When the guard returned with the four sticks she’d requested and some leather thongs, she took them up and set to placing them around Asha’s arm. She asked the question on her mind. “He needs stitches. Will Jabir stitch him as he stitched me?”
The guard shook his head.
As she’d feared. RyAnne tried a different tack. “I want to thank you for your help. What is your name?”
The guard folded his arms and swept her with a suspicious look. But after a moment he offered, “Jelani.”
RyAnne tipped him a nod as though they might be meeting in any number of normal social settings. “And I don’t suppose, Jelani, that there’s a way for you to fetch me some thread and a needle?”
Again, the man shook his head. Then he strode away as though his job here were done.
RyAnne grimaced. How was she to help Asha without proper medical supplies? She cinched the last of the leather thongs into place around the splints, pleased to at least have that much done. She had just decided that a compress was going to be the best she could offer, and had assisted Asha to a seat with his back to the rock, when Jelani returned. He stretched something out to her, lifting the lantern so she could get a good look at what he held pinched carefully between his fingers.
RyAnne’s eyes widened.
The man held the body of one of the large black pinching ants of the region.
RyAnne quaked at the memory of the time she’d stepped into the path of an army of them and gotten a few under her petticoats. The creatures were the length of half her little finger and just as thick of body. And their pinchers were strong enough to draw blood when they snapped together.
Now the guard thrust the lamp into her hands and instructed her to hold it so he could see the cut on Asha’s head. He pinched the skin on Asha’s forehead together and thrust the head of the ant at the cut.
RyAnne winced when the creature clamped its pinchers shut on either side of the wound.
With a quick twist, Jelani severed the head of the ant from its body, leaving the head with clamped pinchers closing the wound.
He spread his hands as if he’d single handedly solved every last one of her problems. He raised his brows, as if asking if she wanted him to find more ants.
Despite the churning in her belly at the method of treatment, she had to admit it solved her problem of trying to keep Asha from bleeding throughout the night.
Reluctantly, she nodded. “We’ll need at least five more ants, maybe six.”
The guard grinned and headed off to fetch them.
RyAnne shuddered.
Weak light prodded at Trent’s eyelids the next morning. With a grunt of pain, he squinted open one eye. The seep of dawn filtered through the branches of the acacia tree they had taken shelter under the evening before, after June had prodded the mangled bullet from his shoulder. Normally he would roll over and go back to sleep at least until the sun crested the horizon, but today the searing torture pulsing through seemingly every muscle in his body would not release him back to the gentle oblivion of sleep.
He sat up slowly, doing his best to withhold the strangulated groan the pain lured from his throat, and failing rather miserably. June was by his side in an instant, urging him to lie back down, but he brushed her aside and propped himself gingerly against the tree trunk. Perhaps he would just sit here for a moment. He didn’t think he would make it more than a few steps without some help.
Near the fire, Kako stirred the coals and offered him a grim look of sympathy.
Trent ground his teeth. The last thing he wanted was sympathy. Blast his frail flesh for failing him at a time when he needed it to be stalwart and indefatigable. Each moment he sat here like an invalid, RyAnne grew farther and farther away.
Why had he not pulled his pistol and used it to defend her? Because there hadn’t been time. First the native had been on him before he knew it, and then Khalifa had held the gun to RyAnne’s head. These things he knew, but now he wondered if he couldn’t have done more.
June pressed a cup of hot tea into his hands. Much of the food stores in the village had been destroyed, but Kako had managed to find a few items that had escaped the worst of the flames, the tea tin among them. And Trent could honestly say that he had never been more happy to see a cup of tea in his entire life.
Accepting the cup, he tottered the few steps to the log Kako had dragged near their fire the night before, barricading a hiss of agony behind his teeth. He huddled into his coat, realizing as the warmth of the fire met his skin that a chill was trembling through him.
June gave him a glare and motioned he should return to his pallet.
When the cup cradled in his hands blurred around the edges, he assessed that she might be right, but he couldn’t just sleep the days away with RyAnne being carted off to who knows where. He had to go after her!
He took a sip of the tea, savoring the warmth of it slipping down his throat. “Kako, I need you to fashion a cart. I have to go after Miss Hunter. But I won’t have the strength to travel on my own power for a few days.”
June snorted and gave him a look that made it clear he would be indisposed for more than a few days.
Kako only nodded blandly. “I will set about to make this cart. But for a few days you must rest, mzee. Even a cart will be too much for you right now.”
Trent sipped more of the tea and pinched his brow. Mzee… Wise one. Somehow he didn’t feel very wise today. How had he let Khalifa get the drop on him? He’d known from the moment RyAnne admitted her heritage to the villagers that she’d put herself in grave danger. Yet he’d foolishly let his vigilance go lax, and it might have cost RyAnne everything. Had almost cost him everything.
Now he needed to assess his strength. For to come upon Khalifa before he was able to mount a rescue could result in the man gaining the upper hand yet again. Much as he hated to admit it, he did need to rest, at least for today.
He offered Kako a nod of agreement and drained the last of the tea. When he stood, a wave of dizziness washed through him, and he stumbled a sideways step. Kako leapt to his side and took hold of his arm, guiding him back to his pallet.
Okay. Maybe he would need more than one day’s rest before attempting a rescue.
The roaring of a lion woke RyAnne the next morning at dawn. The throbbing in her cheek made her gasp when she sat up.
Asha, who was already squatting near a crackling fire just a few paces away, cast her a sympathetic look, obviously in a great deal of discomfort himself. His splinted arm cradled carefully against his chest, he used the long stick in his other hand to prod some of the glowing coals beneath a pot perched on three rocks.
Moyo lay curled on her side next to RyAnne, her tiny hands tucked beneath her cheek, her soft breaths sonorously sibilant against the backdrop of birdsong and wind-stirred savannah grasses. At the moment the child looked so peaceful, and yet RyAnne could plainly see the dried salty tracks her tears had left in the smudges of smoke that coated her chubby cheeks. Long into the night RyAnne had comforted and shushed the mourning child until she had finally drifted off, aided by a quiet sonata from RyAnne’s violin. If for that reason only, RyAnne was glad she had not chucked the instrument into the fires when she’d been tempted to the day before.
The roar of the lion came again, louder. This time it was accompanied by screams, the loud clanking of chains, and the guttural shout of one of the guards. A moment later the boom of a gun cracked through the dawn prelude.
Moyo jolted awake, and RyAnne gathered her into her arms.
There came a beat of silence, and then several shrill shrieks pierced the air. Asha leapt to his feet and trotted off, presumably to see what the commotion was about.
Moyo buried her face against RyAnne’s chest, and a shudder coursed through Moyo’s little body. RyAnne’s heart plummeted. All of the evening before she had longed to ask the child what she had seen in the village, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to make the child face the terror yet again. But she and Moyo had b
een kept separate from the rest of the villagers captured. And it was almost more than RyAnne could bear not knowing who had been taken…and who had not.
Nyanja was ever the one heavy on her heart. Had she been captured? Or would Khalifa have determined her too much of a bother and health risk since she only had one leg? Considering that he’d tried to murder her immediately after the loss of her leg, RyAnne feared she knew the answer. Feared she understood what kept the normally chatty child in her arms so quiet and taciturn.
What of June though? And Kako? Yani and her two small children?
With each name and face that flitted through her mind, RyAnne’s spirit grew heavier and her heart more despondent.
Her eyes fell closed. How were they to bear this load? Jesus?
Whom shall I send, child?
I came! I was reluctant at first. But then I was ready to stay and try to make a difference! Look where that got me? She actually lifted one manacled foot to draw heaven’s attention to her chains, as though God didn’t already know of her plight.
She remembered the apostle Paul’s words in his letter to the Corinthians about how the Lord had denied his request and told him His grace was sufficient for him.
RyAnne gritted her teeth. She didn’t want sufficient. She wanted rescue! She wanted justice. She wanted retribution. She wanted to turn back the hands of time and walk with Trent along the shores of Lake Nyasa just once more. Instead, doing what she had thought God wanted her to do had brought her here. She had always presumed that if she did what God wanted, it would bring blessing into her life. Peace. Comfort. Joy unspeakable. None of those things were hers. More like sorrow, discomfort, and heartache unimaginable. And yet…perhaps this was exactly where God wanted her to be?
She opened her eyes. Looked around at the trampled grass beneath flat-topped acacia trees.
Even though she and Moyo had been kept separate, she knew the many others who had been captured were close by. Was it to them the Lord was asking her to go?
The smell of burning porridge wafted to her, and she looked up to see a tendril of black smoke lifting from the pot that Asha had abandoned on the fire. Giving Moyo a quick kiss, RyAnne set her aside and stepped over to the fire, the chains binding one ankle to the other making even that short distance a mincingly difficult task.
The porridge was too thick and charred, but she spooned some out for Moyo nonetheless. Mindlessly, the child scooped the thick mash into her mouth, her eyes glassy and vacant.
Asha had only been gone for a few minutes when a loud outcry arose from just beyond a knoll. “Tieni! Tieni!” Let’s go! Let’s go! The shout carried a hint of panic as it was repeated over and over by several who RyAnne presumed were guards.
RyAnne studied the area to one side of the knoll, and soon a line of slave women shuffled into view. Along either side of the line, several guards swung their arms to crack short whips as they hurried the women along. After the line of women came a line of young girls and then another of young boys. Each was marched into the center of the encampment.
Asha reappeared at her side and thrust her toward Moyo. “Bring the child quickly.”
RyAnne lurched over and urged Moyo to her feet. “What is happening?”
“There has been a lion attack. One of the slaves has been killed.”
RyAnne barely had time to grab her violin before he shoved them toward the cluster of people. “Everyone together. The lion will not attack again soon, but there is more safety when all are in one place.”
RyAnne craned her neck to get a better look at the line of women. She recognized two of Chief Banda’s wives—women who had given up their hut in order that she and Papa might have a place to stay when they’d first arrived at the village. And then her gaze found Yani. Quickly she skimmed the rest of the line, but didn’t recognize most of them, other than cursorily. She focused on Yani once more. Yani returned her look, but there didn’t seem to be any life in her eyes. Her newborn was strapped to her back, but another search of the rest of the lines did not reveal the woman’s other child, a little girl who had been only a couple years old. Her gaze returned to Yani’s, and the woman gave a slight shake of her head.
RyAnne’s feet stumbled to a halt as she pressed one hand to her throat and blinked back tears.
Asha prodded her from behind. “Keep moving.”
RyAnne didn’t want to look around after that. She pointed her face toward the ground and kept Moyo tucked close by her side. In her chest, her heart pumped death. Gone-gone. Gone-gone. Gone-gone. Everyone gone. She hadn’t seen Nyanja. She hadn’t seen June. Nor Kako, or any other man, for that matter. Where had all the men gone?
She heard a distant clanking of chains then, and only a moment later the chain gang of men shuffled into the clearing. One man, the last of the line, was barely able to keep to his feet as he stumbled along. And behind him, a pair of empty but bloodied manacles dragged along the ground.
Khalifa stormed into the clearing and scanned each group of slaves in a quick assessment before grabbing the nearest guard by one arm—Jelani, who had helped her treat Asha the evening before.
“How many did it get?” Khalifa gave the guard a shake.
Jelani swallowed. “Just the one. And”—he motioned to the slave at the end of the line of men—“left another quite injured.”
RyAnne looked to that man again. At that moment he turned to show Khalifa his injuries. Deep, bloody claw marks angled from the man’s shoulder almost all the way to his waist.
Khalifa cursed the lion and spun away. “Now that it has had a taste of flesh, it will likely stalk us for miles. We must be extra vigilant not to lose any more bucks or does. I won’t have a blasted lion eating my profits!”
