Strange Gods

by Annamaria Alfieri

  He hated himself as much as she wished she could hate him. He had said all the wrong things. All he had wanted was to let her know how sorry he was that it would have to stop. That once they reached the railroad, the freedom given to them in the wilderness would be forbidden until they were man and wife. He had imagined a straight line from where they were to their wedding and a lifetime of loving. But he had not said that. He had not remembered that he should say it. It seemed the only possible outcome. He had focused instead on the pain of having to give her up even for a few weeks or months, and he had vowed to himself that not one person would ever think the least wrong thought about her for having given herself to him. He had blundered. Instead of asking her to marry him, he had spoken of what they had to give up. How could he have been so dense? He did not care a fig for all he had been taught of how a girl must defend her virginity to the death. She had given him hers. He did feel like a rotter for letting himself take it. But his intentions were honorable, whatever else anyone would say. And what now could he ever say to erase the insult and the anger his words had created? Having no answer, sometimes despairing that there was an answer, he said nothing.

  * * *

  They arrived in Naivasha at midday. At the station they found out that the down train would leave at 3:38 in the morning. Vera announced to Kwai Libazo, but in Tolliver’s presence, that she and Muiri would return in time to take the train. Then she marched off, her back straight and her step determined, to tell her dreadful news to Ngethe Meru’s family—that their husband and father would never return. Tolliver loved her as much for her courage as he did for the softness and warmth of her skin and the sparkle of life in her eyes.

  He went to the telegrapher and sent a message to D.C. Cranford telling him that he had discovered who had killed Josiah Pennyman and that he should release Gichinga Mbura. Vera had said that she wanted to telegraph her parents, but she had not stopped to do so. He sent a separate cable to Clement McIntosh, from himself, telling him that he had Vera under his protection, that she would arrive at the Athi River Station at 12:25 the next day.

  There was no police boma in Naivasha, so he went to the local collector and begged a second breakfast and a bath. By the time he returned to the station, he had two telegrams. The first, from Cranford, sank his heart: RETURN AT ONCE STOP YOU ARE IN VIOLATION OF ALL RULES STOP YOUR POSITION IN JEOPARDY STOP WITCH DOCTOR EXECUTED TWO DAYS AGO STOP.

  The second, from the Reverend McIntosh, crushed his soul: VERA’S MOTHER DEAD STOP WILL MEET TRAIN STOP TELL HER NOTHING STOP.

  20.

  During the night hours when they were alone as the train rattled over a long series of trestles, Vera relented and spoke to Tolliver. The carriage had no corridor; the compartments opened only to the outside when the train was in a station. They had only weak light from oil lamps that hung from the ceiling. He could just see her stir, her hand going to her mouth. He could feel she was holding her breath. Then suddenly words were pouring out of her, thoughts that seemed to belong in the middle of a conversation. “I never wept for my uncle. I could not. He was a presence, but never a person to me. Does that sound strange?”

  “No,” he said.

  “He was not a good person.”

  Tolliver did not think it right to agree so he said nothing.

  She made a disapproving groan. “I suppose you think me awful for saying so.”

  He did not move. He did not speak of his love for her because he feared if he did, he would not be able to control his desire. In the half darkness, with only a few feet of space between them Tolliver wished he could let himself take her in his arms. With the knowledge of her mother’s death, he thought he should despise himself for wanting her body so. “I think you are entirely right in your assessment.” He was hiding his passion behind a wall of ice, and she was feeling only the cold, he was sure. He felt despicable.

  A sob escaped her. “I could not weep for my uncle, but I wept for Ngethe.” She sniffled. “I gave his family all the money I had. It seemed a deplorable, patronizing thing to do. As if his life were worth no more than that paltry sum. I thought it would make me feel better, but it made me feel worse. And now I don’t think of Ngethe at all. All I think about is Otis. But that is selfish. Otis is alive, but Ngethe is dead.”

  “I am sure that Ngethe’s family knew you were trying to help them.”

  “They have no death rituals as we do. His safari boys took his life to save him dying in agony. I allowed them to. My father would say that I committed a terrible sin by agreeing to euthanasia, but—” Her emotions overwhelmed her.

  “Your father loves you such a great deal, Vera,” he said. “I am sure he—”

  “Say it again.”

  “Your father loves you a great deal.”

  “No. My name.”

  “Vera.”

  She was silent.

  “Perhaps one day your brother will return to you. I hope he does.” Knowing what news awaited her at home, he did not try to touch her. Neither did he want to, aboard this train, because making love to her here would seem sordid, as it had not, could never have out under the stars, surrounded by the earth in its primitive majesty.

  At midday the next day, Clement McIntosh was standing on the platform waiting for them. As soon as she saw him through the window, Vera whispered, “You have told him about Otis.”

  “No,” Tolliver said, steeling himself for the pain she would have to bear.

  “Then something else is terribly wrong.”

  The moment the train stopped, Justin opened the door, jumped out, and lifted her down. Her father ran to her and took her by the hands.

  “Oh, my lass. Oh, my lass.”

  “What is it, father?”

  “Let me take you home, Vera.”

