The Golden Angel

by Gilbert, Morris

  The party traveled swiftly, and Nbuta glanced at Erin from time to time. She was aware of his scrutiny and made sure that she kept up. She followed Nbuta through a field of fresh-smelling leleshaw bushes and imitated him as he leaped over the stinging nettle and thornbushes. As they traveled along swiftly, Erin was aware of the life pulsing about her. A bevy of partridges rose out of the grass, exploding with a miniature thunder, then wheeled away as one and disappeared into the eastern sky.

  The heat of the valley arose more intently with every step they took deeper into the bush. Erin loved the grating sound of the singing cicadas and the tingling feel of the butterflies that were swept by the wind against her body. She watched them hovering over the bushes, and as they fluttered about the tall grasses and vegetation, the blood coursed through Erin’s veins. She had that special feeling of anticipation that always filled her when she was moving into any kind of action. She never felt it when she was in the schoolroom or working around the house with her mother, but whenever she was with the Masai or was hunting with her father, the feeling came, and she laughed softly now as she kept up easily with the hunters.

  Suddenly she saw Nbuta halt abruptly, and his body bent as he drew back his spear. She had seen a flicker of movement ahead, but Nbuta’s reaction to it was too swift to follow, the flight of his spear but a flash in the sunlight. A cry went up from the hunters, and she raced ahead with Nbuta to the reedbuck that had fallen. Rich crimson blood poured from the wound where the spear had pierced the animal’s hide. The other hunters gathered around the fallen buck, their eyes gleaming with admiration, and a stocky, muscular man named Keintu cried out loudly, “The hand of our leader is quicker than the stroke of a leopard!”

  The others echoed the praise, but Nbuta paid them no attention.

  Erin studied Nbuta’s arms, which seemed too slender to generate such immense strength. She had often marveled that the Masai did not have bulging, heavy muscles. They were lean like leopards, usually tall, and almost all of them strong. As Nbuta pulled the spear out of the animal, Erin was not in the least offended by the blood. She had been hunting with her father since she was twelve years old. Patrick had never cared for hunting, but she loved every minute of it. She watched as Nbuta carefully cleaned his spearhead. She understood that to every Masai warrior the spear was as much a part of himself as any muscle or organ of his body. She had heard Nbuta speak of this once, saying, “Without the spear the Masai warrior can do nothing. There will be no honor until he is master of it.”

  She watched as Nbuta ran his fingers over the spearhead, searching anxiously for a chip or nick, which happened occasionally when the spear struck bone. However, he smiled with relief. “My spear is well. It struck no bones. By the will of God it is unbroken.”

  The buck was quickly dressed and the meat distributed among the men who would carry it, but the hunt was not over. As they continued on their way, Erin quietly observed the hunters in their splendor and felt she must look pale and colorless by comparison. They wore ocher-colored capes falling loose from a single knot at the shoulder. Erin had often thought their garments looked like the Roman togas she had seen pictured in her history book. As they moved along quickly, she admired the muscles in their backs rippling under their oiled skins. There was a beauty about the Masai she had never seen anywhere else, and she knew she would never forget them.

  The hunt went on all morning. Another reedbuck was killed, and finally they stopped by a red salt lick. She was disappointed, as were the others, when they found no animals there. “Where are the animals?” Nbuta questioned. A murmur went around, for the lick was always crowded with impala, kongoni, eland, and dozens of many smaller species. Today, however, it was strangely empty.

  “The good God has not brought the animals to our spears,” Nbuta murmured.

  “Why is there no game here?” Erin asked in a puzzled tone. She dropped the butt of her spear and watched as the men moved around, their nostrils distending as they listened carefully.

  Suddenly Nbuta whispered in a hard voice, “Do not move, Erin.”

  Erin turned slightly and then froze. There, crouching in the tall grass, was a full-grown lion. He stared at the group and switched his tail angrily, as if to say, “So . . . you are on my ground. If you want a battle, let it begin.”

