The Girl Who Married an Eagle

by Tamar Myers

  Fortunately Nurse Verna knew the Bible backward and forward; she knew that often the first thing that Jesus did on his travels was to heal the physical afflictions of the locals. If he happened to have been somewhere with a synagogue when it was Sabbath, then he preached. However, you can scour all four Gospels, and you’re not going to find one example of him teaching a conversational French class, and absolutely, positively no examples of him explaining math problems!

  Not that any of this mattered anymore. The wannabe missionary, Miss Julia Newton from Ohio, had just gone and ruined everything. For everyone. Oh yes, Arvin, for you too. No more stars in your crown—one for each soul saved—when you got to heaven.

  And what about you, Reverend Paul Henry Hayes? What about the school for runaway child brides that your wife worked so hard to establish? Well, Nurse Verna said to herself, here’s what: the dilettante with the willowy figure and bottle blond hair has destroyed all your wife’s work in one day.

  If Henry hadn’t been so busy flirting with this pretend missionary, he might have—well, he might have done something different. Frankly, even the Great Distraction would have made a better director. Ah, but Henry’s chickens were about to come home to roost. Tonight was Wednesday night prayer meeting, and it wasn’t only the Almighty who stood a chance of getting an earful.

  TWENTY-TWO

  When Buakane heard the white mamu’s response to Chief Eagle, her heart coalesced, becoming smooth and hard, like a lump of polished ebony within an ebony shell. For a flicker of time she had been led to feel hope, excitement, a stirring of the mind. Perhaps—who knew how, but perhaps—someday she might have been be able to ignite that feeling in Grasshopper Paddle as well! But such foolish thoughts those had been. What a vain, selfish girl Buakane was, to even have thought that she could have a future here under the white man’s protection. How could she have possibly imagined living so close to the man whom she had shamed and betrayed?

  As soon as she was certain that the chief and his band of warriors had turned for home, Buakane ran from the classroom building and threw herself on the ground beneath a mango tree. Each step, each movement, jolted her wound; she might just as well have been dancing on sword blades. Nevertheless, when she reached the hard-packed earth beneath the canopy, she commenced rolling on the ground. Was she oblivious to the pain by then? No. Did she welcome it? Yes.

  She began keening in full, agonizing voice, as one would do when confronted with the loss of a parent. This was to be her last indulgence, this traditional expression of grief. It was to be false grief; hearts that are made from ebony are so dense that there is no room in them for anything. Not even for manufactured grief.

  “Buakane, stop it,” the young white mamu commanded as she swooped in low like a bird of prey. Like an eagle.

  “Get up,” the white woman said. “Everything will be all right.”

  Buakane got up. But first she rolled free of the white woman’s hands so that she stood beyond her reach.

  It was Buakane’s cowardice that was to blame for everything that had gone wrong. If she had submitted to her father’s will and gone through with the marriage, there would have been no hyena attack. No gaping wound. No promise of knowledge, no hint of meanings attached to secret symbols in things called books, and then to have these promises snatched away.

  If Buakane had not acted like such a quivering child, the white mamu’s life would not be in danger. The only way to save the innocent—yet stupid—creature was for Buakane to return to her village posthaste and to prostrate herself at the feet of her husband, her master, Chief Eagle. But only a real fool, or perhaps someone not right in the head, might consider that Buakane actually had a choice.

  The time for choices had passed. Perhaps at one point her freedom could have been purchased by Mushihi Station—at a great price, to be sure. However, when the white mamu declared that she would rather lie with a male dog than with one of the highest-ranking chiefs in the entire Bashilele tribe—well, an insult of this magnitude could be avenged only with goats and pigs and flocks of chickens. Perhaps even more of the same for many years.

  Buakane glanced around and saw that the other girls were still inside the school building, their eyes wide with fear. For once they were silent. There was no sign of Monsieur François, the Muluba teacher. Buakane dipped her head in farewell to the white woman before speaking.

