A Touch of Betrayal

by Catherine Palmer

  “Kule naailang’a?” a pretty young woman asked, presenting a gourd to Alexandra.

  “Uh . . . is this the same drink Mayani has?”

  “Kule naailang’a is boiled milk,” Sambeke said, “mixed with cow’s blood. I think it will not be to your liking— though I must tell you that it is the foundation of our diet. In fact, kule naailang’a provides all essential amino acids required for human growth and development. We Maasai have almost no incidence of malnutrition, heart disease, or digestive disorders.”

  He gave her another gap-toothed smile, and then he imparted further instructions to the women. They regarded Alexandra in astonishment for a moment—probably having just learned that she didn’t like kule naailang’a—and then went off to fetch her something else. Alexandra studied the surreal scene for a moment. She had been attacked by a mad poet, had walked for almost twenty-four hours through the wilderness, and now was standing in a village where the people lived on cow’s-blood milk shakes. One of her hosts carried a Tylenol bottle in his earlobe. And another held a doctorate from Oxford. Could she be dreaming all this?

  “Now, my dear Miss Prescott,” Sambeke said. “Whilst the women are fetching fresh milk, may I inquire as to your business in our country?”

  “I’m a fabric designer.” She glanced at the assortment of red printed fabrics and realized her own ideas hadn’t come close to reflecting the true adornment of Africa’s people. “Anyway, I was touring. I was staying at the lodge in Amboseli.”

  “A popular place.”

  “Yes, but I was . . . I was abducted.”

  “Drugged? Robbed?”

  “No. The man wanted to kill me.”

  Sambeke’s dark brow creased. “This is not at all typical of the rare but unfortunate attacks on tourists in our country. Robbery is the usual motive.”

  “The man is not an African. He is American.”

  “You don’t say? In our culture, one would rarely see such barbarity against a helpless woman. And all crimes are punished with sufficient severity to be an effective deterrent.” He turned and related the news to his fellow elders, who shook their heads and clucked in disbelief.

  “So, Miss Prescott, you wish to find your friend Dr. Thornton?”

  “He’s not really a friend. I just thought . . . thought maybe he could help. I need to get back to the States.”

  “But of course. Do you have any idea where Dr. Thornton is making camp these days? We have not seen him in our kraal for some time.”

  “He’s near a town. Something like . . . walkie-talkie?”

  “Oloitokitok!” He laughed. “Ah, it is not far! Perhaps two days walking.”

  “Two days?” Alexandra looked down at her expensive designer shoes—flat heeled with a taupe linen fabric covering the vamp. Grass, burrs, dust, and dung coated them. Inside, her toes were blistered and her heels rubbed raw. Then she studied the shoes of her host—a pair of soles cut from rubber tires, thin straps made of inner tube. They looked infinitely more comfortable than hers.

  “We will set off tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I should be delighted to welcome you to stay the night in the home of my wife. Miss Alexandra Prescott, please meet Loiyan.”

  “Na kitok, Alinkanda,” the woman said, stepping forward.

  “Iko.” Alexandra gave a little bow because it seemed appropriate. “It’s nice to meet you, Loiyan.”

  Her head shaved, her ears loaded with earrings, and her neck stacked with beaded collars, the woman held out a dried gourd filled with frothy white milk. “Kule nairowua,” she said softly.

  “Warm milk,” Sambeke announced proudly. “Fresh from the goat.”

  Alexandra took the gourd and lifted up yet another prayer for divine help. Then she bent to take a sip.

  “Delicious!” Grant Thornton announced from the low-slung canvas chair beside the fire. He dipped his spoon into the bowl and took another bite of stew. As he ate, he proudly surveyed his two tents, the blazing campfire, his Land Rover, and the spreading acacia trees that sheltered his domain. “This is great. You keep up this fine cooking, Mama Hannah, and I’m going to need a new belt.”

  “You do not wear a belt,” the old woman said. “And you are too thin. Have you been drinking that terrible drink of the Maasai?”

  “Kule naailang’a?”

