Burning Embers

by Hannah Fielding

  Coral looked around her. On her right, the polished cedar doors to the library stood open, and she walked into a room she did not remotely recognize. The rich brown paneling, her father’s heavy leather Chesterfield sofas, heirlooms which had been brought out to Kenya all the way from England, the worn Persian rugs, the light hanging curtains that blocked out the sun on hot afternoons — everything that had made it Walter Sinclair’s den — had vanished. An obviously feminine hand had swept over the room with a magic wand, transforming it completely. The modern carpets that dressed its floor, the pastel paint that covered its walls, the soft-hued colors of the curtains and loose covers on the furniture — everything breathed a woman’s exquisite taste. Coral hated it.

  “Your father was a great man,” said Aluna, “but like every human being, he had his weaknesses. His was called Eve, the temptress who was the ruin of Adam. It had always been that way for Bwana Walter. Among my people, wise men say that with ropes made from a woman’s hair, one can easily tie an elephant. A wife must keep hold of her husband with smiles and love and good food. Otherwise he strays. Your mother was one of these modern women, and she couldn’t keep a man like that. He never knew how to resist a woman, and because of the last one, he nearly damned his soul.”

  “What d’you mean, Aluna?” asked Coral, alarmed by the lugubrious tone her yaha had adopted.

  The older woman’s face became closed and reserved like a lump of clay. Only her eyes, peeping beneath heavy lids, were still lively. “Well,” she mumbled, “it’s a long story. I will tell it to you someday, but for now, you must forget all this and rest.”

  They returned to the big hall where Robin had just walked in, followed by Moses and two other servants dressed in long white robes who were bringing in Coral’s luggage.

  “Take Miss Sinclair’s bags upstairs,” ordered the manager. Then, turning toward the old nanny, he addressed her firmly while accompanying his words with his most disarming smile. “Aluna, would you show them up to your mistress’s apartment? I must have a word with her.”

  “My missy is tired by her long journey,” retorted the servant sullenly. “What you have to tell her can wait, I’m sure.”

  Robin Danvers ignored Aluna’s bad temper. He gave her an affectionate but patronizing pat on the back. “I’ve no doubt you’re in a great hurry to be alone with your missy, but there are some issues that I’m afraid can’t wait. I promise not to keep her too long,” he added slowly, as though he were handling an awkward child.

  Turning to Coral, he urged her to follow him into what had once been her mother’s sewing room. Like the other rooms, this one had been transformed beyond recognition. From a private living area, intimate and cozy, it had been turned into a functional room with steel filing cabinets and other modern business equipment, a cold and impersonal office.

  Robin pulled up a chair for Coral. He sat down opposite her, behind the imposing mahogany desk that once had belonged to the White Pirate and now looked strangely discordant in its new surroundings. She gave a faint start that did not escape the manager’s notice. He smiled apologetically.

  “After your father’s passing, Mrs. Sinclair thought it would be easier for the running of the estate if I was given access to the documents and files concerning the property as a whole, and we turned this room temporarily into an office. Together, your father and I had taken care of the economics and finances, while I alone had assumed the practical side of the administration. Now these tasks are entirely your responsibility, and it is for you to decide whether or not you would like me to go on with the management of the estate.”

  Coral nodded vaguely. Accounting, finance, administration — all these were terms with which she had no experience. Suddenly, she felt drained. She had but one desire: to be left alone so she could have a chance to assimilate this abrupt merging of her past with her present and most probably her future.

  “Can’t these business matters wait until tomorrow?” she asked wearily. “It’s been a long day, and I’m rather tired. I would like to put off this conversation until the morning, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’m sorry if I’ve inconvenienced you, but earlier on today you seemed eager to get stuck in as soon as possible. I’m off to Nairobi tomorrow at dawn and won’t return before next week.”

  “I see.” Coral suddenly wondered what the existence of a new Mrs. Sinclair might mean for the estate. “Is there anything important that needs attention and that you think I should know about before you return?”