  “Mamu, we laugh and we cry, for the healing help on my leg, and the food I ate, and places where I slept. However, the time has come for me to return to my responsibilities. Stay well.” She turned and commenced limping away in the same direction that she’d seen Chief Eagle leave.

  “Stop!” The white woman’s voice rang out sharply.

  Buakane eventually stopped, but only when the white woman, who had the use of two healthy legs, ran ahead of her and got in her way.

  “Think of the other girls,” the mamu said. “They were very brave to seek sanctuary here, but if they see you give in to the chief ’s demands, they could lose courage. Buakane, please think for a moment about what would happen to them if they returned.”

  “Aiyee, Mamu, did you not understand my husband’s words? He will kill you if you do not return me to him.”

  The white woman shook her head. This set her long hair into motion of the most bewitching kind. Adding to the bizarreness of her appearance was the color of that hair: mukunze, which in this case was somewhere between that of dried elephant grass and gourd blossoms.

  “Buakane, listen to me,” the mamu said. “He cannot kill me until after independence day. That is still a long way off. Because if he did, the Belgians would send soldiers into the village and—and—I do not know the word in Tshiluba. But the soldiers would take him away, and he would never be chief again.”

  “Truly?”

  “I speak only words of truth.”

  “E, but even so,” Buakane said, “you know nothing of Chief Eagle and his ways.”

  “I have met Chief Eagle, and I have looked into his eyes. Tell me, child, have you looked into a Belgian official’s eyes?”

  Child? Buakane felt like she’d been punched in the soft spot behind both knees. Instead of making her angry, as it should have, being called a child made her feel like a child. Suddenly her resolve was gone, and she felt helpless and confused.

  “Tch,” Buakane said. “I will return so as to be a good example to the other girls.”

  “We laugh and we cry,” said the white woman.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The white woman named Julia Elaine Newton stumbled back down the path to her house, her eyes blinded by tears. The bumbling outsider from Oxford, Ohio, hardly noticed the cluster of bushes that enclosed the five deceased members of the Hayes family. The silly, overeager girl who was always getting herself into a mess simply had no business trying to meddle in the lives of others, especially in such a foreign place, and at such a volatile time.

  As Julia kept berating herself, the tears fell faster and faster, and her movements became more erratic. All she could think to do was to get back to the house that Henry had built and crawl back into bed. When she was a little girl, she used to believe that if she closed her eyes and wished for something hard enough, she could make that something happen. So she staggered on now, like a drunken sprinter, until the sound of chanting behind her caused her to turn.

  A flock of schoolboys, some wielding sticks, had been following at a distance of about twenty yards. When she stopped, they also stopped, and their chants gave way to whooping and hollering. The fact that they had been mocking her did not make them bad, for this sort of behavior was the African way. After all, this is what she had signed up for. All things Africa.

  “I’m game for anything,” Julia had bragged to her closest friends back in Ohio. “Bring it on.”

  Never mind that she’d been warned about the cultural differences. “When you fall, the Africans will laugh first and then ask if you are all right. Or perhaps they will only laugh.”

  �
�American kids can be plenty rude too,” Julia had said.

  “It isn’t just the children who will laugh,” Mamu One of Us, her language teacher in Cincinnati, had tried to explain.

  The thing is, when a hardheaded recent college graduate has already made up her mind about something, all the words in the world aren’t going to penetrate her eardrums. Of course now Julia could hear! The truant schoolboys with their sticks were like salt in her wounds.

  Julia cupped her hands to her mouth. “Boys,” she shouted, “go back to school.”

  The boys found this hysterically funny. One young smart aleck, who was wearing a shirt that contained more holes than fabric, cupped his hands to his mouth and parroted the words back at Julia.

  “Boy-eez, guh beck ta stool!”

  On another occasion this same cheeky kid, who couldn’t have been more than seven, would have had the opposite effect on Julia. On another occasion Julia would have thought him cute. Precious, even.

