“Let me go? What’s that supposed to mean? I’m not going anywhere without you. We belong together.”
“No, Graeme, we don’t. We can’t.” She turned to the window, fighting tears. “I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have let this go beyond friendship.”
“It’s way beyond friendship. I love you, Tillie.”
“Graeme, please. Please don’t say that.”
“I’ll say it a hundred times. I love you, Tillie. I love you—”
“It can’t work. I’ve tried to make it clear to you. On the surface we’re alike. But inside, where it really matters, we’re worlds apart.” She swallowed at the gritty lump in her throat. “Don’t you see? I’ve committed my life to God’s will, not my own. I can’t follow him if I’m with someone who isn’t. It’s like those camels in the Tuareg caravan. If you tie two of them together and each tries to go down a different path, the whole caravan breaks down. It’s chaos. No one goes anywhere; everyone suffers. We would suffer. We’re on different paths, Graeme. I can’t be with you no matter how much I love you.”
His stunned eyes scanned her face. “You . . . love me? And yet you’re rejecting me because of your faith?”
Her voice was no more than a whisper. “Yes.”
“You’re a strong woman.”
She brushed a tear from her cheek. O God, I’m not strong. I’m weak. I’m weak and foolish. And, Lord, I love him so much! Scrunched into the corner of the seat, she stared blankly at the passing desert. She felt as barren and empty as that sand. Graeme loved her, and she had turned him away. Given him up.
He let go of her hand and shifted gears. She couldn’t make herself look at him, but she knew him so well she could picture him in her mind. The muscle in his jaw would be jumping, his knuckles would be white on the steering wheel.
“You’re right,” he said finally. “My soul is black.”
She glanced at him, surprised at the vehemence in his voice. “I didn’t say that.”
“You meant it. You’re a daughter of the light, right? I’m a son of darkness.” A bitter smile creased the corner of his mouth. “Abandoned by God. Remember that argument we had on the road out of Bamako? You said nobody’s abandoned by God. You said God’s like a father. You asked me the worst thing a son could do. Kill someone, I said. Remember?”
“Yes.”
“I killed my father.” He turned on her, his eyes red-rimmed. “Killed my own father. Try to work that into your little analogy.”
Sorrow, regret, compassion all flowed through her at the bleak expression in his eyes. “How did it happ—”
“There’s more.” He cut her off. “I don’t regret it. There’s not an iota of repentance in my black heart. I’m glad I killed him. I’d kill him again.”
“Graeme—”
“Forget it. I got your message loud and clear.” He shifted again. “This must be the turnoff.”
“Graeme, why didn’t you tell me about your father before now?”
“What difference would it make? You’re right. You and I are different. Day and night. Heaven and hell. Drop it, okay?” He gave her a mirthless smile. “Let’s finish this thing so you can get back to your trees.”
The rutted track led toward a wadi—a stone formation that held a little water during the rains. The old truck bounced to a halt in front of a jagged crag. There was no sign of a mine entrance.
Tillie shivered. She felt sick. Sick with fear and confusion. Graeme was a murderer and a thief. He’d admitted killing his own father. So why did her heart ache for him? Why was his pain so raw and fresh she could feel it in her own soul?
Father. She breathed a plea to the Lord of her life. Father, show him your truth. You can wash him. You can heal him. Father, please. Not for me, Lord, but for him. He’s dying inside. You can see it in his eyes. For all his claims of being unaffected, he’s being eaten up inside by grief or guilt or something, Lord. Something dark. Please, help him.
Graeme climbed out of the truck and tossed his burnous and turban on the seat. He dug a kerosene lamp from the back of the truck. “You want to wait in the truck?”
“You know me better than that.”
“Let’s go then.”
She followed him to the wadi and clambered up its steep slopes to help him search the rock for signs of an entrance. The sun was vertical when he gave a shout and waved her toward a craggy fissure. She crossed the crumbling stone.
He went down on his knees to peer inside. “There’s scaffolding.” He held the lamp inside the opening. “I can see some rough steps. The floor looks dry. I’d say this is it. We’ve found the shaft.”
