The Golden Angel

by Gilbert, Morris

  “We go through this every day on every subject!” Mr. Simms snapped impatiently. “It’s part of the world that you’ll have to live in, so stop arguing, Harry, and just do your work. Now we’ll take the first problem, and, Harry, I’ll let you go to the board and work it.”

  “Let me do it, Mr. Simms.” Erin had her hand up, and Simms turned to her. “All right, Erin. You do it, then.”

  Erin loved to do geometry, for it was the one subject that came easily to her. She went to the board and went through the problem with obvious pleasure.

  Amelia turned around and whispered to her cousin, “Hey, Patrick, how come Erin does so good at geometry but can’t do the other subjects?”

  “I don’t know. She just doesn’t try, I think.” Despite his criticism of her and his constant teasing, Patrick Winslow actually had a great affection for his sister and worried about her difficulties in school. He himself was excellent in all his subjects and suffered no small embarrassment that his sister did so poorly. He took it almost as a personal disappointment, and while he loved Erin, he wished heartily that she would try harder. Now he watched as her hand flew over the chalkboard, figuring the geometry problem quickly and efficiently. He shook his head in confusion. Why in the world doesn’t she work that hard on other stuff? he thought.

  ****

  The morning passed surprisingly well for Erin—primarily because she had satisfied Mr. Simms with her ability in geometry. During the history lesson she was able to answer the one question he put to her because she remembered when he had discussed it in class. School went that way with her. She filed away everything the teacher said, but when she had to dig the material out of books for herself there was always some sort of breakdown.

  After lunch the children all went outside and played a game of soccer. The Masai children were particularly good at this, and Harry Long prided himself on his ability. Once he shoved a younger boy down, and Erin yelled at him, “Why don’t you pick on somebody your own size?”

  Harry chafed at Erin’s jab, remembering his humiliation earlier when he had followed her at the blackboard and his ignorance in geometry had been painfully exposed in front of the class. Now he flew at her and shoved her, yelling, “You keep your mouth shut, Erin Winslow, or I’ll rub your face in the dirt!”

  Instantly Patrick, who was two years younger than Harry but not in the least intimidated by him, forced himself between the two. “You mind your own business, Long, and leave my sister alone or I’ll bloody your nose!”

  Harry stared at the smaller boy and laughed. “Aw, come on, Patrick, it’s just a game.”

  “Well, play the game and quit pushing little kids and girls around!”

  Erin felt a warmness at Patrick’s defense of her, and she stuck her tongue out at Harry. “Come on. Let’s play, but don’t act ugly anymore.”

  The game went on until Mr. Simms rang the bell outside the schoolroom door. The children piled back inside in a rush, and he had to call the class to order several times. When quiet was restored, he said more calmly, “Now we will continue with our history lesson. We’re in the middle of the American Revolution. Let’s see what you’ve learned.”

  He began pointing at various students and popping questions. Erin began to panic, knowing she was in trouble.

  “All right, Erin,” Mr. Simms said. “Who was the king of England during the American Revolution?”

  Erin’s mind went blank. She could feel her face blanch as she struggled to remember, but she finally mumbled in defeat, “I don’t know, Mr. Simms.”

  “You don’t know! How can that be? It’s plain as day in the work you were assigned. Did you do your homework?”

  “I did my best.”

  “Well, your best isn’t very good. Really, Erin, I’m disappointed in you.”

  Erin gritted her teeth, overwhelmed by a sense of total humiliation. As the questions went on, she wanted nothing more than to jump up and run out of the room.

  Somehow she endured the torture until afternoon recess, but as soon as she stepped outside and the children took up the soccer game they had begun at lunchtime, she ran directly at Harry Long and kicked the ball away from him.

  Startled, Harry glared at her. “Well, if it ain’t dummy Winslow! You kick a ball better than you do your homework. What makes you so dumb, Erin?”