  The thought of this reduced Julia to a red-faced, quivering blob of self-pity. Surely that is how she must have appeared to them. For from that moment they became even crueler in their taunts—and these were supposed to be Christian natives! These were not the half-naked little savages whom she’d seen along the road on the drive up from Belle Vue.

  “I quit!” Julia screamed at the monsters in English. “I can’t take it anymore!” She dried her eyes on her sleeve and ran as fast as she could in the dowdy missionary dress she’d been forced to wear. She did not stop until she had slammed the door to her house behind her.

  Thank heavens Cripple was nowhere to be seen, because Julia might well have taken some of her frustration and anger out on her. As soon as she caught her breath, Julia shoved the little chest of drawers that Henry built against the door and threw herself upon the bed. There she sobbed herself to sleep.

  The sun was low in the sky when she awoke to a fierce headache and a painful rapping at the door. She closed her eyes again, hoping to ignore the rapping and go back to sleep. Gradually her foggy brain began to recall why she was lying on her bed fully dressed and wearing her shoes. Meanwhile the rapping never let up.

  “Julia, Julia, please, you have to open up.”

  It was Henry. Oh Lord, what should she do now? It was his mission station, his wife’s legacy that she had bungled up, so he had a right to be angry with her. Really angry. Except that he didn’t sound angry; he sounded concerned.

  Well, concerned was almost worse. Henry should be angry because Julia deserved his anger. And so did the Mission Board. The Mission Board had no business sending an immature college student to perform such sensitive work—okay, so she’d graduated, but only recently. Nurse Verna and Reverend Arvin Doyer, they had both been acutely aware of that. Julia had read that on their faces the moment they laid eyes on her. Why couldn’t the Mission Board have seen that she was unfit?

  “Julia,” Henry persisted, “I’m not leaving until you open the door.”

  “God, please help me,” she prayed as she dragged herself off the bed.

  Then vain, foolish woman that she was, Julia caught a glimpse of herself in her hand mirror. Her reflection displayed bloodshot eyes and a blotched face deeply indented with creases from her pillowcase. Her blond hair—which apparently disgusted the natives—looked as if it had been combed by an angry cat. There were even clumps of hair in her mouth.

  “Henry,” she called, “can you please wait in the dining room for me? And can you face the kitchen?”

  “No. Not until I’ve seen that you’re okay.”

  “Oh, all right,” she said at last. She pushed aside her hair one final time before opening the door.

  Immediately the lock of wayward hair fell back into her face, as if brushed there by an unseen hand. Was it possible, Julia wondered, that Satan used our bodies to help us fail at spiritual tasks? If so, that wasn’t playing fair. But who ever said that Satan played fair?

  Finally, Julia stood in front of Henry, stripped of all pretense. She looked hideous, she smelled bad, and above all, she was a miserable failure. She had ruined the one thing Henry prized most apart from the Great Distraction.

  So then, when his strong arms enveloped her in a tender embrace, her first thought was that he meant to squeeze her until it hurt. Literally. Henry didn’t believe in hitting, especially not women. How clever of him to find another way to enact physical violence upon her person. How deserving she was. She would not fight back,

  “Praise God that you’re all right,” he said, and then released her from his arms.

  Julia was dumbfounded. She stood there, mute and bewildered, gazing up into his eyes, until he remembered his half of the bargain.

  “Yes, of course,” he said. “I’ll go sit in the dining room, facing the kitchen. Take as long as you need, but you will need to have an overnight bag and your passport.”

  “What?” Surely she had heard wrong.

  “We’re not sure it’s going to be safe for you here. Not until we can sort this out with the Belgians. So tomorrow morning, first thing, I’m taking you over to Dikenga Station. It’s about fifty miles from here, and in Baluba territory. Chief Eagle wouldn’t dare try anything that far from home.”

  Julia’s ears rang; she knew not whether it was from her headache or from having heard further of the enormous gravity of what she had done. It was probably the headache, morphing its way into a proper migraine.

  “I was only trying to defend that child, to protect her from that evil monster.” Tears flowed freely again. “I am so sorry for not holding my tongue, for not acting like a Christian.” She turned her head away from him as far as she could.

