“He trusts you,” Beryl said.
“Of course he does.”
“How many cows does your family have?” Beryl asked.
“Well,” Kibii looked thoughtful. “There is Mongo and Nure and Muge and…”
Beryl laughed. “But how many do you have?”
“Beru, it is greedy to count cattle.” Beryl jumped at the sound of Arap Maina’s voice behind her. “It is enough to know the name of every cow and bull. The boys of the tribe would know if one were missing.”
Every Englishman Beryl had ever met judged his wealth by counting it. But now that she thought about it, her father’s horses all had names and personalities. One stallion could sire a whole line of racehorses. What did it matter how many more you had?
“Arap Maina, I am here to start my training,” she said.
His dark eyes stared at her, unblinking. Today he wore even more necklaces, made of fine wire threaded with colored beads and the odd English coin, piled one upon another. Beryl wondered that he didn’t stoop under the weight of them.
As the silence lengthened, she wondered what to say next. Before she could decide, two women, one old and one young, stepped out of the nearest hut. Their heads were shaved, showing off their high foreheads and earrings in the upper part of their ears as well as in the lobes. Beryl peered behind them, but couldn’t see anything inside the hut except blue smoke. A bleating goat ran to Kibii and licked his knee. The older woman made a clucking noise and it scampered back inside.
“This is my mother, Namasari,” Kibii said, gesturing to the older woman. She nodded, her face wary. Namasari’s skull was lined with deep wrinkles, and her collarbones jutted up through her coils of necklaces. “This is my other mother, Naipende.”
Arap Maina’s second wife was much younger than his first, and very beautiful. She wore a skirt of monkey skins that reached to her ankles, and her broad smile reached her eyes.
“Hello,” Beryl said quietly.
“Welcome,” said Naipende.
A young girl, perhaps a year or two older than Beryl, emerged from the gloomy hut. Her face was round, and her lips were as full as her figure. She watched Beryl with ill-disguised hostility.
Beryl lifted her chin and stared back.
“My sister, Jebbta,” Kibii said.
Arap Maina said to Kibii, “Join the other totos while I talk to Beru. They are practicing with their spears.”
Beryl stepped forward. “I would like to learn how to do that.”
Arap Maina’s forehead creased in the slightest frown. “Beru, your father asked that you learn our ways. And you shall.” He took her hand and tied a leather bracelet with a shell around her wrist. “This says you are a girl of our tribe. You are part of our family.”
Beryl fingered the bracelet, wondering which ocean had tossed up this shell. The British East African colony was filled with people from all over the world; it could be from anywhere. “Thank you, Arap Maina. I will treasure it always.”
“Today, the women and girls will be weaving the roofs for our new homes. My wives will show you how.” Both women nodded.
Beryl couldn’t believe her ears. “You want me to thatch roofs?”
“You said you wished to be part of our tribe.” Arap Maina was puzzled. “This is what the girls do.”
“We weave reeds and grasses,” Naipende said helpfully. “It makes a very good roof. Very dry.”
“But…I thought I was going to learn how to hunt,” Beryl said.
Everyone burst out laughing except Arap Maina, who looked thoughtful.
“You are only a girl, like me,” Jebbta said.
“Men hunt and fight,” Kibii said. “Women build the houses, gather the firewood, and cook. And take care of the babies.”
“I don’t care about those things—I want to learn to hunt!”
“Why?” Arap Maina’s question was neutral.
“To kill the leopard that hurt my dog.” Even as she said it, Beryl knew that this was not enough.
“We do not hunt for revenge,” Arap Maina said. “We hunt to protect the herd.”
Feeling her dream slip away, Beryl argued, “You said the leopard was too bold. My father’s horses need to be protected.”
“I will kill the leopard,” said Arap Maina. “You will work with the women.”
“But…I can do anything Kibii can do.” Beryl felt the tears welling up in her eyes.
“You see,” Kibii crowed, “girls cry. Boys never cry.”
Beryl squeezed her eyes to stop the tears. “I’m not crying,” she said.
Arap Maina’s face was like the anthill; hard as rock, but with much activity inside. “Beru, if you want me to teach you, first you must learn to obey.”
“But my father told you…”
“I offered to teach you like the children of the tribe. If you refuse to learn what I wish to teach, your father will have to accept that.”
“What if he does not accept it?” Beryl knew she was making a threat her father would never honor.
“Then…” Arap Maina shrugged, his face patient.
“Then what?” she asked, worried she had gone too far.
“We will leave.”
“I don’t want you to go,” cried Beryl. She clenched the shell so hard it cut into her palm.
Arap Maina waited, perfectly still.
Beryl looked at the unfinished roof. The completed portion looked more compact and sturdy than her own. Maybe she could make her roof a bit drier. “If I do this, can I learn to hunt?”
“Beru, everything we learn today prepares us for tomorrow.”
Grinding the traces of tears into her cheeks with the palm of her hand, Beryl sniffed. “So tomorrow I can hunt?”
