“He’s a crybaby,” Beryl said. “And he’s only eight.”
“I’m nine,” Arthur interrupted.
“And you’re only ten,” her father said.
“I’m eleven now, Daddy.”
“The Baron was foaled the same year you were born, and he’s in his tenth season.”
“I’m not a horse, Daddy. I have birthdays.”
“Did I miss your birthday?” he asked, momentarily distracted from the farm.
Beryl shrugged. The calendar meant little to her.
“And I’m not a crybaby,” Arthur chirped.
“You are so!”
“Beryl, leave him alone.” The Captain paused, then said, “The stable is growing; I’m going to need more lads. Might as well use what we have.” He switched to Swahili. “Kibii, you’ll be learning to ride, too.”
“A horse?” Kibii asked, his voice a pale echo of his usual confident tone.
Beryl forgot her nervousness to lord over Kibii. “Come on—you said it didn’t look hard. I dare you!” She grinned at her father, who smiled back. He was always telling her stories about the dares he and his fellow cavalry officers had performed in his military days.
Kibii narrowed his eyes at Beryl. “Your British horses do not frighten me. I accept your dare.”
“We’ll need some boots—even Kibii can’t ride barefoot.” The Captain turned to Beryl. “We’re schooling Camiscan today. He’s already saddle-broken, but he has to be in top condition. The racing season starts in three months.”
Beryl smiled. Watching her father train the great stallion would be a treat.
“And Beryl, you will be riding him.”
“Me?” she squeaked.
“I’ll be working with you, but you’ll be on his back. He likes you. We’ll need every advantage with that horse.” He glanced down at her and grinned, a challenge in his eyes. “Do you think you can do it?”
Kibii had a wicked grin on his face as he worked out what the Captain was daring Beryl to do.
She swallowed hard on her fear and nodded. “I won’t let you down, Daddy.” But her mind’s eye was filled with Camiscan’s bulk and the wild tossing of his massive head.
Arap Maina waited patiently for his assignment. The Captain spoke in Swahili. “I need you supervising at the mill. The men are getting careless. Yesterday one lad nearly crushed his hand in the grindstone.” Arap Maina nodded and moved off.
Thirty minutes later in the paddock, Beryl regretted her rash words. Camiscan seemed intent on proving his superiority to mere humans, lowering his neck and charging anyone who came near. Only when the Captain held the horse’s head still was Beryl able to throw a lightweight saddle across his back. The moment the stirrups touched his sides, Camiscan began snapping with bared teeth.
“Daddy, he doesn’t like the stirrups,” Beryl said, proud that her voice was steady.
“He’s been ridden before. He’s just trying to show you he’s in charge. He can’t race without stirrups, but can you mount without them for now?”
Beryl reached up and caught hold of the pommel and vaulted onto Camiscan’s back. The stallion neighed nervously, but the Captain held the horse’s head steady. Beryl perched on his back, seventeen hands high. Kibii and Arthur pressed themselves into a corner and stared up at Beryl, wide-eyed.
“Move out.” The Captain watched closely, but Camiscan behaved himself, responding to Beryl’s signals. “All right. Walk him around the paddock while I get the boys sorted out. Don’t do anything else until I’m with you.”
Beryl didn’t spare the boys a thought as they began their lesson on two small ponies. She was too busy establishing a relationship with the giant horse.
“Good boy,” she said. “You’re a beauty. Not another horse in Africa can touch you.” Camiscan snorted and pranced sideways, but gradually began to tolerate her on his back. Each turn around the paddock, Beryl grew more confident. She only wished her father would notice how well she was doing.
Instead of admiring Beryl’s light touch with Camiscan, the Captain was occupied teaching Arthur and Kibii the basics of pos-ture and where to put their feet. After he set the boys to plodding around the track, he came back to her and they put Camiscan through his paces. Beryl was perfectly content until she spied a figure marching down from the house.
“That Woman is coming.”
“Don’t call her that,” the Captain said, not taking his eyes off Camiscan’s stride. “Her name is Emma.”
Emma marched with a determined look. She was dressed in a bright white blouse and an impeccable khaki skirt. By afternoon, her ensemble would be covered by the dust that swirled around the farm and her dustcloth. And then she would change into an evening gown for dinner. Beryl shook her head, disgusted by all that wasted effort.
“What does she want now?” the Captain muttered. “She chased me out of my own study with that damned dust rag.”
“Clutt, when are you coming to breakfast?” Emma called as she approached the fence. Her arms were tightly crossed across her chest. “It’s been ready for half an hour.” The color rose in her cheeks and she began breathing quickly. “Oh, my goodness! You put Arthur on a horse?”
“Of course; he lives on a horse farm.”
“He’s too delicate—”
Beryl and Camiscan snorted, united in their scorn of Emma.
“I’ll toughen him up,” the Captain said.
For the first time, Emma noticed who was riding Camiscan. “Beryl’s on that terrible stallion?”
Now it was the Captain who shot her a scornful look. “That horse is the future of this farm.”
