A Kiss of Adventure

by Catherine Palmer

“Legend say Tree-Planting Woman find treasure. You find.”

  “No, I can’t. There is no treasure.”

  The amenoukal’s eyes turned from deep purple to black. Without a word, he raised his spear. The Tuareg swarmed through the water. The cavern erupted into a sea of writhing, howling bodies.

  Someone rammed into Tillie. Her feet went out from under her. The lamp splashed into the water and went out.

  “Graeme!” she screamed. She couldn’t find him.

  Her head went under the murky water. A crushing weight on her chest drove the air from her lungs, and she sucked in a gulp of fetid liquid.

  Before she could cough, iron hands lifted her from the water and hurled her into the air. The tunnel’s dry roof flashed overhead. Fingers dug into her flesh. She fell over the shoulder of a Tuareg warrior. The musky smell of old cloth and sweaty male skin flooded her nostrils. Bright pinpoints of light swam before her eyes.

  “Graeme!” she spluttered.

  In the dim light, she spotted a circle of Tuareg men. Graeme crouched among them, his knife hand empty and the old chest gone. Above him, suspended in the dank air, the amenoukal’s broadsword poised for the downstroke.

  She screamed. Writhed. Slithered off the man’s shoulder. “Graeme!” The sword began its deadly arc. Tillie’s Tuareg captor slammed her against the wall; her head exploded, and she slumped.

  A strange smell, oddly familiar, brought Tillie’s eyes open. She tried to think where she had smelled it before. It was a sweet, cloying scent that worked its way down through her subconscious and into her conscious mind. Then it filled the arid crevices of her mouth and slipped into the hollows of her lungs. When it curled into her stomach, she gagged, rolled onto her side, and retched.

  When she opened her eyes again, she saw a stretch of wine-and-blue carpeting. She could make out each hand-knotted tuft of silk, each golden twirl and sapphire curlicue that ran over the deep background. Her vision clearing, she traced a path across the carpet to a pair of embroidered leather slippers. Their geometric shapes wound from the heel to the pointed toe.

  Her eyes drooped in tiredness, but when one of the slippers moved, she snapped awake.

  “Tree-Planting Woman.”

  She craned her swollen neck. Her focus wandered up billowing blue trousers and a thick indigo burnous to the wide shoulders and veil of the amenoukal.

  His black eyes flashed. “Tree-Planting Woman. You find treasure.”

  Bile welled up in her throat. She swallowed. Overhead, a hanging brass lantern swayed as the cloying incense she had smelled wafted from it. She was in the amenoukal’s tent. Khatty’s tent.

  Dear God! The last thing she remembered, she and Graeme were in the tunnel together. They had the chest. And the hat. And then . . . “Graeme?” The word was a croak. Struggling to her elbows, she searched the tent. “Where is he? What have you done with him?”

  The amenoukal’s gaze was impassive. “Attini.”

  “Attini yourself, you creep.” With supreme effort, she hauled herself to her feet. “Where’s Graeme McLeod? What have you done with him? Bring Khatty to me. She’ll understand. Where’s Khatty?”

  The amenoukal crossed his arms and turned his head regally to one side. “Khatty die.”

  A cold wave of disbelief washed down Tillie’s back. “She died? How? What happened?”

  “Khatty die.”

  She grabbed a tent pole for support. “You did it, didn’t you? You killed her, just like you killed—”

  “Khatty disobey. Let Tree-Planting Woman go.”

  Tillie closed her eyes. Her head throbbed, and she felt her knees start to buckle. It was impossible. Khatty had loved this man, loved him deeply.

  “Khatty was your wife! How could you—”

  “Tree-Planting Woman, give treasure.”

  “I don’t have your stupid treasure! I don’t know where it is. The box in the mine is all there was.”

  “You know. Legend say.”

  “Tell me what you did to Graeme. Tell me or you’ll never see your treasure.”

  The amenoukal’s eyes deepened, and he clapped his hands twice. A young boy scampered into the room, bearing the amenoukal’s spear. Tillie recognized him as the child who had first placed the amulet around her neck in Bamako. She realized he must be the Targui’s son.