  Rage boiled up in Erin and spilled over. She ran straight toward the tall young man and butted her head into his stomach. He uttered an explosive “Whoof!” and fell backward. “Hey! Stop that!” he gasped, for Erin was pummeling him with her fists. Harry Long had been taught never to fight a girl, but he was hard put to avoid all of her blows.

  Patrick had been startled at the ferocity of Erin’s attack and stood watching the fight, stunned, but regaining his wits, he ran over and grabbed her, pulling her back. “What’s wrong with you, Erin? Have you gone crazy?”

  Mr. Simms suddenly appeared and shouted, “Erin, stop that this instant!” His face pale, he said nervously, “Now you go inside and write on the board ‘I will not lose my temper.’ You keep writing that until I tell you to stop.”

  Harry turned to Patrick. “What’s wrong with that sister of yours? She’s crazy!”

  “Well, if you’d stop calling her names, she wouldn’t light into you. I’m warning you, Harry. Don’t you ever call my sister a dummy again, or I’ll for sure bloody your nose.”

  Harry saw that their schoolteacher was staring at him with displeasure, and he felt somewhat guilty. Yet he gave Mr. Simms a less-than-sincere apologetic look. “Oh, I didn’t mean nothing by it!”

  “Don’t you ever call Erin dumb again. Do you hear me, Harry?” Mr. Simms demanded.

  “Yes, Mr. Simms. I hear you.” Embarrassed, he quickly turned back to the other children. “Come on. Let’s get on with the game.”

  The game ended shortly, and Mr. Simms turned to lead the group back inside for the last hour of school for the day. He found only one student there, a tall Masai girl who hadn’t gone out for recess. Simms looked at the board and saw that it was blank. He also saw that Erin was not there.

  “Where’s Erin, Matula?”

  “She run out the back.”

  Patrick groaned and whispered to his cousin Amelia, “She’s run away again. What’s going to happen to that girl?”

  ****

  After recess Erin had not stopped for even an instant inside the school. Instead she had burst through the front door, crossed the classroom to the door at the rear, and shot outside. She had not stopped running until her breath began to come in short, hard bursts and she had to slow down to calm herself. A fierce anger was still burning in her as she traversed the wild country she knew so well. She crossed a plain that changed into woodland, passing native trees as she went—acacias, fig, baobab, and others that she readily recognized. On the other side of the woods, she emerged onto a dirt road and began to run again. Thick vegetation crowded the road, and as she put distance between herself and the schoolhouse, she slowed down again. Her running gave way to a trot and then to a fast walk.

  She had no idea where she was going, but as always she paid close attention to her surroundings. As she passed a stream, she saw a reedbuck crouching at its edge. When it spotted her, it shot away like an arrow, releasing its tightly wound muscles. She watched the animal scattering the water with high, bounding silver splashes, and then she walked along the small creek, where goldenback weavers swayed and dangled from long stocks of purple amaranth. As she moved along the creek, a frog chorus rose, then died, then began again as she outdistanced it. Once she turned quickly to see a bush shrike, chestnut winged, watching her from the branches of a baobab.

  She took a path that led through the lush part of the country and soon was out in the open plains. She walked slowly, dreading what was to come. It would be, Erin well knew, another embarrassing scene, for her parents would be hurt, and she would be unable to explain her behavior to them. The words of Harry Long kept ringing in her ears: “Dummy! You’re a dummy
!” and tears rose to her eyes, which she dashed away fiercely.

  As she made her way across the plains, her eyes alert for danger, she suddenly thought of Nbuta. Just the thought of her friend made her walk faster. “I’ll go see him,” she spoke aloud and then broke into a trot as she made her way along. She knew she would have to go home eventually, but Nbuta’s village was not far from the mission station, and always, since she had been very small, she had been his favorite. “He never called me dumb,” Erin said and picked up her pace as she hurried across the grassland.

  ****

  Nbuta’s house was like all other Masai houses. The women always built them, never the men, for men were the hunters. No Masai woman would ask a man to help her build the house.

  The houses themselves looked like large, rounded, elongated lumps. The women made them by first putting saplings in the ground, then bending them over and tying them together with vines. They interwove those with grasses and sticks to form a firm foundation. Then they coated the entire structure with animal dung and mud. When the rain inevitably washed some away, there was always plenty of dung and mud to repair the damage.

  As Nbuta gazed at the late-afternoon sky, he suddenly spotted movement in the distance. He narrowed his eyes. He was standing on one leg, the other leg crooked with the sole of his foot against his knee and leaning on a long spear that was his constant companion. He was alert and aware of any movement, but he relaxed somewhat when he recognized the individual who was coming at a fast trot.

  “Something wrong,” he shook his head. He was a very tall, lean man, as were almost all the Masai men. He wore a simple garment with one shoulder strap. The garment was died a dark red, and the only other colors he wore were red, blue, and white beads that hung from his ears and around his neck in a thick chain. He was thirty years old and had a penetrating gaze and phenomenal eyesight. He recognized Erin Winslow when she was merely a dot on the horizon, but he did not move until she came up to him. He noted the dusty face and the troubled blue-green eyes, but he smiled at her and spoke to her in Swahili. “Greetings, daughter. What brings you here?”

  Erin answered in Nbuta’s language. She had picked that up easily enough, not from books, but simply from spending so much time with the Masai people. “I have come,” she said formally.

  “You must be hungry. Are you, daughter?”

  Erin suddenly realized she had eaten nothing since lunch, and it was late in the afternoon. Her long run from the school-house had indeed left her hungry. “Yes, I am.”

  “Come. We will eat together.”

  What followed next might have shaken an American-born youngster, but to Erin it had become a tradition. She followed the tall man out to the cattle as he picked up a gourd with an open mouth. The two of them went out to where an enormous cow was standing chewing her cud peaceably. The Masai spoke to her and then patted her on the neck. Pulling out a sharp knife, he quickly and expertly slit the vein in her neck and caught the blood as it poured rich and crimson into the openmouthed vessel. When he had gotten enough, he reached down and picked up some cow dung and smeared it over the wound, holding it there until the blood coagulated. Then he squatted down and, holding the gourd in one hand, filled it with milk.

  Erin watched all this, as she had done many times. Nbuta swirled the liquid around, tasted it, then said, “Good,” and handed it to Erin. Erin could not remember the first time she had tasted this traditional Masai drink. Patrick could not stand it. It made him sick, but Erin drank until she was satisfied, then handed back the gourd. “Good, Nbuta.”

  Nbuta drank long and deeply, patted the cow on the back, then said, “Come. We will walk.”

  Nbuta carried the gourd back to the door of the house, handed it to his wife, then walked away. Erin walked beside him, and the tall man adjusted his stride. As they moved around, Nbuta began to talk. He knew that there was trouble in the child and that sooner or later it would come out. Finally it did. The two had stopped beside a baobab tree and were watching the multicolored cattle as they grazed languidly, tended by the young Masai boys, who all carried staffs that they pretended were spears. It was the job of every Masai boy to tend cattle until he became a warrior.

  Finally Erin began to speak, and Nbuta listened gravely. He saw the pain in his young friend’s face, and when she had finished, he said, “We all must bear our troubles.”

  “I know, Nbuta, but they call me names, and they say I’m stupid.”

  “But you know that you are not, and I know that you are not. And we are the ones who count. You and your friend.”

  Nbuta spoke for a long time. In his deep wisdom he recognized that she was more troubled than he had ever seen her.

  “Come. We will go down to the river, and we will sit, and we will think, and we will ask the good God to tell us what to do.”

  “All right, Nbuta.” Erin obediently walked beside him. She would have stuck her head in the fire for this man, for he had been her friend all of her life. As she walked slowly toward the river with the tall Masai warrior, her heart was aching.

  ****

  Nbuta stood before Barney Winslow, towering over him as he did over most men. “Do not be angry with her, my friend,” he said. “She has a good heart.”

