Mark of the Lion

by Suzanne Arruda

  She asked Jelani about several of the items and had increased her basic vocabulary considerably by the time they approached the fence delineating the hotel grounds. The magnificent two-story stone hotel and its wide, sweeping double veranda arrested her attention. After the unstable appearances of the street shops, this edifice announced itself with a solidity that spoke volumes for British determination to graft a permanent part of the empire here.

  A half dozen whites lounged in the lower veranda’s shade and sipped beverages from tall glasses. Jade observed their startled faces staring at her. Glass tumblers hung motionless in their hands. A middle-aged woman in a flowered hat turned to her mustached companion and whispered a few words. At first Jade thought it was because of her dusty attire, then realized it was because she was walking and conversing familiarly with the young African. Pompous bastards, she thought, and proceeded to ignore them.

  “Jelani, thank you for the most interesting lesson.” Jade reached into a skirt pocket for a few rupees she kept for tips and handed him several. He took them with a gracious bow and proceeded to gather her satchels from the rickshaw, calling another boy to help with the trunk.

  “Please, memsabu. You go in now,” he said softly. His speech had returned to its original formality. Jade hoped she hadn’t caused him trouble. She hoisted the bag with her camera in one hand, her rifle in the other, and preceded him into the cool building. As she passed the lounging colonists, she overheard two men in a heated discussion.

  “I tell you, we need to go on a hunt and clean out all the damn hyenas. I heard they’ve started hunting the natives.”

  “You’ll never clean out the hyenas,” replied a young man. “There are too many of them. What if they do take a native or two? I’d rather they eat natives than my cattle.”

  Jade was about to turn and show the last speaker a piece of her fist when a cheerful voice called from behind the lobby counter, “Miss del Cameron. So glad you arrived safely.”

  “Thank you,” replied Jade. She set her satchel on the floor and propped her rifle against the lobby desk. “I’m surprised to be addressed by name before ever introducing myself.” She looked at the short balding man with an expectant smile.

  “Your magazine, The Traveler, arranged for your room,” he began by way of an explanation. “We knew when your boat arrived in Mombasa, and . . .” He flourished a hand in the air like a magician about to make the invisible visible. “Your solicitor, Mr. Jacobs, also requested a motorcar. I’m doing my best to secure one for you, but at present . . .” He shrugged.

  “That’s all right,” said Jade, wondering how she was going to get around without it. “Then I must have been the only guest you were expecting?” she asked with a hint of incredulity.

  The man’s round face turned a shade pinker. “Well, no, Miss del Cameron. But I must own that you look exactly like the description given in Lord Dunbury’s letter, and he was quite insistent that we take the very best care of you.”

  Jade smiled. Beverly, you’ve been a busy girl. Everything became crystal clear to her now: the lad with the rickshaw, the expectant and highly solicitous hotel keeper. Bev must have wheedled her fiancé into sending a personal endorsement to the hotel. In fact, if she knew Beverly, the dear girl probably wrote the letter herself and simply had Avery Dunbury sign it. Jade thought of the personal letter of introduction from Lord Dunbury in her bag. They were taking no chances of her receiving a cold shoulder among the Nairobi elite.

  “I should think this red dust made everyone virtually unrecognizable,” Jade said. “Every time someone opened a window on the train, it swooped in on us.”

  “A nice hot bath in your room will take care of you. Not every room has a bath attached, but for you . . .” He smiled broadly and waved his hands as though he conjured a private bath out of thin air. “And we can have your traveling costume cleaned and pressed for you as well. Just leave it hanging outside your door. The boy will see to it.” The manager looked towards the far wall, where Jelani had melted into the shadows. “N’ja, come here!” Both his voice and his fingers snapped. Jelani and the second boy sprang forward with her bags. “Take Miss del Cameron’s trunk to her room. And, miss,” he called after Jade, “I’ll have tea sent up shortly.”

  Jade halted in her tracks. “No! No tea please, if you don’t mind.” She added more gently, “You wouldn’t by any chance have some coffee, would you?”

