“Mary’s left us some things,” she told him, unaware how long he’d been watching her. “Her note says she and Robert will be back at three. They’ve gone to the market.”
“Anything to wear in there?” He had wrapped a towel around his waist. The thought of pulling on the same jeans he’d worn for five days was enough to make him consider a pink terry-cloth bathrobe himself.
Tillie lifted out a man’s white shirt, though it would be small on Graeme. Then she unloaded two pairs of khaki slacks, a few pairs of socks, three khaki shirts in various sizes, and a pair of well-worn suede boots. At the bottom of the basket lay a thick chocolate bar and two small oranges.
She stood and tossed him the white shirt. “It has a pocket for your notes.”
“Still doubting I’m a writer?”
“You don’t act like a writer.”
“What does a writer act like?”
“A writer writes things down now and then.”
He grinned. “I’ll try to do better. Now how about those pants?”
She handed them to him. “I kind of like the towel.”
Facing her, he could read a reflection of his own thoughts in her eyes. They were a pair. A matched pair. They shared more than common interests—they knew their own hearts.
Her drying hair floated around her face in wild, honeyed waves. Her eyes spoke conviction and passion. She had been tested; she would be tested again. He knew she would hold strong.
As Tillie turned into the guest room and shut the door behind her, it came to him that he loved this woman. All his life he had been aware that he’d never known love. Never felt it. Was convinced he wouldn’t know it if he saw it. Couldn’t feel it if he tried.
In the hallway of the little mission in Mopti, his uncertainty evaporated like a drop of dew on a Sahara morning. He loved Tillie Thornton. Heart and soul.
He could go on without her, but he wouldn’t want to. He would do all in his power to protect her. Please her. Honor her. Fulfill her. And if the time came, he would lay down his own life to save hers.
Graeme slid his arm around Tillie’s waist as they walked down the hall. They had just entered the living room when the front door opened and Mary scurried into the room. “Oh, la, you’re up!” she sang out. “Had your lunch?”
“Not yet,” Tillie said.
“It’s half-past three already, did you know? Time for tea.
Robert’s out in the garage working on the truck with the chaps. It’s looking very good, he thinks. Graeme, will you just pop out there and call him in to tea? Tillie and I shall set the table. We’ll make it a high tea. Come along, dear!”
Tillie watched Graeme walk out the door; then she turned to follow Mary. The little woman bustled here and there, picking up this, exclaiming over that, taking a random path through the house. Tillie thought it was sort of like tagging after a pink helium balloon that has lost most of its air and wants to bounce along the ground just out of reach.
The kitchen was a medium-size room with a gas refrigerator and stove. The two women gathered the tea things from the pantry and set them on a wheeled bamboo cart. Tillie carried armloads of cold meats, breads, scones, butter, jams, and cakes into the dining room. Mary whipped up two large omelettes filled with cheese and mushrooms.
When the tea was ready and everyone had assembled in the dining room, Robert blessed the food. The meal tasted better than any Tillie could ever remember eating. Graeme gave her an amused look from time to time as she devoured three scones dripping in honey and butter, her entire omelette, and two slabs of cold roast gazelle, while washing the food down with cup after cup of hot tea laced with milk and sugar.
“Have you made your plans yet?” Robert wanted to know. “The truck’s running rather well at the moment. I think it should get you to Timbuktu, if that’s where you’re going.”
“It is,” Tillie said. “I’ll be going on with Graeme. You know, Robert, I’ve resisted my part in this mess with the amenoukal ever since that child threw the amulet around my neck. But this morning I finally realized I want to know what the blasted treasure is myself.”
Mary hooted. “A girl after my own heart! When I was your age, lass, I was ready for any adventure. Why do you think I married this roving minister? Not for the money, I can assure you of that!”
“Now, Mary.” Robert patted her hand. “It’s not been a bad life, has it? We’ve had enough to live on.”
