A Kiss of Adventure

by Catherine Palmer

  “You all right?”

  “I’ll be better when we can’t see them anymore.”

  He nodded and looked up at the moon. “Okay. We’ll give it a shot.”

  He untied the boat, handed Tillie the oar, and poled out into the channel. The current caught the dugout, and it glided along, erasing the sight of Tuareg fires. After they rounded a bend, Tillie permitted herself to relax. She looked at Graeme as he steered, his concentration on the task. Their conversation of the evening slipped into her mind, and she studied his broken face.

  How long had it been since his father had done that to him? How long since his father had died? And his mother? When had she died? What had Graeme done before she met him? For that matter, what did he really do now?

  She thought about how right it felt to be with him, to trust him. When the Tuareg had been so close, she’d leaned on his strength and trusted him to keep her safe. When the amenoukal had raised his sword, the drive to protect Graeme had been immediate, instinctive.

  Warning flags flew. You can’t save him from his past, Tillie. And you can’t change his rejection of God. Don’t confuse missionary zeal with affection. She had seen too many friends— good Christian women—marry men they thought they could save or heal or fix. They ended up with marriages filled with pain and confusion. Every action has a reaction. This truth was borne out in her friends’ lives as most of them ended up going to church without husbands, raising children with uncertain loyalties, and turning to friends for the spiritual communion they should have shared with their spouses.

  God was there with them, but he did not prevent their poor decisions—decisions that went directly against his guidelines in Scripture—from affecting their lives.

  Tillie had no desire to fall into that trap. She would put her emotions aside and remember the truth about Graeme. The only truth that really mattered: he did not share her belief in Christ. Nothing more.

  Please, God, nothing more.

  They floated for what seemed like hours before the sun finally showed its pale yellow head. Small villages came and went, children wading in the shallows, women fetching water, men mending nets.

  Tillie dreaded spending another day under the burning rays, fighting the insects and hugging her groaning stomach. Graeme looked better than she felt. His shaggy hair blew softly back from his face, softening the hard lines of his chin and the slope of his nose. Even when relaxed, his arms and legs maintained their powerful coils, giving him physical reserves Tillie knew she lacked.

  “Are you sure we’ll make it to that town today?”

  “Segou?” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “If we keep up this pace and don’t have any more run-ins, we might get there tonight.”

  “What then? I mean, even after I go to the police, the Tuareg will still be hunting me. I don’t know where their treasure is.”

  “The amenoukal thinks you do. You’re the tree-planting woman. You’re the only one who can get at the treasure.”

  She knotted her fingers. “But it’s ridiculous. Mungo Park didn’t know anything about me. The Tuareg must realize that.”

  “There’s something about you that mesmerizes them.” He laid the paddle beside him and let the current take the boat. “Still have that document?”

  Tillie pulled the silver amulet from inside her blouse and took out the folded paper. Opening it across her knees, she reread the message. “‘Twenty-five December, 1806.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

  “The last time Mungo Park was heard from was in November of 1805. So if the document is really a piece of his journal, it means he lived many months longer. It means he could not have been killed at Bussa like everyone thought.”

  “Bussa? Where’s that? Tell me everything you know.”

  Graeme leaned back in the boat. “Mungo was an adventurer. He was born in Scotland, the son of a farmer. There were thirteen children in the family. His father wanted him to become a Presbyterian minister.”

  Graeme spoke as if he had known Mungo Park personally— as if he were a beloved friend. Tillie felt drawn in, as she did when Hannah spun the old Kikuyu tales her father had told his children around the village fire. “Did your father tell you about Mungo Park?” she asked.

  “My mother was the storyteller.” He fell silent for a moment, lost in the past. When he spoke again, his voice was harder, free of emotion, as though he had wrapped up his memories and stashed them far away. “Park wanted to be a doctor, not a minister. He studied medicine at Edinburgh University, and then he worked as an apprentice for a Doctor Thomas Anderson. Anderson had a beautiful daughter, Ailie.”