  Much as she loved to hear Tolliver call her by her name, when her father said it she knew he was about to tell her something dreadful. But if papa did not know about Otis, what could it be? Nothing could be worse than their losing Otis. “Tell me now. I want to know now.”

  He led her to the buggy at the end of the platform. Kwai Libazo had loaded her rucksack into it.

  “I will walk with the Kikuyus, sir,” Kwai whispered to Tolliver, who nodded.

  Vera looked over her shoulder at Justin as he helped her into the buggy. He climbed in and took the reins. Her father sat beside her and held her hand, as he would that of a frightened little girl. “Tell me now, Father. Please. It cannot be worse than what I fear.”

  “Ay, it is, my dearest. I am afraid it is. Your mother—Your mother … has taken … her own life.” He choked on his words.

  “Aiee!” she screamed. “Aieeee!” It was a primal sound. She breathed in raggedy breaths as if taking the shock in from the air. “How? Why?”

  Her father supplied no answer.

  “Did she know then? About Otis?” She answered her own question. “She knew. She knew he had run away forever.” She looked to her father for confirmation.

  His sad expression did not change.

  “She could not face life without Otis,” Vera said.

  It was unclear to Tolliver if she believed it or if she needed to believe and was convincing herself of it.

  “It is inexplicable, my lass,” her father said. “She was my wife for all these years. She told me all her secrets, but…” His voice faded.

  “Oh, Papa,” Vera said. “Oh, Papa…”

  For the remainder of the half hour it took to drive to the mission, none of them spoke. Once they arrived at the house, Tolliver left her with her father and walked down to the bottom of the lawn. The coffee blossoms were gone. Tiny berries were beginning to form.

  Looking back, he watched them sitting on the veranda, facing each other, her lovely hands in her father’s. Tolliver’s heart ached for them both. He turned away to the view across the Athi Plain, remembering the day he and Vera had looked on this place from their picnicking spot. The simply built stone house behind him had only lately held five of the family. Now, t
here were only two heartbroken people left. And Tolliver’s duty was to get the facts and to do so without regard to the pain the telling would cause to Vera and her father. When he had said yes to becoming a policeman, it had seemed as if it might be another youthful lark. He shook his head and smiled a bitter smile at himself.

  Sitting with her father, Vera glanced from time to time at Tolliver’s back. Her father had heard the fact of his son’s escape with great sadness, but without surprise. Now, he expressed a grim hope that perhaps one day they might get Otis back.

  Vera took his hand. “I want to see him, Father. I want to watch him become a man.”

  Her father gasped and sobbed.

  “Oh, Papa, I am sorry. I do not want to make you feel worse.”

  He kissed her hand. “Never, my lass. Never. You are my solace. My only solace.”

  Vera’s mind was full of questions about why all these ghastly things had happened, but she could not torture her father for more information. Her grief was mixed with remorse. If she had stayed at home both her mother and Ngethe Meru might still be alive. But she kept those thoughts to herself, too. She would not burden her father with her guilt.

  As it was, he put his hand over his mouth, closed his pale eyes, and held them tightly shut for a moment.

  She leaned forward to put her arm around him and her head on his shoulder.

  “We will bury her tomorrow,” her father said, once he had recovered himself. “It comforts me a great deal that you have come home in time. I am so sorry you must be so very sad, my lass.”

  She reached up and put her hand on his cheek.

  He took it and held it tight. “I’d better tell Captain Tolliver what he needs to know.” He touched her hair and stood up.

  He took his hat from the little table next to the door and walked down to where Tolliver was waiting, near the low hedge that separated the lawn from the plantation.

  Tolliver faced away. Vera’s heart could not stop hoping he would be hers again one day. If only she could erase all the awful truths he would have to learn about her family.

  She went inside. Her mother’s coffin was in the parlor. She wanted to speak to her mother in her mind. She wanted to pray for her. But she could not go in there. Not yet. Not alone. She went through to the kitchen yard and off to find Wangari, who would embrace her and not make her talk if she did not want to.

  Tolliver turned when he heard Clement McIntosh approaching. The man looked as if he had aged ten years since Justin had last seen him a little over a week ago. The policeman in him needed to know what the missionary could tell him, but Justin the man also knew that he could not interrogate McIntosh as if he were any common witness. He was Vera’s father, and Justin still hoped that one day, one day soon, he would be part of this decent, warm-hearted man’s family.

  As it turned out, he did not have to ask questions.

  “Oh, my boy,” Clement McIntosh said. “What a dreadful tale to have to tell.” He pulled himself up, straight and tall, as Tolliver imagined he would if he were asked to tell the story in court. Tolliver vowed to himself then and there that the man he wanted for a father would never have to testify. Justice in that regard be damned. The worst injustice that could have happened in this dreadful business happened when they hanged Gichinga Mbura.