  “Not really. Everybody here knows their job. As I told you at lunch, I keep an eagle eye on matters, and the estate runs pretty much like clockwork.”

  “Super. I think we can resume this conversation on your return.” She smiled.

  “Before you go, I need to hand these over to you personally,” he said as he left his chair and walked to the big, old-fashioned wooden safe. He opened the chest and took out a set of keys. “These belong to the basement rooms. I have no idea why your father was so insistent that you should have them. All I know is that on the eve of his death, Mr. Sinclair came to see me at the pavilion at the bottom of the garden which used to be my office, where I was working late that night. He looked ill, but at the time I wondered if perhaps he had been drinking. ‘Take these keys, they are the basement keys,’ he said to me. ‘Keep them safely until my daughter, Coral, arrives.’ When he left me, I had no idea I would never see him alive again. He died that night in his sleep…a heart attack.”

  They remained silent for a while. Coral examined the keys. Three were approximately the same size, and one was considerably larger. They were held together on a small key ring inlaid with little turquoise beads. “Which rooms do these keys belong to?” she eventually asked as she put them into her pocket.

  “With the exception of the wine cellar and some other basement rooms of no great importance that Mrs. Sinclair has filled with a load of old junk, I can’t think of any rooms these keys may open.”

  “I shall ask Aluna. She has been here since the early days and knows all the nooks and crannies of the house.”

  “You may prefer to wait for my return before exploring the basement. I’d be happy to accompany you.”

  Coral suppressed an impatient sigh. Danvers’ over-officious manner was beginning to grate a little. She stood up and held out her hand to the manager, deciding to humor him. “Thank you, Robin, for your help. I may come and find you later.”

  “One other thing,” he added as Coral was leaving the room. “Mrs. Sinclair is away for a couple of days. That’ll give you time to settle down and acquaint yourself again with the house and with the neighborhood. I imagine it’s changed quite dramatically since you left. Tourists have invaded the place these last years. Shall I accompany you upstairs?”

  “No, I think I may be able to find my way alone, thank you.”

  “I hope you’ll stay with us for a while,” said the manager as she reached the stairs. “This house needs love. In many ways, it’s been neglected for too long.”

  Coral turned around and met the young man’s bright and laughing eyes. He had a devastating smile; pity he lacked that je ne sais quoi that would have given him the distinction he sorely needed.

  She started up the free-hanging staircase, trailing her fingers along the polished acacia banister, and slowly, with an almost religious reverence, climbed the two stories that separated her from the nursery. Reaching the landing, she went along the corridor that ended with the three rooms she had occupied as a child, that is, when she was not gamboling on the beach. Coral stopped in front of her old bedroom, her hand poised on the handle, holding her breath.

  “Aah…there you are, my princess!” Aluna had heard Coral’s footsteps and opened the door suddenly, making the young woman jump. “What could he have had to say to you that was so important it couldn’t have waited until the morning? Come quickly now. I’ve run you a hot bath. I’ve opened your suitcases and put away your clothes: the dresses here, the blouses and the trousers
here. Your underwear and nightwear will have to go in another cupboard. You’ve more clothes than you used to…but, of course, you’re a young lady now.”

  Aluna was bustling about and talking all at once like in the old days. The older woman’s excitement was infectious, and Coral suddenly felt her spirits lifting. She grabbed hold of her yaha and carried her away in a crazy waltz around the room.

  “Enough, enough, please, Miss Coral!” Aluna cried out. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  The young woman released her and went on twirling on her own until, tired and out of breath, she threw herself on the bed. “It’s marvelous to be back,” she said, elated as she stretched herself out, taking in the comfortable, familiar surroundings.

  “The Lord be praised. I thought I’d never lay my eyes on my little malaika again.”

  “Dear Aluna. Did you really believe I would forget you, Mpingo, my childhood? Sooner or later I was bound to come back.” She rose to her feet and planted two big kisses on the woman’s wrinkled cheeks.