  “Tree-Planting Woman.” The tattered strip of her skirt still hung from the spearhead. And now something else hung with it. A bloodstained khaki shirt. Graeme’s shirt.

  “O dear Lord!” She sank onto the floor in a crouch and buried her face in her hands. Graeme was gone. Tears ran between her fingers and down her cheeks. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as sobs wracked her.

  Graeme, Graeme . . . O God, let it not be true. Please, please, Father. She tipped forward onto her knees and covered her head with her arms. Her shoulders heaved.

  “No!” she shrieked as rage poured over the pain. Every ounce of her being longed to spring on the amenoukal, sink her teeth into his arm, claw his blue veil away, rake her nails across his cheeks, slash his thin lips, and yank at his long black hair. She clenched her fists, struggling to submit her will, forcing down her hunger for revenge.

  “God!” she screamed, the plea for his help torn from her heart. “God, please! Please!”

  “Matilda, is that you?” someone called out . . . a tall, thin man in the tent opening. A Targui stood guard at either side of him.

  “Arthur?”

  “Matilda!” Hands bound behind him, he squirmed as his guards shoved him forward and held him by his hair.

  “Arthur, what are you doing here?” Tillie wiped a hand across her wet cheek.

  “They captured me in Timbuktu.”

  “Where’s Hannah?”

  “At the rest house. She’s fine. Darling, what’s happened to you?”

  “No talk!” The amenoukal crossed his arms over his chest. “Tree-Planting Woman find treasure.”

  He gestured to his men. They hauled Arthur to their chief and threw him to the ground. The amenoukal lifted his spear and buried it in the tent floor an inch from Arthur’s neck. “Tree-Planting Woman find treasure.”

  He turned on his heel and strode out of the tent. After he left, the Tuareg moved into action, grabbing Tillie’s arms and legs and tying them tightly together with heavy cords. They carried Arthur to a tent pole, dropped him, and tied him to it. A few feet away, another pole became Tillie’s prison. Then, as quickly as the tent had filled, it emptied, leaving Arthur and Tillie alone.

  She closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath. Her head throbbed. A blinding pain seared behind her eyes. Her mouth felt as dry as the sun-baked desert air, and she licked a drop of blood from her lip.

  “Are you all right, darling?” Arthur whispered. “You look as if you’ve been through hell.”

  “Yes.”

  She sank into herself. Graeme was gone. Dead. Khatty, too. Her heart felt torn in two, emptied of all life and joy and hope.

  “Darling, please talk to me.” Arthur’s pale blue eyes had sunk into his face and were rimmed with dark circles of exhaustion. A shock of thin brown hair hung over his forehead. His clothes were splattered with blood.

  “What happened to you, Arthur?”

  “I was staying at the government rest house in Timbuktu and waiting for you to arrive. The Tuareg found me one morning when I went into town to search for you.”

  “In town? But I thought they were at the rest house. When I phoned Hannah, she said you were standing guard.”

  “You spoke with Hannah? Odd. She didn’t mention it. No, nothing happened at the rest house. In fact, I practically bumped straight into the amenoukal on a street in Timbuktu two days ago. He kidnapped me and brought me out here to their camp. I’ve had no idea where you were or what was happening. They haven’t told me a thing until just now when my guards brought me in here. I take it you didn’t find the treasure.”

  “Graeme and I figured out where it was,” she told him. “Mungo Park’s b
ox. We went to the mine, but the amenoukal attacked us there.”

  “Did you find the treasure in the box? Did you find the journal?”

  She blinked without comprehension. “The treasure?”

  “The treasure of Timbuktu. Did you find it?”

  “It was only a hat and a few books. There was no treasure, no journal.”

  “But that’s impossible!” His voice grew hard. “Matilda, look at me. You must find the journal and the treasure. That Targui’s going to kill us both if you can’t come up with something.”

  “Graeme’s dead.”

  He was silent a moment. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “All the more reason to find the treasure. If the amenoukal killed McLeod for the treasure, he won’t hesitate to do the same to us.”

  “And Khatty, too. The amenoukal’s wife. She’s dead.”

  “Look, darling, I’m sorry about McLeod. But he’s dead, and it’s time to think about us. We have our future ahead of us. Nothing has changed. I mean for us to have a good life.”