  “Yes, Miss del Cameron. Coffee it is. Lots of coffee growers in the colony.” He smiled. “I forgot you are a Yank, what with your London solicitor also sending letters of credit. So many people looking after you,” he added.

  Jade pondered the various groups looking out for her. Mr. Jacobs’ influence might get her financial credit, but it wouldn’t get her far with the tightly knit colonial set. It appeared Beverly and her fiancé knew that as well. Suddenly Jade remembered that Gil Worthy had supposedly been found dead in his rooms here.

  “Tell me, sir. Do you recall a Mr. Gil Worthy? I believe he visited in January 1915 and passed away suddenly in this hotel.”

  The manager’s eyes opened wide in horror. “Merciful heavens! I recall no such thing. But,” he added, “I shall make inquiries concerning him if you wish.”

  “Perhaps I could check the register?” asked Jade.

  “Later, Miss del Cameron. That year is in the safe with the others.”

  Disappointed, Jade took her key and followed the boys up the stairs to her room. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but her preconceived notions certainly didn’t include the beautifully crafted oak four-poster bed, the matching lion-footed chairs upholstered in warm golden velvet, and the large French doors that exited onto the upper terrace. Letters from lords had their advantage, since she couldn’t imagine the magazine’s request for a room would have warranted one this richly appointed. Jade saw with pleasure that the room also had electric lights.

  Jelani waited for further instructions, which Jade gave in her best Swahili regarding filling the bath and then later bringing coffee and a light meal. He responded with minimal giggles and a few gentle corrections as, once again, Jelani became the relaxed, friendly boy of before. Jade felt they’d get on famously, as Bev was so fond of saying.

  Jade washed the red dust of the Athi Plains from her slender body and short black hair, and put on her ambulance corps trousers and a white blouse. The only thing missing from her uniform was the overskirt. She signaled that she’d finished her bath by hanging her soiled traveling suit outside the door. Jelani appeared in a few minutes with a quarter of a cooked chicken, bread, an orange, and a pot of that blessed coffee.

  “Oh, thank you, Jelani.” Jade poured a cup of precious black nectar, sipped it, and sighed. “You don’t know how much I’ve missed coffee.”

  “Memsabu not like tea?” he asked innocently in English.

  Jade made a sour face and stuck out her tongue. Jelani laughed. “No,” she answered. “Memsabu does not like tea.” She finished the first cup, picked up a chicken breast, and retired to a wingback easy chair and footstool. “What is your tribe, Jelani?”

  “Kikuyu,” he answered.

  She offered him a seat and a chicken leg. He refused both. “Do you live here?”

  “I live with the others,” he said, leaving Jade to wonder where the staff stayed. “But in a year I will return to my village and become a warrior.”

  Jade nodded, her mouth full of chicken. “I’m sure,” she said, swallowing, “that you will be a fine warrior. You must be very strong already, carrying everyone’s bags and pulling people in rickshaws.” She leaned forward and poured another cup of coffee. “And who will you fight when you are a warrior?”

  Jelani’s face turned stony. “The laibon.”

  Jade paused in midsip and peered over the cup rim. “And what is a laibon?”

  “He is a . . .” The boy paused as he searched for an English word to explain. Jade took another swallow while she gave him time to think. When he spoke, he spat the word as
though it were poisoned. “Witch!”

  Jade nearly choked on the coffee. Her sudden coughing worried Jelani. He shifted from one foot to the other in hesitation over what to do. Finally Jade managed to set her cup down and regained her voice. “A witch?” The boy couldn’t be serious. Then she saw his young face transformed by a mixture of fear and loathing. “Who is this laibon? What does he do?”

  Jelani hesitated before answering. “He sends his beasts to kill us, but it is not good to talk of him.” He pointed to her chest. “Already he stopped your air.”

  “My cough? No, Jelani. I swallowed the coffee wrong, that’s all.” She could see his skeptical frown. He probably believed some witch made her choke just because of his unwitting comment. Jelani fidgeted some more, impatient to leave. Jade handed him a few more coins, thanked him again, and allowed him to return to his other duties. She watched him take down her soiled traveling dress before he shut the door and left her alone with her thoughts.

  For several months, she’d avoided idle times like this. Immediately after leaving the Hackett-Lowther ambulance unit, she returned to London to tie up some loose ends in her language studies at Winsor College. Too restless to stay in one place, she took a Christmas trip home to her parents’ New Mexico ranch and occupied it with hiking, hunting, and ranch chores. She went out of her way to pack every moment of every day with something useful to occupy her mind so she didn’t have to think about the front and David’s death. Especially David’s death. It wasn’t until New Year’s Eve when the crisis came to the forefront.

  Her father’s foreman and ranch hands had sequestered some Roman candles to shoot off in celebration. Jade was in the living room of the big stone house with her parents when the explosions began. New Mexico suddenly dissolved into the French front lines. After first hitting the floor behind the chair, she raced out into the night, searching for her ambulance. Later that night, she woke screaming from a nightmare in which she carried David’s bloody body across fields of broken airplanes.

  That was when her father suggested it was time to put David to rest, and the only way to get rid of the burden was to carry out his last request. He convinced her she didn’t know everything about David, including any illegitimate siblings tucked away somewhere. He also said she needed independence, so he contacted an old editor friend who decided that her language skills and adventuresome nature made her ideal to write travel articles for his magazine. Jade went back to London in February and began the search for David’s brother.

  Together, Jade and Mr. Jacobs had surmised a few key points: the second son was four or more years younger than David and was sired in East Africa during Gil’s first trip. The name on the packet hinted that the young man’s name was Abel, and since Gil wanted to pick up a trail in Tsavo, the son might still live there. Now here she was in Nairobi with the second ring and the sealed packet tucked away with her clothes. As far as she knew, she was still a thousand miles away from a conclusion, but she’d made her resolve, and that was the first step towards the end and her own recovery. The chicken bone dropped from her hand onto the carpeted floor as Jade slipped into an uneasy sleep filled with diving planes and wild hyenas with eyes glowing like the stone in David’s ring.

  CHAPTER 4

  “The residents of Nairobi are as diverse a set of people as any group of pioneers. Some go to help build the empire, others to seek personal fame and fortune, and still others look for adventure and freedom from the rigid confines of society. They all carry treasured parts of civilization with them as well as a spirit of rebellion.”

  —The Traveler

  “GRAB YOUR RIFLE AND HEAD FOR the flume!”

  A loud shout woke Jade with a start, and she jolted upright in her chair. When she realized the room was dark, she reached for her pocket watch to see the time. Funny. I don’t remember turning out the lights. Perhaps Jelani had come back for the tray and, seeing her asleep, had switched them off. She glanced at the table beside her. No, the tray was still there. She felt her way to the far wall and flipped the switch. Still, no lights.

  The power must be out. More shouts from the street drew her onto the upper veranda. A crowd milled below in the fading daylight. Several men called for help at the generator flumes, and suddenly Jade had the urge to tag along. She grabbed her leather notebook and ran out the door and down the stairs to the street.

  Outside, people raced for cars and horses. She spied a slender middle-aged woman and a tall man walking towards a box-bodied car. Jade ran after them. “Please,” she called, “may I ride with you to the generator?” The pair turned and looked at her in openmouthed surprise. “I’m an American reporter for The Traveler,” she explained. “I’d really like to see what’s happening. May I ride with you?”

  The lady whispered in her husband’s ear. He nodded, and the woman responded with a broad smile. “Delighted, Miss . . .”

  “Jade del Cameron.”

  “Miss del Cameron,” the lady repeated as though tasting the words. “Please do get in. A reporter. Gracious me. This should be a novel addition to your piece.”

  The gentleman helped them both into the car, a put-together job made from at least three models, including a Dodge and a Wolseley. Jade got in the back. The man slid behind the wheel next to his wife, and they sped off down the dirt streets of Nairobi and into the wild plains beyond. Several people in cars and on horseback preceded them.

  The lady turned in her seat and shouted to be heard above the noisy motorcar. “I’m Madeline Thompson.” One hand clamped her flimsy ribboned hat on her head and the other indicated the driver. Jade noticed the woman’s rough hands and lightly browned arms as the sleeves of her blue cotton dress fell back. She looked to be in her mid-thirties though the sun had done its best to advance her wrinkles. Obviously a working woman, not averse to tackling manual labor. Jade warmed to her immediately.

