Fear prickled down her spine. Graeme had stayed with the boat. The hippo would have gone after him.
“Graeme!” she shouted, coughing up a mouthful of water. “Graeme, where are you?”
Listening for a response, she stiffened at what she heard. Behind her on the bank came the soft jingling of camel bells. She leaned back on the thick branch and closed her eyes. The Tuareg had caught up.
Their chieftain would see the boat. He would know she was here. Her first thought was to crouch in the tree. She could wait forever. Trees were her second home. Maybe the amenoukal would think she had drowned or been eaten. She peered through the leaves.
The white camel led the caravan. Its rider’s slate blue turban and veil covered all but his black eyes. His broadsword glinted in the sunlight. Tied to his spear, the rag from her skirt fluttered in the breeze. The battle banner of his crusade, his quest for the grail.
There could be no doubt the man would find the boat and would order every tree searched, every hillock explored, every inlet examined. He would not rest until he was certain she was gone. And she would be, she decided suddenly. If she ran, if she kept hidden, she could reach the boat before they saw her. She had to.
Arms and legs aching, she broke a dead branch from the tree. Not much protection, but better than nothing. Checking to confirm that the crocodile was gone, she climbed down the tree and crouched beside a root. The caravan was close already, and she would be exposed as she ran, but she had to take the chance.
She had lost her sandals in the swim. Could she do it barefoot? “No snakes,” she murmured. “Please, Father, no snakes.” She gathered her dripping skirt around her hips and took off through the stubbly grass toward the boat. Behind her, she heard a shout. They had seen her.
The camels loped down the track behind her. She focused on her goal. The boat. The boat. The boat. The words pounded in her brain. Her pursuers were gaining. She ran around a sleeping crocodile. She leaped over a tangle of thorny brake. Camels snorted behind her. Warriors chucked and whipped at their beasts. The amenoukal shouted. Closer. Closer.
The boat. The boat. She was almost there when something rushed out of the forest, hit her full force, and knocked the ragged breath from her chest. She reeled, stumbled, plummeted. Her head exploded. White stars flared like fireworks. Night fell.
Tillie jerked awake. A hazy aqua sky canopied her. Where was she? What had happened? She struggled to sit up and couldn’t. Her head felt like a squashed papaya.
“Mornin’, glory.” Graeme’s voice drifted out of nowhere.
“Graeme? Where are you?”
“I’m here, Tillie-girl.” His hand covered her forehead, brushed the hair that blew in the soft breeze. “We’re back in the boat.”
He lifted her slowly to a sitting position. It was true. They were floating along in their little boat as though nothing had happened.
“Where’s the amenoukal? Are there crocodiles?”
“You’ve been out for a while. I was looking for you in the woods when I heard the Tuareg coming down the track.
That’s when I spotted you. The amenoukal almost had you, and then we sort of knocked heads. I barely got you into the boat in time.”
“You nearly killed me.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “But thanks.”
“Better me than that Targui . . . or a croc.”
“I thought you’d planned to use me for crocodile bait all along.”
The corner of his mouth turned up. He reached out to her and ran the side of his finger down her cheek. “Changed my mind.”
She shivered. “Graeme, he’s going to get me next time.”
“There won’t be a next time. Not if I can help it.” He looked away, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “When I couldn’t find you in the river . . . couldn’t hear you . . . I went crazy or something.” He gave a low chuckle. “You’ll get a kick out of this. I prayed.”
“Really? What’s the world coming to these days?”
He smiled at her, his face gentling. Deeply moved by his confession, she laid her hand over his. “Thanks, Graeme. It helped.”
Her head throbbing, she slid down into the boat and shut her eyes. Knowing he was there was enough. She was so tired. She felt more drained than she’d ever felt in her life. She was sore and bruised, her skin was torn and scraped. Every finger ached; every joint felt wrenched from its socket. Her mouth tasted brackish, her eyes stung, her ears rang. Breathing was an effort. She coughed every time she inhaled.
