Promise the Night

by Michaela MacColl

  A week passed before Miss Le May dared to bring up mathematics again. Beryl had not said a word to her father, so the governess must have felt safe.

  “Five plus seven?”

  “You know I don’t care.”

  “Beryl, that’s enough. I’ve still got my ruler.”

  Beryl looked out the window. Her father was returning home, no doubt for a cup of tea. She calculated how long it would take him to reach the house.

  “I’m not afraid of your ruler,” she said. “Or your whip.” She stuck out her tongue.

  As Beryl knew she would, Miss Le May pulled out the familiar wooden ruler and held it over Beryl’s hand.

  “Five plus seven?” Miss Le May asked.

  “I don’t care.”

  Thwap!

  “Ahh!” Beryl howled in pain. “That hurt. Ow! Ow! Daddy!” And she burst into tears that would make a crocodile proud.

  Captain Clutterbuck rushed into the room. With a glance, he took in the situation. In an icy voice, he said, “Miss Le May, exactly what do you think you are doing?”

  The scene was everything Beryl could have wished for. The Captain raged. Miss Le May was sullen and afraid. Emma tried to defend the governess, but even she was appalled by the marks on Beryl’s hands and back. Within two hours, Miss Le May’s bags were packed and she was mounted on a slow pony for the five-mile trip to Nakuru. As she left the farm, Beryl appeared at the edge of the forest to say her farewell.

  “Hey, Miss Le May! Five plus seven is twelve. Thank you for teaching me!”

  With a look of loathing on her pitted face, Miss Le May rode away from Green Hills farm. Her back was slumped in humiliation. Beryl waved until she was out of sight.

  LOCATION: Somewhere over the North Atlantic

  DATE: 02:00 A.M. GMT, 5 September, 1936

  I wouldn’t have imagined that there was an expanse of desolation so big in the whole world as the waste of sky and water between England and North America. When I climb, I get sleet. When I drop, rain. If I skim the sea, I’m surrounded by fog. I can’t see a thing beyond my wingtips. I’m afraid I’ll go crazy.

  I have to remind myself what Tom and all the other long-distance flyers say—the worst part of these flights is sheer loneliness.

  The night cannot last forever. The winds seem to have forgiven me for whatever sins I might have committed. I shake myself for being so silly. I’ve overcome greater obstacles than this. I can’t imagine that I won’t make it.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  TAP TAP TAP.

  Emma, seated at the head of the table, was playing the Captain’s hostess. The rough table was covered with fine linen and china she had imported from England. The men, new settlers visiting the Clutterbuck farm, were dining on roast gazelle and drinking port.

  Tap tap tap.

  Trying to place the odd sound, Emma glanced first toward Beryl. Beryl was jiggling her feet and tapping her fork against the table.

  “Stop fidgeting this instant,” Emma hissed.

  “I’m finished with lunch—may I be excused?” Beryl’s request came out in a rush.

  Emma glanced down the table to the Captain, who was completely engrossed in a story he was telling. She sighed. “Very well.”

  As though Beryl were a tightly wound spring, she bounced up and ran out of the room. Scant seconds later, she was outside, heaving in deep breaths of fresh air, wishing the intruders would go away. For once, the problem was not Emma. Lord Delamere, her father’s patron, had brought the newcomers to the farm. He was a close friend of the family and of Beryl’s, but she couldn’t stand the others. For two days, the pink-faced men had monopolized her father’s time, mopping their brows, smoking their cigars, drinking the Captain’s precious whiskey, and examining claims on a map.

  Once safely in her own hut, she pulled off the scratchy muslin dress Emma had insisted she wear and replaced it with a dirty scarlet shuka draped over her shoulder and knotted under one arm. Moments later, she was running down the hill to the Nandi village.