“More than enough. My life’s been all the richer for having married this man and followed him round the globe on his mad whims.”
“Mad whims?” Robert echoed.
“Your callings, then. ‘The Lord has called me to India, Mary,’ he announces. ‘The Lord has called me to Peru.’ ‘The Lord has called me to the Sahara.’ Your callings have made for a full and rewarding life. The Lord has blessed us richly, as he always does when we follow his will.”
“I admire you, Mary,” Tillie said. “It must take a lot of strength to keep leaving your home behind all the time.”
“My home is with Robert, just as yours will be with the man you choose to marry. You’ll never need another, lass.”
Mary looked from Tillie to Graeme, as if expecting one of them to say something revealing about their relationship. When neither did, she went on unfazed.
“Now, what can we get you for your trip? I shall fill that basket with food. You’ll find precious little to eat between here and Timbuktu, you know. And I’m glad to see the clothing fits. We keep a supply of old army things in the church. You never would believe who shows up needing something to wear! Robert, haven’t we a few old blankets we could spare? And sheets—you’ll need sheets to put up as a buffer against the wind. You’ll have to spend the night in the desert. It can be dreadfully cold, as you know.”
Robert nodded. “One can’t be too careful in the desert. I shall get the blankets and whatever else looks handy while Mary sees to the food. Graeme, you and Tillie had better go out to the garage and get the feel of the old truck. She’s rather temperamental, I’m afraid.”
Gradually the canvas-covered truck bed was loaded with supplies, including several spare cans of gasoline and water. Before long, Graeme and Tillie climbed into the huge, rusty vehicle and said their good-byes. Graeme fired up the engine, a sound like a tank battalion coming to life, and they headed down the road to Timbuktu.
The late afternoon had gone gray and windy. As the truck rattled along the rough track beside the river, the sun dipped lower and lower.
“When will we get to Timbuktu?” Tillie shouted over the racket from the unmuffled exhaust.
“Tomorrow afternoon, I expect. The road veers away from the river pretty soon. We’ll be in the desert in a few minutes.”
“Why doesn’t the road follow the river?”
“There’s an internal delta up ahead. Gets pretty swampy. No one can be sure where the Niger will go when the rains come.”
“Feels like there’s a storm coming now.”
“Sky looked pretty clear from Mopti, but I’ve never seen the desert this color.”
Tillie wanted to talk to him about the amulet. She had made up her mind to find the treasure—if there was one— and now she wanted to hear his thoughts. But her throat would never hold out over the din of the truck, so she sat back in her seat and lifted the amulet from beneath her shirt.
Opening it carefully, she took out the old document and unfolded it. She had a strange feeling that there were clues in the wording itself. Mungo Park certainly had not intended to sound like he was writing out a charm or an ominous portent, but the Tuareg had interpreted his words to have deep significance for their future.
Robert had said Graeme was hunting Park’s journal. Behind the cover of the sunglasses Mary had given her, Tillie studied him for a long time. His face, chiseled by hard living and the sun, seemed relaxed; his intent eyes were fixed on the road ahead. His neck and arms were deeply tanned, making his crisp, white cotton shirt fairly gleam. She could see the bulge of his
note case in his pocket. Why hadn’t she ever noticed that before? She couldn’t help wondering if there were other things she should be seeing and wasn’t.
Looking down at the document again, she read the words.
25 December, 1806—
I believe it is Christmas Day somewhere, though not here. I know I will not live to see tomorrow. The Bight of Benin the blight of Benin. . . . Ahmadi Fatouma has the wealth in safekeeping for me. . . . Mine mine mine! I have the wealth. I possess the treasure of Timbuktu. One day, one day the white man will come here. One day, one day the white woman will come here. . . . She will plant trees. She will find the treasure of Timbuktu. . . .
What on earth had he meant? More important, what did the Tuareg think he meant? She reread the page. She knew the Bight of Benin was the name of the gulf at the mouth of the Niger River. But what was the blight of Benin? the treasure of Timbuktu? the tree-planting woman? Once again, she folded the paper and reinserted it in the locket. None of it made sense.