  The lion did not move forward from his crouch, and Erin glanced at Nbuta. The warrior’s face had taken on an exalted expression, and he stared at the lion almost with pleasure, it seemed, and his eyes shone with a joy she could not understand. His muscles swelled, and then he raised his shield slightly and let his spear arm drop to his side.

  Erin knew enough about lion hunts to understand that even if Nbuta killed the lion, some of the warriors would be mauled, for a lion is almost never brought down by a single spear. She remembered Nbuta saying, “If you encounter a lion, watch him closely. Look into his eyes. You must show him that you are as fearless as he is. He has great courage and respects those who have the same.”

  Nbuta crept forward, placing one sinewy leg in front of the other. They all followed him, but for some reason the lion stayed where he was. As they filed past the watching beast, Nbuta whispered, “He is guarding his kill.”

  Erin understood that if she had not been with them, Nbuta and the hunters would have taken the lion then no matter what the cost. Now she was sad that she had come, for she was robbing them of the greatest thrill of the Masai warrior’s life—killing a lion with a spear.

  When they had passed out of range of the lion, Erin said, “I’m sorry I came. You would have killed him if I had not been along.”

  “Do not be sad,” Nbuta said and dropped his hand on her shoulder. “There will be other lions and other days, but I could not risk my white daughter today.”

  Erin smiled up at Nbuta. She felt so at home and safe with these men and was simply glad to be alive. Falling into step once again with her friend as they made their way through the fragrant grasses, she put all other thoughts out of her mind.

  ****

  The sun had begun its descent in the western sky when the party turned back. They had killed as much game as they could carry, and finally Nbuta had declared, “We must go home. You celebrate your womanhood tonight, my daughter. Is that not true?”

  “Oh yes. There’s a silly old party I have to go to.”

  Nbuta looked surprised. “You do not like to celebrate?”

  “Parties are not as much fun as hunting with you, Nbuta.”

  The tall man smiled and would have spoken, but suddenly a sound rent the air. Every warrior turned to see an enormous warthog hurtling out of the bush, his maddened squeal followed by smaller ones as baby warthogs scurried everywhere, their tails held straight and erect. To Erin, they appeared to be doing some sort of dance.

  The male warthog shot toward the group of hunters as straight as an arrow. Erin knew from her father’s instruction that warthogs were courageous to a fault. Their curved tusks, sharp and deadly, were used for rooting as well as fighting. Now she saw the dust-covered animal, tough and clothed in bristles, his eyes, small and lightless, burning as he shot toward the invaders. This time it was one of the younger hunters who sent the first spear that caught the boar in the flank. It only slowed him down, but a hail of spears followed, piercing the boot-leather hide. The dust swirled, and the squeal of the maddened animal split the air.

  The baby warthogs scattered into the grass as the adult animal collapsed and gasped in pain. When it was over, Erin stared down at the beast, lying still now, seeming almost at peace after his intense struggle. “He was courageous,” she said quietly.

  “Yes, he would fight anything—even a full-grown lion. He is not beautiful like the lion, but one must admire his courage.” Nbuta put his hand again on her shoulder in a familiar gesture. “Always have courage, white sister.”

  “I will, Nbuta. I have learned that much from you.”

  “You are indeed a daughter of the Masai, Erin Winslow.”

  ****
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  “Where have you been?” Patrick demanded. At the age of eighteen, he was tall and beginning to fill out. He towered over his sister and glared down at her, irritation marking his features. His voice shook as he added, “Did you forget about your party?”

  “No, I didn’t forget.”

  “Well, you’d better watch out for Mom and Dad. They’re on the warpath.” Then his face suddenly relaxed and he put his arm around her in a brotherly embrace. “Happy birthday, Sis.”

  “Thank you, Patrick.”

  “You’re all dirty and smelly. Don’t go to the party like that. Nobody will dance with you.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Patrick shook his head in wonder. “You really don’t, do you? You’d rather be out killing something than putting on a party dress and having a good time. I’ll never understand you, Erin. But happy birthday, anyway.”

  Erin gave him a peck on the cheek and moved quickly down the hallway, where she met her father.

