Lowering his spear, the amenoukal spurred his dromedary down the plank boardwalk. The caravan filed after him. The rickety pier shuddered beneath the camels’ splayed feet. Children screamed. A cart rolled into the water. Dogs howled. Arthur took aim.
“Don’t shoot him!” Tillie cried out.
“Robinson, give me that thing,” Graeme barked behind them.
Arthur whirled around. “Who is this, Matilda?”
“Give me the gun,” Graeme commanded. “I’ll hold them off. Get Tillie out of here.”
She flinched at the anger in the Targui’s dark eyes. “Arthur, give him the gun.”
The camels loped toward them. Onlookers shouted and scurried for cover.
“Now!” Graeme growled. He jerked the rifle from the Englishman and pushed Tillie off the pier. For the second time she went under the Niger’s muddy water. She bobbed to the surface in time to see Arthur leap into the river beside her.
“Follow me,” he sputtered.
They swam between docked boats and past floating trash. A tattered basket. A coconut. A sandal. Behind them, Tillie could hear the angry yells of the Tuareg, the shrieks of the crowd, and then gunshots.
“No!” Turning, she started back toward the pier.
Arthur grabbed Tillie’s arm and pulled her up beside him. “Come on, darling! Let’s get out of here.”
She wrenched her arm from his grip and turned to the pier. Tuareg dromedaries had overrun the spot where Graeme had been standing. Two of the camels had splashed into the river and were roaring and spitting as their owners fought to right them.
Arthur took her arm. “Come on, love. Don’t waste your breath.”
“He brought me all this way, Arthur. The least I can do—”
“It’s you they want. We’ll check on him later. Now, come.”
She had no choice but to stumble out of the river and follow him as he pushed through the throng of market-goers. They raced down narrow streets crowded with brown mud houses and whitewashed mosques. Her bare feet ached, but she scarcely noticed. All she could think about was Graeme.
Arthur turned onto a flight of stone steps. They ran up and around a corner, through a brass-studded wood door, and into unexpected cool air. Refrigerated air. Chilled marble floors. The scent of sandalwood. The lobby of a hotel.
Tillie stopped. Stared. She could hear her skirt dripping on the floor. The room was filled with mottled shadows, philodendrons in ceramic pots, arrangements of fresh orange-and-blue bird-of-paradise flowers. Low wooden coffee tables stood among sturdy linen-upholstered armchairs. A rack of magazines occupied one corner beside a cart of petit fours and tiny cucumber sandwiches.
She turned to Arthur. “Where are we?”
“My hotel, of course.” He wrung out the tail of his suit coat. “I must see if they’ve laundry service. Wretched business, swimming in the Niger. We’ll have dysentery, no doubt. I suppose they’ll have to check us for parasites before we can catch our flight to England. Come along, then, darling. I’ve a bit of a surprise for you upstairs.”
“Arthur, I can’t stay here,” she said in a low voice. “The Tuareg want me. I’m the tree-planting woman.”
“I don’t know anything about that, but I do know you look half-dead, and we both smell like the very devil himself. Now, not another word. I’m taking you upstairs to have a good bath and a hot meal. After that, you can tell me everything that’s happened.”
Without waiting for her response, he started up the narrow flight of stairs. Tillie glanced at the hotel manager, who was clearly displeased at the puddle of Niger River water forming on his marble floor. Broken Land Rover, boat, crocodiles, hippo . . . marble floor, air-conditioning, Persian carpets. She felt like she had entered some sort of time warp.
“Matilda, darling.” Arthur’s voice filtered down the stairs.
She started up, her bare feet moving as though they were directed by someone other than herself. She walked down a carpeted hall, following Arthur’s trail of droplets until she came to him. At a heavy wooden door, he pulled out a key and inserted it. As he pushed inward, she caught her breath.
“Hannah!”
“Ndimi. Njoni kwangu.” Beckoning with familiar Swahili endearments, the old woman folded her close, heedless of the younger woman’s wet clothes and river smell.
Tillie found she couldn’t stop her tears. “Kuja kwako kumenifurahisha sana,” she murmured, thankful that Hannah had come.
“Bas, bas,” Hannah soothed. “Habari gani, katoto?”
“I’m okay.”
“Nitupende.”
“I love you, too. Oh, Hannah, are you all right?”
“Of course, my child.” Dark fingers cupped her face. “Let me see my Tillie. Ehh, your eyes are sad. Tell Mama Hannah. Where have you been all these days alone?”
“I haven’t been alone. God was with me, Mama Hannah. And so was Graeme.”
“Graeme who? The chap on the boat?” Arthur locked the door behind them. Stepping to the table, he flipped open his suitcase. She saw that it held his pistol and a supply of ammunition. He snapped the bag shut and turned to her. “Perhaps you’d better tell me right now what’s been going on.”
“I’m tired.” She rubbed a hand over her eyes and leaned on Hannah. The room was dark and cold. In its center stood a carved bed covered with heavy blankets and white pillows. “I need to sleep. I’ve been in that boat . . . three days . . . or was it four?”
She wandered across the room and pushed back the door that led into a modern bathroom with gleaming fixtures and a claw-footed white tub. “I need a bath. I’ve been in the river. . . . There was a hippo. . . .”
“Food first,” Hannah announced, snapping to life and marching to the bed. Wrapping Tillie’s chilled, wet body in a warm bathrobe, the old woman gave her a tender kiss on the forehead and settled her on the covers. “Bwana Robinson, please call to the hotel kitchen for hot soup, a bit of meat, and some fresh bread.”
Arthur picked up the phone and began to order. As Tillie sank against the mattress, she smiled at the way Hannah could make anyone obey. She took the old woman’s hand and closed her eyes. Graeme’s face materialized. Black hair blowing in the breeze. That look in his blue-green eyes. She sat up in bed and reached to grab Arthur’s wet coat sleeve.
“You have to find Graeme,” she told him. “Graeme McLeod, the man in the boat. They’ll think he has the document. They’ll kill him to find me, Arthur. You have to do something.”
“Document?” He frowned as he eased her back onto the bed. “He’ll be all right, darling. You must rest. I’m taking care of you.”
Tillie wanted to tell him she didn’t need protecting. God had seen her past a crocodile and a hippo, for heaven’s sake! She had lived on bananas and slept on a tiny boat in a swarm of mosquitoes. She had swum across the Niger and learned to trust the Lord one moment at a time. But the words ricocheted in her head and refused to form on her tongue.
In moments a knock sounded at the door, and Arthur brought in a tray piled with food. Sitting beside Tillie, Hannah ladled soup down her throat and forced her to eat the bread and stringy beef. Just when Tillie thought she had enough energy to explain about Graeme again, she closed her eyes and tumbled into exhausted sleep.
Tillie woke in the night. At first she was lost, groping for the sides of the boat, seeking out Graeme’s warmth. Then she recognized Arthur asleep in the chair beside her bed, his suit crumpled and his light brown hair spilling over his forehead. Hannah lay next to her in the bed, her skirt tucked modestly around her feet. Tillie sat up, painfully aware of what her body had gone through in the days on the river.
Careful not to disturb Hannah, she slipped out of bed and hobbled across the cool floor to the window. She parted the heavy cotton curtains and peered out into the African night. A wrought-iron balcony jutted from the window ledge. The hotel was probably a relic of French occupation, no doubt used only by a few tourists now. Below, the lights of the small town fanned out from the l
ine of the river.
Somewhere out there Graeme slept. She whispered a prayer for his safety as she thought back on their strange days together. He was not at all the man she had taken him for at first. She remembered him throwing her into the Land Rover, slamming down the hood, grabbing the amulet from her hand.
She marveled again at the change in him as the days on the river drifted by. She had seen into his heart and had shared with him a part of hers. Where was he now? Was he safe? She pressed her palm against the chilled windowpane and leaned her head on her fingers.
“Darling, are you all right?” Arthur laid his hand on the back of her neck. “I heard you get up.”
Startled at his unexpected touch, she let out a breath. “I was . . . I’m worried about Graeme McLeod. Have you heard anything?”
His mouth hardened. “Nothing. Matilda, I realize the man helped you get to Segou, but how much do you really know about him? You must be careful of that sort of bloke out here in the bush country. People have all kinds of motives for what they do.”
