Promise the Night

by Michaela MacColl

  “This is good,” Beryl said.

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to fly over the valley, like an eagle.”

  Kibii shook his head. “What good would that do? You cannot know the land until you walk it.”

  “You could see everything if you flew.”

  “Since you cannot fly, it does not matter.”

  Beryl reflected for a moment. “The dancers looked as though they could fly. I wish I could dance like that.” She began to leap, slowly at first, then higher and faster, like a fledgling trying out her wings.

  Kibii watched carefully. “No, Beru. You are pushing off with the ball of your foot. You must use your toes! Like this.” And he began to leap too.

  Beryl was so intent on lifting herself higher than Kibii that she didn’t hear the sound of men. Suddenly, lanterns blinded her.

  “We’ve found her!” a man cried in Dutch-accented English. It was one of her father’s Boer foremen. He grabbed her arm. “Little missy—we’ve been looking for you half the night.”

  “Run, Kibii!” she shouted.

  Midleap, Kibii twisted his body and flung himself into the trees. In an instant he was gone.

  Beryl’s feet, which moments earlier had flown over the forest path, felt like lead. The foreman held her arm, not too roughly, all the way to her father’s house. All the windows were lit, and the Captain was pacing on the porch. Arthur was sitting on the stoop, his arms wrapped around his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks. His face cleared as soon as he saw Beryl.

  “You’re back!” he cried. “I thought you were dead in the woods!”

  “I’m fine, Arthur.” She straightened her back and waited for her father to say something. He stared at her for a few moments, his face a block of stone. With deliberate slowness, he pulled out his watch, glanced at the time, and replaced it in its special pocket in his vest. Then he called into the house, “Emma, we’ve found her.”

  Emma appeared in the doorway, carrying a paraffin lantern. She wore a lacy nightdress, belted tightly around her waist. She looked like a porcelain doll with her blond curls and violet eyes.

  “Thank goodness.” She glimpsed Beryl and her face became even paler. “Where have you been? Don’t you know how worried we’ve been? First Arthur and that awful creature, then…”

  The foreman and his men stared openly at Emma’s nightdress. The Captain brushed past Beryl to dismiss them to their huts. Then he turned his attention back to his household. “Everyone inside.”

  Arthur said, “Can I stay up to hear you yell at Beryl?”

  The Captain swung Arthur across his back. “Off to bed with you, young man.”

  “Dad, I have bad dreams.”

  “He’s not your dad,” Beryl said.

  “Beryl, shut your mouth. It doesn’t matter.” Then her father asked in a gentle voice that Beryl didn’t recognize, “What kind of dreams, son?”

  “Son?” Beryl repeated under her breath.

  “My brains were getting eaten by a bear,” Arthur said.

  “Arthur, that’s nonsense,” Emma said.

  “No, it’s not,” Beryl spat. “There’s a bear in the forest that eats the brains of its prey. I told Arthur all about it.”

  A small, vexed cry escaped Emma’s lips.

  “Arthur, the bear doesn’t like boy brains,” the Captain said, glaring at his daughter. “They’re too tough. Now, women’s brains…they’re soft and mushy.”

  Arthur giggled.

  “Emma,” the Captain said, handing Arthur to his mother, “put him to bed.”

  “I’ll be back, and we will discuss this,” Emma said darkly as she led Arthur away.

  Beryl and her father were alone in the Captain’s long living room. Beryl kept her eyes on her dirt-encrusted toes, but she could feel her father’s stare on the top of her head. A cedar fire crackled and spat in the large stone fireplace. Emma’s influence was everywhere, from the lace doilies on the tables to the decanters on the sideboard. She had even imported a silver soda siphon so the Captain could have his favorite whiskey and soda. The room was filled with light from sputtering oil lamps on every table, as if Emma were trying to keep the darkness at bay.

  The Captain sighed and went to pour some whiskey into his cut-crystal glass. Beryl heard the whooshing sound of the soda being added.

  “At ease,” he finally said.

  Beryl relaxed a fraction.

  “Why can’t you just stay out of trouble?” He rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, a mannerism Beryl had seen before when he didn’t know what to do with her. “Emma went to check on you tonight. She was worried about you!” His laughter was like a hyena’s bark. “Then she’s in hysterics, thinking you’ve been stolen by Gypsies who left your shoes on the stoop or some such nonsense. I had to wake up the men to look for you. Tomorrow, they’ll all be exhausted.”

  “I wasn’t in trouble, Daddy. I went to see the Kikuyu dance.”

  “You should have been in bed, not out wandering alone.”

  “I wasn’t alone,” Beryl said.

  “Really?” His eyebrows lifted. “Kibii, I suppose. Maybe it was a mistake to let you spend so much time with the Nandi. I can’t afford to be distracted.” He gestured toward his desk, covered with his training ledgers. Emma’s hysterics must have interrupted his nightly record-keeping of his thoroughbreds’ progress.