  “Do you know what time it is?” he demanded. “Your mother is going crazy!”

  “I’m sorry, Daddy, but it was such a good hunt.” As she began describing the day’s experiences, Barney Winslow stared at this young woman before him, who had recently blossomed into a real beauty. Not only did she possess the gift of outward loveliness, but she exuded an inner strength as well that belied her youth and innocence.

  He listened to her excited talk and then said, “Well, if you’re going to the dance, you’d better go change. You can’t go like that.”

  “Oh, all right, Daddy.”

  “Happy birthday, daughter. I’m proud of you.”

  His words disturbed her, for she did not really believe that he was proud of her. She was very aware of his disappointment over her performance at school, where she continued to have problems. She had never done well and knew now that she never would. Aware of the pain she had brought to her father by her lack of scholarship, she turned away from him with a feeling of regret and went to her room. She slipped out of her dusty clothes and put on her light cotton robe, grabbed a towel and soap, then went outside to the shower.

  The outdoor shower was the only one Erin had ever known. It consisted of a bucket with holes in the bottom, suspended from a rope six and a half feet in the air. The hardwood floor also had holes for the water to run out. One of the servants had put three two-gallon buckets of water on a bench. Behind the privacy of a canvas curtain, Erin quickly took off her robe and picked up one of the buckets. She had to step up on a small stand to pour the water in; then she dropped the bucket and leaped under the water as it poured out of the holes. She lathered quickly with the soft soap and washed the dirt and grime from her hair. She soaped herself all over, rubbing briskly with a rough washrag, then filled the shower bucket again and rinsed herself off. When she had used all three buckets, she stepped to one side of the small structure and toweled herself down. Then she put her robe back on, as well as some moccasin-type shoes, and went back to her room. She dried her hair for a long time with towels and wished she had time to sit out in the sun, but it was too late for that.

  She put on white cotton drawers and a cotton vest, then slipped on the new dress her mother had sewn for her birthday. Made out of light green cotton with Belgian lace at the neck and on the sleeves, it complemented her blue-green eyes and fair features nicely, and the full skirt swished delicately against her legs. She twirled about, enjoying the feel of the light fabric spinning out from the fitted waist. Then she sat down and studied her face in the mirror as she brushed her hair. She knew she was attractive, but her outward appearance meant little to her. Feelings were far more important to Erin than appearances. She put down her hairbrush and tried to get excited about the dance, but she simply could not. Her guests would be the same young people she had grown up with, mostly children of missionaries. The music would consist of scratchy old records played on an antiquated wind-up machine. They would dance to the ancient tunes and drink the nonalcoholic beverages supplied for the occasion.

  She rose up just as her mother came in and said, “Why, you look beautiful, Erin!”

  “Thank you, Mom. You did such a beautiful job on the dress. I love it. I couldn’t have bought a better one in America.”

  “Here, let me fix your hair.”

  Erin sat down again while her mother brushed her hair until it shone, then tied it with a ribbon.

  “Now we’re all ready. It’ll be a good party for you.”

  “I’m sure it will, Mom.” But her heart was not in the words.

  ****

  The party was no different from what Erin imagined it would be. The schoolroom had been decorated with crepe-paper streamers her father had bought in Nairobi. The furniture was all moved out except for tables along one side, where parents were handing out the refreshments. They were using the center of the room for games, which Erin found rather fun, and being good at games, she won a number of them.

  When the dancing started, Todd Jennings made a beeline in her direction. He was eighteen and the son of a wealthy planter, not a missionary. He was a tall young man with closely cropped coarse brown hair and a bad sunburn. “Our dance, Erin.”

  Erin allowed him to take her hand and lead her to the center of the room, where they began dancing to the scratchy record. Although Erin had had few opportunities in her life to dance, she had a natural rhythm and enjoyed dancing. However, she was aware that Todd was holding her closer than necessary. “You’re holding me too tight, Todd.”

  “That’s impossible.” He grinned down at her and spun her around, still holding on tightly.

  “My dad will thrash you if you don’t behave. He used to be a prizefighter, you know.”