  Henri grabbed her shoulders and shook her gently until she looked at him. “I know. What you said could have slipped out from anyone. No one is blaming you, Julia.”

  “They’re not?”

  “No,” Henry said. “Now hurry, get your things. You’re bunking with Clementine tonight.”

  Julia scurried. She didn’t even bother to change into a different dress, although she did throw a clean dress and underthings into the bag. But it wasn’t until she was about to pull the front door shut behind her that she remembered—with much shame—her new friend Cripple, and Cripple’s curiously named baby girl, Pierre Jardin.

  “What about Cripple?” she demanded.

  “That’s already been taken care of. As it happens, Nurse Verna has an assistant named Many Boils, whom she trusts with her life. Oh yes, I mean that literally. Many Boils is a Muluba—although not from Dikenga Station. I’ve already taken Cripple and Pierre Jardin over to stay with Many Boils and his wife tonight. They’ll be riding along with us tomorrow.”

  “Oh. Henry, can I just—”

  “No,” he said. “It’s going to be dark soon; we need to get over to my house.” And that was that.

  Except that it wasn’t. Supper that night was fried Plumrose hot dogs—from a tin, no less—and pancakes served with Lyle’s Golden Syrup and Blue Band Margarine—also from a tin! But it was a miserable affair because Clementine kept entirely to herself, unless forced to do otherwise. And what fun is there in talking to someone—especially someone as bright as Clementine—if you know that they are responding only because they have to say something back when spoken to?

  Perhaps midway through the meal, Clementine dropped her fork on her plate so that it created a great clatter. When she was sure that she had her father’s attention, she dabbed both corners of her mouth with a heavily starched napkin and cleared her tiny, bird-size throat.

  “Yes, Clemey,” Henry said, without looking up.

  “Papa, if Auntie Julia really is blown up with arrogance like the Goodyear Blimp, and she decides to keep Buakane here, will you protect Auntie Julia with hunting rifles?”

  “Darling, you know that I can’t spill human blood.”

  “What if it was me, Papa? Would you protect me, your little darling?”

  Henry emitted something between a sigh and a groan. “Clemey, please
. You know the answer.”

  With that, Clementine stared back at her food and remained in stony silence for the rest of the meal.

  At least all things come to end, Julia thought. Eventually, the little girl would be put to bed, and then maybe she and Henry could resume talking about this huge mess she had made. But oh, how unrealistically optimistic that was. No sooner had the table boy collected the last of the coffee cups than Julia heard a knock on the door.

  Henry jumped to his feet. When he answered the door, Reverend Doyer and Nurse Verna practically mowed him over on their way in.

  “Reverend Hayes,” Reverend Doyer said, “a serious matter has been brought to my attention that concerns you.”

  “With all due respect, Reverend Doyer,” Henry said, “did we not beat this dead horse well into the ground earlier today?”

  “No, sir,” Reverend Doyer said. Then with the authority of a much older man, he headed straight to the table and sat in Henry’s vacated chair. “This matter has nothing to do with the most astonishing case of immaturity that the Mission Board has ever foisted upon us. No, sir, this has nothing to do with the juvenile delinquent, Miss Julia Newton; this matter concerns my wife, Nurse Verna.”

  “I see,” said Henry, sounding as if he did.

  Perhaps that was the case. Thank heavens, at least, it wasn’t about the Juvenile Delinquent, who just happened to be sitting at the same table. Why, Julia thought, Henry hadn’t said anything in her defense was—well, it was just indefensible! Then again, Henry apparently wasn’t the sort who defended. Imagine telling his own daughter that he wouldn’t defend her, even if her life was at stake.

  “The child should not hear this,” Nurse Verna said.

  “I have a name,” Clementine said. As usual she wore one of her mother’s white cotton shirt dresses, bunched over a belt at the waist. Tonight she was also wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat with a wreath of pink silk roses around the crown. Unless she spoke, it was hard to tell that there really was a body under the getup.