“How am I supposed to know the right times?”
“Comes with time and breaking. God has to do some breaking in all of us, Jeanine. You know my story. I had to wind up in Sing Sing Penitentiary before God got my attention.”
Jeanine had heard Barney’s story, how he had been a prize-fighter and had fallen into evil ways and finally wound up in the penitentiary. He had been converted there and come out to blaze brightly for God, first in a waterfront mission station and then across the face of Africa. She admired him tremendously and said so. “I guess I just don’t have what it takes, Barney,” she said. “I’m going home.”
There was such finality in her words that Barney could only say quietly, “I think you’re making a mistake, Jeanine, and I’m going to pray that you will see things differently.”
****
The knock on the door startled Jeanine. She had been lying on her bed trying to nap. The three days she had spent in Mombasa waiting for a ship had been hard. If there had been a ship leaving, even if it had been going around the world before arriving in New York, she would have taken it. But there was nothing due to make port for at least another week. She had kept to her room, avoiding Barney and all the other missionaries, and had had to force herself to eat. Bitterness rose in her and she could not seem to fight it down. She tried to read the Bible, but the words would blur or they would seem to have no application to her. When she tried to pray, it was almost impossible. She could say the words, but they seemed to go nowhere. She was reminded of the line from Shakespeare’s play, “My words fly up, my thoughts remain below, words without thoughts never to heaven go.” She had spent anguished hours on her knees, sometimes leaving in the late hours to go walking on the seashore. The whispering of the waves did not soothe her but reminded her of her own restlessness.
“Who is it?” she said, coming off her bed and brushing her hair back with her hand.
“It’s me—John.”
For a moment Jeanine thought of telling him to go away, but with a shrug she went and opened the door. “Hello, John,” she said. “You want to come in?”
“Yes.”
John Winslow was wearing a faded khaki shirt and a pair of worn dark blue trousers. As usual he wore black leather half boots and carried his bush hat in his hand. He stood before her, and she could not read the expression on his face.
“Do you want to sit down?”
“Yes. I want to talk.”
“I suppose Annie sent you. Or was it Barney?”
“It was Annie. She and Jeb are worried about you.” He sat down in one of the two chairs in the hotel room and seemed restless. “I’m worried about you, too.”
“Well, you can stop worrying. It’s all over. Nothing to worry about.” There was a bitterness in Jeanine’s voice. She walked to the window and stared out with her back to him, adding, “It was a good idea that didn’t work. I’m just not cut out to do this sort of thing.”
“I wouldn’t be so quick to say that.”
Turning to face him, Jeanine crossed her arms and stared at him. “I’ve given you enough evidence, John. You’re a pretty sharp fellow. You’ve told me often enough that I’m too rough, too aggressive, too brash. Weren’t those the words you used?”
“Maybe I did, but those words apply to me, too.”
“You weren’t trying to be a missionary.”
Winslow leaned forward and put his hat on the floor. He hesitated, then stood up and walked over to her. “I said some harsh things to you, Jeanine, but I meant them for your good.”
“Oh yes. I’m sure of that. Annie means good, and you mean good, Barney and Jeb mean good. Everyone means good.”
Winslow stood there quietly considering the woman before him. He thought of all he had heard about her, how she had denied herself nothing. He thought, If I had her advantages, I’d be just like her. We’re the same inside. Aloud he said, “You’re feeling pretty sorry for yourself, aren’t you?”
“Is that what you’ve come here to say? To tell me I’m feeling sorry for myself?”
“You think you’re the only one who has problems, Jeanine?”
“Of course not.”
“Yeah, I think you do. At least you don’t think of other people’s problems. Annie has problems, too, or maybe you haven’t noticed. Maybe you don’t know Barney’s problems. He’s got a child that may have a life-threatening disease.”
This startled Jeanine. “He never told me that!”
“Did you ever ask? Have you talked with him about his children, about his life, how he’s getting along?”
“Well, no—”
“Well, why haven’t you?” He waited for an answer and saw that she was struggling. “You’ve been too concerned with your own problems, Jeanine. I don’t deny that you’ve got them. All I’m saying is that there’s more to life than what goes on in our own living room.”
“I know that, John.”
“I don’t think you do. Look, Jeanine, I know you’re hurting. I can see it in your eyes. Well, I’m hurting, too.”
Startled by his words, Jeanine parted her lips with surprise. She saw for the first time that his face was filled with strain. There were lines she had not noticed before, not just of fatigue but marks of some inner strain. He was a strong man, able to handle problems as well as anyone she had ever met, but now she noticed a stoop to his shoulders and that his eyes were cloudy with something she could not define.
“What’s the matter, John?”
“Are you sure you can take time from feeling sorry for yourself?” John said sharply. Then he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. Yes, I’ve got problems.”
“What is it? Can you tell me?”
Winslow hesitated. He had been struggling inside his own spirit for days now. He had spoken to no one, but now in the quietness of this room, the anguish that roiled in him suddenly leaped out. “What’s my life, Jeanine? I lead rich drunks around who kill all the animals they can, and most of them stay dead drunk. That’s a real meaningful life, isn’t it?”
