“Help!” Arthur cried.
“I’m coming!” she called.
Another baboon shriek. She had never heard Simi so angry.
Beryl took the shallow steps with a leap and skidded to a stop on the porch. “Simi!” she shouted. “Get away from him!”
The baboon had trapped Arthur in the corner of the porch. His arms wrapped around his head, Arthur had made himself as small a target as possible. His face had a huge welt. The baboon had struck once already.
“Simi, get away from him!” Beryl repeated. She smacked her hand against her leg, as her father did when he gave Simi an order.
Simi bared his sharp teeth. With contempt in his eyes, he turned back to the little boy.
Beryl’s eyes shot around the compound. Where was Daddy? Where was Arap Maina?
“Help me, Beryl!” Arthur screamed.
“Don’t move, Arthur.” She was trembling, but her voice was steady.
Simi turned back to Arthur, and with a long swipe of his claws raked down the boy’s shoulder. The blood welled up on the skin, and he shrieked from the pain.
Beryl darted in to grab Simi’s arm. The animal must have had eyes in the back of his head. With his other arm, he reached across, lifted her by her shirt’s collar, and threw her hard against the railing. She lay on the porch floor, the rough cedar pressed into her skin. A cut on her cheek bled, mixing with the tears rolling down her face. Simi was too strong for her.
The baboon moved toward Arthur. “Beryl!” he cried. “Do something!”
Beryl pushed herself up. She wouldn’t fail again. She had to save Arthur. Casting about for a weapon—any weapon—she cursed herself for leaving her knife in her hut. Her eyes lit on her father’s rungu, propped against the front door. She grabbed the narrow end of the walking stick and swung it in a wide circle above her head. The heavy, knobby end connected hard with the side of Simi’s head.
Thwap.
The baboon went down like one of her father’s trees.
Holding her breath, Beryl gripped the rungu in front of her. The baboon lay still on his side. She exhaled when she saw the widening pool of blood under his skull.
Arthur whimpered. Beryl spared him a glance. “Are you all right?” she asked.
He looked up at her, his face streaked with blood and tears. “Is he dead?”
“I think so.” She approached the body. The baboon’s face was unusually peaceful. It was easy to forget the wild beast and remember the years he’d been the family pet, to smile at the memory of all the pranks Simi had played.
“I’m sorry, Simi.” She bent down to stroke his fur.
Simi’s eyes popped open and Beryl stumbled backward. He screamed from deep inside his throat. The baboon’s lips curled back and he leapt at Beryl’s face, claws extended.
Without thinking, she struck out again with the rungu. Simi tried to grab it for himself. Beryl held the stick in front of her, like Arap Maina held a spear. She rammed the stick into Simi’s body, crushing his stomach against the wall. Simi wrapped his arms around his body and hunched over. He hid his face the way baboons did when another creature bested them.
Beryl watched with wary eyes, rungu at the ready. With a quickening of her breath, she knew what Arap Maina would do. She had to finish this, or Arthur would pay the price later.
Another swing, and Simi’s skull shattered. Brains and blood showered the wall. Arthur’s hair and back were covered with little bits of baboon. Simi fell to the ground with a thud.
A moment later, the rungu fell from her hand. She touched her throbbing cheek with her fingertips.
“Beryl?” Arthur’s voice trembled. “Is it over?”
“Yes, he’s dead.” She was panting.
“You said that before.”
“He’s really dead now.”
She extended a hand to help him up. Arthur clung to her waist and began sobbing.
“Why are you crying now?” she asked. “It’s over, you ninny.” She hesitated, then reached down and put her arm around him.
In the corner, she spied the forgotten red ball.
Moments later, the Captain and Emma came running. Emma’s anxious eyes searched only for her son.
“Arthur, what happened? We heard screaming…” She pulled him away from Beryl’s arms, moaning at the bloody cuts. She ran her fingers over his face and shoulders. She glared at the Captain and said, “What did she do to him?”
“Emma, why don’t you just ask me?” Beryl said in a flat voice. “And I didn’t do anything to him. I saved him.”
Emma ignored her and began speaking with Arthur in a low, urgent voice.
The Captain’s keen eyes were examining the porch. He caught his breath at the sight of Simi’s body. Then his gaze traveled to Arthur’s injuries, the rungu dripping with gore, and finally to the flecks of blood spattered on Beryl’s face and clothes.
“You killed Simi,” he accused.
“I’m sorry, Daddy. I had to,” Beryl said, without looking at his face.
“Do you know how much he cost? And that was three years ago—I’ll never be able to get another.” His voice was cold and angry. It took all of Beryl’s courage not to run away.
Rescue came from an unexpected quarter.
“Charles Clutterbuck! Are you mad? That creature…” For once, Emma was not pointing an accusing finger at Beryl. “That vile beast nearly killed Arthur, who was only trying to play with him. Beryl saved his life. So don’t you dare talk about money!”
Beryl finally looked at her father, deliberately widening her eyes so he wouldn’t think to ask why Arthur was playing with the baboon in the first place.
“Why did you use my rungu?” the Captain asked in a more measured tone.
“I didn’t have my knife. Arap Maina says a warrior should never be without his knife. I won’t make that mistake again.”
“A knife wouldn’t have helped. Baboons have such a reach, you need a long weapon.”
Beryl reviewed every detail of the fight in her mind. She nodded.
“You’re both impossible!” Emma gathered Arthur in her arms, looking fiercely at the Captain. “This would never have happened if the children were properly supervised. And I don’t mean by that native!”
“Emma, don’t start this again. Simi had the run of the farm; this could have happened anywhere.”
“Very reassuring, Clutt. This time we have a dead ape, but…”
“Baboon!” the Captain and Beryl said at the same time.
“The children need to be protected.”
The Captain stepped forward and put his hands on Emma’s shoulders. “Calm down. Simi is dead. Beryl took care of Arthur. Everything is fine.”
Emma glared at him. “You’re deluding yourself. An eleven-year-old girl was the only thing between my son and…” She couldn’t finish the sentence. “Nothing is fine.” She burst into hysterical tears. “I hate it here.”
Beryl put her hands over her ears. The Captain looked as though he wanted to do the same. “Emma, take Arthur into the house and clean him up. Then we’ll talk.” He reached out and touched her hand. “Please?”
She shook off his touch and led Arthur inside, slamming the door hard.
“Whew.” The Captain wiped his hand across his brow. “I don’t know that I can talk us out of this one.”
“Don’t try. Let them leave.”
The Captain sighed. “Emma’s doing a lot of good around here. She’s made this place a proper British home. Besides, I thought you liked Arthur.”
Beryl thought about it for a moment. She remembered how Arthur hadn’t tattled on Beryl to his mother. She owed him. “He’s all right, I suppose. It’s not his fault he’s ‘delicate.’ ”
A grin flashed across her father’s face, replaced by a grim expression. Grunting a little, he bent down and lifted Simi’s limp body. “Get cleaned up and have Emma look at that cut. I’ll take this into the forest. The hyenas will take care of it.”
After he left, Beryl san
k down on the porch steps and breathed deeply. This time she had not cowered on her bed while an innocent victim was hurt. She had not stayed out of harm’s way while someone else fought the battle for her. She had met the enemy and won. She couldn’t wait to tell Kibii.
LOCATION: Elstree, England
DATE: 3 September, 1936
After two thousand flying hours in my log, I knew I was ready to fly the Atlantic Ocean. The Water Jump. Tom wasn’t so optimistic. “It won’t be simple. You’ll have to carry a whacking load of fuel. The weather in autumn is against you. You’ll be alone for a night and a day. No radio—and no one to hear you if you had one. If you misjudge anything, you’ll end up in the water.”
“You’re still acting like my teacher,” I accused.
His intelligent blue eyes stared me down. “If you pull this stunt off, you won’t be anybody’s pupil.”
“So you’ll help me?”
“Beryl, it won’t be easy.” He rubbed his hands and began to set up my regimen. “No drinking, no smoking. No late nights. Exercise every day. You’ll have to train like an athlete.”
And I’ve trained as hard as I did when I was a child, when my heart’s desire was to jump higher than my head. For this challenge, I’ve left nothing to chance.
CHAPTER NINE
BERYL SHIFTED IN HER BED, WINCING AT THE SORE SPOTS WHERE Simi’s throw had landed her against the wall. She willed herself to fall asleep, but something wasn’t right. What could it be? The leopard was dead. Simi was dead. Her hut had a sturdy wooden door. Where else could danger come from?
She concentrated, sniffing the air as Arap Maina had taught her. Fresh air was coming in where fresh air had no place to be. Someone or something had moved the flap of cloth hanging across her window opening. Careful not to make a sound, Beryl ran her hand under her mattress for her knife. Suddenly a head blocked the starlight—a long, elegant shaved head.
“Kibii?” Beryl whispered. He had never visited her at night before.
“Who else?” Her friend’s low voice was matter-of-fact, almost surprised that she had asked. “Come out. The dancing will start soon.”
Beryl threw off the spread, pulled the mosquito netting aside, and reached into the crate next to her bed for khaki shorts and a dark shirt. Buller rolled over on his back and began to snore.
“You always were a lousy watchdog,” she whispered. “Sleep well, friend. I’ll be back later.” She picked up her boots and hauled open the heavy wooden door. Beryl inhaled deeply; the cold air was raw in her throat. Kibii’s white teeth gleamed in the dark. She grinned back.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“The Kikuyu village. There’s a ngoma,” he replied. He glanced at the boots in her hand and shook his head. “Your shoes will make too much noise.”
Beryl had always wanted to go to one of the native dances. She dropped the boots.
Suddenly a child’s cry cracked the night. Beryl and Kibii shrank against the wall of the hut, peering toward the main house. Squares of light floated in the darkness. Beryl realized it was not as late as she had thought; her father and Emma were still awake.
“It’s Little A,” Beryl whispered. “Even though Simi is dead, he’s still scared.”
“Is it true you killed the baboon with one blow?”
“Two,” Beryl admitted. “After the first one, I thought he was dead—there was so much blood.”
“Dead animals don’t bleed,” he reminded her.
“Everything happened so fast, I forgot,” she admitted. “But my second blow finished him.”
“You did what needed to be done.” Grudging as it was, it was still praise. “It was something I might have done.” He held his hand to his ear. “The Kikuyu music will start soon. I think you will like their dancing.”
“I’ve never been to their village.” Beryl hesitated. The Kikuyu performed the farm’s most backbreaking labor. They lived a few miles away on the edge of the forest. It was a long way to go in the night. “I’m forbidden to go out alone.”
“If I go with you, then you are not alone,” Kibii said logically.
“That’s true.”
Kibii took off. Beryl forgot her qualms and soon caught up with him. They loped down into the valley with the gait peculiar to Kibii’s people that the settlers called “hop and carry one.” Beryl had never run faster. It was as if the crisp evening air was propelling her forward. The moon was full, and lit their path better than lanterns could. Even the mysterious noises—the strange animal calls, the crackling of branches, the rustling underfoot—held no fear for her tonight. She was Beru, and she had defended her tribe against the enemy. Her arms swung wider and her stride lengthened.
Finally, with the village just in sight, she stopped and stood still, breathing hard.
Kibii still had his wind. “Beru, you have to train harder,” he scolded. “A murani does not pant. Your prey would be gone before you caught your breath.”
Chest aching, Beryl breathed heavily through her nose. Shaking his head, Kibii walked past her toward the village of mud and brush huts.
“I didn’t think you liked the Kikuyu,” Beryl whispered to Kibii.
“I do not. They have looked to the earth for so long, they cannot see the sky.”
“Daddy says they farm well and don’t cause any trouble.”
He snorted. “That’s why I do not like them.”
Beryl and Kibii joined the other children, both Nandi and Kikuyu, at one end of the large clearing where the dancing was to take place. There were sidelong glances at them, particularly at Beryl, who shook her head defiantly, her blond braids catching the fire-light. Grudgingly, room was made for them.
In the clearing, young men stood together in a wide circle with their arms on each other’s shoulders. One man stood in the center, the leader. Anticipation rippled through the audience.
“What’s he going to do?” Beryl whispered to Kibii.
“Wait.” Kibii never took his eyes off the dancer inside the circle.
The leader suddenly leapt into the air. At the top of the jump, he waggled his shoulders. He looked like a bird ruffling his feathers in midflight. He opened his mouth and hurled his chant at the others like a challenge. They accepted, and the music swelled from one to the other until they were all singing the same sounds. Beryl thought it sounded like one person’s voice, repeated and overlaid twentyfold. And all the while, the leader was leaping, setting the rhythm.
The circle of dancers began to stomp, daring him to jump faster and higher. Beryl and Kibii were stomping the beat like the others, the music infecting their blood. The leader’s head rocked back and forth on top of his rigid neck. His toes stretched impossibly long toward the ground, touching the dirt only for an instant before flying again.
Finally, Kibii stirred. “Ahh,” he said. “He is tiring.”
Beryl looked closely and saw that the leader’s leaps were not quite so high. Although he still sang out the chant, the sinews in his chest were drawn like cords, and he dragged in deep breaths on every down stroke. Then he faltered. His misstep shuddered through the music. Beryl felt as though cold water had been splashed on her. Before the leader could miss another beat, another dancer stepped forward, taking his place. The first leader leapt his last leap and stopped dead. His head bowed, shame in the set of his shoulders, he moved outside the circle.
“He wasn’t strong enough,” Beryl said, feeling exhausted, as though she had led the dancing.
“He failed,” Kibii said.
The dancing would continue until dawn, but Beryl and Kibii slipped away while it was still dark. As they walked, they talked about the dancing and how funny it was that the serious Kikuyu danced so well.
“Daddy tried to count them for the government again last week, but the tribe thinks it’s unlucky,” Beryl said. “They shuffled around so he couldn’t get a good number.”
Kibii answered, “Why he does he want to know how many there are?”
“He told me th
at the government worries about native revolts.”
“The Kikuyu?” Kibii asked, his eyes wide.
Beryl nodded, laughing. “Daddy thinks the same. He says that they can’t be bothered to fight for anyone, least of all themselves.” She paused. “I wonder if he has ever seen them dance.”
They walked in a companionable silence until they reached a bit of clearing with a fine view of the valley. They stopped to admire the landscape rolled out below them like an Oriental carpet. The stars overhead were brilliant against the black sky.
Promise the Night Page 7