“Graeme saved me from the amenoukal. He fed me and kept me safe. I owe him the courtesy of making sure he’s safe, too.”
“Forgive me for contradicting you, Matilda, but the man kidnapped you!” His voice was tight. “Darling, you must open your eyes. That man is no better than those camel-riders who were after you. He’s involved in . . . wrong-doing.”
Tillie stared at him. “What are you saying?”
“This McLeod fellow has been making a bother of himself around Bamako for several months. When I was frantically trying to find out who he was and what he might have done with you, I learned that he’s been poking around in the military and embassy libraries, asking strange questions at the museums, trying to get into Tuareg camps, and making a general nuisance of himself. Someone told me they’d seen him heading north in his Land Rover. Darling, I’ve been mad with worry.”
“Oh, Arthur, I’m so sorry.”
“I’ve taken all this time away from my work when I should have been wrapping up my projects. Hannah insisted on searching for you, and I certainly couldn’t object to that. I booked us on the first flight to Timbuktu, though you know how I feel about those little planes. I spoke with the authorities there, but of course no one had heard a thing. Then the British embassy got word that McLeod’s Land Rover had been discovered broken down at the edge of the Niger, so we flew back to Bamako and drove up here searching the river all the way. We passed the Tuareg caravan, but they refused to speak to us. Finally, this morning in Segou, a bellman here at the hotel told me a white woman and man were floating in on a small boat.”
Dear Arthur, Tillie thought. He’d been so worried. She took his hand and pressed her lips to it. “I’m sorry. I know it must have been awful for you.”
“Did he touch you, Matilda?”
“No, Arthur, not like you mean. He was good to me. We became friends.” She wondered why her well-meant words sounded so much like a lie. “Graeme is a writer. That’s why he was poking around the museums and libraries in Bamako. He’s doing some kind of an article.”
A look of irritation crossed Arthur’s face. “A writer? Is that what he told you? Look, you’d better give me all the details. I ought to know.”
But she suddenly felt too tired to talk. “I want to take a bath, Arthur. Please, just let me do that.”
She wandered wearily into the white-tiled room and bent over the tub. He followed her in and took over the running of the water. Tillie lifted her attention to the mirror.
Shock spread through her at the face in the glass. The washed and pressed and carefully braided Tillie had vanished. The days on the river had brought such changes she scarcely recognized herself. Her hair, bleached by hours in the sun, billowed around her face in untamed waves and curls that fell well past her shoulders. Her face had lost every girlish curve and become the lean, sunburned face of a woman. Her blue eyes swallowed up every other feature with their luminosity.
Arthur stood staring at her. “You’ve changed.”
“I know.” She smiled as she walked back to the tub. “I’ve been through a lot.”
The tub was nearly filled with clear, steaming water, and she ached physically for it. But as she bent to turn off the faucet, she felt Arthur’s hands slide around her waist. She held her breath, closing her eyes as he began to kiss her cheek.
“Arthur,” she whispered. “Please, Arthur. Not now.”
He stepped away from her. “For heaven’s sake, you’ve been sleeping with another man for days! I’d like some confirmation that you’re still mine.”
Stung by his harshness, she searched his eyes. “What’s happened to you?”
“Are you denying you slept with him?”
“I slept beside him. I had no choice, Arthur. We were in a tiny boat. What would you expect?”
“I would expect you to be faithful to me. You’re mine.”
She was too tired for patience. “I’m not yours, Arthur. I’m not anyone’s! I care about you. I thank God for you. But I’m not yours. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like some privacy.”
Hurt wrote itself across his pale blue eyes, and he backed away. They had never exchanged harsh words, but Tillie found she couldn’t make herself care. She wanted to be left alone.
“If that’s how you feel,” he snapped, shutting the door behind him.
Slowly she slipped the robe off her shoulders; she unbuttoned her tattered cotton skirt and let it drop from her hips. She pulled away the dirty blouse and ruined underwear. After unhooking the necklace, she lifted the amulet and turned it over in her hands. Still holding it, she stepped into the tub and sank to her chin in the steaming hot water.