  The sound of her feet kept an even rhythm on the narrow path. Arap Maina’s words rumbled in her head: “Muffle your steps; imagine you have wings on your ankles.” Perhaps if Beryl hadn’t been concentrating so hard on her feet, she would have seen the predator waiting for her behind the stand of cedar trees. Instead, she was taken unawares by the dark streak of muscle with a slash of red. It rushed out of hiding to tackle her low around the knees.

  She fell face first to the ground with an impact that stole her breath. Her attacker gained his feet and tried to put a heel in her back. But Beryl had not trained tirelessly with Kibii for nothing. In a single movement she had pulled out her knife and flipped over.

  “Mehru,” she gasped. Her heartbeat sped up as she saw his long knife. His smile was full of the bad blood between them. Mehru’s name meant “tall,” and he towered over Beryl lying in the dirt, blocking her sun. He brandished his knife with the ease of long practice.

  “So, Beru, when Arap Maina is not here to protect you, you grovel in the dirt like a dog,” he taunted her in Swahili.

  “Mehru, is that your father’s weapon? I know you haven’t earned your own yet,” she taunted back.

  His face grew even darker with anger. He tilted his head back to let out the Nandi battle yell. In the instant that his eyes were skyward, Beryl wriggled out of harm’s way. Mehru plunged down with his knife, but Beryl was no longer there. She leapt to her feet and faced him, warrior to warrior. She shouted her own battle cry, her lip twisted in her best fighting snarl.

  Mehru went after her, jabbing with his knife. Beryl swiftly moved back. He ran toward her, cutting and slashing. His blade caught her thigh. Blood spurted. He laughed.

  Panting, Beryl pushed against the cut with her palm. It wasn’t serious, she decided. She moved in with her own knife and caught the fleshy part of his arm with the point of her blade. She thrust again, trying to keep him off balance.

  “Were you afraid to challenge me in the open?” she asked, dodging his longer reach.

  They heard footsteps running up the path and they both turned their heads a fraction to see who was coming. It was Kibii.

  “Enough!” Kibii ordered, sounding as authoritative as his father. “You have each drawn blood. This should be settled with bare hands.” Kibii flashed Mehru a vindictive grin. “That is, if you dare. Beru is very good at wrestling.”

  Both Beryl and Mehru were breathing hard, covered with sweat. Their wounds bled freely. Not taking their eyes from each other, they let their knives fall. Holding up their empty hands, they moved toward each other. By Nandi tradition, the first to bring the other to the ground would be the winner. Kibii watched in silence.

  Mehru tried to use his greater height to overpower Beryl, but she was ready. She hooked a foot around his leg and jerked. He nearly fell, but saved himself by grabbing her shuka to pull himself upright. The fabric tore from her body. She kneed him hard in the groin. He grunted and bent over for a split second.

  Instantly, Beryl looped one arm over his neck to keep his head down. She dropped her body under his and wedged her shoulder against his chest. She bent her knees and pushed with all her power at his chest, while pulling down his head. Just as she hoped, his body flew up, feet first, into the air, and he sailed over her shoulder to fall to the hard, dry ground. Even winded, on his back in the dust, Mehru still tried to pull her down with him. But her thigh was slippery with blood and he lost his grip.

  She knelt on his chest, gave a crow of victory, and clasped her hands above her head. His height and his surprise tactics had not been enough. She had won. Kibii whooped for her. Mehru would never live down being beaten by a girl—and an English girl, at that.

  “Beryl Clutterbuck!” A voice sharp as Mehru’s blade cut through their cheers.

  Beryl turned to see her father standing on the path, his face pale. Behind him, Lord Delamere and some of the other strangers stared with their mouths hanging open.

  “Daddy!” Beryl said.
She stared as her father strode over, tearing off his shirt. He grabbed her arm and roughly pulled her away from Mehru.

  “Daddy, you’re hurting me,” Beryl protested.

  “Shut up, Beryl!” The Captain wrapped his shirt around her. Beryl realized that she was naked except for her underwear and she was covered with blood, her own and Mehru’s. Her father spun her around and pushed her toward Lord Delamere, whose normally cheerful face was grave. “Delamere, for God’s sake, take her up to the house.”

