Lioness

by Nell Brien

  Cat caught his sidelong glance and grinned. “Well, their bones did.”

  By noon, Cat felt she had been battered for a lifetime from traveling in a Land Rover that seemed to hit every pothole in Kenya. For the twentieth time in the last half hour she changed her position in an effort to ease a bruised spine. Then ahead, Campbell’s directional signal blinked and he took a sharp turn onto an unmarked track no different from countless others they had passed. Reluctantly she relinquished the fantasy of the Kenyan equivalent of Denny’s and Howard Johnson. The Land Rover jolted and swayed for another hour before they ground over a rise. And suddenly, aching muscles were forgotten.

  Rolling grassland, dotted with wide, flat-topped trees, stretched toward an unrestricted horizon. A small group of giraffe rocked in a strange undulous canter, heads eighteen feet above splayed hooves, and in every direction was the constant motion of browsing herds of antelope and zebra.

  Cat held on to her seat with both hands, braced herself against the jolting Land Rover and turned to Tom, smiling.

  “A fraction of what it used to be,” he said. “Even in my time.”

  She nodded. But nothing she had seen or read or imagined had prepared her for the impact of these wild herds grazing on golden grass under a sky that stretched into infinity. Carl Jung’s words when he visited Africa in the twenties came into her mind: “The stillness of the eternal beginning.” Too much had changed, was still changing, but the words held true. Maybe Joel was right. Maybe the more people could experience what was left, the more they would be willing to pay whatever it took to help preserve it.

  Lunch was a brief stop in the shade of a thorn tree. Tom handed her a can of Tusker’s—the ubiquitous local beer that filled the trucks on the highway they’d left behind—and a sandwich. Both men were alert, leaning against the Land Rovers while they ate, binoculars to their eyes, quartering the surrounding country.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked.

  “Anything that moves,” Campbell answered.

  She rummaged in her bag, produced the binoculars she had brought with her. She focused until the antelope were close enough for her to see the large limpid eyes, the rough patches on what had appeared to be smooth bodies. Only animals were out there. Nothing else that she could see.

  Within half an hour they were back in the Land Rovers, leaving behind them nothing but a few scraps of bread. And those were probably gone, Cat thought, before the engines had turned over. African ants were at least half an inch long and looked capable of eating the Land Rovers.

  As they pushed northwest, the track petered out, the grassland became drier. Dust swirled in clouds around them. In the lead, Campbell drove without hesitation—across dried streambeds, around rock outcroppings, through scrubby forests of thorn. Tom answered her endless questions. The smallest gazelle, the dik-dik, was the size of a spaniel, lived in woodland and mated for life. The largest, the eland, weighed a ton and roamed the open plains. Richly striped kudu, without doubt, were the most beautiful. Zebra did not bray like a donkey, but barked like a dog.

  As the hours passed, she lapsed into silence. By four, the glory of the massed herds no longer held her as rapt as it had earlier. Tom asked if she wanted to rest. Cat shook her head.

  “You are going to feel this in every muscle tonight,” Tom said. “I should have brought you a nice fat pillow.”

  Beyond words, Cat had to force herself to smile.

  By five-thirty, she knew there was no way she could go on. The breeze lifted her lank, grit-laden hair. Dust itched in the pores of her skin, caked uncomfortably in the sweat. Concession or not, she was going to have to call a halt. She clenched her teeth. She worked out at the gym four times a week, ran three miles every morning. She was in great shape. She could stand anything thrown her way.

  “Here we are,” Tom said.

  She wanted to cry with relief. Campbell was inching between tumbles of rock; a shallow cleft in the land flattened, and they stopped in a grove of thorn trees. The ground was littered with pods bursting with seeds the color and shape of kidney beans. Zebra ambled unhurriedly from their path. Birds swept low over a stream not too far distant. The heat had gone out of the day, the air smelled cool and green.

  For a moment, she allowed herself to sit in the Land Rover, feeling the peace, before seeking terra firma with one tentative foot. Holding on to the door, she pulled herself erect.