Arap Maina and the others burst out laughing. Without a word, Beryl gathered up armfuls of the sharp branches to use as thatch. After all, Arap Maina hadn’t said no.
Interview with Beryl Markham
Nairobi, Kenya
Date unknown
I was flying my little two-seater around British East Africa, shuttling mail and medical patients to places that weren’t on any maps. I was one of just a few women in the world with a commercial pilot’s license. Although I was making a good living, I wanted to make a lot more money. My friend Blix was a big game hunter. He took rich men out to the bush to hunt elephants for the ivory. We had the idea that I could help with my little plane. I believe I was the first person to ever scout elephants by plane.
Tom Black heard about it and told me it was sheer madness and bloody dangerous. He was right, of course. There weren’t any runways out there, except what the expedition carved out of the bush. And even if you made the landing, that was no guarantee that you would have enough room to take off again. There was no radio if you got in trouble. And if you were unlucky enough to be stranded out there, there were wild animals, dysentery, tsetse flies, and, worst of all, the siafu ants. I carried a vial of morphine and a pistol, just in case. It wasn’t sensible. Maybe that’s why I loved it.
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CHAPTER FOUR
BERYL HAD TO AGREE WITH THE NANDI WOMEN; SHE WAS A complete failure as a young girl of the tribe. Not that she wasn’t trying, she explained to Arap Maina, it was just that weaving, cooking, and minding little children bored her. After several weeks, Arap Maina relented and let Beryl train with the boys. She learned to track animals, wrestle, and even throw a spear at a target. But Arap Maina still refused to let her hunt.
One morning, however, training was suspended because Captain Clutterbuck needed them to meet the train at Nakuru, the makeshift town five miles south of Green Hills farm, and the train’s last stop. Arap Maina, Kibii, and Beryl stood apart from the group of dusty settlers. The train brought the post, news, and basic necessities from Nairobi, a hundred miles to the east. Everyone had been waiting since midmorning, wilting in the scorching heat.
“When will the train come?” Kibii asked. He carefully pronounced the word “train” because Beryl wouldn’t let him
call it an “iron snake” as the other Africans did.
“It breaks down all the time,” Beryl explained. “Usually at the steepest part of the hill. Then all the passengers get off and walk.”
Kibii snorted. “Do they know it is lion country?”
Beryl shrugged. People coming up here should know the dangers, but many ignored them.
Beryl plucked her sweat-soaked shirt away from her body. Unaffected by the heat, Kibii started to jump in place with great concentration.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Barely out of breath, he said, “To be a murani, I have to jump higher than myself.” Kibii leapt up, higher and higher with each leap.
“What does jumping have to do with being a warrior?”
Arap Maina’s slow voice answered, “It strengthens the legs.”
Beryl started to jump, but her heavy boots raised clouds of dust, and she certainly wasn’t jumping higher than her head. “My boots are too heavy.”
“A murani doesn’t make excuses,” said Arap Maina, speaking to the sky.
“Take the boots off,” said Kibii.
“The chiggers will get me.” Beryl had experienced the nasty insects too many times. They burrowed into your toes and left their eggs there to hatch. A sharp needle, cleansed in a hot flame, was the only way to get rid of them.
“Curl your toes,” Kibii said between hops. Beryl looked closely. Sure enough, Kibii’s toes were in a permanent crunch.
Beryl hesitated. Her boots were her main defense against all the sharp and venomous things in Africa.
“Never mind, Beru,” said Arap Maina. “Kibii has to practice his skills to be a warrior. But there is no need for you to take risks.” His voice was kind, but to Beryl, his words stung like salt on an open cut. She felt her spine straighten.
Beryl pulled off her boots, then her thick socks. Bending her knees, she pushed off. Without the heavy boots, she achieved more height than she expected. For a split second, she flew.
“Beryl Clutterbuck, what on earth are you doing?” Her father strode over, his forehead dotted with perspiration under his pith helmet.
“Jumping,” she said, panting.
“Why?” he asked.
“To strengthen my leg muscles for riding,” she improvised, glad that Arap Maina and Kibii did not speak enough English to give her away.
“Put your boots on. I want you looking respectable when the train arrives.”
“The horses don’t care,” Beryl muttered, lacing up her boots.
The Captain glanced at his pocket watch. “Where is that train?”
Arap Maina’s sharp eyes spotted it first through the haze. He pointed down the hill, his long arm following his finger. “There!”
The steel-gray train slowly rolled into the station and, with a great sigh, heaved to a halt, clouds of stream billowing from beneath the wheels. The crew began hauling barrels of water to cool the overheated engine. Passengers covered with thick dust disembarked from the rear car. Porters appeared from nowhere, lugging hens and goats and boxes of produce. They began to unload the manufactured goods, postal packages, and red four-gallon cans of paraffin fuel, everything essential to colonists living far from civilization.