  “The soured milk and blood.”

  “I’ll have you know, a well-respected Maasai gentleman once told me that kule naailang’a provides all the essential amino acids—”

  “Do not talk to me of acids, Grant. You need vegetables. Potatoes and beans and cauliflower.”

  “But not those green ones! Please don’t make me eat those nasty green ones!”

  Hannah chuckled. “You believe I mother you too much.”

  “Nah,” he said. “Well, maybe a little. I mean, I’ve had to shave every day since you’ve been here.”

  “The better to see your handsome face.”

  “And then there’s the matter of laundry.”

  “I do not think you had washed those socks for three months.”

  “You may have a point there. On the other hand, I’ve been living in Maasailand. To get laundry water, I have to dig a hole in a dry riverbed. I prefer to use that precious commodity for making a cup of coffee or giving myself the occasional shampoo.”

  Mama Hannah leaned back in her canvas chair and studied the man across from her. “Why, Grant?” she asked softly. “Why do you choose to live in this way?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “It is more than that.”

  “Okay, I really like the people. The Maasai are incredible. Strong, powerful, self-sufficient. I admire them.”

  “You wish to be self-sufficient. You wish to need only yourself. But the Maasai live in a clan. Others just like themselves live all around to give help, comfort . . . and love. You have no one.”

  “I don’t need anyone.”

  “The Maasai depend upon each other. And they depend on their faith in God, the one they call Engai. But you?”

  Grant set down his spoon and let out a sigh. Not this again. “Mama Hannah, if I ever need a god, maybe I’ll invent one to call on. But things are fine. I can take care of myself.”

  “Ehh,” she said—that enigmatic response that drove all the Thornton children nuts.

  Grant picked up his spoon again and began to eat. “So, you want me to tell you a story? I just heard a new one about two brothers who quarreled. The Maasai saying goes: Etaarate ilmoruak are alasharra nejoki obo olikae, olpurkel osidai, nejoki olikae, osupuko. To settle their argument—”

  “I will tell you a story about two brothers,” Hannah cut in. “One brother asked to be given his inheritance even before his father’s death. The loving father gave the young man half of his wealth. But the boy went into the city and spent it foolishly on sinful living.”

  “This is the story of the Prodigal Son, Mama Hannah,” Grant said. “It’s Judeo-Christian, okay? That means it originated in the Middle East, and it has an entirely separate contextual portfolio from my African studies. It’s a good story, a valid story, but I’ve already heard it. If you want to tell me a Kikuyu legend—something from your own tribe—I’ll listen.”

  The old woman looked down at her lap. Guilt crept over Grant’s heart. If Mama Hannah loved the Bible stories so much, he ought to let her tell them.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “The Maasai say that we begin by being foolish, and we become wise through experience. You’re a lot wiser than I am, Mama Hannah. If you want to tell me the story of the Prodigal Son, I’ll listen.”

  “The young man who ran away found it better to live with a father who might despise him than with pigs,” she said gently. “People need each other. It is God’s plan.”

  “And I have you.”

  “Grant, my toto, you will not have me forever. I have not seen your sister Fiona in many years, and Tillie will have her baby soon. One day, I will go away from this place.”

  “I’ll miss you.
But truly, Mama Hannah, I don’t need—”

  “Bwana Hadithi! Bwana Hadithi!” One of the young boys from the nearby kraal came running toward the camp. He babbled in such rapid Maasai that Grant could hardly make sense of his words. When he finally did, the message was all but unbelievable.

  “The Maasai at a kraal west of us found a white woman two days ago,” Grant translated for Mama Hannah. “She was walking around alone in the bush country.”

  “We should go to her!”

  “They’re bringing her here.” Grant stood and tucked in his shirt. This was just wonderful—some wacky tourist had gotten separated from her group. Now he’d have to spend countless hours taking her to find help. “They’re about half a mile away, and she’s not doing well. She’s apparently deteriorated a lot during their journey. They’re terrified she’s going to die on them. I’m going to have to go out there. You’d better stay here.”