  “This is my husband, Neville Thompson,” the lady continued. “We’re coffee farmers. Our place is north of here near Thika.”

  “Delighted to meet you,” Jade shouted back. “Just what is going on? What are we racing to in such a hurry?”

  “Oh, well, it ought to be good sport, really,” called Mr. Thompson. “You see, Nairobi means sweet water in Maasai. Anyway, the town has a flume of sorts that carries some of that water to a generator to make the electricity. Sometimes something gets into the ditch and stops up the water.” He gestured back towards the town and the car veered right. Neville replaced both hands on the wheel. “That is why the lights are out.”

  “Do you mean something like a log?” asked Jade. She jotted a few notes in her book. The car bounced, and her pencil skidded across the paper.

  “No,” answered Madeline gaily. “Something as in a buffalo or other large animal. Maybe it can’t get out or maybe it’s just obstinate and doesn’t want to. Anyway, here we go.”

  “I knew this was a good time to come into the city for supplies, Maddy,” said Neville. “And here you were afraid there wouldn’t be anything of interest going on.” He laughed.

  “You’ll have to forgive us, Miss del Cameron,” said Madeline. “The society life of a coffee farmer is different from that of some of the more genteel set in Happy Valley. We take whatever fun we can have.”

  “I understand completely, Mrs. Thompson,” said Jade. “I was raised on a ranch. I know what work and isolation do to pique a person’s appetite for adventure.”

  Madeline’s brown eyes widened. “Did you hear that, Neville?” she said. “I told you this looked like an interesting young lady. An American, too,” she said while trying to discreetly take in Jade’s dark olive complexion, green eyes, and wavy bobbed black hair. Her own long sun-bleached brown hair was escaping in strands from an elaborate bun. “Are you by any chance an Indian?”

  “Maddy!” snapped her husband. “Don’t be impertinent.”

  Jade stifled a smile. “It’s all right, and no, I’m not. Sorry.” Jade saw the disappointed pout on Madeline’s face and made a quick
decision. Normally a private person, she realized if she wanted strangers to confide in her, she’d have to go first. “My mother is full Spaniard, and my father is some Spanish-Irish-French mix. In short, I’m a mutt.”

  “Well, you’re lovely,” said Madeline. She nodded to Jade’s hair. “Very smart. Is short hair the fashion in America?”

  “I really can’t say,” answered Jade. “I drove an ambulance in France during the war. For some of us, it became a matter of practicality.”

  “Drove an ambulance,” Mrs. Thompson repeated with awe. “Neville, did you hear? Miss del Cameron drove an ambulance in France during the war.”

  “I say,” Neville called back to Jade. “That’s bloody exciting. Red Cross?”

  “No. Hackett-Lowther unit,” answered Jade. She held on to the car seat as the vehicle jolted over the remains of a termite mound. “Mostly British girls. I was at Winsor College for a year and joined up. We were attached to the French Third Army at the front lines.”

  “Bloody marvelous,” he exclaimed. “Madeline, she must stay with us for a while. You can be my wife’s latest pet, Miss del Cameron,” he added over his shoulder.

  Jade didn’t care to be anyone’s pet, but the opportunity seemed too good to pass up. Making personal inroads without having to use stuffy letters of introduction seemed nothing short of miraculous. Besides, these people were anything but pretentious, an affectation she hated. And if they’d been farming a long time, perhaps they knew about other pioneers, including Gil Worthy. Jade had decided not to openly announce her mission until she could glean more information. When she held at least of glimmer of knowledge of who the principal characters were in this melodrama, then she’d openly admit her underlying purpose.

  Madeline joined her husband’s cause with a wholehearted urgency. “Neville is quite right. I would love to have you stay at our farm. Of course, it’s nothing so nice as the Norfolk. The town people call the Norfolk the House of Lords. We’re more the House of Commons, but we do have a good cook and a spare room. Do say you’ll join us.” Mrs. Thompson nearly jiggled in her seat from excitement.