  The two men were already working, a practiced team, unloading the vehicles.

  “I’ll start a fire for cooking, if you show me how,” she called. “I’m not much at woodcraft.”

  “You’d better have a drink before you attempt anything more than standing up,” Campbell said. “You’ve had a hard day.” He produced a bottle of scotch and a stack of plastic glasses, took water from the cooler, placed everything on the camp table already set up. “I know I could do with one. Tom?”

  “Parched,” Tom said.

  “I’ll pour,” Cat said.

  Campbell glanced at her. “Good.”

  He went back to his Land Rover. Cat mixed three drinks, took Tom’s over to him on legs that felt like india rubber, then picked up Campbell’s drink and started toward him. He had lifted a long green canvas bag from behind his seat, unzipping it as he turned. A polished stock, telescopic sight.

  Her father had had a gun like that. Exactly like that.

  Campbell took the drink from her hand. She looked at him, knew he was speaking to her. When would it end? she thought. It was all so long ago, but it would never end. Not for Joel, not for her.

  “What?” she said. His voice was fuzzy.

  “I said you’ll be able to get cleaned up pretty soon,” Campbell repeated. He zipped the case, replaced the gun behind his seat. “Listen.”

  A distant hum she’d heard only as background became the murmur of an engine, increasing in volume. Then a Land Rover bumped through the stand of rock. Back wheels skidded on dry grass, skewing the vehicle before it came to a lurching stop beside the other two.

  “Who is it?” Cat said. Whoever they were, they were lousy drivers.

  “The Maasai,” Campbell said. “They’re joining us.”

  Cat looked at the Land Rover with a surge of anticipation at her first sight of the legendary warriors of East Africa who still carry shields and spears and ignore the twentieth century. Nomads who live with their cattle, and drink blood tapped from their living veins.

  Three men, each closer to seven feet tall than six, their hair braided in cornrows, climbed from the Land Rover. A fourth man, not short except in comparison, more squarely built, his hair cut close, followed. All wore khaki bush pants and shirts in military style, well-worn and travel-stained. No traditional red cloaks. No spears or shields. Just another gun rack loaded with automatic weapons. And a Land Rover loaded mostly with gas cans.

  A sudden stab of misgiving caught her. She was miles from civilization with heavily armed men she didn’t know or trust. And now they’d been joined by yet more armed toughs.

  Campbell greeted his men in a language that was not Swahili, spoke again in answer to what sounded like a question from one of them.

  Cat watched the exchange, the eyes that swiveled her way as Campbell spoke, the heads that remained motionless, their concentration on Campbell’s words. Their limbs long and slender, the Maasai towered over him.

  “This is Moses,” Campbell said. “Olentwalla. Sambeke.” He indicated the shorter man. “And this is Thomas.”

  “Hi.” She smiled at Thomas. His answering grin revealed extensive gray metal dental work outlining square white teeth. “Moses. Olentwalla. Sambeke.” She shook each long-boned hand in turn, and they nodded without speaking. Dark, almond-shaped eyes flickered slightly. As much surprise as they would show, she’d guess. They had not expected to find a woman here. Certainly not someone called Stanton.

  Tom called to them, and the men turned away.

  “What language was that you used to them?” she asked Campbell. “N
ot Swahili.” She could already recognize the cadence of that language—like a dark torrent tumbling over rock.

  “Maa,” Campbell replied. “The word Maasai means ‘speaker of Maa.”’

  “They are very impressive.”

  “They are warriors. The Maasai believe they own all the cattle in the world by command of Engai—God—and they still raid to gather them in. They also raid for the sheer hell of it. These days it causes them no end of trouble.”

  “Thomas isn’t Maasai, surely.”

  “Kikuyu. Maasai are proud buggers, won’t do camp chores. Thomas is as tough as they come, but he’ll also turn his hand to anything.”

  She looked over Campbell’s shoulder at the armory of weapons racked in the Land Rovers. “So what is the function of heavily armed Maasai warriors on this little expedition? If they don’t do camp chores?”

