grace could not determine the exact degree of the temperature, but she knew the child was dangerously hot. Grace got up and went to the doorway. There would be aspirin up at the big house, in Rose's bathroom. But the rain stood like a solid wall between Wachera's hut and the ridge; the path to Bellatu, Grace knew, would be gone.

  Hearing a sound, Grace turned and found the young African woman awake and reaching for a leather pouch. Wachera seemed unaware that the memsaab was out of bed and standing at the doorway; in single-minded concentration she proceeded to draw roots out of the bag and begin to pound them between two stones. She then stirred the pulp into a gourd filled with cold rainwater and took it to Mona. When she lifted the gourd to the girl's lips, Grace said, "Stop!"