  “Clutt, what are you going to do?” asked Delamere, clasping Beryl to his chest. Despite the damp heat of the afternoon, Beryl shivered at the chill in his voice.

  “He interfered with my daughter. I’m going to kill the bastard,” the Captain said, reaching for the holster under his arm.

  “No, Daddy!” shrieked Beryl. “You don’t understand. Mehru challenged me! I won! It’s over.”

  But her words were smothered against Delamere’s chest. Kibii had seen enough; he turned and raced away down the hill toward the village.

  Delamere thrust Beryl behind him and moved to intercept the Captain. He laid a large, gnarled hand on his friend’s shoulder and spoke to him in low, urgent tones. “Clutt, murder is no answer. We’ll place him in charge with the authorities. He’ll hang for certain.”

  Beryl stood, trembling in the too-large shirt. This game had become something much more deadly. She prayed her father would see reason. Finally, he handed Lord Delamere his pistol. She exhaled in sharp relief.

  Mehru cowered on the ground. Although he spoke no English, he understood guns. His body relaxed when he saw Lord Delamere pocket the pistol. So he was unprepared when the Captain rushed in and kicked him hard. His booted foot swung back again and again. Wincing but not crying out, Mehru curled up and tried to ride the blows.

  “Daddy, stop! He didn’t do anything!” Beryl screamed.

  He ignored her. She tried to move forward, but Lord Delamere held her back.

  “Lord D,” she begged. “Please make him stop!” He ignored her, as did the other men. They watched, grim-faced and silent, as the Captain tried to kick Mehru to death.

  Tears ran down Beryl’s cheeks, and it seemed like forever before she saw Arap Maina running toward them with half a dozen angry young warriors. They had had no time to paint their faces for battle, but they had their spears. They were magnificent. Beryl wished she were standing with them instead of with these fat white men.

  “Sahib, please stop beating this boy,” Arap Maina said in a loud, but respectful voice. Behind him the warriors growled. His authority was barely keeping them in check.

  With the exception of Beryl, Captain Clutterbuck, and Lord Delamere, the settlers did not understand Arap Maina’s Swahili. They moved their hands to their weapons. Beryl’s heart pumped more loudly than it had during the fight.

  The Captain kicked Mehru’s body again. “Stay out of this, Arap Maina.” He didn’t seem to notice the armed warriors. “You don’t know what he did.” His heel caught Mehru’s head.

  “With all respect, sahib, you do not know, either.” Arap Maina’s voice was calm but urgent. It sliced through the Captain’s rage like a machete.

  “I know what I see. This boy cut my daughter, pulled away her clothing…” The Captain couldn’t finish his sentence, but he stopped kicking.

  With a slight smile that did not reach his worried eyes, Arap Maina said, “I disagree. I see a fight. A foolish boy tried to surprise Beru. But she was too swift for him. He cut her with his knife, but she cut him with hers.”

  The Captain seized on his words. “So he did attack her.”

  “As a warrior stalks another warrior, sahib. An honorable challenge.”

  “He cut her.” The Captain spoke slowly, as though Arap Maina were an idiot.

  “They cut each other. And then, as is our custom, each having drawn blood, they went to hand combat. And, as you see, Beru was the winner.”

  On the ground, Mehru did not move. His eyes were closed. Beryl prayed he wasn’t dead.

  Arap Maina sensed the dangerous wind was shifting. He pur-sued his good beginning. “Cluttabucki, you know your daughter is part of our tribe. No one would hurt her.”

  The Captain looked over to Beryl. She silently begged him to listen to reason. As suddenly as it had come, the fury left the Captain’s body. His thick neck relaxed. He dragged the back of his hand across his sopping forehead.