  “I will prepare the cot.”

  “My cot, no doubt.”

  “Would you put the poor woman on the floor?”

  “No, no, of course not.” He probably would have, but Mama Hannah would be horrified. “I won’t take the Land Rover. There’s no road that direction, and the riverbed is in the way. This might take an hour or so.”

  “You must carry a lantern.”

  “Just hand me the flashlight.”

  “But, Grant—the animals. This is their time for feeding.”

  “It was my time for feeding, too.” He looked down at his bowl of half-eaten stew. “Keep that hot for me, would you?”

  FOUR

  The sun was almost gone when Grant spotted the band of Maasai warriors in the distance. They moved much more slowly than was usual for a people accustomed to traveling by foot. He could see that they were carrying something. A cowhide suspended among them held a still, almost lifeless figure.

  “Lo murran!” Grant called in greeting.

  “Ipa!” came the traditional response.

  One in their midst jogged toward him, and he recognized the man as his close friend Kakombe.

  “My brother, we have brought her of the English,” Kakombe said in the Maasai tongue. “At first she walked, but then she grew weaker. Now we fear she is ill. If she dies, we do not know what to do. The government will not permit us to put the body of one of the English into the grass for the hyenas to take away—as we do the bodies of our own people. This is a great trouble. You must help us.”

  Grant watched the other warriors approach with their burden. “What illness do you see in her of the English?”

  “Her skin has been attacked by Engai Na-nyokie, the red god of anger. She wears his marks. We believe he wishes to possess her. He will take her to death.”

  Grant frowned. He knew that while some Maasai had become Christians, most worshiped their traditional deity. They believed Engai Na-nyokie was the avenging aspect of his character, while Engai Narok, the black god, was the benevolent protector. The red god expressed himself in violent lightning and in famine. The black god revealed his nature in rain and in times of bounty. Why would these warriors believe the red god had attacked the person they carried?

  Grant stepped toward the cowhide litter and understood at once. The woman’s face, unprotected from the equatorial sun, had been scorched and blistered. Her eyes had swollen shut, and her cheeks were flaming. Grant’s first guess diagnosed it as a serious case of heatstroke.

  Worse, the woman obviously had endured some kind of physical trauma. A scratch on one arm was caked with dried blood on which flies clustered like a string of black beads. Round purple contusions marked her flesh. Grant lifted the blanket in which the men had wrapped her and flicked on his flashlight. The woman’s sunburned arms led to torn palms and tattered fingernails. Her bruised legs looked like a pair of knobby canes, and the soles of her bare feet were raw.

  “Do you know the woman’s name?” he asked, kneeling beside the litter and taking her wrist to check for a pulse.

  “Sambeke Ole Kereya talked to her in the tongue of the English. She is called by the name of Alinkanda.”

  “Alinkanda?” Grant stroked his thumb over the woman’s battered fingers. “Ma’am,” he said softly in English. “Can you hear me? My name is Grant Thornton.”

  Her puffed eyelids opened slightly. Two feverish blue eyes focused on him. “Grant,” she mumbled.

  “Good, you’re conscious. Listen—we’re going to take you to my camp. We’ll get some liquids into you, cool you off, see what we can do about those feet. You’re going to be all right. We’ll take you back to your tour group—”

  “No!” Her fingers gripped his hand. She struggled onto one elbow, her eyes wild. “No . . . not . . . man . . . can’t . . . man . . .”

  “Hold on, now. Calm down.” He eased her back onto the cowhide litter. “Just relax, okay? Nobody’s going to take you anywhere until you’re better.”

  Standing, Grant faced the leader of the warriors. “What happened to her, Kakombe?” he asked in Maasai. “Did someone in your kraal injure this woman?”

  “No, my brother!” All the men clustered forward, eager to reassure him. Their leader spoke for the group. “A pack of wild dogs tried to attack the woman, but one of our boys drove them off. A brave child. He killed two dogs. We have been most honorable in the care of her of the English.”