And there was something else about the experience. Something more significant. For the first time in her life, she had relied totally on God. She hadn’t been able to trust in her own plans—there were no plans, no schedule, no checklist. No one had been there to rescue her. No one had told her what to do.
Trust me, he had whispered in her heart that day in the Bamako market. One day at a time. One minute at a time. And she had.
Wrapped in the warm damp arms of the little boat, rocked by the river, she felt God’s peace fill her. In Bamako, where she had everything planned and organized, she hadn’t been able to hear his voice. But in the middle of a crocodile-infested river, he had spoken to her heart. Through prayer, through impossible circumstances, even through Graeme and his concern, the Holy Spirit was showing her his ways. His plans. Himself.
“Trust me. Trust me alone.”
Letting out a breath, she ran her fingers over her damp cotton skirt. She could feel the amulet beneath her blouse. It was safe. She almost wished she’d lost it in the river. Mungo Park’s beloved Niger.
Though she wanted to sleep, hunger scratched at her stomach with its gnarled fingers. She hauled herself up on her elbows, folded her legs under her, and ran her fingers through the damp tangles of her braid. The comb would have been lost in the river with the knapsack. And Graeme’s notes for his story on Mungo Park were lost, too. If there really were any notes.
It bothered her how easily she trusted this man in the boat. An uncomfortable pattern was developing. Something would remind her of his suspect character—that he had kidnapped her, that he was hunting the amulet and the treasure, that he claimed to do and be things he had never proven. But then she would fall under his spell, and all her uncertainties would fade. She would laugh with him, share food with him, tell him her ideas and listen to his, and pretty soon she would begin to rely on him again. She would trust him.
She’d heard about kidnapping victims who developed relationships with—even obsessive dependencies on—their abductors. Weren’t there stories of lawyers who fell in love with convicts they were defending? who even went so far as to help them escape? Even the Bible related the story of David, who joined up with the Philistines for a while when he was running from Saul.
Tillie mentally shook herself. She wasn’t falling in love with Graeme. And she wouldn’t trust him too far. She couldn’t afford to.
Pulling the wet rubber band from her hair, she watched the sun begin its familiar descent in the African sky. From the pale gold hue of a frangipani blossom, the sun would transform into the bright yellow of ripe bananas and then to the brilliant orange of mango juice. She loved Africa. It was impossible to imagine true happiness anywhere else.
“Are we going to make it to Segou tonight?” Her bobby pins were knotted with twigs and leaves, and it was all she could do to work them out.
Graeme’s glance took in her struggle with her hair, and the corners of his eyes crinkled in silent amusement. “I don’t know. The river’s moving at a snail’s pace, and that spill we took slowed us down. I think we ought to just drift tonight. If we snag, we snag. It’s better than camping out with the crocodiles.”
“I agree.” Working to separate her hair into three hanks, she decided she might cut the braid off when she got home. In all her years roaming the wild Kenya brush, her skin had never felt so dirty, her hair so tangled, her mouth so brackish. As she began the rebraiding, Graeme’s hand closed over her own for the third time.
“Leave it dow
n.”
His dark hair caught red glints from the fading sunlight. She read the expression on his face, one she was coming to know intimately. For a moment she hesitated; then she lowered her hands. He took her hair and combed his fingers through it, working out the start of the damp braid.
“You have beautiful hair, Tillie.”
That word again . . . beautiful. He had called her a beautiful woman the night before. With a sigh, she leaned back against the edge of the boat. She could sense him looking at her. Just the color of the man’s eyes made her heart pound against her ribs. Suddenly she sat up, unable to bear the tension between them.
“Graeme,” she began, meaning to tell him the truth about everything. About Arthur and how he and she were meant for each other. About the way God had brought them together and surely wanted them together for life. But as she tried to formulate the words, she realized that they would never come. They weren’t the truth at all.
Silently, she reached out to Graeme and touched his cheek. She ran her gaze over the knotted line of his jaw, its hardness in angular contrast to his silken hair. She could see the craggy slope of his nose, his father’s legacy. Gently, she traced her fingertips over the planes of his face, as if her caress could somehow smooth away every mar, her touch erase each memory.