  Campbell looked at her with what seemed grudging respect. “Well, you don’t miss much, I see. I should have said most camp chores. They make themselves useful.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Heavy work,” he said. He looked over to where the men huddled in conversation with Tom. “I’ll get Thomas to bring up some water for a bath for you.”

  “Will he also bring water for you and Tom?”

  “No. We scrub off in the river.”

  The sun had turned the stream into a ribbon of gold. “Is it safe?”

  “The river? Safe enough. But for a woman straight from Beverly Hills—”

  “Being from Beverly Hills is not a physical handicap,” she said. “If it’s safe enough for you, I’ll use the river, too.”

  “The sun will be gone in about forty-five minutes.”

  “I won’t be that long. Where’s my bag?”

  Campbell considered her for a moment. Then he drained the last of his drink. “I’ll take you down.” He glanced at her face. “Don’t worry, you’ll never know I’m there. Your gear’s in your tent.”

  Cat approached the one small tent that was already in place. Inside, the light was a dim, cool green, the air rich with the smell of dust and crushed grass. A white mosquito net twisted into a large knot hung from the roof pole over a narrow camp bed, and a small table and canvas chair had been set up.

  Cat pulled Joel’s old terry-cloth robe from her bag. She held it to her face for a long moment, imagining his warm, comforting smell.

  Careful not to shake loose the red dust gathered from the day’s travel, she stepped out of her clothes, slipped into the robe, stuffed the pockets with shampoo and soap, then found her sandals and picked up the dark brown towel laid across her bed.

  Rifle in hand, Campbell led the way upstream. A bend in the river quickly hid the camp from view, and for the next five minutes they exchanged few words, mostly terse warnings from Campbell about rocks underfoot, thorn-covered branches reaching out. Had it been Tom ahead of her, she would have been full of questions about plants and birds and wildlife. Campbell had an uncanny ability to wrap himself in a solitude difficult to penetrate.

  He stopped before a wedge of rock that sloped down into the water.

  “There’s a decent-size pool on that far side. You should have it to yourself, it’s not deep enough for hippo.”

  Hippo? “Oh. Thanks.”

  Campbell sat on his heels by the side of the stream, scooped a handful of water over his face. He looked up at her.

  “Better get to it. The sun’ll be going soon.”

  “Yes. Okay, I will.” She hesitated. “Should I watch for crocodiles—” she gave a small shrug “—or anything?”

  He laughed. “No. But if you do see anything that moves, give a shout. I’ll be over before you draw another breath.”

  Suddenly her insistence on bathing in the wild seemed stupid. She cast around for a reason to change her mind, but it would mean backing down, admitting she was frightened. She couldn’t do it.

  She clambered over the boulders, Campbell disappeared from view, and she was alone. Hurriedly she dropped Joel’s robe onto a bush, turned to step into the water and felt the pressure of watching eyes. She looked up sharply. On the far bank, strange creatures stared back at her. Long sad faces decorated by straggly beards. Heavy in the shoulders, almost frail in the hindquarters. Their horns were curved and menacing.

  Cat shivered in sudden terror. The shutter in her mind opened onto Bony Ranch in the hills above Malibu.

  Longhorns pouring down the hillside, bawling and tossing their heads, Ed Mueller and two other horsemen behind them. Cat could hear them yipping, whistling.

  Their father wheeled his big chestnut gelding. “Come on, kids.” He was whooping and laughing. “Let’s help bring them in.”

  She clutched her pony’s mane, looked at Joel’s white face. Her father leaned over, grabbed her reins—he already had Joel’s. He urged his chestnut into the oncoming herd, dragging them both with him. Cattle pressed against her pony. She closed her eyes, shutting out the horns that were going to stab into her, make her bleed, sure she was going to fall under their feet and make her daddy mad at her.

