Promise the Night

by Michaela MacColl

  “I’ve never heard of lions doing that,” said Beryl, her forehead crinkled in disbelief.

  “I swear it’s true, Miss Beryl; those lions were fierce. They outnumbered us. We paid dearly for every mile of track.”

  When the train finally started again, Beryl boarded in a thoughtful mood, considering for the first time the price her father and other settlers had paid for the right to settle in the highlands.

  The train made its way upward. It was late morning when it finally gasped its way into Nakuru.

  “Good-bye, Nelson, and thank you,” said Beryl as she hopped off the train before it even stopped.

  “Miss Beryl, don’t you have any luggage?” he called after her.

  “Don’t worry,” she shouted as she ran out of the car. “Have a good journey back.” She ran out of the station to prevent any more awkward questions.

  As soon as she was out of sight, she began stripping off the awful clothes. The shoes were the first to go. Then the stockings. She sliced off the bottom of the full blue cotton skirt with her knife and wrapped it lengthwise around her body, securing it with a knot at her shoulder like a shuka. Her blouse and hat she left on the track for anyone foolish enough to want them. Her bare feet protesting at the unaccustomed sensation of stones and dirt, she ran all the way to the Nandi village.

  The dogs and children greeted her joyfully, but she did not stop to talk. She wanted to see Kibii and Arap Maina. Arap Maina appeared at the doorway to his hut, smiling at the sight of her.

  “I’m back, Arap Maina!” she announced. She wanted to hug him, but she knew his dignity would not permit it. She forced her arms to stay at her sides, contenting herself with a huge grin.

  “Beru, welcome. Your father thought you would be back a few days ago.”

  “I should have been,” Beryl said. She tried to look past Arap Maina into the hut. “Where is Kibii?” She had not seen her friend since he had left for his circumcision ritual, although she had thought of him often.

  “Kibii is no more,” he said solemnly.

  Beryl caught her breath, “You mean…”

  “He is now Arap Ruta,” said Arap Maina with pride.

  Relieved, Beryl nodded. Kibii was not dead; he had become a murani. His new name meant that he had passed his ritual and was now a man.

  “I hoped he would be back by now,” said Beryl, hardly trying to conceal her disappointment.

  “Beru, the warriors live by themselves in a separate camp. It is how they develop the bonds of brothers. He has taken his proper place with the tribe. It is what he was born to do.”

  Blinking against the sudden tears in her eyes, Beryl started to turn away. Arap Maina touched her shoulder and said gently, “You have grown tall and strong while you were away. It is time for you to join your own people. Go home.”

  “But this is my home, too,” protested Beryl.

  “We shall always be friends. But you are the daughter of Cluttabucki, and he has plans for you. Go see him. Go now. It will not be as hard as you think.” Arap Maina disappeared into his hut.

  Beryl trekked up the hill to the farm, thinking hard. Trapped in Nairobi, she had dreamed of the Nandi. And now the Nandi told her she belonged with the British. Was it truly time to choose?

  LOCATION: The Ritz-Carlton, New York City, New York

  DATE: 20 September, 1936

  I’m wearing a couture gown, hiking up the long skirt to climb the stairs to yet another banquet in my honor. They are getting dull.

  Blast, there’s another reporter. He’s from The New York Times, I think. He’s seen me, too—no avoiding another impertinent interview now. I paste on my broadest smile.

  “Beryl, do you have any comment about Tom Black’s death?”

  I feel as though I’ve received a blow to the gut, but I don’t show it. “Excuse me?”

  The reporter delights in telling me the whole story.

  It was a million-to-one accident. My dear Tom was taxiing down the runway in a new plane, a tiny Percival Mew. I’ve heard about this plane. A hairy little beast to fly, but fast. It’s only four feet tall when it’s on the ground. The bomber pilot didn’t even see it when he came in for a landing. The bomber’s propeller sliced through its cockpit, and Tom, too, like a knife through butter. He died half an hour later. All his skill and experience counted for nothing. I can hardly believe it’s true.

  Choking on my grief, I give the reporter what he wants. “England has lost a wonderful pilot,” I say. “And I have lost the instructor who taught me all I know about flying.”

  I cancel the rest of my engagements and book passage on the first ship back to England.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  BERYL WALKED HOME THE LONG WAY, ALONG THE EDGE OF THE forest. She stopped and peered up into the cedar trees. Through the beards of lichen dripping from the branches, she glimpsed birds swooping among the leaves. She inhaled and exhaled sharply, trying to get the brackish air of the Nairobi swamps out of her lungs.

  The forest ended sooner than she remembered. Her father had been busy, taming the forest, turning it into profit. Buller was lying in the dirt as though he had been waiting patiently for a year.

  “Hi, boy,” she said, fondling his scarred ears and rubbing under his chin. His tail thumped, and with a wheezing noise he stood and followed her down to the lower paddock.