Jeanine blinked her eyes with astonishment. She had not seen this side of John Winslow. “It’s not like that, John.”
“Isn’t it? What good do I do?”
“Why . . . you give pleasure to people. That’s worth something, isn’t it? What about the work you do for the Geographical Society?”
“Make a virtue of everything you can in me, Jeanine, but for the last few days I’ve been ready to hang it all up, except there’s no place to run to.” His shoulders seemed to stoop even more, and his voice grew almost inaudible. “Ever since I was a kid, I ran away from reality. Soon as I could, I left my home looking for adventure. Well, I found adventure. And what’s in it? Nothing!”
Involuntarily, almost, Jeanine reached out and put her hands on John’s shoulders just beside his neck. “I hate to see you like this,” she whispered.
The touch of her hands brought a surprise to John Winslow. She was standing very close to him, and he saw something that shocked him. He had been told by Jeb Winslow that there was a tenderness and a softness in this woman. He had never seen it before, but he saw it now. It stirred something in him, and he said quietly, “I’ve made a wreck of my life, Jeanine.”
“So have I.”
The simple admission was more than John had expected. He saw her lips tremble, and that she was a beautiful, desirable woman. All the old longings that were in him suddenly arose. He reached out and pulled her close. She did not resist, and he whispered, “I don’t know what to do. I guess I feel like you did when you were on the Titanic and thought you were going to drown.”
Jeanine was intensely aware of his strong arms as they enclosed her. With all of her misery she was crying out inside for some assurance. She sensed the same thing in him as she reached up and pulled his head down. “You’re going to be all right, John.” She pulled his head forward and kissed him, holding to him tightly. She felt his arms tighten around her with a strength she needed. She had a
lways thought she was a strong woman, but the months of failure had drained her of that confidence. His lips were firm on hers and yet not demanding. It was as if they were exchanging some sort of courage, and she held him tightly.
It was a strange experience for John. She was a beautiful woman, desirable, but always before there had been an iron will in her. Now her soft form pressed against him, and he felt the brokenness he had never felt before. Her lips were soft and gentle and seemed to exert a force of their own. There was but one brief moment and then he lifted his head. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I think I’m so mixed up I don’t know what to do.”
Jeanine was still in the half circle of his arms, and she felt more vulnerable than ever. The softness and gentleness that all of her life she had kept buried deep within seemed to be rising to the surface. “I feel the same way,” she whispered. “I don’t know what it will take to put my life back together.”
“You’ve got to try, Jeanine.”
“No. It’s too late for some things. But it’s not too late for you.”
“Promise me this,” he said. He could smell the faint perfume that she wore, and an urgency arose in him. “Promise me you’ll stay for a few weeks. There’s always time for God to do something.”
“I’m surprised to hear you say that.”
“It’s what my dad and my mother always said. There’s always time for God to do something. I heard it a thousand times. It’s really a matter of courage, Jeanine. I always thought I had plenty of that. I can climb on a wild horse or face a charging buffalo, but to face myself and my life and what it is, I feel weak and washed out.”
Jeanine leaned against him and put her face against his chest. She was aware of his heart beating strongly, and she heard herself whispering, “I’ll wait a few weeks, John. Maybe there is time for God to do something—for both of us.”
****
Annie sat on a fallen log close beside Jeb, so close that their shoulders touched. Both of them were watching the dancers who seemed to be packed together in a phalanx. They had come to witness one of the many ceremonial dances of the Masai. This time the reason was so obscure that neither of them really understood it, but, as always, the ceremony had a dignity and a magnificence that both of them loved to watch.
The dance had begun, and the warriors, spears upright, began hopping, one by one, as they circled. They followed the long, leaping Masai trot that in times of cattle raids and even in wars carried herdsmen three hundred miles or more over the plain. John had once said to Jeb, “There’s no point trying to outrun a Masai. They have legs that can run forever.”
As the two watched, the dancers began to tremble and shake, and two or three stepping out from the main body began to leap straight up and down, their spears glinting in the sun. They shot their chins out as they rose and stamped with their right foot as they touched the ground. The upright spears and the clubs were twirled all around. Some of the dancers were shattering the air as they clapped their hands in rhythm, shouting, “N-ga-ay!” One of the men in the circle began to chant in a guttural voice, and it became a litany. Another began to orate in the background as the young women and the old men who were watching became excited. A fat infant with a necklace of dik-dik bone was bouncing next to Annie on its mother’s bare shoulders.
Some of the elders sat in the hot shadows of the hut as the dancers began to cry out, “UM-Bay-AY-uh!” They said this over again as the dance picked up into a litany. The greased red faces of the dancers glowed with sweat as the men moved in perfect circles. Always there was the glint of the spears as the sun caught them, turning them into diamond brightness. The metal arm coils of the dancers glittered in the sun, and the chant and whooping became at times exultant, at times mournful, but always harmonious.
The dance went on for some time, and finally Annie and Jeb saw with regret that it was over.
“That’s some dance, isn’t it, Annie?”