  She clung to Buttercup’s mane, trying not to cry. The steers made so much noise, they smelled, and the dust choked in her throat. It went on and on; she felt so small, so frightened. Then the noise was gone, the steers were gone, and Ed Mueller was lifting her down. The saddle was wet, her pants soaked. She’d peed in her pants like a baby. Their father laughed, and her chest was jerking with sobs she tried not to let out. She looked at Joel for comfort. But he was crying, and her breath wouldn’t keep still in her chest. She couldn’t breathe, then she couldn’t stop it anymore, and she started to sob, too, choking with fear.

  Their father’s face was red as he shouted, “Stop it. Stop that noise. I hate that sniveling.”

  “Chrissake, Deke,” Ed Mueller said. “Give it a rest, they’re only kids.”

  “They’re my kids,” he shouted. “They’re my kids, and she’s ruining them. Their mother’s ruining them, making them as weak as she is.” He spurred the chestnut, beating him with his whip, jerking back on the bit to force the big horse to rear and dance, squealing in fear, the saliva dripping from his damaged mouth turning red with blood. Shouting, their father looked down at them. “I’ll teach you some guts. Every week you’ll work this cattle. You’ll learn.”

  Ed Mueller had protested, but their father had a large interest in the ranch, so he got his way with Joel. He told Joel nothing could be expected of girls, anyway. But she’d had to watch, and if she cried, her father yelled, “Catherine. Every time you snivel, your brother does another fifteen minutes. You’re both going to learn something from this.”

  That summer they were five, she and Joel had thrown up all the time, and they’d both started to wet the bed. But every weekend, Joel was on his pony among the longhorns, and she was there, holding his hand on the car ride to and from the ranch.

  They learned a lot that summer. Not to cry. Never to trust anyone but each other. And they both learned how to hate their father.

  Cat rubbed shampoo into her hair, massaging her scalp while she counted rapidly to twenty-five instead of the usual slow fifty, then plunged her head underwater. It was dumb, but she kept her fingers in her ears so that nothing could wriggle in. The guidebooks talked about bilharzia, parasitic worms that infested water and could lodge in the brain.

  She pulled herself up onto the platform of rock, twisted a towel around her hair and slipped into her robe, then climbed back over the rock.

  “What are they, the animals on the other side?”

  Campbell was leaning against a small tree, studying the sky. His hair was damp, his shirt clung to him where he’d put it on over his wet body. “Wildebeest. They’re also called gnu.”

  When she reached him, he pulled down a branch of the tree. “Kikuyu detergent.” He crushed a few leaves between his fingers and held them out. She bent to smell a faint, pleasant pungency. “Mwethia tree. Kikuyu used it for soap.” He brushed the leaves from his fingers. “Ready for dinn
er?”

  “I am.”

  She followed him along the riverbank. The water was a deep rose in the western sun. An intermittent chorus of frogs was beginning to tune up. She was tired and hungry, but she’d met every challenge thrown at her, had asked for nothing. The water had gone a long way to restoring her sore muscles, and with any luck, she’d sleep, maybe tonight without the nightmare.

  “What are we having for dinner, anyway?” she asked.

  Then suddenly she found herself walking into him.

  He was motionless. Reaching behind him, he pulled her tight against his back. The brush ahead was noisy; he did not have to tell her to be quiet. She hardly breathed. Slowly, Campbell brought up the rifle. She heard the click of the bolt and inched her head cautiously until she could see around him.

  Thirty feet away, enormous black bodies moved slowly. Heads bearing a distinctive heavy bar of horn over the eyes swung low in their direction.

  She sagged against Campbell’s back.

  Buffalo. The animals they said had killed Joel….

  “Don’t make a sudden move,” Campbell said softly. “There’s no danger, they’re going down to drink.”

  The bovine stench stung her nostrils. Her nightmare punched into her mind…Joel falling, crushed beneath hooves, his blood spreading…That’s what she dreamed…that’s what she couldn’t face.

  Campbell reached to steady her. “They’ve gone. There was no danger—”

  “You let him die…you let him die…where were you…?” Words staggered out of her mouth. “Why didn’t you stop him…shoot them—” She was shaking.

  Campbell kept his hands on her shoulders. “All right, all right.”