“Then let’s head down.”
Graeme raised an eyebrow. “Sure you want to go down into the jaws of death with a murderer?”
“‘Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—’”
“‘I will fear no evil,’” he finished.
“You’re not evil, Graeme. And I’m not afraid of you.” She said the words before she realized how true they were. She was afraid of the amenoukal and his broadsword. Afraid of the crocodiles in the Niger. Afraid of the doorman at the Sankore Mosque. But she wasn’t afraid of Graeme McLeod.
“Maybe you should be,” he said. “I’m after your heart.”
He turned his back on her and edged down into the hole. For a moment he was swallowed up in the darkness, but the lamplight flickered again. She dropped to her knees at the edge of the hole.
“Easy.” He took her hand and guided her into the mine. “Your eyes will adjust in a minute.”
The walls of the mine shaft were steep and rutted with scars made by the axes and picks of miners centuries before. The original opening had been enlarged to permit the traffic of gold-bearing dirt. Tillie tried to calm her thudding heart as she followed Graeme down the sloping floor toward a bend in the tunnel.
“What do you think the journal will look like?” she asked. “Should we start searching for it now?”
“I imagine it’s hidden farther in, but it can’t hurt to keep your eyes open. The other journals of Mungo Park are small. Leather bound. I’d look for a bag of some sort. Or a box. I imagine the guide Ahmadi Fatouma would have put it into somethi—”
Graeme caught his breath and stepped back, instinctively throwing out his arm to stop Tillie. A hideous monster slithered around the bend into the circle of lamplight. A mixture of lizard and crocodile, the five-foot-long reptile moved toward them on squat legs tipped in sharp, curved claws. Its tail swept from side to side across the stone floor, its long forked tongue flicked in and out. With a hiss like a steam locomotive, its jaws parted to reveal rows of sharp teeth.
“Graeme!” Tillie choked out as she backed up toward the stone wall. “What is that thing?”
“Stay behind me,” he ordered, handing her the lamp and drawing a knife from his boot. “It’s some kind of monitor lizard.”
“A waran,” she whispered. “An Egyptian monitor.”
“Whatever he is, he’s steaming mad. Back up.”
The creature stopped, assessing the intruders with eyes like amber beads. Tillie took a step backward. Graeme crouched, knife ready.
Claws skittered on the rock. Hissing filled the narrow chamber. The lizard charged and slammed into Graeme’s legs. Its whirling tail bashed the walls. Teeth snapped. Graeme’s arm swung in an arc toward its head.
Tillie shoved the lamp into a crevice. Hands clammy, she worked a heavy chunk of rock loose and raised it over her head with both hands. The reptile clamped onto Graeme’s shirt. Pulling, tearing, it struggled to knock him down. He bent over the lizard’s head and stabbed. Stabbed again. The knife glanced off the armorlike skin.
Tillie moved closer, looking for an opening. The monitor snapped at Graeme’s leg. He bellowed in pain and tried to jerk away. Lunging forward, Tillie slammed the rock down on the animal’s back.
The thud echoed down the chamber. Hissing rose to a fevered pitch. The monitor squirmed, flopped over, lay writhing on
the stone floor. Graeme sprang on it, driving his knife into the creature to the hilt between his front legs.
The tunnel fell silent. Graeme slumped to the ground.
Tillie fell to her knees beside him. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”
He pulled his knife out of the lizard and leaned back on his elbows. “My leg. He’s still got it.”
She moved across to Graeme’s twisted leg clenched in the dead lizard’s mouth. She placed the heel of her boot against its upper jaw and pushed as Graeme gingerly freed his torn limb.
“I think a hunk of it’s gone,” he said.
She pulled apart the shreds of trouser. “You’re bleeding a lot. He’s ripped part of your calf. You need a doctor, Graeme. Let’s get out of here.”
“Whoa! No way. We came here to find the journal.”
“You’re crazy. If we don’t get you back to Timbuktu soon, you’re going to be too weak to go anywhere.”