  Grant studied the woman again. He had always trusted the Maasai as truthful and fair. It wouldn’t be like them to harm a defenseless woman. And they clearly knew the government would not be pleased if an American should die in their care.

  “Enough talking. I delay you, you delay me; we depart without profit,” Grant said, repeating a common Maasai proverb. “Let us take her of the English to my camp. Maybe she will be able to tell us what happened on her journey.”

  Grant took part of the cowhide near the woman’s head and began to walk. He hadn’t seen anyone so sick, swollen, and miserable in a long time. She needed a doctor. Probably a hospital.

  Though he was sympathetic to her plight, he guessed she was probably just another tourist who had gotten into trouble through carelessness—like those who stepped out of their cars to take a closer gander at the lions, those who ignored warnings to take their malaria medicine, those who photographed the native people without offering to pay for the privilege. They treated Africa as though it should conform to them instead of the other way around.

  The thought of driving this woman all the way to Nairobi in his Land Rover made Grant groan inwardly. In less than a week, the Maasai of the nearby kraal would be holding a major ceremony marking the confirmation of elderhood. Grant had never been invited to witness Eunoto, but if he could convince the elders to let him attend, he knew the experience would be invaluable. Not only would he be able to gather more stories and traditions, but he would also enjoy seeing the initiation of Kakombe and several other close friends during the ceremony.

  The gas lantern hanging from Grant’s tent pole shone like a guiding star in the dark night. As the group approached, Mama Hannah emerged from a second tent, her yellow cotton dress drifting below her knees in the breeze that swept down from Mount Kilimanjaro. She hurried toward the warriors.

  “Grant?” she called.

  “It’s us, Mama Hannah. Do you have the cot ready? She’s in pretty bad shape.”

  The warriors carried the cowhide into the lantern light and set it gently on the ground. “Oh, look at her skin!” Mama Hannah said, kneeling and pulling back the blankets.

  “The sun has burned her. She is so—” Her words stopped, and she looked up at Grant. “But this is Miss Prescott!”

  “Who?”

  “Alexandra Prescott! This is the woman we met at the airport in Nairobi. Do you not recognize her?”

  Grant scrutinized the woman. “I don’t think this is Alexandra Prescott. She had that New York look. She was . . . sleek and elegant . . . and . . .” On the other hand, the hair was the same. She was the right height. If you could picture the face and the eyes in a d
ifferent light, you might actually be close to the image of the woman whose memory had played through his brain in flickers of shadow and light.

  “Miss Prescott?” he asked. “Is that you?”

  Her puffed lids opened again, and she mumbled something.

  “It is she. Carry her into the tent, Grant,” Hannah ordered. “Take that blanket away before she smothers. Bring me some water. Do you have clean water? I don’t want anything dug out of a riverbed.”

  Still bewildered that he hadn’t recognized her—while Mama Hannah had known right away—Grant slipped his arms beneath Alexandra. Her body was so feverish that he could feel the heat through her clothing. He tucked her against his chest and stood.

  “Relax now,” he said. “I’m taking you into the tent.”

  “Don’t . . . the man!”

  “What man?” He started walking with her, but she began to writhe.

  “Man . . . here . . . he’s—”

  “Nobody’s here but the warriors and us.” He drew her closer. “We’re going to take care of you, Miss Prescott. I promise we won’t let anybody hurt you.”

  “Dogs!”

  “No, there aren’t any wild dogs around. You’re safe. Mama Hannah’s going to wash you up in a minute, and . . . and . . . hey there, don’t cry.”

  “Mama Hannah?”

  “I am with you,” the old woman murmured as Grant laid Alexandra on the narrow aluminum-framed cot. She pushed back the injured woman’s hair and placed a dark hand on the feverish forehead. “‘Have compassion on me, Lord, for I am weak,’” she recited softly. “‘Heal me, Lord, for my body is in agony. I am sick at heart. How long, O Lord, until you restore me?’”

  Grant walked outside toward his precious container of clean water. He could hear Hannah’s soothing voice coming from the tent. It reminded him of the crooning of Maasai women as they sang their prayer songs: