by Vered Ehsani
When the ship anchored in the harbor, Bobby and I joined Cilla on deck to stare at the port of Mombasa. It was little more than a large, ramshackle village, full of commotion, the narrow streets plugged with carts, animals, and people.
“Isn’t it a handsome place?” Cilla gushed as if we were staring into the pram of a pleasantly plump little baby.
“If by handsome, you mean primitive, then yes, absolutely,” I said sharply.
Cilla just laughed off my critical summation of the town, village, or whatever it was called. “It’s really quite lovely close up. And aren’t the fishing boats adorable?”
“I’m sure,” I said. “Those nets full of dead fish must have a truly adorable smell.”
Bobby stood on his toes—he was a rather small fellow even for a twelve-year-old—and asked dubiously, “Is that where we’re going to live?”
“I should hope not,” I muttered. “Is Nairobi anything like this?”
“Oh no, of course not,” Cilla said with a dismissive wave of one gloved hand. “It’s not nearly as developed as the port. Although my godfather wrote that they’ve just finished setting up the first all-purpose store. Thrilling, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” I said, noticing in myself a certain uncharacteristic faintness at the prospect of living in such a place that could only just now boast one store.
Snap out of this, I instructed myself firmly. You’ve been through worse, and after what happened in West Africa with an elephant-sized Praying Mantis, you should be able to handle anything.
I straightened my back and my shoulders in response to that thought, but wondered how the others would react. I could only imagine Lilly’s reaction, if this had been mine.
Bobby’s quick little mind must have reached a similar conclusion, for he spun about and went running off, gleefully shouting, “Mama! Lilly! Guess what?”
Getting to shore was quite the ordeal. The rowboat was sound enough, and the sailors decently mannered. Sadly, the same couldn’t be said for Mrs. Steward.
“Robert Steward Senior, this is abominable, unacceptable, and entirely your fault,” Mrs. Steward screeched as five sailors attempted to assist her down the ladder and into our rowboat. They were having a difficult time despite their burly muscles and stout sea legs. They may have battled the treacherous ocean and the beasts within, but they clearly had never encountered a creature quite like Mrs. Steward.
“Poor thing,” Cilla whispered to me as she put up a white parasol over us to block out the fierce sun.
I wasn’t so compassionately inclined, even if Mrs. Steward’s countenance was as dismal as if an executioner awaited her on the shore.
Small waves bounced us around as the sailors heaved and hoed at the oars. Moist air heavy with salt brushed by us but rather than refreshing me, it left a sticky film on my skin that combined with the heat in an intolerable way. My clothes seemed to tighten around me, trapping even more warmth inside their folds.
At that moment, I could only be grateful that my long hair was straighter than a pencil and tied back in a bun. Lilly’s beautiful curls, draped so artistically around her face and shoulders, were rapidly transforming into a frizzy nest.
As we approached the shore, we were assailed by the combined stench of dead fish (from the nets of the adorable boats), drying seaweed, decomposing garbage, and the excrement of the numerous seabirds flying close overhead, their plaintive cries intermingling with the slapping of water against the rocky shore.
When the rowboat bumped up against a rickety wooden dock, Mrs. Steward couldn’t climb out fast enough. No sailor needed to offer her assistance as she clambered up the ladder and marched down the dock, the wood creaking ominously beneath her.
“Mrs. Steward, I wouldn’t go wandering off alone,” Cilla called after her.
“I am perfectly capable of managing, young lady,” Mrs. Steward shouted, just before a crowd of dark children materialized out of the shadows and surrounded her, grabbing at her flouncy sleeves. She spun around, trying to find a way through the mass of bodies pressed up against her, her lacy purse clutched tightly to her chest. “Mr. Steward. Mr… ROBERT!”
We somehow made it out of the port area with most of our wits and belongings intact. Mrs. Steward remained tight-lipped the entire ride from the port to the train station. Mr. Steward chewed on his bottom lip, probably praying that conditions would improve when we reached Nairobi, and I didn’t have the heart to inform him differently.
When we boarded the train—a cranky old steam engine encased in thick, black metal—I had great hopes, for surely we would be able to view first-hand the famous African wildlife and the wide expanse of grassland. Indeed we did, but the novelty soon wore out along with our nerves and our rattling bones.
By the time the steam train pulled into the Nairobi train station the next day, none of us had energy to comment on the limited facilities. The station was nothing more than a long, dusty platform tucked against a small brick building and surrounded by curious goat herders and quick-tongued tradesmen.
As we stumbled out of the train, packages and trunks trailed behind us. Keeping a close watch on her items, Mrs. Steward shouted after Bobby (who was crawling under the train), complained to Mr. Steward (who did a brilliant job acting deaf), and ordered around the porter who had the great misfortune to be helping us. A skinny young man, he struggled to balance the six large, colorful hatboxes Mrs. Steward had stacked in his slim arms.
