Promise the Night

by Michaela MacColl

  “Buller is not just a dog,” Beryl said. “He is my only friend.”

  The boy looked at her for a long time without blinking. “Then I will find him,” he said finally. “You lost the trail here?” he asked, looking carefully around the clearing.

  Beryl nodded. Kibii headed into the underbrush for about ten yards. Beryl stood up and brushed the bits of rotten tree from her shorts. Remembering what her father had said, she didn’t dare hope too much. She spoke to his back. “Do you see anything?”

  “Ssshh,” Kibii said, without looking at her. “You talk too much.” He began moving about the forest, spiraling out from their starting point in wider circles.

  “Blood,” he said, showing her a speck on the ground. He loped into the forest, his feet making no sound. Beryl followed as best she could.

  He finally paused along a stream. “I have heard elephants that run more quietly,” he said, frowning. “A hunter as loud as you would starve.”

  Beryl could feel her face redden, like a sunburn. “I’ve never hunted,” she admitted.

  “Of course not. You are a girl,” he said. He knelt down and touched an area of churned-up mud. “That is your leopard. He is still dragging your friend.” He seemed to read the ground as easily as Beryl’s father read the racing forms.

  Kibii followed the stream and Beryl trailed behind him. She looked around curiously; she had never been this deep in the forest. Brightly colored birds flew out of the bushes, cawing loudly. A stick cracked. She whirled around to face…nothing.

  “Beru, we are close,” Kibii said, brushing aside tree branches overhanging the water. “Here!”

  “Buller!”

  The dog lay on his side in the mud, his snout near the water’s edge. His jaw was pierced through. Beryl guessed the leopard had tried to crack it in two with its sharp teeth. There were long gashes in his black-and-white coat, and his fur was caked with blood. He wasn’t moving.

  “He’s dead!” Beryl cried.

  Kibii shook his head. “The dead don’t bleed,” he said, pointing to the blood oozing from a cut on Buller’s cheek.

  The dog’s eyes flickered open and his tail thumped weakly. His eyes closed again. Dashing away her tears, Beryl closed her own eyes in thanks.

  “His injuries are very bad.” Kibii shook his head. “You should kill him now—he would suffer less.”

  “Buller is tough,” Beryl said, her voice trembling. She cleared her throat and began again. “Help me save him.” Scooping water in her hand, she began to wash away some of the dried blood from the dog’s snout.

  “It is a waste of time,” Kibii said.

  “Kibii, please.” She laid her hand on his forearm. He started, like one of her father’s horses when a fly landed on its flank, but then he relaxed.

  “Wait here.” He was swallowed up by the thick underbrush in seconds.

  Beryl cradled Buller’s head in her lap and stroked his favorite spot behind his ears. He moaned, and for the first time Beryl knew the sound of agony. “It’s all right, boy,” she said. “Hold on.”

  The forest seemed suddenly quiet. She looked at the thick greenery that surrounded them as far as she could see. What if Kibii didn’t return? She couldn’t get Buller home alone. But no sooner did she doubt him than Kibii emerged from the underbrush, holding a bunch of green leaves.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  “My father taught me healing. This plant is good dawa,” he said.

  She nodded. “Good medicine.”

  He packed Buller’s worst wounds with the leaves. Then he pulled Beryl’s blanket from around her shoulders and wrapped it around the dog. With deft hands, he fashioned a sling so that he and Beryl could share the burden. Beryl watched with growing admiration; he had skills she had only dreamed about. Sweating in her thin shirt, she staggered as she helped Kibii carry Buller’s sixty pounds out of the forest.

  “Hold on, boy,” she whispered.

  Kibii, in the lead, glanced back, but didn’t say a word. She wondered if he understood any English.

  Beryl had completely lost her bearings, so when they emerged from the forest she was startled to see her father’s compound only a few hundred yards away.

  “Quick!” she said. “To my hut. We can get Buller inside before Daddy sees us.”

  But they had covered only half the distance to the hut when they heard an angry voice.

  “It’s my father,” Beryl said.

  “And mine.” Kibii stopped dead in his tracks, forcing Beryl to do the same.

  Buller whimpered. Beryl took a firmer grip on the sling.

  The Captain, who was of modest height, looked taller as he strode over. Beneath his short-cropped hair, his face was red with anger. “Beryl Clutterbuck, I’ll have your hide for this.”

  Following him was an African man who looked like a grown-up version of Kibii. He was tall and thin, with skin like polished leather. Unlike Kibii’s, his skull was wrinkled. A shuka was draped elegantly around his body. He wore dozens of necklaces made of wire, and earrings that dangled down to his shoulders. Around his upper arms, iron bracelets pressed into his skin.

  “Daddy, we found Buller!” Beryl said.

  “Did I not forbid you to go in the forest alone?” her father asked.