RyAnne blinked. For a moment she’d thought he’d been speaking of the lion attacking antelope. That he was referring to those he had captured like they were nothing better than animals sent a sick churning through her middle. The man cared nothing about the fact that a person had been killed by the rogue lion, only about the fact that he had lost money because of it!
RyAnne lifted her chin and stepped forward. “The man will need tending. I can see to his wounds.”
Khalifa shook his head. “No. Even should he recover, he will be too much of a speed liability over the next few days.” He snapped his fingers at a guard near the line of men. “Dispatch him, and let’s be on our way.”
“No!” RyAnne gasped even as the guard lifted his gun and shot the injured man in the head. “Oh!” She spun away, clasping Moyo to her. Moyo shuddered and pressed her face into RyAnne’s skirts.
From the line of women a high-pitched wail of total despair pierced the morning. RyAnne too well understood the timbre of the cry. It was as though the woman’s soul had burst through a seam in her throat and followed her loved one into the next life. It was the same cry that had been beating for release from her own chest since the moment Trent had fallen to the sand.
Had that truly only been yesterday?
A great thirst woke Trent that evening. Either that or the sound of crying.
Crying?
He rolled slowly into a sitting position and gingerly swept one hand down his face to clear the clutter of disjointed dreams from his mind. He scrunched his eyes tight and then stretched them wide open, willing them to grow accustomed to the evening light. And then he held his breath and listened.
Yes. Crying.
Neither Kako nor June were in sight. But the crying was too delicate to be either of them. It was coming from a child. Gritting his teeth in preparation for the shards of pain, Trent slowly tottered to his feet. He supposed it fell to him to find the child and see if he could help. But just as he started to shuffle a few steps toward the sound, Kako emerged into the clearing by the fire with a little girl in his arms.
Relief swept over Trent. “Nyimbo.”
Her snuffling increased anew as she lurched from Kako’s arms and launched herself against Trent’s legs to wrap frail arms about him.
“Whoa there.” Trent flapped his arms.
Kako shot out one of his hands and captured a handful of Trent’s shirtfront. Trent would have gone over backward if not for Kako’s lightning-fast reflexes.
Kako grinned at him as he pried the child’s arms from around Trent’s legs and then squatted in front of her. He spoke in the girl’s Chewa language. “We must be careful with mzee. He has been injured and requires time to heal.”
Nyimbo bounced Trent a terrified look.
Kako ruffed a hand over the nap of her hair. “Don’t worry. He’s much too stubborn to let a mere bullet bring about his end.”
A tearful smile of relief peeked through.
Trent nodded reassurance at the girl and then asked Kako, “Where did you find her?”
Kako handed the girl a guava from the small basket of food near the fire. He stood, folding his arms, looking more weary and worn down than he ever had since Trent had known him.
“I’ve been…” His jaw bunched, and he bent and plucked a blade of grass. “All day I have been digging graves and burying my father’s people.” He swallowed visibly. “And my father.”
Trent reached out one hand and clapped the man on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.” Chief Banda had likely been killed so that he couldn’t urge his people to rebellion on the long journey to the coastal city where the slaves would be auctioned off. From this region, that was likely Bagamoyo.
Kako remained dry eyed and brushed the sympathy away, as was the custom of the men of his tribe. No more would be said of his father until he was ready.
“The child was captured along with Moyo. But she says the Arab in charge took only Moyo, and as he left, commanded his guard to kill Nyimbo. The guard shot into the ground and then instructed her to run and hide. She did and remained there quietly until fear and hunger overwhelmed her. I found her only a few minutes ago.”
Trent gritted his teeth. He turned to study the child who had gobbled down the guava and now lay curled atop his bedding, with her hands tucked beneath her cheek. She was already sound asleep. “The man is a devil.”
The Trail of Chains: A serialized historical Christian romance. (Sonnets of the Spice Isle Book 5) Page 3