  “But Daddy, I’ve learned so much. Without Arap Maina’s training, I never could have killed Simi.”

  At the pained expression on his face, Beryl fell silent.

  They heard Emma’s embroidered slippers swishing on the polished wood floor. She sat down at the table that served as the Captain’s desk. “Clutt, what are we going to do about the children?”

  “Emma, don’t be so dramatic. They’re both fine.”

  “Arthur is still suffering shock from this afternoon.” Emma shuddered and drew her dressing gown closer.

  “Nonsense.” The Captain turned his back on her and prodded the fire with a poker.

  “Arthur was nearly killed. He saw your daughter beat an animal to death.” She shot Beryl an accusing look.

  “Why are you blaming Beryl? I’d think you’d be grateful to her for saving Arthur’s life,” the Captain said.

  Beryl felt an unexpected warmth on her face.

  “I can’t help wondering why Arthur was playing with that creature in the first place,” Emma said. “It’s not like him.”

  Beryl guiltily shifted her weight from one foot to another. The Captain glanced at her and began to pace.

  “Clutt, she’s running wild.” Emma’s complaints followed him around the room. “Tonight she was out in the woods doing who knows what! She needs a governess.”

  “Not this again.”

  “This is no life for an English girl. She’s becoming a savage. She doesn’t even wear shoes.”

  Beryl wiggled her bare toes.

  “What’s next?” Emma asked, watching the Captain shrewdly. “Shaving her head? Piercing her earlobes with wood?”

  The Captain ran his finger around his collar and wouldn’t meet Emma’s eyes. He harrumphed and sat down at his desk.

  Emma continued, “A proper governess would be the making of her.”

  Beryl held herself perfectly still, like a lioness crouched in the grass. If she had had a tail, the tip would have been twitching.

  “Beryl is fine,” the Captain protested. “She’s healthy and eats well.”

  “She’s not one of your horses, darling.”

  “She handles horses as well as any of the lads in the stable.” His gaze wandered back to his ledgers.

  “She’s not one of the lads, either.” Emma sat across from him and tapped the ledger to get his complete attention. “She’s eleven years old and she cannot read.”

  “Nonsense. We read together all the time.”

  “I mean something more challenging than the racing papers!” Her voice became soft and persuasive. “Don’t you want b
etter for her?”

  “She should get some schooling, I suppose…” he said finally, “but I’d rather spend the money on a new head lad.”

  “After she’s been educated, she could help you with the farm.” Emma leaned forward and caught his hand in hers. “It would save you money in the long run.”

  The Captain absently rubbed the palm of her hand with his callused thumb. “I always assumed she would go back to England to school,” he admitted.

  “Please, no, Daddy.” Neither the Captain nor Emma paid any attention to Beryl’s whisper.

  Emma sniffed, a tiny, ladylike sound. “Can you imagine Beryl in an English school? She won’t even live in a proper house! You must hire a governess.” She held his gaze until he reluctantly nodded.

  “All right. I’ll see to it when I go to the races next month.”

  “Or you can go on tomorrow’s train.”

  The Captain was startled. “Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow.” Emma was implacable.

  “Daddy! No!” Beryl’s voice came out in a wail. “I have Arap Maina. I don’t need a governess. Emma doesn’t know anything!”

  “Beryl Clutterbuck, mind your tongue,” her father ordered. “I’ve made my decision.”

  Beryl shivered; she knew better than to argue with her father when he used that tone.

  Emma smiled a satisfied smile, just like Camiscan’s smug expression when he terrorized the stable lads.

  Clenching and unclenching her fists, Beryl cried, “I’ll never forgive you for this, you…witch!”

  “Beryl!” Emma gasped.

  “I’ll be here long after you. You’ll run away, just like my mother did. Daddy will never marry you.”

  Emma recoiled as though she had been slapped.

  “Beryl, go to your hut,” the Captain ordered. “And this time, stay there, or God help me, you’ll regret it.”

  Beryl whirled around and left through the wide doorway. The open door spilled a pool of lamplight into the night; at the light’s edge, the darkness was even deeper than before. There was no sound except the buzzing of cicadas. Without hesitating, Beryl walked into the dark. From the doorway of her hut, she looked back at the house. Her father’s silhouette stood motionless on the porch, watching her.

  LOCATION: Elstree, England

  DATE: 08:00 A.M. GMT, 4 September, 1936

  I’m waiting at the window, watching for a sunrise to appear through the drizzle. The telephone peals its shrill noise.

  “Beryl Markham?” the familiar sour voice asks.

  “Yes.” I hold my breath. Any more delay, and the autumn storms will stop me before I begin.

