Kibii shook his head. “It’s not just me who is angry. All the boys are. Mehru is the worst of all; you’ve made an enemy.”
“He never liked me. But what about you? Are you still my friend?” Beryl asked in a small voice.
“I haven’t decided yet.” He turned his back on her and headed for the village. She followed, but her feet felt heavy.
They arrived at Arap Maina’s hut as the pink of the sunrise appeared over the mountains and the valley began to emerge from its nighttime shadows. The village dogs greeted them with their wet noses and wagging tails. She thought regretfully of Buller, left asleep in her hut. She wished he were here. The village had suddenly become a place full of strangers speaking a foreign language.
Arap Maina’s wives were preparing the fire. Naipende nodded to Beryl in greeting, and Namasari gave her a piece of fruit. From their silence, Beryl knew that they, too, disapproved.
Arap Maina stood in the doorway of his hut, waiting for them. Kibii nodded stiffly to his father. Arap Maina patted the boy’s shoulder. “Kibii, you may blood the ox.”
Kibii’s eyes lit up. This was a worthy task. He nodded eagerly and ran toward the cattle enclosure in the center of the kraal. Beryl started after him, but Arap Maina stopped her with a gesture of his hand.
“No, Beru. Women do not touch the ox before a hunt. It is forbidden.” A shadow passed over Arap Maina’s face, and Beryl knew he was thinking that girls do not hunt either. But he said nothing.
As they waited, Arap Maina prepared for the hunting ritual by breathing deeply, standing on one leg. To Beryl, he seemed to be in a trance. She lifted her right leg, but her left leg seemed to have a mind of its own. Hoping Arap Maina wouldn’t notice, she switched from one foot to the other.
She caught a glimpse of two brown eyes staring at her from inside Arap Maina’s hut. It was Kibii’s older sister, Jebbta. Glancing warily at her father, whose eyes were half-closed, Jebbta came out. She grabbed Beryl’s hand and pulled her around the back of the hut.
“Hello, Jebbta,” Beryl said warily.
“Beru, go home.” Jebbta wore an ankle-length skirt made of zebra skin and had sticks of wood pierced through her upper ear. Her many bracelets jingled as she moved. She spent all her time trying to attract the attention of the boys, particularly Mehru.
“I’m tired of everyone saying that,” Beryl said.
“You don’t have the courage to hunt with the murani. Mehru says you will be killed. And your father will blame the tribe. He’ll demand a blood price, and we will lose all our cattle,” the dark girl said.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Jebbta,” Beryl muttered. “My father would never do that. Anyway, I’ll be fine.”
“It is you who are being ridiculous,” Jebbta said earnestly. “Your body is like mine, no stronger. You will hold them back.”
“Just watch me!” Turning her back on Jebbta, Beryl walked back to Arap Maina. She was startled to see another warrior standing beside him. He towered over Beryl, and his chest was crisscrossed with scars. He handled his spear as though it were another limb.
Arap Maina announced, “Beru, this is Tepli. You will stay with him during the hunt. Behind the murani.”
“But,” Beryl protested. “I want to hunt with everyone else.”
Tepli was even more disgusted than Beryl. “Arap Maina, I am no nursemaid! It dishonors me.” He looked down his nose at Beryl.
Arap Maina held up a hand. “Beru, if you want to come, you will do as I say. Tepli, it is your duty to protect the daughter of Cluttabucki.” He stared until both Beryl and Tepli reluctantly nodded.
Tepli removed his shuka from his shoulder and tied it around his waist. He wore only a loincloth under the scarlet cloth.
Beryl felt herself reddening, and stared at her bare feet.
A few moments later Kibii returned, leading a healthy reddish-brown ox with a rhino-hide halter. He was flanked by the warriors who were hunting that day. Arap Maina signaled to Jebbta, and she scurried forward to hand him an arrow and a gourd. The arrow’s shaft had a block of wood a fingertip’s length from the arrowhead. Arap Maina nodded to the other warriors to keep the ox still. Beryl crowded forward with the rest, her eyes wide to see everything.
The ox moaned when Arap Maina punctured its neck with a swift jab of the arrow. The block of wood kept it from penetrating too deeply and killing the beast. Kibii ran in with the gourd and placed it to catch the blood. When the gourd was half full, Arap Maina removed the arrow, and another man quickly wrapped the bull’s neck to stop the bleeding. Mehru, puffed up with his own importance, led the lowing beast away, back to the herd.
Jebbta added curdled milk to the gourd. Kibii mixed it and brought it back to Arap Maina, who held it up to the rising sun.
“Praise Enka for the blood, which brings strength to our loins,” he chanted.
Beryl glanced at the sinewy legs of the murani. The thin red togas strapped to their bodies barely covered their private parts. She looked down at her own scrawny legs, poking out like sticks encased in baggy khaki shorts.
Arap Maina took a deep swallow of the blood and milk. Then he handed the gourd to Tepli, who said, “By the sacred womb of my mother, we will kill the wild lion today.” He looked down at Beryl with dislike and deliberately passed the gourd over her head to the warrior standing on her other side.
Beryl didn’t protest; her stomach was already roiling.