  “I know, but Buller…”

  “No buts. Do you have any idea how dangerous it is out there?” With his thumb and forefinger, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. Beryl was startled to see how tired he looked. “I don’t have time to worry about you gallivanting in the woods.”

  “But we found him! I couldn’t follow the trail, but then Kibii helped…”

  Her father’s fists clenched and unclenched as though he were just keeping from striking her. Beryl fell silent.

  “How badly hurt is he?” he asked. “Because it would be just like you to risk your life for a lost cause.” He unfolded a bit of cloth and looked at Buller’s injuries. He whistled under his breath. “I’ve half a mind to put him down, just to teach you a lesson.”

  Beryl gulped. She stared at her father and hoped the tears would stay behind her eyes; the Captain hated weakness. Only strength could save Buller now.

  Kibii whispered to his father in a rapid language Beryl couldn’t quite understand. Arap Maina stepped forward. “May I look at the animal, Captain?” he asked, very respectfully.

  The Captain gave permission in his clipped Swahili. “Go ahead, Arap Maina. I think it is hopeless, but my daughter loves the animal.”

  Beryl and Kibii lay Buller on the ground. Beryl held her breath as Arap Maina checked the wounds. He straightened up and faced Captain Clutterbuck.

  “Sahib, with care, the dog will live. Your daughter need not be sad.”

  Beryl exhaled.

  “Good, she can take him with her to England,” the Captain said. He held up a hand to stop Beryl’s howl of protest. “Beryl,” he said in English, “if you keep running wild, you’re going to get yourself killed.”

  “I want to stay here with you,” she pleaded. “You need me. I’m your best stable lad. Who else can ride like me?”

  “I can’t run the farm and keep you out of trouble at the same time.” He was implacable.

  “But Daddy, this is my home. Please don’t make me go…”

  Kibii whispered to his father again and Arap Maina interrupted Beryl’s pleas. “Sahib, perhaps I can care for your daughter?”

  “You were hired to supervise the men,” the Captain said with a frown. “Not to be a blasted nanny to a little girl.”

  “I’m nearly eleven!” Beryl fell silent at her father’s look.

  “I have come here to work,” said Arap Maina, “but also to teach the totos, the children of the tribe, the ways of the Nandi. I can teach your daughter as well.”

  “Daddy, I’d be safe with him. You wouldn’t have to worry anymore.” Beryl wanted to jump up and down with excitement, but she dared not fidget while her father considered Arap Maina’s offer.

  “She wouldn’t b
e a nuisance?” her father asked slowly.

  “No, sahib. The children of our tribe are just as likely to get into trouble.” Arap Maina glared at Kibii, who dared to laugh. “My son says she has the tread of a water buffalo, but she learns quickly. And she is a loyal friend.”

  The Captain stared at Beryl, taking in the bloodstained shirt and the cuts and scratches on her bare legs. “Arap Maina, I accept your offer. Since her mother left, she has been nothing but a worry to me.”

  Beryl’s heart suddenly felt like lead. Her father’s thoughts and eyes were already wandering down the hill, where the gristmill was. Half the farm’s income came from grinding maize, but Beryl could see the wheel had stopped. The native workers were beginning to drift away to other tasks.

  The Captain pulled out his pocket watch and made an impatient noise against his teeth. To Beryl, he said, “Young lady, Arap Maina is a warrior and important in his tribe. Don’t give him any trouble. I need his men to work the farm.”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “And take care of that damned dog.” Shaking his head, he returned to the business of farming.

  Beryl watched her father walk away. She took her eyes off his back only when Arap Maina began to speak. “We must consider this leopard who comes into Cluttabucki’s daughter’s house. He is too bold.”

  Beryl nodded, although his words made her nervous. She knew firsthand how fierce that leopard was.

  He continued, “But for today, Kibii will show you how we heal our animals.”

  Kibii stood up even straighter, a wide smile on his face.

  “And perhaps tomorrow you can visit our village and meet the other totos.”

  Beryl could barely say a word. Her day had started with nothing. But now she had her dog, a teacher, and a friend.

  Interview with Beryl Markham

  Nairobi, Kenya

  Date unknown

  By the time I was twenty-six, I was not only the first woman racehorse trainer, I was one of the most successful in Africa.The life and job had been enough for my father, and I always thought it would content me as well. Until I saw an airplane.

  There weren’t many planes yet in Africa. Something about the prepos-terous combination of combustion engines and wings stirred my imagination. One day some friends brought me to the Nairobi airstrip, such as it was, to see a plane land. The flying machine had to circle half a dozen times until the zebras and the wildebeests were chased off the runway.

  The pilot’s name was Tom Black. We got to talking about flying. Tom wanted to start a business delivering mail and medical supplies to villages so remote they weren’t on any map. He said that even if Africa didn’t have roads, there was land enough for the wheels of planes, and sky enough for their wings.