  “I used to tell myself that again and again, so as not to lose hope,” said her yaha in a dreamy voice. Her tone suddenly changed. “Here, we are talking while your bath is getting cold. Hurry up, my little one. Give me your clothes. I bet that out there they were never washed as white as when Aluna washed them.”

  Coral answered her with a crystalline laugh as she disappeared into the bathroom. There she lingered in her bath, enjoying the sensuous warmth of the water on her body, playing absentmindedly with the bubbles. She chattered away happily, relating to the old servant anecdotes of her teenage years, and Aluna put in a hoarse chuckle from time to time as she went about her work in the adjoining room.

  “What sort of a woman is Cybil Sinclair?” Coral hopped out of the tub and slipped on a bathrobe of thick, blue cotton. “I’d never heard of her until today when Robin mentioned her. Daddy never wrote anything about — ” She came into the bedroom and gave a start. Aluna was standing next to the bed, holding the set of keys and peering at them as though she was trying to work out what they were. Coral went up to the woman and took the keys firmly from her hands. “Thank you, Aluna,” she said gently. “These are mine. They probably slipped from my pocket while I was stretching on the bed.”

  “Where did you get those keys?” said the yaha in a trembling voice. She looked angry.

  “Come now, Aluna, what’s come over you?” Coral answered, evading the question.

  “Where did you get those keys?” Aluna repeated, her black eyes narrowing.

  “Does it matter where I got them?” Coral asked, shoving the keys into her handbag. “Anyway, what is so extraordinary about these keys?”

  “They are the accursed keys of a place that is taboo,” whispered the African woman, staring up at Coral intensely. “Your father was under a spell from that devil and should not have kept his evil treasure locked away.”

  “Daddy’s treasure? What do you mean, Aluna? What treasure?”

  Aluna’s eyes now had a faraway blank look about them, and she started to mutter to herself. “He should never have let him into this house and kept his cursed trophies here. Aluna should have stopped him. That devil betrayed him, and my poor master died because of his evil.”

  “My father died of a heart attack,” answered Coral in an even voice, but Aluna had ceased to listen. Her arms dangled limply at her sides, and she hummed some sort of unintelligible litany, shaking her head from side to side. She went round the room twice, walking right past Coral, opened the door, and left the room. The young woman’s eyes followed her as she disappeared around the corner at the end of the dark corridor, then Coral closed the door and sat on her bed, deep in thought. Aluna was forever talking about devils, curses, and sorcery. She had forgotten all the mumbo jumbo that was part of everyday life in this part of the world. It used to drive her mother crazy, especially that her father was a great believer in the occult. She had a sneaking suspicion that he dabbled in magic himself and had many acquaintances, if not friends, among the Africans who were in touch with witch doctors and other so-called sorcerers.

  She recalled her earlier conversation with Robin, trying to remember what he had actually said about Aluna. Was the poor woman really going out of her mind, or were these simply the wild imaginings of a superstitious soul? The old servant, faced with the sudden and inexplicable death of her beloved master, must have drawn her own conclusions on the tragedy. Who was this devil — a witch doctor? Coral had heard that these witch doctors held great power over the people. Once again she remembered how her father had been a great believer in voodoo and witchcraft.

  It was almost dusk; shadows had stealthily gathered in the room. Coral stood up at last. Troubled by dark imaginings, she had forgotten the time. Though it was not cold, she shivered. Wrapping her arms around her shoulders, she hugged herself and pulled up the collar of her bathrobe before walking onto the balcony. Leaning against the old banister, a memory of a little girl with sun-bleached plaits who used to stick her head through the rails to get a better view of the garden dispelled her gloomy thoughts. Aluna used to braid the young Coral’s hair, and the little girl had asked her mother why her yaha sometimes wove so many different colorful beads and flowers into her own hair. “Many Kenyans love to decorate their hair, so Aluna makes you look pretty with ribbons instead, darling,” Angela Sinclair had said.

  A bird struck up his evening song. Others joined him, until the whole garden was alive with their twittering. She loved this hour. It filled her with a strange nostalgia, and as the light changed from amber to amethyst, she stood there gazing into the wilderness, watching the far-off landscape gradually slip into the night.