  Tillie glanced at the paper on her lap. “Ailie when I get back will you let me rest? Will you keep the Moors away? . . . Ailie we will buy that house on Chester Street.” She lifted her head. “Did Mungo marry Ailie?”

  “Not at first. The African Association, based in London, asked him to go to Africa to gather information on the rise, the course, and the termination of the Niger River. This river—” he glanced at the water—“was a great mystery to the English, but they knew they wanted in on the gold and other treasures that had been rumored for centuries. In 1795, Park left England on the brig Endeavour. His first journey into Africa was a nightmare. As he traveled overland toward the Niger, he had to pay a tribute to every king along the way. Moors captured him and held him captive for more than two months. They threatened and tortured him. Finally, in July 1796, he made it to Segou.”

  “Segou? Where we’re going!”

  “That’s the place.”

  Tillie studied the brown river with greater interest. Mungo Park could well have traveled this very spot. “What happened in Segou?”

  “Mansong, the king of Segou, gave him a bag of five thousand cowrie shells. They’re little rounded seashells— worth nothing now but used as currency back then. The king basically paid Park to get rid of him. Park left Segou, but nine days later he was so sick and hungry he was forced to turn back. When he got to Bamako, he was robbed again. In December 1797, he finally made it back to England.”

  “I’ll bet he was ready to hang it up.”

  “Wrong. He had fulfilled only part of the African Association’s request. He had determined that the Niger flowed south to north. Every previous report had insisted it flowed the other way. No one could believe it. A river that flowed away from the ocean and into a desert? Park insisted he was right. More important to him, he had not found the mouth of the river, and he was really bothered by that.”

  Tillie fingered the fragile document. “What about Ailie?”

  “After he wrote a book, Travels in the Interior of Africa, he moved back to Scotland and fell in love with Ailie. They married in 1799. He set up practice as a country doctor.”

  “So that was it?”

  “Africa called him back. He had recurring nightmares about it. He had to return. So in 1805 he took off again, leaving Ailie and their three children. This time he had a military escort. Again he had problems. His troops were undisciplined. They battled dysentery, bees, kidnapping, tornadoes, rain, vomiting, and fever. When he reached the Niger, three-fourths of his men had died and all his pack animals were either dead or stolen.”

  Tillie searched the paper for clues as Graeme spoke. “Did he know any of the rulers in the area? Couldn’t any of them have helped him?”

  “Park finally arrived at Segou again and sold the rest of his goods. But he made the mistake of telling the king, his pal Mansong, his plans for the coming of white traders and the end of Moorish domination.”

  “Why was that a mistake?”

  “Most sources believe word of that conversation got to the Moors, who controlled trade on the Niger. Anyway, Mansong gave Park two half-rotten canoes, again eager to get rid of him. On November 16, 1805, Park wrote the last entry in his journal and sent it to England. That was the last anyone heard from him.”

  The sun was high in the sky now, and Tillie wiped at the perspiration on her brow. After folding the paper
carefully, she slipped it back into the amulet.

  When she looked up, Graeme had fastened his gaze on her. “Keep the amulet safe, Tillie. It may protect you if the amenoukal gets his hands on you. They’re superstitious people, and they think it’s charmed.”

  She swallowed. “I figured you would want it. It’s the clue to the treasure.”

  “Is that what you think? That I’m after the treasure?”

  “I don’t know what you’re after. The treasure or the story you’re writing . . . or the journal itself. It would be valuable, wouldn’t it?”

  “The journal would be valuable to me for my book. Research.” He picked up the oar and examined it. “So what are you after, Tillie? A lifetime of planting neem trees in the desert? A cushy job as a professor somewhere? Or a businessman husband, a couple of kids, and a town house in Soho?”

  “Did you say ‘neem trees’?” She couldn’t hide her surprise. “How did you know I’ve been working with Azadirachta indica? Even Arthur doesn’t know which species I’ve been working with.”