She was angry with Arthur for the first time. Why had he been rude about Graeme? Why had he acted so possessive? Was that the nature of his love?
The amulet dangled from her fingers, its silver glinting in the light. She wondered if the document had survived the river. Gingerly she pulled it out and saw that it was dry. The locket had been lined with wax to protect it. Someone had intended the page to be preserved many years. Mungo Park?
Again she wondered how she fit into the legend of the treasure. She scanned the page from the journal. Christmas Day . . . Graeme said that date meant Park had lived longer than everyone believed. His deep voice filtered into her heart as she tried to sift the words for any possible clue. Ailie was Mungo’s wife, and the journal had been written to her, almost like a letter.
The Bight of Benin the blight of Benin . . .
What could that mean? And who was this Ahmadi Fatouma? Mungo had written that this man had the treasure in safekeeping. Was he the one who had taken the page from the journal? Had he hidden it in the wax-lined amulet?
The treasure of Timbuktu. Those words had to mean something, but what? Tillie tried to remember what she had read about the fabled city. Hadn’t it been a trading post for salt caravans hundreds of years ago? There had been libraries with wonderful books. Surely all kinds of gold and other riches had found their way into the city.
She looked at the paper again. “One day, one day the white man will come here. One day, one day the white woman will come here. She will plant trees and make it a garden for tea parties. She will plant trees. She will find the treasure of Timbuktu. And the curse of the Bight of Benin will be ended.”
What was it Graeme had told her? Mungo Park had informed the king of Segou that white traders would come to the area, ending Moorish domination. Was that the white man of whom he wrote in his journal? Then who was the white woman? Surely not her. He could have had no idea she would come. Yet the Tuareg had held the document for years, waiting for a tree-planting woman.
Shaking her head, she refolded the paper and wished for Graeme. Maybe in the security of the hotel room they could sort out what the journal meant. She set the amulet on the cushion of her clothes and slipped her head under the water. Where was Graeme now? Could Arthur have found out more information about him than she knew? Somet
hing unwholesome? She couldn’t deny that Graeme was in pursuit with as much determination as the amenoukal. And she had seen no proof that he was a writer.
She let the clean water lap over her face. She wanted to erase it all, erase Graeme, his kiss, his gentle touch, that look in his eyes. For that matter, she wanted to erase Arthur, too. Arthur with his rifle and his possessiveness and his certainty that she would spend the rest of her life with him in London.
Lord, what now? What’s the plan? As she scrubbed the river from her body, she asked him for guidance. Just tell me what to do. Make me love Arthur. Take Graeme out of my brain. Explain this treasure business to me. I have to know. I have to understand. How am I going to take the right path unless you show me?
She climbed out of the tub and toweled off. Father, I don’t love Arthur. That’s all there is to it. I don’t love him, and I can’t marry him. The story of the biblical Jacob popped into her head. Jacob hadn’t loved Leah. He was in love with her sister, Rachel. But when their father tricked him into marrying Leah, Jacob did what was right. He stayed with her, gave her children, cared for her. Love had nothing to do with it.
Standing in front of the mirror, she combed out her hair. But I can’t. I just can’t marry Arthur, Lord. Not when I love Graeme. She frowned at her reflection. Where had that come from? How could she love a man she’d known only five days? And she certainly couldn’t be thinking about spending the rest of her life with him. Do not be bound together with unbelievers. . . . What has a believer in common with an unbeliever?
They shared a love for Africa. That had to be it. They both liked adventure; they’d both lost their mothers; their fathers had hurt them. She and Graeme were survivors. They could eat bananas for three days and float down the Niger and . . . and . . .
She turned from the mirror. And that wasn’t enough.
She slipped into a clean robe and tied it at her waist. Hands in her pockets, she stared down at the tile floor. So, what am I supposed to do, Lord? Aren’t you going to tell me the plan?
“Trust me.”
With a sigh of frustration, she stepped back into the bedroom. Hannah lifted her head and patted the sheet beside her. “Okahaha,” she whispered, beckoning in Kikuyu, the language of her youth. Tillie curled onto the bed, and Hannah drew the blankets over her shoulders.
A Kiss of Adventure Page 10