  “Well, I’m sure he hugged your mother when they were courting. Don’t you imagine?”

  “We’re just dancing, Todd—not courting!” She pushed the overly eager young man back a step and held him at arm’s length. But she couldn’t help smiling at him as they continued dancing. In truth she quite enjoyed his attentions and wound up dancing with him several times throughout the evening.

  Later, after several dances together, Todd pulled her outside with a swift movement and said, “Let’s get a breath of air.”

  Erin was not surprised. She had heard from one of the daughters of a missionary named Smitston that Todd liked the girls rather too much. Now as they stepped out onto the porch, he at once turned, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her squarely on the mouth.

  In the past couple of years several boys had tried to sneak kisses from Erin, which usually landed on her nose or cheek, but she had always found it rather embarrassing. Now as Todd’s lips touched hers, she found the sensation pleasant and made no move to stop him. But then his hand began to move along her body, and she pulled back, whispering, “Stop that, Todd!”

  “Oh, come on. Be human, Erin.” He put his hand on her again and tried to wrestle her with his greater strength. Erin squirmed, more angry than embarrassed, and when he would not release her, she drew back her fist and struck him with a sharp blow right under the nose.

  “Ow!” Todd yelped and stepped back just as Barney appeared at the door. “What’s going on out here?” he demanded.

  The two young people put their heads down and said nothing. It only took Barney a moment to assess the situation. “Todd, I think you’d better go inside.”

  Todd swallowed hard. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled, then stepped back into the schoolroom without a backward glance at Erin.

  Barney studied his daughter closely and asked, “Are you all right?”

  “Of course I am, Daddy.”

  “He didn’t behave himself, I take it. You have to be very careful about young men, Erin.”

  “I’ve already found out that some of them are beasts—like Todd.”

  “Well,” Barney smiled, “there are some good ones out there, too. You’ll find one.”

  Erin put her arms around him and hugged him. “Not as good as you, Daddy,” she said.

&n
bsp; “I hope you’ll always think so—but you won’t.”

  ****

  Erin didn’t think she would ever forget telling her father that there were no men as good as he was after he came out on the porch on her birthday and rescued her from Todd. She knew it would be one of those special memories that would stay with her forever.

  A memory that would remain with her even more clearly, however, was the next hunting trip she took with Nbuta, a month after her birthday. Only this time, the hunt got completely out of hand.

  The group had just killed an impala and were headed home when suddenly a whispered word came to Erin’s ears.

  “Simba—there!”

  What happened then occurred impossibly fast. Erin only had time to look up and see that Nbuta had placed himself in front of her. Beyond him she saw the lion, a great black-maned creature, a lone hunter, his tail lashing back and forth. They were so close she could smell the lion’s scent—meaty and pungent and almost indescribable.

  The lion charged with such speed and ferocity that Erin could hardly take it in. She saw Nbuta’s arm go back and then move forward with lightning-fast speed and strength. The spear flew through the air and struck the lion, but it was not a killing blow.

  The world seemed to be full of its roaring, and the golden eyes of the lion blazed with fire. He was right in Erin’s face, and without thought she threw her spear as Nbuta had taught her. She saw it strike the lion on the flank, and the great beast turned and snapped at it. As he did so, three other warriors rushed in and sank their spears into his flesh.

  Erin watched the magnificent animal fight and snarl and finally die under the sharply honed weapons.

  She turned to Nbuta, who was watching her carefully. He walked over and picked up her spear, which indeed had the tip bloodied. He smiled and said loudly, so that the others could hear, “The white Masai woman’s spear is bloodied.” A cheer went up from the others, and Nbuta said, “Get your image machine. We must have an image.”

  Erin had carried her camera on this trip in a light bag over her shoulder. Now with trembling hands she took it out. She had shown Nbuta how to look down at the little glass square and to hold it still and push a button. Now as she took her spear from him and knelt beside the lion, Nbuta positioned himself, and Erin stared into the lens. She held the bloodied spear in one hand and placed the other on the rough hide of the lion.