The Captain’s attention was on the livestock car. The heavy door slid open and a stable lad pushed a metal ramp to the ground. After a moment of anticipation, the lad led a nervous bay stallion to the waiting Clutterbucks.
“His name is Camiscan,” Captain Clutterbuck murmured to Beryl, his eyes riveted on the thoroughbred’s reddish-gold coat. The horse was a mass of muscle, but lean, built for speed and stamina. “Out of Spearmint, and his dam is from a top Australian mare. Beryl, this stallion will establish me as the top breeder in Africa.” A white star on the horse’s forehead promised greatness to come.
Camiscan lifted his nose high and sniffed the highland air. He tossed his head, and his glossy skin quivered with questions. Beryl glanced at Kibii and Arap Maina. Kibii’s mouth hung open and Arap Maina’s eyes were admiring. Before they came to Green Hills farm, they had never seen a thoroughbred, only poor excuses for horses—donkeys crossed with zebras. But even the Captain’s other horses couldn’t hold a candle to Camiscan.
The wind shifted, bringing a musky smell from the next valley.
“Lion,” said Arap Maina.
Every farmer knew the smell, but to the stallion it was new and dangerous. Camiscan neighed loudly, almost a scream, and jerked his head. Without warning, the stallion reared up, tearing the rope from the lad’s hands. The boy dropped to the ground and rolled into a ball, whimpering with fear.
The nervous stallion screamed again. He wheeled right, then left, looking for a way out. He charged at Arap Maina, who held his ground until the last moment and then melted to one side. Camiscan galloped away from the noisy train and the strange smells.
Captain Clutterbuck started after the runaway. “Must I do everything myself?”
Beryl was faster than her father, and nearer. She leapt toward the lead that trailed behind the galloping horse. She landed on her belly, but her fingers closed on the thick rope.
“Capital, Beryl! You’ve got him!” her father shouted.
The road was hardly more than a dirt path. Her body bounced in every rut and against every stone. Beryl pulled herself up the rope. Her weight wasn’t enough to stop Camiscan’s flight, but he slowed a little, as though he were dragging a sack of oats.
“Daddy!”
“Don’t let go, Beryl. He’s worth the farm!” Beryl’s father ran to catch up, but he wasn’t fast enough. It was up to her. She knew horses follow their heads, so she clung for dear life, pulling Camiscan’s head to the right, back toward the train. Finally, he turned, allowing the Captain to close the gap and catch his bridle.
“Whoa, boy, whoa,” the Captain said. Beryl felt an enormous wave of relief; no one in the colony could soothe a horse like he could.
Stroking the stallion’s withers, the Captain spoke in a quiet voice. “Beryl, you can let go. I’ve got him.”
Her fingers were tightly clenched around the rope, and she found it hard to open her bruised hands. Arap Maina stepped forward and lifted her to her feet while Kibii pried open her fingers. Beryl’s arms, legs, and face felt as though they had been scrubbed raw. Tears were welling up in her eyes until she saw the expressions on the faces of Arap Maina and Kibii. They were impressed. With her. The tears dried as though she had never been tempted to be so weak. Perhaps Arap Maina would let her hunt now.
The Captain calmed the horse, then examined his legs for damage. “He’s faster than anything else in the colony. We would have had a job catching him if he had escaped. Well done, Beryl.”
Beryl, propped up by Arap Maina’s strong arm, felt as though she had wrestled a lion.
Glancing over his shoulder, the Captain said, “A beauty, don’t you think, darling?”
“Yes, Daddy, he’s gorgeous!” said Beryl.
“Beautiful indeed,” said a woman whose arrival Beryl had not noticed. “But the child badly needs a bath and some bandaging. And that hair! I think there might actually be a bird’s nest in there.”
Beryl whirled around. A young woman stood there, sweltering in a long-sleeved white blouse and a heavy khaki skirt. Her head was encased in a double felt terai hat, to protect her complexion. Her hat and face were coated with a layer of red dust that made her violet eyes stand out like jewels. Her wide smile displayed perfect little white teeth.
The Captain chuckled in a way Beryl had never heard him laugh before. “I meant the horse.”
“He’s very nice, but my responsibility is this young…lady. I assume that she’s a lady under all that dirt.” Her voice was pure British, like cut glass. Beryl was reminded of her mother’s voice, one of the few memories of her Beryl still had.
Resisting the urge to rub the dirt off her face, Beryl turned to her father. “Who’s she?”
“Manners, Beryl. This is Mrs. Orchardson. She’s come to take care
of us.”
Beryl took an involuntary step back.
“Call me Emma. I’m sure we’re going to be great friends,” Mrs. Orchardson said brightly. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Beryl stared at her, gritting her teeth. Finally she said, “Daddy never mentioned you. Not once.”
Emma gave the Captain a hard look, and her smile grew tighter. “Then you must not know that I’ve brought my son, Arthur, too. He’s just a year or two younger than you.” She gestured gracefully to a slight boy just behind her. He had dark hair and pale skin. He was coughing.
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