  Coral thought of Dale, and a wave of bitterness swept over her. Her heart had been full of hope and romantic dreams. There was nothing she wouldn’t have done for him. A cottage and a lot of love would have been sufficient to make her happy, but her dreams had been shattered by harsh reality. She thought of her father, and the ghost of her parents’ old quarrels loomed in her memory. She remembered her mother’s reproaches to him. “You’ll go after anything in a skirt.” Were all men the same?

  Her stranger’s face came unbidden to her mind. She could see his features quite distinctly: sparkling enigmatic eyes, well-defined lips, and determined jaw. She was seized by a curious desire to see him again, talk to him, get to know him better. They had only exchanged a few superficial words, but something unidentifiable in the attitude of that man had instinctively fascinated her. The black Cadillac and the woman’s bejeweled arm came back to her. He was obviously attached. Reluctantly, she dismissed him from her mind.

  Presently, the sun completely sank below the horizon. The great equatorial night had fallen. There, under the vigilant stars, lay the sleeping jungle, abandoned and mysterious, perhaps revealing its essence more in shadow than in daylight.

  The noises Coral heard were all familiar to her and had been part of her childhood. For a fleeting moment, she closed her eyes, trying to identify each sound in the stillness of the night. It was as though she had never left. There was the sibilant whisper of mosquitoes, the plaintive song of frogs in neighboring ponds, the muffled squeaking of bats, while in the distance, the calling for prayer by unseen muezzins echoed out from the top of their mosques.

  “I say, Miss Coral, you’ll catch your death out here dressed in that bathrobe. The nights get cold, and you don’t want the damp to get into your young bones.” Aluna entered the room carrying a tray loaded with cold meats, salads, and various fruit. She set it down and hurried onto the balcony, shaking her head disapprovingly. “A young lady of your age should know how to take care of herself,” she chided, “but, oh no, not you. You were always one to tempt the devil, as they say. You were climbing the highest trees, sliding down banisters, swimming out to sea without ever thinking of how to come back.” Aluna returned to the bedroom to bring her mistress her night clothes. “Here, wear these,” she ordered as she handed over a set of pajamas and a dressing
gown.

  Coral followed her into the room. The older woman was her normal self now. It was as if the episode of the keys had not occurred, as though Coral had imagined the whole thing.

  “I thought you’d prefer to eat up here tonight, instead of in the dining room,” she said. “You never did like that dining room. Stuffy, you used to say, stuffy and gloomy. You were right. It’s stuffier and gloomier now.”

  “I’m not very hungry,” Coral confessed. “We ate an enormous lunch, and I’m not in the habit of eating more than once a day.”

  “You’ll soon lose those bad habits with our clean sea air, young lady. There’s none of that nasty pollution you have in London.”

  Coral laughed. “Aluna, will you stop treating me like a child?”

  They returned to the balcony. In companionable silence, Coral sat in the rocking chair, while Aluna settled down opposite her in one of the high-backed cane chairs. The heavy scent of magnolias filled the evening air. The young woman closed her eyes, leaned her head against the back of her seat, and rocked herself slowly. Meanwhile, Aluna peeled a mango that she sliced and arranged prettily on a plate of bone china before leaning across to hand it to her mistress. Coral thanked her with a faint smile, and still rocking herself lazily, savored the succulent fruit. This was bliss…Almost like old times.

  Suddenly, Coral sat up with a start. The insistent, monotonous, and haunting rhythm of a solitary tom-tom sounded from faraway, making the night shudder. Coral sought to recall what could have occasioned the ceremony. Was it the Sabbath of young virgins? The preliminary ceremony to a funeral? Or…She shivered.

  “It’s only the celebration of the full moon,” reassured Aluna.

  Coral relaxed.

  “It’s getting cold and late. Your bedtime has long past. Come now, Aluna will tuck you in and will tell you a story — one of those strange tales of our land. You were so fond of them as a child, remember?”