He leaned forward and studied his leg. “Mincemeat, but I don’t think anything major’s been severed. Here, help me out of this shirt, and we’ll make a bandage. If we wrap it tight enough, it’ll stop bleeding.”
As he struggled out of his shirt, she stared at the prehistoric-looking creature. The lizard’s purple tongue hung limp from its mouth. Its bloody teeth gleamed pink-red in the lamplight.
“It’s awful,” she whispered.
Graeme was tearing his shirt into strips. “Poor guy was just protecting his territory.” He paused and looked directly at Tillie. “If you hadn’t clobbered him, that could be me lying there.”
“Maybe he’s protecting the treasure. He is the grandfather of the Tuareg, remember?”
“And I’m Dumbo the elephant. Can you tie these ends into a knot, or are we going to sit here all night swapping ghost stories about the amenoukal and his reptilian ancestors?”
She tied the bandage around Graeme’s torn leg and tried to dismiss the chill that the incident had cast over her. As she tucked the ends of the fabric into the makeshift dressing, Graeme’s hand closed over hers.
“Are you okay to go on?”
Tillie nodded. “Sure. Can you walk?”
“I can do anything with the right motivation. Come on.” He struggled to his feet and leaned against the wall.
She stood and took the lamp from the crevice. “What if the waran had a mate?”
“I don’t think lizards are communal types, but we’ll have to take our chances.” He held out a hand. “Feel like being a crutch till I get my sea legs back?”
“Sure.”
She slipped one arm around his waist. He draped his arm over her shoulders, and they headed down the stony slope and around the bend. At the bottom of the shaft, the lamp revealed a narrow passageway filled with water.
“I guess we’re going in?” she asked.
“Guess so.”
As they edged down the ramp, they searched the pockets and ledges in the stone. Tillie felt the tepid water soak through her shoes, socks, pant legs. Its warmth meant that it flowed from a source near the desert surface. Strange to think of a stream running beneath the desert.
“‘Because,’” she whispered, “‘I have given waters in the wilderness and rivers in the desert, to give drink to my chosen people.’”
“Waters in the wilderness.” Graeme pulled her closer. “You’re the water in my wilderness, Tillie,” he whispered. “I love you.”
She paused, and he removed his arm from her shoulders. He cupped her face in his wet hands and tenderly kissed her lips. His mouth was warm and pliant, and in spite of her best intentions, she leaned longingly into the kiss.
Never mind about the waran and the amenoukal, about the gold and the journal. As wrong as she and Graeme surely were together, this love was the treasure she had been looking for all her life.
The treasure she would have to give up.
He drew back and looked into her eyes. “Ah, Tillie-girl.” Letting out a breath, he tilted his head back and let his eyes wander to the stone roof. “Tillie, I just want you to know . . . to know . . .” He paused, frowning.
This must be so hard for him, she thought sadly.
“There it is.” His voice was hushed, filled with wonder.
“You want me to know what?”
“There it is.” His voice was tight with sudden excitement. “There it is! The journal!”
She looked up. Nearly hidden in a high niche in the rocky roof sat a small wooden box. It was studded with points of dull gray metal. Strange carvings covered its surface.
She held the lamp high. “Can you reach it?”
He limped through the water and raised his hand. Every muscle strained to its limit as he reached to touch the box with his fingertips. Slowly, very slowly, sand trickling into his upturned face, he eased the box from the ledge.
“I have it,” he whispered. He lowered the chest into his arms. “This is it.”
She brushed the sand from the carved lid. “Look,” she whispered. “Someone carved a message—”
Graeme’s hand clamped on her arm. She glanced at the water. A succession of ripples slapped the walls. Something had entered the water near them.
A shadow edged into the circle of light. A tall figure emerged.
“Attini,” the amenoukal said. Broadsword unsheathed, eyes hidden in the shadows of his blue turban, he held out one hand. “Attini, Tree-Planting Woman. Give me treasure of Timbuktu.”
FIFTEEN
The amenoukal stood less than ten yards away. Graeme tucked the carved box under his arm and grabbed Tillie’s wrist. “Run!” he said, pushing her away. “Around that corner.”