“Yes. I’ve never seen anything like it. They’re so full of joy and sorrow at the same time. Our people can’t express themselves like that in dance, can they?”
“No. I guess we do it in other ways, but the Masai have a genius for it.”
The two walked around for some time after the dance, and finally they found Chief Mangu standing under the shade of an acacia tree watching the herds as they slowly lowered their heads to eat. “Come,” he said, “and talk with me.”
The two went over. Both of them had learned to admire the chief. His son, Rentai, stood listening carefully to his father. The relationship between the two was close, Annie had noticed, even for a Masai warrior and his son. She saw that the boy’s eyes were fixed earnestly on the tall figure of his father, and from time to time Chief Mangu would look at him with approval.
It was one of those times when Annie realized how fragile her relationship was with the Masai. In anguish she had cried out, “Oh, God, I am so different. How can I make them understand who you are?”
Now they wandered for a time over a small hill called a kopje, which overlooked the plain. Her eyes searched the ground for adders, cobras, and mambas, all of which were to be found in this area. As they moved along, a small antelope appeared, climbing to the crest of a red termite mound. He watched them carefully, then went bounding off in impossible leaps.
They passed several agate-eyed agama lizards that seemed to materialize from nothing. They were a brilliant blue and orange, and their heads were swollen and seemed to be an off shade of pink. As the four passed by, they began to hiss audibly.
Chief Mangu laughed. “They think we are here to get their territory and we might. They’re very good to eat.”
Finally they came to a stop and watched as a Thompson gazelle suddenly appeared. He moved along, dipping his head toward the stiff blades of grass.
“What’s he doing?” Annie whispered.
“He’s got a little gland right by that black spot under his eye,” Jeb said. “He pierces it with the sharp tips of the grass and leaves a waxy black deposit on it. Do you see?”
“Why does he do that?” Annie asked.
“Because he wants to mark his home,” replied Chief Mangu. “It is good for everything that lives to have its place. The animals need to know and so do the Masai.” He turned to the two and said, “What is your place, Mother Annie?”
Annie smiled. “The world is God’s home. He is everywhere. So everywhere I am, my Father is there.”
The statement seemed to excite the interest of Chief Mangu. “That is good,” he said. “We Masai know we have only one place, however. You are a stranger here. You are not of our people.”
“We are all of one people,” Annie said gently.
Mangu considered this and finally said slowly, “Sometimes the black god brings rain, but the red god does not want it. The black god lives in the good rain, and the red god brings the drought, but sometimes I think the black god and the red god are the same god who brings both good and evil.”
“There is but one God, Chief Mangu. The evil that comes is the result of our wrongdoing, but God is a Father who wants the best for His children. He loved the world so much that He sent His only Son, Jesus, to die.”
“Tell me about this Jesus again.”
Annie was shocked. She had felt what seemed to be the indifference of the Masai, even of Chief Mangu, but now out of the blue suddenly he said, “Tell me about Jesus.” She breathed a quick prayer and began speaking evenly but with warmth and obvious love.
Jeb Winslow said nothing. He was praying that Annie would find the right words that would touch the heart of the tall Masai warrior. He heard her tell how the world went bad and was doomed, and how God the Father sent His only Son to die on the cross as a substitute. She spoke for some time, and then Mangu looked at his son.
“I think I could not give my son for anyone.”
“Most of us could not,” Annie said. “But God loves us that much.”
“I would hear more about this Jesus.”
There was a moment’s silence, and Mangu seemed to realize that he had somehow startled the two. He smiled and said, “I have a word for you, Mother Annie.”
“Why, I would appreciate your wisdom, Chief.”
“The white hunter. He is not for you.”
Annie had been shocked earlier, but now she was speechless. She exchanged quick glances with Jeb, who seemed to be equally startled. “What do you mean, Chief?”
“You have eyes for him as a lover, but he is a wanderer. He is not like you. I counsel you to put him out of your heart.”
Annie felt her face flush and put her hand on her neck as if to conceal it. She could not think of one single word to say and finally whispered, “I thank you for your words of counsel, Chief.”
After they got back to the village and separated from the chief and his son, Jeb was strangely quiet. “I think the chief gave you good advice, Annie. I know you’ve been in love with John all your life, but he’s not for you.”
Annie turned to face Jeb. “That’s not all you have to say, is it, Jeb?”
“I’ve said it all. I don’t want your heart to be broken. John’s a fine man, and I think God’s going to do something with him, but you two don’t belong together.” He suddenly smiled and said, “I’ve told you how I love you, Annie. I won’t burden you with it again, but give heed to what the chief says. I think he saw something in you, and I know that I’ll never change.”
Annie watched as Jeb Winslow turned and left. A warmth came to her then, for she realized that he did love her. Such a love as this cannot leave a woman unchanged. It gave her a sudden gush of pleasure as she realized that at least one man in her life loved her for herself. She thought of the years she had enthroned John Winslow as the ideal of manhood, but now looking at Jeb, she thought, He’s stronger than John in many ways.
The White Hunter Page 31