“He’s too dangerous for a little girl. Why aren’t you riding him?”
The Captain scowled. “Emma, I can’t do everything around here. Camiscan needs exercising every day. Beryl is my best rider. Don’t worry; Arthur and Kibii will soon be good riders, too.”
“You’re teaching them together?” Emma glanced over at Kibii, whose long legs practically dragged on the ground from the back of his little pony. His expression was bored, even embarrassed, while Arthur looked petrified, clutching the reins as though his life depended on it.
“What’s wrong with Kibii?” Beryl demanded, bringing Camiscan to a stop in front of Emma.
“Nothing, not a thing,” Emma stammered, stepping behind the Captain to be as far from Camiscan as possible. “But Kibii and Beryl are strong, and Arthur is…”
“Del-i-cate.” Kibii carefully pronounced the syllables of the strange word he heard so often.
The Captain and Beryl burst out laughing.
Wringing her dustcloth between her hands, Emma’s jaw tightened. Her eyes were furious. “It’s all very well for the two of you to cackle like witches. But Clutt, you should have consulted me before you put Arthur on a horse.”
“It’s not a horse, it’s a measly little pony,” Beryl called from her perch high on Camiscan’s back.
“Some people have the sense to be afraid of large animals that could kill them,” Emma said, glaring at Beryl.
“Enough, Beryl,” the Captain snapped. “Emma, you’re upset-ting Camiscan.” He slapped his riding crop against his leg. “Beryl, Emma and I have to talk. Take him around at a half gallop.”
As the Captain and Emma argued at the fence, Beryl took a deep breath, clucked for Camiscan to run, and pressed her heels to his flank. The stallion nearly unseated her with a half leap and a burst of untamed speed. She burst out laughing from exhilaration mixed with a little bit of terror. She passed Kibii and Arthur as if they were standing still. The look on Kibii’s face was pure envy. Beryl felt as if she could soar off into the sky above the valley.
The third time she rounded past the boys, Arthur’s pony veered into her path. As though they were all moving extraordinarily slowly, Beryl saw Arthur turn his head to face her, his mouth hanging open in a silent scream. She could see the whites of the pony’s eyes as he saw Camiscan charging up on his flank. The pony reared and Arthur slid to the groun
d like a sack of maize.
Beryl pulled the reins toward the inside of the paddock, dragging Camiscan’s head with all the power in her arms. Furious at such disrespect, the stallion bucked and kicked, doing everything he could to dislodge his rider.
“Arthur!” Emma screamed. She began to scramble through the fence, catching her skirt on a nail.
“Beryl, pull up!” the Captain shouted. “Pull up!”
Camiscan arched his back and kicked out with his rear legs at the same time. Beryl was thrown back and she bit her lip. She tried every trick she knew to keep her seat, but the stallion’s bucking was too violent. She was losing.
“Rein him in, Beryl!”
“I’m trying, Daddy,” she cried. “He’s too strong.”
Arthur lay ominously still on the ground. Emma gathered him in her arms, screaming for the Captain. “Clutt, help him!”
“Beryl, hold on,” the Captain said. He tore his eyes from Camiscan and Beryl and moved quickly to Emma’s side to check on Arthur.
As though he had been showing off for Captain Clutterbuck, Camiscan came to a sudden halt. Beryl heaved a sigh of relief and leaned forward to pat the stallion’s long neck.
“Bad boy. Bad, bad boy,” she whispered. Holding the reins in one hand, she wiped her forehead with the other. She glanced at Arthur, who was sitting up with a dazed look on his face.
That was Camiscan’s chance. Before Beryl knew what had happened, the stallion’s head twisted back toward her. His huge teeth grabbed her shoulder and dragged her off his back. She hung there, suspended between his great jaws, the pain in her shoulder making her head swim. Camiscan threw her in the air like a cat might torment a mouse. She fell to the ground with a thud, still gripping the reins.
“Beru!” Kibii shouted. “Cluttabucki, help her!”
The impact had knocked the breath out of Beryl. Her only reality was the throbbing in her shoulder and the jerking of her whole body as the stallion tossed his head at the other end of the reins. Camiscan neighed loudly, as though to say he was still the king.
From far away, Beryl heard her father snap at Emma to stop caterwauling and be useful. She felt his confident hands as he checked her wound. He pried the rein from her fingers and she heard the soft clopping of Camiscan’s hooves moving away. Hours later—or perhaps it was only moments—her father, with surprising gentleness, was helping her sit up. Arthur, none the worse for wear, and Kibii stared down at her with something close to awe in their eyes.
“Beryl, talk to me,” the Captain said. “Can you hear me?”
“Daddy,” she croaked. She touched her shoulder. No blood, just a soreness that was bound to be black and blue by evening.
He smiled and lifted her to her feet. “You’re all right?” he asked as he gave her a quick hug.
Beryl staggered for a moment until her natural balance won out over her wobbling legs. She nodded.