“Graeme,” she whispered.
He covered the bridge of his nose with his hand, a childhood instinct of trying to hide it. Then he dropped his hands to his knees. “Beauty and the beast,” he said with a derisive laugh.
“I had Prince Charming in mind.” She put her index finger on the arch of his nose and ran it slowly down. “‘Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.’”
“More Bible verses, Cinderella?”
She smiled. “Blame Hannah. She says our looks don’t matter. If any man is in Christ, he’s a new creature; the old things pass away, and new things are created.”
“New things.” He ran his fingers through her long hair and pulled a strand of it over one shoulder. “That’s for sure.”
Tillie closed her eyes and lay down. Graeme eased himself into position beside her, ready for sleep. She rested her head on his chest. Like a jewel-studded bowl turning slowly overhead, the sky faded from sapphire to amethyst and then to ruby and topaz before melting into the utter blackness of onyx. Sleep came swiftly.
Tillie did not wake up until well after sunrise. Graeme sat in the prow, trying to steer with the branch she had used as a club and watching her sleeping face. By the time Tillie opened her eyes, the sun was beating down, intensifying the queasiness in the pit of his stomach.
He studied the little morning ritual that had become so familiar to him. Tillie . . . soft morning Tillie . . . wiping her eyes, running her fingers through her hair, stretching with both arms open wide as though she could hug the whole world. A little yawn. A little sigh. She folded her arms over her knees and blinked sleepily like a kitten just stirring from a nap.
As she looked around at the muddy river, he could read her surprise at the increase in river traffic. The day before, they had passed several small villages and had seen a few boats. Now the river was crowded with canoes and dugouts.
“What’s going on?” she wondered aloud.
“Segou. We’re almost there.”
“Can you see the town?”
“It must be just ahead. But Tillie . . . we have company.”
Her hand tightening on the edge of the boat, Tillie followed the line of his gaze. Far on the east bank, the caravan of Tuareg camels wove along the busy road. The amenoukal rode in the lead, the banner of her torn skirt whipping in the breeze.
“After all that,” she murmured, “we didn’t escape.”
He tried to read the expression in her blue eyes. Fear? Worry? No, it was something else. A kind of peaceful resignation had settled around her like a shawl. It was as though all her apprehensions about the Tuareg had been wrapped in some kind of certainty that everything was going to work out.
As they drifted helplessly toward the main pier of the picturesque little town, Graeme realized he felt a strange sense of comfort himself. With the Tuareg still in pursuit, Tillie would need him. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t abandon her in Segou. It would be natural for him in this situation to stay close to her, to watch over her. For some reason, that sounded like the best job description in the world.
She turned to him, her hair long and loose, like a golden cape. “What are we going to do?”
“What do you want to do?”
“Could we bypass Segou and take the boat on to Timbuktu?”
“We haven’t eaten for almost two days, Tillie. And we need an oar.”
“I know.” Her eyes searched his, as though she could read answers in them. He’d never been looked to for guidance, never been needed, rarely been wanted.
“I think we ought to chance a stop.” His voice sounded lower, more gentle than she’d ever heard it. “Once we hit the pier, we can make a run for safety. We can lose ourselves in these crowds pretty easily. And there are a lot of ways to get out of Segou. There’s a river steamer, tourist buses. . . . I may even be able to round up a vehicle—” He broke off. “Tillie . . . what are you staring at?”
She had paled to the color of dry ivory. Her fingers knotted together in her lap. He twisted around. Toward the pier marched the Tuareg caravan—camels and warriors, women, children, pots and pans, bells and folded tents, a modern vision of the army of Israelites on the march. Like the Red Sea, the crowds parted to let them pass. Fishermen shouted at the clumsy camels. A little boy leapt into the water. Someone threw a coconut. At the end of the pier stood a stiff Moses in a pale khaki suit and a straw hat.
Tillie swallowed. “It’s Arthur.”