  Tolliver asked only that they sit down on the nearby bench in the shade of an acacia tree. His legs were done in from all the walking. McIntosh leaned forward and put his forearms on his knees. He spoke evenly and deliberately beginning with his wife’s part in her brother’s death. “She confessed it to me,” he said. “Otis told her that Josiah was on the girls who came to the hospital, black and white. She told the boy she had to put a stop to it. She could not prevent Otis from trying to play his part. He came back from Newland’s with Kibene in the night and insisted he would be there with her. He had taken the spear from Newland’s collection, which I imagine he thought he could use to defend himself against animals in the darkness. It was the kind of weapon Kibene carried. Blanche had gotten hunting poison from one of the field-workers. She said she wanted her brother’s death to be swift. She thought to put the stuff on a kitchen knife. When Otis arrived with the spear, she decided to employ it. She said she thought that there was some kind of justice in Josiah’s being killed with such a primitive weapon. She did not think then that some innocent native would be accused.” McIntosh stopped and looked up at the branches above them, as if he could force his tears to run the other way. He took out a pocket handkerchief and dried his eyes.

  With effort, Tolliver kept himself still.

  “Blanche and Otis waited for Josiah to return from wherever he had been,” McIntosh went on, still holding the handkerchief. “When she confronted her brother, he laughed at her wanting to defend his victims and stalked off. Otis went after him and tripped him. He fell on his face, and Blanche plunged the spear into his back.”

  “Do you truly believe her capable of such an act?” Tolliver could not help asking.

  “Without remorse,” the missionary said. There seemed to be a hint of pride in the way he lifted his head. “My boy, I am sorry to have to tell what a true monster her brother was. She was his victim, too. Perhaps his first, when she was barely ten years old. I cannot begin to tell you how much she despised him for that.”

  Tolliver put his hand on McIntosh’s forearm. “Sir,” he said, “perhaps we should leave the rest of this for another day. I do not want to distress you further.”

  The missionary patted the back of Tolliver’s hand. “Thank you, lad, but I am determined to get it all over with now. I will never speak of this unspeakable thing after today.”

  McIntosh straightened his back again. “I knew what Josiah had done to Blanche when they were children. And that he continued to do it to other young girls. She told me about that long, long ago. She spoke of it again after he died. But I did not learn her role in his death until after she took her own life. She wrote that part of it in a letter. She used the same poison that she had used on her brother. She blamed herself for Gichinga Mbura’s execution. She said she should have confessed sooner, but she wanted to make sure that Otis had gotten clean away.”

  Tolliver could not hold in his curse. “Bloody Cranford. How could he have dragged a sick man to the gallows? And for what?”

  “Evidently, Mbura was feigning that illness. He must have thought it would get him released. But he became impatient with his own ruse and came back to life. Once he did, D.C. Cranford…” He let his words trail off. He stood up. “I have not told this whole lurid story to Vera. I never want her to know what her mother suffered as a child. I have known for some time that there are more evils, and some worse ones, than those mentioned in the Commandments. What is theft of someone’s gold compared to Josiah’s theft of his sister’s innocence?”

  Tolliver tried his best to say something comforting and soon took his leave.

  “The funeral will be tomorrow,” McIntosh said. “I will bury her here in consecrated ground. I care not what my bishop in Scotland would think about burying a suicide. Whatever sins were committed on it, her body was sacred to me.”

  21.

  The following day, the Reverend McIntosh’s friend the Reverend Wilbur Bennett, Rector of St. Phillip’s in Nairobi, officiated at the service for Vera’s mother. Though Vera was the only organist left at the mission, she was able to stay with her father during the ritual; Tolliver brought his cello to the mission chapel and played the hymns. He stood close to Vera on the lawn as she greeted the mourners. Many attended the ceremony, and as was seemly they left off gossiping about the circumstances of Blanche’s death while they were on the mission grounds. On the way back to town, some of them reprised that subject, and nearly all speculated about the possibility of an attachment between Tolliver and the missionary’s lovely but somewhat wild daughter. She seemed a very odd choice for a handsome, albeit second son of an earl.

  The following day, Kwai Libazo again took up his place against the
dark paneling in the office of D.C. Cranford. He was acutely aware of A.D.S. Tolliver’s profound anger and disappointment over the execution of Gichinga Mbura. Tolliver had spoken of the need to confront the D.C. about it. Libazo himself had wondered why it was important to talk of it, since there was no way to bring the medicine man back. When he asked that question on their way here from the stationhouse, Tolliver had given him a look that was halfway between disbelief and admiration. That had become Kwai Libazo’s favorite expression to see on Tolliver’s face. In the end, Tolliver decided not to confront the D.C.

  “District Superintendent Jodrell has already arrived in Mombasa,” Cranford was saying. “He informs me that he will take his last week of leave on safari in the Chyulu Hills. You will wait and take up any other questions you have on this matter with him when he returns to duty the first of next month. I will report to London on all I think they need to know.”

  Tolliver stood up and came to attention, but he did not salute. “In the meanwhile, sir, I would like to recommend Constable Kwai Libazo for an immediate promotion to sergeant.”

  Libazo could not stop his eyes from opening wider.

  “Certainly that can wait until Jodrell returns,” the D.C. said. He drew some papers from the side of his desk to the center and turned his complete attention to them.

  “Very well,” Tolliver said and marched toward the door.

  Kwai Libazo was so busy repeating the words “Sergeant Kwai Libazo” in his mind that he almost forgot to follow along.