  “Arthur should pay closer attention to the woman he thinks he’s going to marry. I learned that the Tuareg were on your tail, so I spent a few days finding out about the mysterious tree-planting woman. You’ve been in Mali almost a year. You live in a tiny three-room house with an African woman.” He paused. “That would be Hannah?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded. “Your house has no air conditioner and only one fan. You work for PAAC, which has given you a little office and a compound that you’ve planted with neem saplings. You’ve been experimenting with species from Mexico and China. Your staff has planted sorghum and corn seedlings around the trees. Why is that, by the way?”

  “Protection from the desert wind. It works very well.”

  “Good. You’ve tested the use of the neem tree for fire-wood and fence poles. You’ve been experimenting with the leaves and seeds. For?”

  “They contain a natural pesticide. Farmers can extract it and use it against yellow-fever mosquitoes, cockroaches, beetles, worms, and other pests. It even cures stomachache.”

  “You’ve sent letters to PAAC requesting transfer into the Sahel, but they won’t let you go north yet. You’ve also written the Malian government for donations of land in the Sahel.” He lifted his dark brows. “Have I missed anything?”

  Tillie turned away and looked out at the river. She loved the little compound, loved the two acres that were hers to manage. She loved the saplings, the struggling corn plants, the smell of moist, rich earth.

  “You’ve missed a lot,” she said. “I want to plant 250 miles of windbreaks across the Sahel. I want to try growing a species of leguminous tree that’s been planted successfully in East Africa to help stabilize atmospheric nitrogen in the soil. I want to try using leaves and branches from my trees as fertilizer. I want to work with Malian women, educating them, and . . . and there’s a lot more. A lot.” She shrugged at her own grandiosity. “I have big dreams.”

  “And Arthur? I guess you know your sort-of fiancé’s being transferred to London.”

  Incredulous, she stared at him. “You checked out Arthur, too?”

  “I’m thorough.”

  Irritation swept over her. “It’s really not your business, Graeme. Our future plans are between Arthur and me.” But for all her protestations, she couldn’t help reflecting on the truth in what Graeme said about a man paying attention to his fiancée. Arthur didn’t even know the species of her trees. He’d never asked. He had been inside her compound only twice, and then it was for a quick look-see before heading off to a meeting.

  What was even more important, though, was that Arthur had never asked about her dreams. He had no clue they didn’t have anything to do with a flat in London or a television or life in upper-crust British society.

  Sighing, Tillie gazed across at the bank. The river was deep here and more than two miles wide, so they kept the dugout no more than fifty yards from the bank. Its edges were lined with reeds, and—she caught her breath. Crocodiles. A dozen gray crocodiles were sunning themselves on the bank.

  “What’s wrong?” Graeme lifted his head.

  She pointed.

  “I figured we were about here.” His voice was even. “They should thin out farther down. We’ll be out of the worst of them by dark.”

  Along with the crocodiles, the hippo numbers had increased. It was a fertile area of the river. Dense green forest choked the west bank. The east side had been cleared for the road, which provided the crocodiles with a perfect basking place for their cold blood. Tall reeds rose from sandy peninsulas that hosted lines of white herons and sandpipers. The ever-present kingfishers swooped and plummeted into the river.

  “It’s going to be harder navigating here,” Graeme said. “I did the Nile in Uganda once, and the hippos were a nuisance. Keep your eye on the—whoa!” He jerked the oar from the water. “Hang on, Tillie!”

  She whirled around as a huge head surfaced inches from the boat. A beast with piggy eyes and round rubbery ears blew a spray of water into the air. Shouting at Tillie to use the pole, Graeme plunged the paddle into the river. The hippo easily matched their speed and opened its enormous mouth in rage at the invasion of its territory.

  Tillie thrust the pole into the river, but it failed to hit bottom. The hippo’s huge maw opened like a pink cave with wide flat teeth and sharp incisors instead of stalactites. The creature was so close she could see the hairs on its gray chin, the remnants of grass stuck to its tongue, the purple veins inside its cheeks. A deafening bellow rolled across the water before the hippo snapped its mouth shut and plunged under the water.

  “Where is it?” Graeme demanded. “Don’t lose it!”

  “To your left,” she shot back. “There.” She watched the animal glide along beneath them. “It’s following us, Graeme.”

  He leaned over the edge of the boat. “Whatever happens, hang on to the boat. Don’t go into the water.”

  “What’s it going to do? Why won’t it leave?”

  “We’re in its territory.” He tried to steer the boat toward the swiftest current. “I’ve heard of them biting canoes in half. And they’ll take the head off a calf.”

  “But they’re herbivores, aren’t they?”

  “Mean herbivores.”

  Tillie prayed in earnest as the hippo followed the tiny boat. Suddenly it surfaced again, trumpeting in anger and spewing water over Graeme through its flexible nostrils. Graeme let out a roar of disgust, grabbed the hem of her skirt, and began to wipe his face.

  “Not with my skirt!”

  “Where’s the hippo?”

  Tillie scanned the water, but the beast had vanished.

  For a moment all was calm. “Did it leave?” she whispered.

  “Don’t know. Let’s hope so.”

  He leaned over. River water sloshed against the side of the boat with a gentle, slapping sound. A kingfisher cried overhead. A leaf drifted by.

  “I think he’s gone.” Graeme let out a breath. “I bet he—”

  The hippo surfaced directly under the boat. Tillie grabbed the dripping sides of the tiny craft as it lifted into the air. Graeme tried to reach out to her.

  “Hang on!” he shouted as he slid along the bottom. “Don’t let go!”

  She clung until her white hands ached as the boat rose and fell, tipped and turned like some carnival ride gone amok. Graeme grabbed for her arm just as the boat capsized with a loud splash. Tillie tumbled into the muddy river, briefly conscious of blue sky above before she went under .

  She floundered for heart-hammering seconds before flailing to the surface as she sputtered for air. Graeme shouted at her from ten yards away. He had somehow stayed with the boat. “Tillie, swim! Swim to shore.”

  No. She wanted to go to him, but he was floating away fast. Too fast. Her leaden legs drifted out from under her. She went under a second time. They’ll take the head off a calf. Her thoughts reeled with images of hippo jaws ready to snap at her bare leg
s . . . of water snakes disturbed from their nests . . . of crocodiles eager for an easy dinner.

  She fought back to the surface, choking on muddy water. Painfully aware that Graeme was struggling for his own life, her mind cried out to their only defense. God! Help us! She swallowed fear, breathed the prayer again, and willed her limbs into motion.

  Terror threatened to overtake her. She knew with every stroke that her legs might disappear between the teeth of some animal; with every splash her life could be snuffed out. She was a moving target to the crocodiles, no different than a struggling antelope or drowning gazelle. Lunch.

  Fighting heaving sickness in her stomach, she struggled on. Toward the bank. It was too far. She couldn’t see Graeme at all. She’d lost him. Hannah’s voice drifted like a river current into her head: “He will give his angels charge concerning you, to guard you in all your ways. They will bear you up in their hands, lest you strike your foot against a stone.”

  Or a crocodile, Lord. Or a hippo.

  And then her feet touched the sandy bottom of the river. She struggled to stand and saw that she had made it to a clear spot, a grassy inlet sheltering two white-feathered cormorants.

  They stared at the gasping creature rising from the river like some incarnation of the Swamp Thing, then flew off in alarm.

  Stumbling up onto the grass, Tillie heard a swishing sound behind her. She swung around to see a huge gray crocodile staring at her from the shallows. Its powerful tail whipped back and forth. Then it surged forward on squat legs.

  Choking back a scream, Tillie scrambled toward the nearest tree. She nearly tripped over a surprised baby crocodile . . . grabbed a low limb . . . pulled her legs up at the last instant.

  Trees! Thank God for beloved, beautiful trees! She hauled herself to the top branches. Below, the crocodile snapped at the tree trunk twice in frustration before waddling off.

  Dear Lord, where is Graeme? She pushed through a veil of leaves and scanned the river. At first she saw nothing. Then far down the bank she spotted the hazy outline of the tiny boat. It was upright and bobbing close to the shore. Graeme had righted it! But where was he?