  As she hoped, her father was putting the Baron through his paces. If he was not too busy, the Captain loved to ride after the day’s work was done.

  Beryl walked into the paddock, her chin up, head held high. She was uneasily conscious of her makeshift shuka—who ever heard of a toga made out of a skirt? The Captain saw her, reined in the Baron, and waited for her to close the distance between them. Horse and master were silhouetted against the setting sun. Thankfully, Emma was nowhere to be seen.

  Beryl’s stomach fluttered as though she had swallowed a nest of wasps. But despite her nerves, she couldn’t help savoring the feel of the damp, packed earth of the paddock under her bare feet. As she placed each step, she rolled from heel to toe. It was a stretch that reminded her feet of all the liberties they had once known. She told herself to agree to anything her father proposed—anything to keep her feet out of those dreadful shoes.

  Finally there was no more space between them. The Captain’s face was impassive. The Baron chomped noisily on his bit. Now that she was here, all her words, so carefully planned on the train, deserted her.

  “Beryl,” the Captain said noncommittally.

  “Daddy.” She tried to show him her resolve without looking defiant.

  “You lasted longer than I thought you would.”

  “We agreed on a year. I lasted a year and two days,” she said.

  Looking down from his horse, the Captain’s gray eyes challenged her to be more truthful.

  “I did run away earlier, but they caught me at the station.”

  He leaned forward interrogatively.

  “Twice,” she admitted.

  “I know; the headmistress wrote to Emma.” His eyes narrowed, and his hand tightened on his reins. “And now? Are you absent without leave?” The military term came easily to his lips.

  “Oh no, Daddy,” Beryl assured him. “I was expelled.” After a moment, she added doubtfully, “Honorably expelled.”

  His hands lost some of their tension and he nodded. “Yes, I thought you might be.”

  “Well, really I quit a moment before that awful woman threw me out.”

  Captain Clutterbuck burst out laughing.

  Taking a deep breath and placing all her hopes in her voice, Beryl implored, “Daddy, don’t make me go back. I hated it!”

  “I didn’t send you to enjoy yourself. I sent you to get an education.” He paused; he was as honest as his daughter. “And to get you out of harm’s way.”

  “It’s a lot more dangerous down there. You have no idea how complicated the other girls were.”

  He chuckled. “Oh, my dear, I’ve known for many years how complicated
girls can be.”

  “But I’ve grown up a lot…” she paused. “Can I come back if I promise to behave with Emma?”

  “Just with Emma?” His eyes were twinkling.

  Beryl’s nervousness began to fade. “Definitely with her, and I’ll try to behave the rest of the time.”

  He waited.

  “I’ll try hard.”

  Suddenly the Captain relaxed, too. He dismounted smoothly and enveloped her in a large hug. “Darling, I’ve missed you. It’s been dull without you here!”

  Beryl said nothing, too busy savoring his unexpected welcome. Her father put his strong hands on her shoulders and pushed her back a step. Her eyes were level with his.

  “Let me look at you. You’ve grown at least two hands.”

  “I’m not a horse,” she protested happily.

  He chuckled.

  “So I can come home?”

  “If you agree to my conditions…”

  She began to nod eagerly, but in a burst of caution she asked, “What do you have in mind?”

  “No more larking about with Kibii,” he said.

  “That won’t be hard—he’s a warrior now. He doesn’t want anything to do with me,” she said sadly.

  “So Kibii is growing up, is he? Good. So will you.”

  She watched him warily, shifting from one bare foot to the other.

  “I’m expanding the farm all the time. I can’t run the stables without a head lad. Are you interested in the job?”

  “You want me to be head lad?” She couldn’t keep the hopeful disbelief out of her voice.

  “Can you do it?” he asked. His voice was that of a commanding officer offering an ensign a vital assignment in wartime. Beryl remembered he had used the same tone when he suggested she ride Camiscan for the first time.

  “Of course I can!” Suddenly her future looked brighter.

  “And you can’t live in that rondavel. That back wall isn’t safe.”

  “I have to live with you and Emma?”

  “I’ve got something else in mind.” He pointed across the paddock, up the hill to the house. Next to his house stood a new house. An adorable cottage with gables and three windows. Even from here, she could see it was twice the size of her rondavel and had at least two rooms. There were even proper shingles, not thatch, for a roof.

  “Do you like it?” he asked, smiling.

  “It’s for me?”

  “For you,” he confirmed. “Emma insisted that if you are to have a proper job with me, you need a proper home.” He grinned. “But not under her roof.”

  Beryl remembered the catty remarks she had heard from Margaret, and how rude Miss Seccombe had been to Emma. Her position, neither wife nor housekeeper, was a difficult one.

  “She must be lonely,” Beryl said. “Perhaps I should be nicer.”

  A quizzical look appeared on her father’s face. “What did they do to you at that school?”

  “I lived with seven other girls for a year, Daddy.”

  “Enough said,” he laughed. “If you and Emma could declare a truce, my life would be easier.”

  “A job with the horses. My own house. No hunting. Stop tormenting Emma. Is that all?”

  A bit of his stern manner returned. “And for God’s sake, put on some decent clothes!”

  “Agreed!” Beryl gave her father another hug. His arm draped around her shoulder, they began walking toward the stable.

  Beryl knew that her father would not retract his offer, so it was safe to ask. “Daddy, why now? You said before I couldn’t work in the stable.”

  “The most practical reason is that the school costs a fortune for an education you don’t need.” His voice was rueful. “After all, I can’t see you going to university in England.”

  Beryl nodded.

  “Secondly, I’m so busy with the mill, I need someone to keep an eye on the stable. I have almost one hundred thoroughbreds here—the whole bloodstock of British East Africa. Finally, you want the job, and I want you to be happy.”

  Beryl would have preferred her happiness be at the top of his list, but she wouldn’t complain about the result.

  “So it’s time to put you to work,” the Captain said, returning to his usual brisk style. “Do you remember Coquette?”

  “Daddy, I went away to school, not the moon. Of course I remember! The golden Abyssinian mare with a white mane.”

  “She’s due to foal soon.”

  “Who’s the stud? Camiscan?”

  “No, a new stallion, Referee. It promises to be a good foal.” He paused. “Coquette is your responsibility.”

  Beryl felt lightheaded. “Daddy, I’ve never birthed a foal.”

  “Coquette has never had a foal either. First things aren’t always easy. You both will learn.”

  Ten long days later, Coquette was finally ready. Beryl was alone in the stall with her and stroked the mare’s nose with pity. Coquette’s golden coat was tarnished and her eyes were dull. She was so full of new life that it had sucked her own vitality out of her.

  “You will be beautiful again,” Beryl said to her. “As soon as this is finished.”

  A hurricane lamp burned on its hook in the corner, well away from the straw.

  “Why are foals always born in the middle of the night?” Emma’s voice startled Beryl. She whirled around to see Emma holding a plate covered with a cloth.

  “I don’t know,” Beryl admitted. “But they always are.”

  “I brought you something to eat,” Emma said.

  “Thank you.” Beryl turned back to Coquette.

  “Beryl, I know we haven’t always got along, but I wanted to tell you how happy I am that you are home. Your father missed you very much.”

  Beryl was silent, and after a few moments, she heard Emma’s footsteps moving off.

  Coquette made a groaning noise. Her labor had started. Beryl whistled for the stable lad who would help her. To her surprise, Arthur—not so little now—came running.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, not taking her eyes from Coquette.

  “Dad thought I should watch.”

  “Get the kit,” she ordered.

  He came back at a run with her foaling bag, which contained knives, twine, disinfectant, and even anesthetic. Beryl could not help the mare yet, but she could keep her company. Arthur sat in the corner and watched, his eyes wide.

  After what felt like hours, Coquette’s eyes seemed a little brighter; it was time. Beryl knelt beside her, waiting for the first glimpse of the foal in its sac. She could see the tiny hooves; the foal’s legs were gathered together to ease its way into the world. Gently, Beryl pulled as Coquette pushed. The nose, the head, and at last the whole foal slipped out of Coquette and into Beryl’s arms.

  Arthur handed Beryl her knife, and she slit open the birth sac. The foal’s tiny nostrils sucked air for the first time. Beryl pulled the sac away from its body and cut the cord. She bathed the cord with disinfectant. She saw now that the foal was a colt.

  Coquette lurched to her feet and with listless eyes looked down on her son. She and Beryl washed him together; Coquette with her long tongue, Beryl with a towel.

  Beryl heard a cough behind her and turned to see her father. The proud look on his face was the only thing that could top the night’s triumph.

  “Well done,” he said.

  “Beryl did a great job, didn’t she, Dad?” Arthur chimed in.

  “She did. He’s a fine colt. Shall I reward you or Coquette— or both?”

  “It was Coquette who did all the work,” Beryl said.

  “Ah, but it’s you who’ll get the reward. You brought him into the world; he’s yours,” her father said.

  “Wow!” Arthur exclaimed. “Beryl, the next time you run away you can ride.”

  “I won’t be leaving again,” Beryl assured them. “Everything I want is here.”

  After Beryl and Arthur had cleaned up the foaling box, she left him to watch over the mother and newborn. Beryl sat against the w
all of her new house, looking up at the bright stars in the sky.

  After a time, she heard the faint sounds of someone approaching from the forest. She smiled to herself and waited until the near-silent figure approached her cottage.