Without warning, Kibii was at her side, handing her a lightweight spear. “I hope to Enka you do not need this,” he whispered.
She touched the blade at the end of the spear with her fingertips. “Thanks, Kibii,” she whispered back, but he had already moved away.
Arap Maina pumped his fist in the air. The tall warriors began to move out, the sun glinting off their spears. The women and children shouted cries of encouragement.
Kibii and Mehru were standing off to the side, glaring at Beryl. She tightened her hold on her new spear and followed the murani into battle.
LOCATION: Abingdon, England
DATE: 2:00 P.M. GMT, 4 September, 1936
Flash. Pop.
My eyes are blinded by a photographer’s bulb. No doubt the evening papers will have a caption: “Society blonde wears a no-nonsense Burberry, gray flannel trousers, and a jaunty white hat as she sets off for her transatlantic air flight.” As if it matters what I wear!
I deliberately turn my back on the press to say good-bye to my friends.
Josh, my engine mechanic, gives me a sprig of heather.
Brian, who has helped me train for the flight, gives me the newest lifesaving device, a pneumatic jacket I can inflate through a rubber tube. “You could float around in it for days,” he says. But I have to decide between carrying the weight of the lifesaver or a warm sweater. If I go down, the jacket will just prolong the inevitable. I choose the sweater.
Finally, Jim Mollison, a pilot who has crossed the Atlantic twice and a staunch friend, lends me his watch. I’ll set mine to GMT and set his to New York time. If… when I arrive, the time change might be disorientating.
Jim grins at me as I strap his watch on my wrist. “Don’t get it wet!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
BERYL PLACED HER FEET AS QUIETLY AS SHE COULD, AWARE THAT Tepli’s hostile ears were listening and judging every step. She was determined to prove that she could hold her own with the murani, that she, too, had wings on her ankles. Thinking hard about being light on her feet, she forgot where she was stepping. Her heel landed on a pat of cattle dung and she nearly lost her footing.
“Ugh!” she exclaimed, wiping her foot on the dry grass. Tepli grabbed her elbow and wrenched her upright. Arap Maina glanced back and scowled.
They ran in single file into the valley. It was the end of the dry sea-son, and the papery grass reached to Beryl’s waist. She couldn’t help but notice that the grass went only to the knees of the warriors.
Arap Maina led them down a path she couldn’t see. The line of hunters swerved to avoid
thorn bushes and the rock-hard anthills that towered above their heads. Within an hour they had run farther than Beryl had ever ventured. As they descended deeper into the valley, the sun rose higher in the sky. Waves of heat came up from the valley floor, hitting Beryl in the face like a stone wall. She had a stitch in her side, and every breath she drew hurt her chest.
A bevy of partridges flew up from a copse of trees sticking up from the grassy valley floor. The murani froze. Taken by surprise, Beryl would have bumped into the man in front of her if Tepli’s iron grip on her shoulder had not held her back.
He glared at her, his eyebrows pulled together high on his bulging forehead. “Watering hole,” he said.
“What frightened the birds?” she whispered. “Is it the lion?”
“Ssshh,” he hissed.
The warriors stood like statues, muscles tensed, arms halfway raised to the spear-throwing position. Wordlessly, Arap Maina signaled the fastest warriors. They took off at a run, spreading out to either side of the distant watering hole. In a few moments, they disappeared into the haze. Only Arap Maina, Tepli, and Beryl remained.
Beryl looked questioningly at Arap Maina.
He answered quietly, “They flush out our quarry. If he is a lion who runs, they will chase him down.”
Beryl hefted her small spear and wondered what use it would be against a lion who runs.
Arap Maina inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring. “He is there,” he said confidently. “But I think he may be a lion who prefers to wait. To attack from a place of concealment.”
Beryl gulped at the thought of a lion smart enough to hide. She wished that Arap Maina had not sent away all the warriors.
The three of them advanced cautiously toward the waterhole. Butterflies were everywhere, bumping up against their sweaty bodies.
“Arap Maina, where are the animals who drink this water?” she asked.
“Only the creatures that are safe in the daytime are out today,” he whispered.
“There is nothing here,” Tepli said sullenly. “The others have found it. I should be with them.”
Perspiration ran into Beryl’s eyes. She shook her head, disturb-ing the gnats that seemed to swarm around only her.
“Look there.” Arap Maina pointed a long finger to a grassy thicket, on the far side of the watering hole. “Do you see?”
Tepli looked for several moments. A slow smile spread across his face. He nodded, stroking his spear. Beryl screwed up her eyes against the sun and stared. But she could not see what they saw.
“What is it?” she asked around the dryness in her mouth.
“Wait here.” Arap Maina carefully placed his shield on the ground. Holding his spear firmly at his side, he began to move forward. Tepli followed.
Beryl grabbed at Tepli’s arm. “Don’t leave me alone!”
He shook her off, but Arap Maina glanced back. “Tepli, stay with Beru.”
“Arap Maina, you cannot face the lion alone,” Tepli urged. “You may injure him, but he will kill you. You need me at your back.”
“Your duty is to guard Beru.”