“Get back on, then.” The Captain gestured to Camiscan, tied to the fence.
“Clutt, she can’t!” Emma cried.
Kibii muttered something in Swahili, and Arthur looked green. Beryl’s lip throbbed.
“All right,” she said. “Tomorrow.”
“Now.” He was merciless. “You have to show him that he can’t throw you and get away with it.”
“I just have to catch my breath,” she pleaded.
He waited, his gray eyes measuring her courage.
She beckoned him closer. “Daddy, I’m scared,” she whispered, afraid to meet the disapproval in his face. To her surprise, his words were kind, almost gentle.
“Of course you are,” he said. “I would be, too.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “But that doesn’t change what you have to do.”
He made it sound impossibly simple, Beryl thought. But she had trusted him her whole life. She nodded.
“That’s my girl.”
She walked stiffly to Camiscan. Her father lifted the reins back over the stallion’s head and cupped his hands to lift her into the saddle.
“Don’t trust him for a minute,” the Captain warned.
When Beryl clucked, Camiscan moved off with a stride as smooth as silk, a perfect gentleman. As she led the stallion through his paces, she could feel the admiring eyes of the Captain, Emma, and the boys on her. She sat even straighter, careful not to wince, no matter how her shoulder ached.
“She’s got as good a seat on a horse as any man,” the Captain said to Emma. “Her mother was the same.”
Beryl glanced at Emma. Under the dirt and tears, Emma’s face was grim.
“Boys, watch Beryl and learn,” the Captain said. “She just showed you two important lessons. No matter what happens, don’t let go of the reins. And never let a horse think he has the upper hand.” He moved to the gate. “All right. Back to the stable.” As Beryl steered Camiscan through the narrow gate, her father touched her knee. “Well done.”
Beryl grinned all the way back to the stables, knowing that she would wear the bruises on her shoulder like a badge of honor.
LOCATION: Elstree, England
DATE: 3 September, 1936
I was a terrible student with my governess and then at school. I only paid attention to things that interested me, and those teachers didn’t know anything that interested me.
My real teachers taught me how to survive and thrive in Africa. My father taught me to ride and to trust my instincts to stay on a horse. Arap Maina taught me discipline and how to handle a spear. And Tom Black taught me to fly. None of them were ever easy on me. They knew the only way to teach survival was for me to experience danger firsthand. I remember best those lessons that nearly killed me.
Once I was flying with Tom Black over the Great Rift Valley toward the Ngong Hills. My altimeter said we were eight thousand feet above sea level. I opened the throttle to climb. But the plane was sluggish; she had no more to give. We were doing eighty miles an hour, fast enough that I didn’t want to discover what would happen if we didn’t clear the hills. More stick, more throttle. The weight on the wings grew heavier. I was just a beginner and I was beginning to get a bit rattled, but not Tom. He sat in the cockpit, motionless and silent, carefree.
The wall of rock was rushing toward us before Tom took the controls. He banked sharply, dusting the trees and hills with blue exhaust. He put the nose of the Gipsy down until we were skimming the flat valley floor. Then he spiraled up until we were high above the hills and headed home.
“Now you know what a downdraft is,” said Tom casually. “You get it near mountains, and in Africa it’s common as rain. I could have warned you—but you shouldn’t be robbed of your right to make mistakes.”
Is there a better way to learn?
CHAPTER EIGHT
CAMISCAN’S HIDE TWITCHED UNDER BERYL’S HAND. SHE PRESSED her palm against his withers and spoke sternly. “Boy, I’m going to keep grooming you every morning and night. You just have to get used to it.” Camiscan still preferred Beryl to anyone else, but she was careful not to turn her back on him.
“Beryl, I’m bored.” Arthur’s head popped up over the stall door. “Will you play with me?” Although his fair skin was peeling from the sun, his breathing problems had improved in the clear air of the highlands. Under Beryl’s tutelage, he was becoming an expert on the dangers of Africa. Emma would faint if she knew how expert.
“I’m working, Little A. Go away.”
His voice, already high-pitched, became a whine. “There’s nothing to do here! I’m bored.”
Camiscan was growing restless. She thought for a moment.
“Play with Simi,” she suggested.
“The monkey who scared Mama?” Arthur asked doubtfully.
“He’s a baboon!” Beryl corrected with scorn. “And he was just defending himself after she poked a broom in his face. His favorite toy is that red ball—he’ll play catch for hours.”
“Will you come with me?”
“I told you. I’m working.” She turned back to Ca
miscan and brushed his long legs. “Simi’s probably on the porch underneath that bench.”
“All right.” He trudged off, kicking the dirt.
Beryl smiled to herself and patted Camiscan. “Arthur had better watch out,” she murmured to the stallion. “Or else he’ll get a big clout across the head. Simi doesn’t like to share.”
Her hand was closing the latch of the stall to lock Camiscan in for the night when a shriek split the evening. Only Simi sounded like that: like a human screaming, but without words. Beryl took off at a run in the direction of the house.
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