  Barney nodded at once. He and Katie had been greatly upset when Patrick had come home right after school to tell them what had happened. Barney had felt a moment’s fear, for Africa was no place for a young girl to be wandering around. But when Erin had not come home, he had the strong feeling that she had gone to her best friend, and now he said to Nbuta, “Thank you for bringing her home, my friend.”

  “She is a fine daughter, but she has a different spirit in her than most of the white young people I have known.”

  “I know. She is different,” Barney said. “Therefore, her mother and I must show much patience.”

  Nbuta smiled gravely. “That is wise, but you are always wise, Pastor Barney.”

  “Not always,” Barney said, shaking his head at the thought of situations in the past he had handled badly. “Well, come inside, Nbuta.”

  “No, I will go home. I have told her she can come to my home, and we will hunt together tomorrow if you give permission.”

  “I think it might be a good break for her. She’ll miss a day of school, but I’ll take care of that.”

  Nbuta nodded and turned, moving away swiftly in the darkness. Barney stood for a long time and then turned and went back into the house. “Has she gone to bed?” he asked Katie.

  “Yes. She didn’t want to talk. She’s very hurt. Patrick was right. When that Long boy called her stupid, it just seemed to tear her to pieces.”

  “I wish we could do more to help her. I just don’t understand it,” Barney said helplessly. He stood in the middle of the room with Katie in front of him and shook his head in despair. “She’s so good at some things, but she just can’t seem to get anything much out of books.”

  Katie came over and put her arm around him. “We’ll pray. She’ll find her way.”

  Barney Winslow took Katie in his arms, and the two clung together tightly. They felt a deep helplessness that all parents feel when they cannot find the key to handling their children’s problems. Both of them knew that this problem was one only God could solve.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Woman of the Masai

  1920

  “Praise God for the blood of the bull, which brings strength to our loins, and for the milk of the cow, which gives warmth to the breasts of our lovers.”

  Erin stood before Nbuta and the other hunters and watched as he drank deeply of the gourd. It was the ritual of the hunt, and the entire group gathered around as Nbuta echoed his words: “Praise God for the blood of the bull.”

  Erin’s heart beat faster, for this was the day she had awaited with excitement. Her sixteenth birthday had come, and though the Masai did not celebrate birthdays in the same way as whites, Nbuta had sensed that the day had a special meaning for the young woman. “When you are
sixteen,” he had said, “I will follow the white customs and give you a gift, for you will be a woman on that day. What gift would you have?”

  The corners of Erin’s lips turned up as she stood with the hunters, thinking of how Nbuta had been shocked when she had said, “Let me go on a hunt with you and the other warriors.”

  Nbuta had been shocked because Masai women did not hunt, but the humor of her request had caught his fancy. “I will have to talk long to convince the other men, but it will be even as you say. When you reach the sixteenth year, you will hunt with the Masai warriors.”

  Excitement raced through Erin as the men prepared themselves for the hunt. They all carried broad shields and straight spears. She herself was permitted to carry a spear, but Nbuta had made it clear that she was to be merely an observer and not a participant when the animal was slain.

  “Come. We will go,” Nbuta said.

  Erin moved forward with the group of twelve warriors, and they left the village as the first light of the sun began warming the earth. They passed through the large herds of cattle, goats, and sheep moving along the trails until they reached the open country. The animals turned their eyes upon the hunters and made slobbering noises and tried to nuzzle them. Erin had been with the Masai so much she was only vaguely aware of the pungent stench of the bulls and cows.

  The group moved silently in single file as they skirted the edge of the wooded country, then wheeled north toward the Mogai Valley. The rains had begun two months previously, and now the grass in the valley reached the top of Erin’s knees. She was wearing khaki shorts, and her lower legs were scarred from brushing against thorns and sharp sticks. She had grown up to be a sturdily built young woman, her blond hair gleaming in the sun and her blue-green eyes that the Masai found so fascinating darting from point to point as the hunters moved. She had perfectly shaped eyebrows arching over slightly slanted eyes and a shadowed hollow between her cheekbones and jaw. The planes of her face made strong and pleasant contours, and she had clean-edged and beautifully curved lips.