  She twisted the beaded ring on her finger. Arthur was wrong. Everything had changed.

  “I’m tired.” She leaned her head back against the tent pole and closed her eyes. Her head throbbed. Her heart ached.

  The aroma of hot black coffee drifted into the tent. She lifted her head in time to see the shy serving maid who had once belonged to Khatty hurry out of the tent after leaving a tray of food and drink on a table nearby. A Targui walked into the tent and untied the captives’ wrists and ankles.

  “They’ve brought a meal,” Arthur said quietly. “Can you eat, darling?”

  She shook her head. Her neck felt twice its normal size, and her eyes were swollen nearly shut. She reached out, found the demitasse, and poured strong, hot coffee down her throat.

  “The box we found,” she managed. “Mungo Park’s box. The one with the hat and the books. Tell that Targui to bring it.”

  Arthur glanced at the guard. “But you said—”

  “Tell him the tree-planting woman is going to find the treasure of Timbuktu.”

  Arthur spoke to the man, who then ran to the door of the tent and shouted. Cries erupted in the camp.

  “Darling.” Arthur leaned across and took her hand. “Are you thinking clearly?”

  “I’m going to find it.” She pulled her hand away and reached for another cup of coffee. “I’m going to bring it to an end.”

  “Do you honestly think you can?”

  “I know how to look. Graeme taught me.”

  “Matilda, for heaven’s sake, what happened between you and McLeod? I have the right to an explanation.”

  She let the hot liquid spill down her throat. Was Arthur so concerned about her and Graeme because he loved her? Or was it because he wanted her as his wife, an essential part of his plan for a secure, comfortable future?

  “I loved Graeme,” she said softly. “I still love him.”

  Arthur clambered to his feet and hurled his cup to the floor. “Matilda, listen to you! You’re behaving like some other woman. Someone I don’t even know. What about me? What about our future? What happened to that?”

  She rested her forehead on her knees and wrapped her arms around her legs. It was as black as night inside her heart. How could she think? How could she talk? Tears welled.

  “Darling, talk to me.” Arthur was standing in front of her. She could see his black leather shoes. “Matilda, you must be reason—”

  His words stopped, and Tillie lifted her head. The amenoukal swept into the tent. Robed and veiled in deep blue once again, he strode to her side and pushed Arthur to his knees. One of his men bound the Englishman’s wrists and ankles and tied him to the tent pole again.

  “Tree-Planting Woman.” The amenoukal held out the small carved chest.

  Tillie took the box and gave him a nod. “The tree-planting woman will find the treasure.”

  When the amenoukal turned to go, Tillie caught his burnous. “Tree-Planting Woman needs one thing.” She pointed to his spear and touched Graeme’s khaki shirt. “I want that.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. He gave a curt nod, untied the shirt, and tossed it to the floor at her feet.

  “When I find the treasure, you will let me go back to Bamako?” she asked. “With this man, Arthur Robinson?”

  A short man in an indigo turban leaned forward and whispered to the Tuareg leader. The amenoukal nodded again.

  “Bamako,” he said. “Tree-Planting Woman. Englishman.”

  “Untie him, then,” she commanded. “No more ropes.”

  The amenoukal spoke to another of his men. As the Targui worked open the knots in Arthur’s bindings, she knelt to the carpet. The remaining Tuareg made their way back outside, leaving one man as a guard at the door to the tent.

  Tillie picked up Graeme’s shirt and crushed it to her chest. She tried to imagine him lifeless and still, but she couldn’t do it. Instead he moved across her memory like a slow-motion film. Graeme driving the Land Rover, wind whipping his black hair. His tanned fingers slipping the beaded ring into her hand. A broad smile lighting his features as he paddled the fishing boat out into the Niger’s current.

  Stifling a sob, she slipped his bloodied shirt over her own. She held the fabric under her nose and drank in the scent of his skin. She buttoned it, imagining his fingers touching where she touched. Unable to pray, unable even to speak, she lifted the box onto her lap.

  “Matilda.” Arthur’s voice was low. “You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, but we’re going to come out all right in the end. I can feel it, darling.”