  Beryl, straining to hear, thought her father whispered, “What have I done? I might have killed this boy…What am I to do with her?” The Captain turned his back on Arap Maina, an old friend who was now almost an enemy, and stared blankly at his daughter.

  Beryl broke free from Lord Delamere and lurched away into the forest. Her leg was still bleeding, but her body was decently covered by her father’s shirt.

  LOCATION: Somewhere over the North Atlantic

  DATE: 04:00 A.M. GMT, 5 September, 1936

  The darkness goes on forever, and I’m flying blind.

  I pull my compass from its pocket in the door. Tom gave it to me long ago, in Africa. He said, “Trust this, but nothing else. When you’re up there, instruments can go wrong. If you can’t fly without looking at your airspeed and your altimeter—well, then, you can’t fly. You’re like somebody who only knows what he thinks after reading the newspaper. The compass will tell you where you ought to be going—and the rest is up to you.”

  My compass tells me my heading is correct. I have to trust it. Once or twice the moon has made a brief appearance, but there are no landmarks to check my course. There’s nothing but water.

  An electrical storm pops up, just to make things more interesting. The sorry thing is that I welcome the storm—at least I can see something besides clouds and water. I’m flying at two thousand feet. I’d rather fly lower, to keep my eye on the ocean, but the wind is bucking like a wild stallion. Too dangerous.

  A huge gust of wind grabs my little plane and shakes it. The Messenger takes a terrific toss. Something’s wrong; I can’t imagine why the gauges are fluctuating so wildly. Think, Beryl, think: Why is the plane behaving in such an extraordinary manner? A flash of lightning outside. Where’s the water?

  I look up. The water is above my head. I’m flying upside down. I’ve never felt so disoriented.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  EVERYTHING HAD CHANGED. UNTIL THAT AFTERNOON, BERYL HAD moved easily between her father’s world and the Nandi village. But on the path that afternoon, with the thuds of the Captain’s boot against Mehru’s skull, she had seen that the divide was as big as the Great Rift Valley.

  Night had fallen completely before Beryl could bring herself to leave the protection of the forest. She came up the path slowly, past the edge of the stables. She stopped to greet Camiscan in his dark-ened stall. He neighed, first in warning and then in recognition.

  “Here, boy,” she said, holding out her hand. The stallion whinnied gently and nuzzled her palm, tasting for the treat she usually brought him.

  “Not tonight, boy. I have to go home and get some sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll bring you something sweet.” She stroked his muzzle and gave him a small kiss.

  “Coo-ee, I can’t believe you kiss him, Beryl. He bites everybody!” It was Arthur, out hours past his bedtime. He was in his nightshirt, and he looked up at her through his tangled dark curls. “Are you in trouble, Beryl?”

  “What have you heard?” she asked.

  “Everybody’s upset, but no one will tell me why.” He took the last few steps separating them and touched her arm. “You’ll tell me, right?”

  “I would, if I knew myself.” She hugged him. His head barely reached her chest, but his sturdy embrace made her feel better. “Come on, let me take you to the house before Emma has a fit.”

  Arthur put a trusting hand in hers and they walked to the large cedar house. She could smell the fire burning, and the glow at the windows beckoned her. She shooed Arthur in the side door and walked away toward her own hut. Slipping inside, she sighed
in relief. She lit her lamp with one of her carefully guarded store of safety matches.

  Beryl flopped down on her bed and examined the wound on her thigh. The bleeding was long stopped, but it needed some first aid. Wondering if she could pilfer a bandage from the main house without meeting her father, she was startled by a gentle tap on the door.

  “Come in,” she said after a brief moment.

  The door opened and a woman holding a lamp stepped in.

  “Emma,” Beryl said coldly. At least it wasn’t her father.

  “Beryl,” Emma responded. Her voice had no warmth either. A basket hung over her arm, and she brought it to Beryl’s bed. “I brought my medical kit.” She pulled out white gauze and a bottle of iodine. There was no table, so she dragged over an empty crate and laid out her supplies.