  “Low clouds and thunder again today. Possibly a break in the late afternoon. But behind that is a strong gale.”

  “How far behind? How much time do I have?”

  “We don’t know.” The voice hesitates. “Mrs. Markham, the Air Ministry strongly advises against this flight. No one has managed a solo flight from Britain to New York.”

  “That’s why I’m doing it.”

  There is a disapproving cough on the other end of the line. “Of the last ten who tried, one ditched, one turned back, three crashed, and the last five disappeared. This late in the year, the headwinds will be stronger than ever. It can’t be done, least of all by a woman.”

  Looking out the window, I catch a glimpse of lighter sky. “I’m going this afternoon, come what may.”

  “The Air Ministry cannot take responsibility.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to. But I promised Lord Carberry I’d get his plane back for the October races. I never break a promise.”

  After a moment, the voice says, “If you insist on going…”

  “I do.”

  “Then…Godspeed.”

  This is my chance. By this time tomorrow, I’ll either be the first to do the Water Jump, east to west…Or I’ll be dead.

  At least it won’t be dull.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “WAKE UP, BERYL,” THE CAPTAIN BELLOWED. HE POUNDED ON HER door with his fist.

  Beryl’s eyes flew open. She stared at her thatch roof, feeling grateful she finally had a wooden door. Her second thought followed quickly: What a shame she had never gotten around to making a back door to her rondavel.

  “How angry do you think he is?” she whispered to Buller. The dog snorted and rolled over.

  The Captain pounded again. “Beryl, I know you’re in there.”

  She scrambled out of bed and threw on one of the togas Kibii’s mother had made for her. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she swung open the door.

  “Yes, Daddy?” she asked, shivering. The dew on the hard mud floor was ice-cold and she shifted her weight from one foot to another, rubbing her bare arms to keep warm.

  Even though his eyes were tired and shadowed, her father did not look furious.

  “Look at you—Emma would say that butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth,” her father said with a wry grin. The tightness in her chest loosened. “As if I’d forget your behavior last night.”

  “I’m sorry,” Beryl said.

  “Good. And I expect you to apologize to Emma, too…nicely.” He looked her over and shook his head. “For God’s sake, get some proper clothes on. I’ve a train to catch.”

  “To Nairobi? I can come?” Beryl’s breath caught at the possibility. Her father occasionally let her accompany him to the only city she had ever known. Even if she had to return with a governess, the train ride down would be hers and his together. Alone.

  “Ha! You think after last night I would take you to Nairobi? No, you’ll ride with me as far as Nakuru, then you can take the horses back with the post.” He pulled out his pocket watch. “Step to it, Beryl; we’ll leave in exactly twenty minutes.”

  A few hours later she was mounted on Wee McGregor, the Arabian pony her father had given her years ago to learn to ride. The stirrups were lengthened as far as they could go, and still her legs were too long for the pony. The Captain rode the Baron, a retired cavalry charger. The Captain permitted no else to ride him.

  The only conversation was her father’s barked instructions: “Beryl, your heels are pointing out—what good does that do you or the horse?” or “Beryl, for God’s sake, loosen up on the reins before you snap that pony’s neck.” Beryl kept her mouth shut, obeyed her father’s orders, and brooded about governesses.

  They were startled by a white stork gliding over their heads. The bird flapped its enormous wings and began to climb. The Captain reined in and shielded his eyes to watch. The stork’s feathers shimmered and melted in the merciless morning sun. Beryl waited, curious. It wasn’t often that her father took the time to appreciate any animals other than his precious thoroughbreds.

  When the stork was only a speck in the cloudless sky, the Captain sighed. “Beryl, have I ever told you about Daedalus and his son Icarus?”

  Beryl cast her mind back to all the myths her father had regaled her with when she was little. “I don’t think so.”

  “Daedalus was an inventor who was imprisoned on the island of Crete. Daedalus decided the only way he could escape was to fly.”

  “Fly? In ancient Greece?” Beryl asked.

  Her father smiled. “He designed two sets of wings made of feathers and wax. One for himself and one for Icarus, his son. Icarus couldn’t wait to fly, but his father warned him not to fly too high.”

  “Did they work?” Beryl asked, rolling her shoulders as though she were wearing wings.

  “They did. They escaped and headed toward the mainland. But Icarus was reckless. He flew faster and higher than his father. So high, he couldn’t hear his father’s warnings.” The Captain glared at Beryl.

  “What happened?” Beryl asked in a small voice.

  “The sun melted his wings and Icarus fell into the sea. He drowned.”

  “Daddy, that’s an awful story!”

  He watched her closely. “Perhaps. But there was a lesson in it. Do you understand it?”

  Beryl thought. Final
ly she said, “If I ever fly, it won’t be with wax wings.”

  The Captain laughed, but Beryl could see the worry in his eyes.