  She opened the lid and took Mungo Park’s possessions out one by one. His hat. His books. His pen and ink. His shirt.

  She spread the threadbare shirt onto the carpet and gazed at the tattered collar and worn elbows. “He loved to travel,” she whispered. “He was an adventurer at heart, you know. He lived for the peaks of excitement. That was how he wanted his life to be.”

  Arthur stared at her. “Matilda, are you speaking of Mungo Park?”

  She shrugged and picked up the worn green hat with its tiny slips of yellowed paper stuck in the band. Mungo Park had put them there two hundred years ago. Only one person had removed them since. The guide, Ahmadi Fatouma.

  He had taken them to the man who had read the last page of the journal. He had had these notes translated. And from their directives—from half-understood meanings—he had germinated the legend of the treasure.

  She slipped the first of the three notes from the hatband and opened it. As she had done with Graeme, she willed her mind into the simple, fearful outlook of Ahmadi Fatouma. How would the superstitious guide have interpreted the message written here? What would he have believed these words were telling him to do?

  The paper cracked when she unfolded it; its ink was faded and barely legible. She read the inscription in silence. “Mad Mungo,” it said. “Ailie they will call me Mad Mungo. Will you still love me, Mad Mungo?”

  “What does it say?” Arthur asked. “Can you make anything of it?”

  “It’s a message to Park’s wife. He knew he was delirious. Mungo Park was a doctor, you know. This note shows he knew he had gone mad.”

  “What about the treasure? Does he talk about it?”

  She didn’t answer. She lifted the second note and read it to herself. “The Bight of Benin is a swampy delta. It will be difficult to transform into a profitable harbor. But one day the white man and woman will come here, and they will tame the land. A pity—and a blessing.”

  She refolded the note and inserted it back into the leather band. He was there, Graeme. Mungo Park was there at the Bight of Benin, just like you thought. He really had made it all the way to the mouth of the Niger. The third note was barely visible, and she had to dig it out. Would this be the writing of the sane Mungo, as in the last note? Or would this be Mad Mungo again?

  Tillie opened the note. Two lines had been inscribed in a shaking hand. “Well, well, w
ell. It is finished.”

  “What does it say, Matilda?” Arthur’s voice was impatient.

  She read the words again and gave a faint smile. “Arthur, please call in the amenoukal.”

  The blue-veiled Targui must have been standing just outside the tent. He walked in, crossed his arms, and waited.

  “Is there a well near here?” she asked. “A very old well?”

  He frowned and turned to the short turbaned man at his side. They had a rapid exchange.

  “Many old wells,” he told her. “Great Well of Timbuktu. Very full in rainy season. Many wells.”

  “Is there an old, dry well near Timbuktu? One that has been dry for a long, long time. Dry before the days of your grandfather’s grandfather.”

  The Targui spoke at length with the man at his side; then he thumped his spear on the tent floor.

  “Old Tuareg well on path of gold and salt caravan. Well finished long, long, long time.” The amenoukal grabbed the chain around her neck and pulled the amulet out of her shirt. “Long ago Tuareg people find this at well.”

  “You found the amulet at the well?”

  The chieftain nodded. “We take. We read. We wait for Tree-Planting Woman. You come, you say go to well again. Well of Waran.”

  “Well of Waran,” she repeated. So that was it. She wrapped her hands around the amulet and lifted her eyes to his. “Ahodu Ag Amastane, the treasure of Timbuktu is inside the Well of Waran.”

  SIXTEEN

  The amenoukal stared at Tillie without comprehension. “Treasure in Well of Waran?”

  “Inside the well.”

  The Tuareg men turned to one another in animated discussion. Tillie placed the green hat back into the chest and snapped the brass clasp. Evening sun slanted through the tent’s opening, and she wondered if they would leave immediately. For her, it was all over. The amenoukal would go off to the well, find his treasure, and abandon his two captives to their fate. Somehow, she and Arthur would make it back to Timbuktu and from there fly to Bamako.

  “Tree-Planting Woman.” The amenoukal faced her. “Come with Ahodu Ag Amastane.”

  She glanced at Arthur. “Why? I told you where the treasure is.”