“Really, where are these people when one needs them?” Mrs. Steward complained as our luggage was piled about us. Evidently, one porter wouldn’t suffice.
I did my best to pretend I didn’t know her. Instead, I re-read the note Cilla had given me. It was covered with Prof. Runal’s scrawled words, blotches, and smudges of ink.
My dear Beatrice, I’ve made arrangements for a guide. I’m convinced he will prove very useful to you in your quest to discover and document. Good luck. I’m sure you’ll have a marvelous time. Sincerely, Runal.
Prof. Runal’s note was, as per his habit, purposefully vague in the unlikely event it should fall into the wrong hands. What hands those might be, I had no idea and the good professor always declined to elaborate whenever I broached the subject.
While I held the note, I glanced about me and noticed a tall, dark man sailing through the crowd. He stood at least a head taller than the next tallest man and he moved effortlessly through the dense crowd of people and packages. I would have removed myself from his path if it hadn’t been obvious that his path was directed straight for me.
As my guide—for who else could it be?—approached, I studied him from under the shadow of my sunhat. His skin was darker than the other East Africans I’d seen so far, and pierced and painted with startling markings of swirls and dots on his strong, angular face and along his muscular arms and chest.
When he was a few paces away, a breeze carried his scent to my overly acute olfactory senses. I breathed in spice, warm earth, wood smoke, and something a little wild.
I wasn’t the only person observing his passage. Indeed, there wasn’t a female in the vicinity who didn’t stare at him, for he was strikingly handsome. Even men couldn’t help but watch him with various degrees of admiration and jealousy.
I peered upward, my hat sliding back off my sweaty forehead. His head was shaved of all hair, which made his eyes all the more startling: fierce, pale-brown, and not intimidated in the least by those who thought themselves the colonial masters of this land. He had the muscles to match those eyes. Now here was a man with a proper build for carrying heavy loads, but I strongly suspected he was no one’s servant.
“Miss Knight,” he said, as if we were already acquainted. His voice was as deep as his skin color and rough, perhaps from little usage. But when used, it commanded attention.
“It’s Mrs. Knight, actually,” I corrected him.
He shrugged, as if the details of my name were unimportant.
After an appropriate pause that lengthened into uncomfortable silence, I gesture
d to him. “And you are…?”
His head tipped slightly to the side, considering my question, and his full lips shifted into the slightest of smiles. Finally he replied, “You may call me Kam, if you wish.”
What an odd sort of response, I thought.
“Very well, Mr. Kam,” I began.
“No,” he corrected. “Just Kam.”
“I see,” I said and studied him closely.
I avoided his piercing gaze and instead squinted as some of the markings—runes of a sort I was unfamiliar with—shifted about his skin. No one else noticed, of course.
“How remarkable,” I murmured.
“Yes, it is,” Mrs. Steward said. “Finally, a porter for my trunk. You.” She snapped her fingers at the giant standing before me. “My trunk is that one over there with the pink trim. And do try to be careful with it. I don’t want everything more of a mess than it already is.”
Kam glanced at her, one tapered eyebrow sliding up as he stared down at the plump little woman ordering him about. From his expression, she might’ve been a tiny poodle yapping at his heels. As if he’d said enough by saying nothing, he turned his attention back to me.
“Well, the nerve,” Mrs. Steward huffed. “I certainly hope the other natives are better mannered.”
I cringed while the porter juggling the hatboxes almost dropped them, his expression shifting almost as rapidly as the boxes. He lowered his face, but not before I saw the hurt. A breath later, he looked up with a forced, empty smile and a slightly confused appearance, as if he hadn’t really understood her.
Kam, however, was unfazed. His generous mouth shifted slightly, perhaps in amusement or disdain or both.
“I apologize on her behalf,” I said softly, not sure what the man might do to Mrs. Steward or why I felt compelled to apologize at all. “She doesn’t really know any better. Did Prof. Runal send you?”
Kam’s countenance shifted again, and now I regretted having spoken thus. He wasn’t a man you ‘send for’ as you would for a carriage. I tried not to squirm under his scrutiny. For all I knew, he was the chief of his tribe, or perhaps the director of an African Society that studied unusual specimens of European species. The thought wasn’t appealing, and for the first time, I understood why some of the creatures I had documented had been less than thrilled about my attentions.
“When you are ready, we will meet again,” he said.
“And when will that be?” I asked.
Now his mouth really did form a smile as slight as it was. “You tell me.”
And despite his towering height, powerful build, and unusual skin markings, he had, within seconds of leaving my side, utterly vanished into the crowd.
Chapter 9