  That night, I went back to the stable and said to Arap Ruta, my head lad and good friend, “I think I am going to leave all this and learn to fly.” Arap Ruta stood in a loose box beside a freshly groomed colt whose coat gleamed like light on water. He shrugged and dusted his hands, one against the other.

  “If it is to be that we must fly, memsahib, then we will fly. At what hour of the morning do we begin?”

  Simple as that, I left my old life behind and began a new adventure.

  r

  CHAPTER THREE

  EVER SINCE ARAP MAINA’S INVITATION, BERYL COULD THINK OF nothing but her visit to the Nandi village. Except Buller, of course, who at that moment was snoring next to her bed. In his sleep, he would sometimes roll over on his wounds, groan, and roll back with a whimper. But he was alive and on the mend.

  “Get some rest, boy,” she said, checking his bandages. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”

  Beryl’s fingers trembled as she twisted her tangled hair into two loose braids. Something was beginning; she was sure of it. She donned shirt, shorts, and boots, and she was ready to go. The rim of the horizon was just glowing with the sunrise as she untied the door and found Kibii already waiting. He stood on one leg, the other folded behind his back, like an exotic bird. Beryl noticed his footprint in the damp earth. Although her breath hung on the chill morning air, she knew that the sun would soon steam the moisture away.

  Kibii frowned. “Finally,” he said.

  “Your father said at daybreak.” Beryl pursed her lips. “Have you been wasting time waiting for me?”

  He grinned. “How is your dog?”

  “Buller is well.”

  He nodded. “Follow me.”

  Kibii loped toward the edge of the farm, where the path dropped into the deep valley. Beryl hesitated. She was not allowed to go into the valley alone.

  Kibii was already far ahead, weaving through the tall grass. He stopped and waved his arm wide to hurry her up. Eyes fixed on his back, Beryl pushed herself to run as quickly and confidently as Kibii.

  “I’m coming,” Beryl called as she ran, dodging the waist-high anthills. In passing, she touched one; the ants swarmed away from her hands. The hill was hard as a rock.

  “You are too slow,” Kibii complained, “and easily distracted.”

  “Once your father trains me, I’ll get better,” she panted, catching up to him.

  Kibii put out his hand to stop her in her tracks. “Sssshh.”

  A wildebeest crashed through the underbrush across the path.

  “How did you know it was coming?” Beryl asked. “I didn’t hear a thing.”

  “Because you were talking.” Kibii removed his hand. “Girls always talk. It is why they don’t hunt.”

  “That’s a lie.” Beryl drew herself up and stared Kibii in the face. “I don’t talk too much.”

  “Because you have no one to talk to.” Kibii smiled smugly. “When you meet my father’s wives and my sisters, you will chatter just like them.”

  The path corkscrewed down the hill. A sharp turn, and suddenly there was a vicious-looking fence made of acacia branches, the thorns facing outward. A dozen round huts made of mud and sticks were tucked inside the fence. To one side was a paddock filled with dark-colored cattle, lowing gently. Beryl noticed that half the huts still needed roofs; but for that, she would have thought the houses had always been part of the landscape. “How long have you been here?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Not long.”

  “You should come help my father with his new house. He’s been building it for months and it’s still not done.”

  Kibii led the way through a gap in the thorn fence. He stopped to admire a young bull with distinctive white splotches and a fine set of horns.

  “That one is mine. Last year, I was wrestling Mehru when I was supposed to mind the herd. This calf wandered away. I was afraid to come home, so I hid in a tree for two days. But my father had already found him. When I came home, he gave the calf to me.”

  Beryl’s mouth dropped open. “You were careless; you should have been punished.”

  “I had punished myself already. And my father knew that if one of the cattle was mine, I would guard the rest more carefully.”

  “My father would never give me a foal because I lost a horse,” she said.

  Kibii shrugged and rubbed his bull’s nose.

  “Your cattle are very fine,” Beryl said politely.

  Kibii’s chest swelled with pride. “This is our tribe’s wealth.”

  “My father has twelve horses, but we’ll get more as soon as he can afford to import more bloodstock.”

  “I have never seen anything like your father’s horses,” Kibii said. “They are not like zebras.”

  “Of course not,” Beryl answered with scorn. “Zebras are useless.”

  “Can you eat your horses?”

  Beryl was horrified. “Of course not!”

  “Can you milk them?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Beryl snorted.

  “Then what use are they?”

  “When you ride a racehorse, you feel like you are flying,” Beryl said simply.

  Kibii was still for a moment. “You can ride?”

  “Ye
s, of course.” Beryl’s shoulders went back and her chin tilted up; finally there was something she could do that Kibii couldn’t.

  “Then I will ride horses, too.”

  “Riding is harder than it looks,” Beryl warned. “But if you teach me how to track animals, I’ll teach you to ride.”

  “Agreed.”

  Kibii picked an insect out of the corner of his bull’s eye. The beast lowed, but did not move.