SIX
Arthur had come to save her, and she should be thankful. God had provided. God had blessed her with Arthur. She should be grateful, aching to fall into his arms, dizzy with joy.
“Matilda!” he shouted, lifting his rifle in a sort of salute. She hesitated, then waved. “Matilda, darling!”
Tillie turned to Graeme. He met her eyes, a small wry smile on his lips. Don’t make me leave him, Lord, she heard her traitorous heart whisper. Not yet.
It wasn’t dreading London or losing her neem trees that made her want to be near Graeme. It was the man himself. Something about him. The way he smelled of sunshine and Africa. The reflection of the blue-green sky in his eyes. The rhythm of his heart in her ear, and the solid fortress of his chest against her cheek. The touch of his fingers in her hair, and the sound of his voice when he said her name. Hey, Tillie-girl. Mornin’, glory.
No, not yet. Please, Lord, not yet.
“Guess this is it,” he said.
“Yes.” She meant no. Please, no.
“You’d better tell your boyfriend to watch his backside. Those Tuareg aren’t likely to be intimidated by that popgun of his.”
Tillie had no choice but to turn from him. The amenoukal was lashing a vendor away from his dromedary as Graeme spoke. She knew the man would not stop at the mere presence of a British authority. In 1990, the Tuareg in northeast Mali had rebelled against the government. They’d gained a degree of autonomy, but unrest continued. Their lack of respect for leaders other than their own was well documented, and Arthur would be a mere irritant in the path of their pursuit.
“Arthur,” she shouted at him. “The Tuareg! Behind you!”
He turned in the direction she was pointing, stiffened, and raised his gun. The amenoukal continued to advance.
“He knows he won’t be shot,” Graeme said quietly as they drifted to the pier. “British and French soldiers won’t shoot without provocation.”
He tossed a rope to a youth and pulled the boat until it bumped against a piling. Tillie laid her hand on his arm. “Graeme, we can’t use our plan of escape now. Arthur will try to stop the Tuareg. He could be killed.”
Graeme nodded. “I know.” He concentrated on tying the boat.
&
nbsp; “Then, I guess . . . thank you for bringing me to Segou,” she said.
“No problem.” He looped the end of the rope into a coil. “So long, adios, and all that.”
“Okay, then . . . ’bye.”
He kept fiddling with the rope, not looking at her. The Tuareg headed down the pier. Arthur brandished his rifle. Her heart aching, she knew Graeme was pushing her out of his life. She swallowed the hurt, brushed past him, and lifted her hands to the waiting dockworker.
“I represent the British government,” Arthur shouted in his perfect Eton accent. As Tillie stepped onto the pier and walked to his side, she had no doubt that his words were unintelligible to the amenoukal. Arthur grabbed Tillie’s arm and pushed her behind himself. “I give you fair warning, sir. Should you come one step farther, I shall be forced to shoot.”
The amenoukal slowed his dromedary and gestured behind himself with his broadsword. From the back of the caravan, a small white camel ambled forward bearing a beautiful woman on a tooled leather saddle. She wore a flowing white burnous, heavily embroidered in silver at the neck. Her light skin, fine nose, and almond eyes revealed a patrician ancestry. She held her head high, her swan neck straight in the haughty posture of royalty.
The amenoukal spoke a few words to her, and she nodded. Then she turned her kohl-rimmed eyes to Tillie. “Ahodu Ag Amastane, amenoukal of Tuareg people,” she said in careful English, “will take Tree-Planting Woman now.”
Arthur glanced at Tillie.
“It’s me,” she whispered. “I’m the tree-planting woman.”
He scowled at the amenoukal. “You may not have her, sir. She belongs to the American government. She belongs to me.”
The amenoukal fired a series of questions at the regal woman. She listened, answered gracefully, then bowed on her camel and turned it back into the caravan. By now a huge, jostling crowd had gathered on the pier, everyone gaping at the dromedaries and the white-skinned strangers.
The amenoukal raised his spear, his coffee-bean eyes locked on Tillie. “Tek!” he bawled out. “Tek! Tek!”
A Kiss of Adventure Page 9