She put the amulet back under her shirt, dropped her hands to her lap, and let out a deep sigh. The sky had turned to violet, and thin clouds lay across the distant horizon. The truck left the riverbank to rumble down the rutted track in the midst of low brush, sand dunes, and a few scrubby trees.
The sun was a huge orange gumdrop in the sky when Graeme pulled the truck to a stop beside an outcropping of rock. He set the parking brake and turned off the ignition.
“Time to eat,” he said.
“Let’s keep going. I’m not hungry yet.”
“I’m not surprised, the way you scarfed down those biscuits and eggs.”
She took off her sunglasses and looked at him through lowered lashes. “I didn’t notice you holding back.”
“I never hold back. Let’s see what Mary put together for us in that basket.” He threw open the squeaky door and climbed out of the truck.
Tillie sat for a moment, wondering how he could possibly think of eating. Resigned, she looked around the side to see if he had found the basket. Graeme was nowhere in sight. She slid out of the seat and jumped to the ground. At the back of the truck, the canvas flap was still in place.
“Graeme? Where are you?”
“Up here. On the rocks.”
He had scaled the outcropping and was scanning the horizon with a pair of binoculars. Her heart jolted. “Do you see the Tuareg caravan?”
“Not a trace.” He clambered down the rock. “No camels in sight.”
He unzipped the canvas flap and sorted through the provisions in the back of the truck. “Lantern, candles, blankets, water, sheets. Good for Mary. Listen, I want to keep going as long as we can see the road tonight.”
“Sure. Anything wrong?”
He had told her he never lied. But if their pursuers were in sight, she deserved to know.
“The sooner we get to Timbuktu, the better off we’ll be.”
Graeme hauled the heavy basket from the truck and carried it to the rock. He spread a checkered cloth, then dug around inside the basket and pulled out a package of sandwiches and a block of cheese. Suddenly Tillie realized she was hungrier than she thought.
“I’m glad you decided to go to Timbuktu,” he said around a mouthful. “Seems the real Tillie is coming out of hiding.”
“The real Tillie?”
“A woman who loves life, who takes risks. Most people would call it quits after the stuff you’ve gone through. But not only are you still here, you’re champing at the bit to find out what that treasure is.”
“Got me all figured out, huh?”
“Hardly.”
“You know, I looked over the document again. I don’t want to wait until the amenoukal catches me again before I figure it out.”
“He’s not getting his hands on you.”
Tillie looked up from her sandwich, surprised at the vehemence in his voice. He tossed his half-eaten sandwich back in the bag and slid off the rock.
“Do you think we can decipher where the treasure is?” she asked.
His back was to her as he leaned against the rock. “If we put our heads together we might. I have some ideas, but I can’t make all the pieces fit.”
“Give me a few of those pieces. We know who Mungo Park was and what he was trying to accomplish. His goal was to follow the course of the Niger to its mouth.”
Graeme nodded and went on, “We think we know what he meant by using the words tree-planting woman. He was probably referring to his vision of the future of Mali when white men and women would settle here to farm the Niger valley.”
“We know the Tuareg got their hands on the amulet about two hundred years ago. Their legends say the writing in the amulet comes from a book. And we think the book may be Mungo Park’s last journal.”
“So we’ve got a man, a goal, a journal. We know the Tuareg have been reading the inscription in the amulet to mean one thing, when Park may have meant something else.”
“Could the treasure have been one thing to Park and something else to the Tuareg?”
Graeme shrugged. “Park thought he could use the treasure to build a house for Ailie on Chester Street. It must have been something he thought he could barter.”
“Was there gold in Timbuktu two hundred years ago, Graeme? Do we even know what the city was like?”