“My duty is to kill the lion.”
“Stay.” Arap Maina ran toward the thicket without even looking to see if Tepli obeyed.
Tepli took a few steps after him, glanced back at Beryl, and, with a disgusted growl, returned to her side.
Beryl quietly sighed in relief.
Tepli watched Arap Maina’s progress intently, one hand gripping his spear, the other holding his shield of buffalo hide. Beryl shaded her eyes, trying to make out the lion.
“Maybe Arap Maina is wrong?” she asked. Tepli didn’t answer.
Without warning, the lion burst out of the cover of the donga and charged toward Arap Maina.
Beryl screamed, “Arap Maina, watch out!”
“Eele!” shouted Arap Maina. He hefted his spear to his shoulder. “Eele! Arap Maina!”
To Beryl, it seemed as if the world had slowed to a crawl. The lion floated off the ground, drifting down to earth to push off with its massive paws. Arap Maina braced himself against the impact. Next to her, Tepli muttered an oath and began to run, too slowly, toward the battle.
Beryl wanted to run away, but Arap Maina’s danger tugged at her, like a rope tied around her waist. She followed Tepli, her eyes fixed on the solitary figure facing the lion’s charge. When the lion was upon him, Arap Maina did not flinch. The great claws raked his shoulder, but he thrust his spear into the shoulder of the beast as he leapt. The lion roared in pain and fell to its uninjured side.
“Arap Maina!” Beryl cried, her heart pounding.
Hunter and lion rolled away from each other. Arap Maina’s spear was lodged deep in the lion’s shoulder, and blood flowed down its forelegs. Arap Maina came back to his feet. His blood turned his shuka a darker red. He and the lion circled each other warily. Arap Maina held only his knife now.
Beryl and Tepli were a dozen yards away. Tepli hesitated, his eyes judging how best to help Arap Maina.
Thinking only of distracting the lion, Beryl held her spear in front of her and rushed closer. “Eele! Eele!” she shouted.
The lion angrily shook his mane and turned his great head toward Beryl. His eyes were dilated from his battle with Arap Maina, but now they focused on her. She wasn’t a warrior, she was prey. In an instant, the lion abandoned Arap Maina and went after Beryl.
Beryl froze. Her hands gripped her spear as tightly as though it were her only hope. The lion roared, and she could see his large teeth and a surprisingly pink tongue. The lion gathered himself to leap.
But Tepli was there. He swept Beryl away from the lion’s path and then knelt in the dirt. As the beast passed over his head, Tepli used his spear to pierce its chest from underneath. Beryl curled up on the ground, trying to make herself small.
“Eele! Eele!” he shouted. “I am Tepli and I shall kill the lion!”
The lion was impaled on the spear, but still alive. From Beryl’s vantage point on the ground, Tepli was terrible to watch. His neck muscles swelled like an angry snake. His mouth foamed with white flecks of rage. He was so brave! But the lion, even wounded, was still so very dangerous.
The beast whipped around and clawed Tepli’s shoulder. Arap Maina appeared and started stabbing the lion’s back with his knife. The lion’s body heaved back and forth, knocking Tepli to the ground. Terrified, Beryl saw that Tepli was not moving. Arap Maina kept stabbing. Finally, the lion’s lifeblood pumped itself out and the great animal toppled over.
Beryl was trembling all over. She felt dampness between her legs, and realized she had wet herself. Her hand still gripped her spear, still unblooded. She pushed herself up off the ground and forced herself to move past the still lion and toward the warriors, who had placed themselves between her and danger. They lay in the dirt, bleeding freely into the grass.
“The dead don’t bleed,” she chanted. “The dead don’t bleed.”
Arap Maina’s eyes were open. He grimaced in pain, panting hard.
“You’re alive!” she cried.
“Of course,” he said.
“What can I do?” she whispered.
“Get my spear,” he replied.
Beryl nodded. She knew a murani’s weapon was a part of himself. Arap Maina’s spear was still in the beast’s shoulder, and its great head hung down over the weapon. She was relieved to see the lion was not still bleeding. She reached out, hardly daring to breathe, and touched its mane. It was rough and tangled to her fingertips. Gathering up her courage, she grabbed a hunk of mane and pulled. She had to use both hands to lift the heavy head away from the spear embedded deep in the lion’s chest. She braced her bare foot against the soft hide for leverage to pull it out. It finally came loose with a horrible sucking noise.
She carefully wiped the steel blade on the grass and brought the spear to Arap Maina. He raised himself up, despite the bloody claw marks on his shoulder, and examined his weapon.
“Thank Enka that the blade is not chipped.�
� He looked up at her, and she saw that his eyes were as clear as ever. “Now bring Tepli his spear.”
Steeling herself, she returned to the lion. Tepli’s spear was not so deeply stuck. She carried it to her reluctant bodyguard, who lay motionless on the ground. His chest was covered with crimson blood, his own and the lion’s. She reached down gingerly to touch his arm. At that moment, his eyes flew open. She said nothing but she wanted to shout for joy.
“Beru,” said Tepli in a faint voice. “You smell.”
Promise the Night Page 10