Unwilling to let him try to make his own way with a bad leg, she wrapped her arm around his waist. “Let’s go!”
They slogged through the murky water of the tunnel, the angry shouts of the amenoukal driving them forward. Around the bend the water was deeper, the going slower. Another curve ahead led to a fork and two divergent tunnels.
“Go left,” Graeme growled. “We’ve got to buy time. If I can get the journal out, we can give him the chest and whatever else is in it.”
They pushed through the thigh-deep water. The lamplight revealed a small alcove. It wouldn’t hide them well, but it would have to do. Tillie clambered up onto a ledge, and she helped Graeme up beside her.
“Take the knife while I work on this clasp.” He shoved the hunting knife at Tillie. She held the lamp above her head as they examined the box. Its brass clasp, encrusted with sand and grit, wouldn’t budge. Graeme took the knife back and shoved it under the clasp’s nail-studded base.
“Attini.” The amenoukal’s voice echoed down the tunnel. “Give treasure!”
Water splashed against the walls. Broadswords clanged on stone. The shouts grew closer as Graeme struggled to break the clasp.
“He’s getting close,” Tillie whispered. “He’s coming down our tunnel.”
“I’ve almost got it. Hold the light right there.” He grabbed her hand and moved the lamp directly over the brass clasp. “It’s locked. The nails in this thing—”
The clasp snapped and the ancient box popped open a crack. Graeme gingerly lifted the lid. Lamplight washed over an old hat sitting on a bed of dried, crumbling grass. The hat was not a pith helmet, as Tillie imagined Mungo Park must have worn. It was a gentleman’s felt hat. A dark green color, it had a dusty leather band stuck with bits of yellowing paper.
“The hat,” Graeme exclaimed, his voice hushed. “It’s the hat.”
“What hat? You never told me about a hat.”
“I didn’t think it was important.”
The sound of splashing grew louder. She shook his arm. “What’ll we do? Is this the treasure? We’ve got to tell the amenoukal something. Graeme, he’ll kill us.”
“This is Mungo Park’s hat.” Graeme might have been giving a university lecture. “Park talks about it in one of the journals we have in England. The people were scared to death of this hat because he used to tuck scraps of
paper with notes on them into the band. They thought the hat was bewitched.”
“What did he write on the notes?”
“Thoughts, observations. Things he later transcribed into his journals.” He lifted the hat and handed it to Tillie. In the bottom of the chest lay two pens, a bottle of dried ink, a folded shirt, and three thin books.
“His journal!” she cried.
“No, these are his personal library. Look, no water stains. The guide was definitely lying about how he died. These are invaluable, Tillie.”
“Graeme, for crying out loud, the amenoukal’s almost here!”
“This isn’t the treasure. And the journal’s not here. Ahmadi Fatouma hid them somewhere else, Tillie. The journal’s with the treasure.”
“But where? In the mine?”
“The hat. The papers in the hat tell where the guide hid the treasure and the journal.”
“Are you sure? Maybe this is all there is. Maybe we can just give these things to the—”
A clang of steel reverberated down the wall, and the blue-veiled Tuareg chieftain surged into view. Spotting them, he gave a cry of victory. More veiled warriors filled the tiny tunnel, closing in on Tillie and Graeme.
“The hat. Give it to me!” Graeme shouted.
She shoved the hat into his hand. He set it in the box and slammed the lid shut.
“Graeme, give him the chest.”
“Never.” He raised the knife and brandished the blade.
Silent now, the amenoukal waded toward them. “Attini.”
“Ahodu Ag Amastane.” Tillie took a step forward. “We have found the box. There is no treasure. Show him, Graeme. Show him the hat and the books.”
The amenoukal jabbed the butt end of his spear into the water and stopped. His retinue fell into place behind him. His dark eyes flicked from Graeme to the chest and back to Tillie. Graeme opened the lid and took out the green felt hat.
“You see,” Tillie said. “No treasure. Graeme, show him the books.”
The amenoukal scowled. “Give treasure of Timbuktu.”
“I don’t have treasure. There is no treasure.”
A Kiss of Adventure Page 24