He dug his note case out of his pocket. “We know what the Englishmen who backed Park’s African expeditions believed about Timbuktu. They based their hopes for gold and riches on a description by a guy named Leo Africanus.” He flipped through his cards. “This is from Leo the African’s History and Description of Africa and the Notable Things Contained Therein, written in 1526. I took these notes from the English version, which was published in 1600. ‘The rich king of Tombuto, hath many plates and sceptres of gold, some whereof weigh 1,300 pounds. And he keeps a magnificent and well-furnished court. . . . He hath always three thousand horsemen, and a great number of footmen that shoot poisoned arrows. . . . Here are a great store of doctors, judges, priests, and other learned men, that are bountifully maintained at the king’s expense.’”
The ancient words brought the fabulous city of Timbuktu in its glory days to brilliant, colorful life. Tillie felt like Dorothy stepping out of black-and-white Kansas into Technicolor Oz. She shut her eyes as Graeme continued reading.
“‘And hither are brought diverse manuscripts or written books out of Barbarie, which are sold for more money than any other merchandise. The coin of Tombuto is of gold without any stamp or superscription; but in matters of small value they use certain shells brought hither out of the kingdom of Persia’ . . . and it goes on.”
“Gold plates and sceptres. Gold coins.” Tillie shook her head. “Graeme, do you realize Mungo Park really may have hidden treasure somewhere in Timbuktu? What would you do with it if you found it?”
“I’m not hunting the treasure, Tillie. I told you that.”
“But what if we find it?” Somehow she had to make him tell her the truth about his own goals.
“I want Mungo Park’s journal. If we found some kind of treasure, it would belong to the Malian government.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t think there is any treasure. All we have is a scrap of the journal. That page is authentic, and the rest of it must be somewhere. That’s what I want.”
“It means a lot to you.”
“I want to know what happened to Mungo Park before he died. I want to know what he was like at the end of his life.” He gave a low chuckle. “My mom used to tell me stories about him when I was a kid. I always wanted to be like him—the adventurer, the bold explorer.”
“You are like him.”
“Not really.” He straightened and turned around. “You get enough to eat?”
Her eyes flashed. “Graeme, you are like Mungo Park. If I’m that woman who loves life and isn’t afraid to take risks, you’re no different. We’re in this together.”
“You had the adventurer in you all along, Tillie. I knew it the minute I tossed you in
to my Land Rover. You’re a fighter.”
“We did have our moments in the beginning, didn’t we?”
“The first thing you did was yell at me. Fought me like a honey badger.”
“You always bring out the beast, um, best in me,” she quipped.
He laughed.
She paused thoughtfully. “You know, I’ve never yelled at Arthur in my life.”
“Too bad for Arthur.” With a wink, he grabbed the basket and walked back to the truck.
The night turned black, and the stars were hidden from view by a thick haze that spread across the sky like spilled honey. As the truck rattled along, Graeme tried to focus on the topography, but he could make out very little. It was like traveling in a vacuum.
Hours passed, and the road ahead began to whip into a whirling sea of grass, twigs, and sand. He fought the steering wheel to keep the truck on track. Tillie sat beside him, as stiff as a windup doll. The wind picked up; the truck swayed. Sand peppered the windshield like pellets from a BB gun. Graeme finally braked to a stop, cut the ignition, and leaned back in the seat.
Even with the engine off, Tillie had to shout over the wind. “What’s going on?”
“Gotta stop.”
“I thought you wanted to go on to Timbuktu.”
“It’s getting bad outside.” He turned the headlights back on.
Tillie stared out the windshield. The inky sky had crept down close, and now it seemed threatening. Whole bushes whipped across the road. There was a strange pall, an eerie half glow to the landscape.
He switched off the headlights. “Sandstorm’s coming.”
“Are you sure?”
“Only one thing looks like a sandstorm.”
“It’s going to catch us head-on, isn’t it?”
“Reckon so.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You spotted the storm from the outcrop back there where we ate. Why didn’t you tell me?”
A Kiss of Adventure Page 19