Lionheart

by Kate Roman

  Roy got to his feet. “Yes, Mother,” he said and headed inside.

  Ash greeted him at the door, looking nervous and pleased to see him all at once. Roy heaved a sigh of relief. At least this time, Ash hadn’t disappeared.

  “Who is it?” Ash whispered.

  “Mambokadzi. She’s a wisewoman, a healer, and a…a visionary…” Roy hesitated, not sure how to describe the old woman’s powerful and often apparently magical abilities. “She knows things,” he finished lamely.

  “So what does she want?”

  “I’m not entirely sure yet. But one thing she does want is to meet you.”

  “You told her I’m here? Is that safe?”

  “I didn’t tell her.” Roy shook his head wearily. “Like I said, she knows things. But don’t worry; it’s certainly safe. Mambokadzi’s no friend to Thornside, and if anyone can keep you safe upon the veldt, it’s her.”

  Ash looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. “If you say it’s all right, I believe you.”

  Roy picked up two enamel mugs off the top of the steamer trunk and led the way back out to the fire. Ash followed half a step behind.

  Mambokadzi inclined her head and peered inquisitively at Ash as he perched on one of the logs that served as seats. Roy squatted beside the fire, ladling the strong red tea into the mugs, then topping up the pot with water from the pitcher that stood nearby. For a moment, no one said anything, and Roy could almost hear Ash’s nervousness. He only prayed the boy wouldn’t bolt over the fence the first time Mambokadzi—or Onai, who still sat viciously preening on a fencepost—opened their mouths.

  “Mambokadzi, this is Ash Haywood, lately of Thornside. Ash, this is Mambokadzi.” Roy presented Mambokadzi with her tea, then gave a mug to Ash and took the third to the other side of the fire.

  “You have grown, Kashiye. That is good.” Mambokadzi bestowed an enigmatic smile on Ash.

  “It’s Ash,” Ash said, shooting a nervous glance at Roy.

  “I know your name,” Mambokadzi answered. “I have seen you here before, mm-hm.”

  Ash opened his mouth, then closed it again and shot a look of mute appeal at Roy. He looked down at his tea.

  Roy cleared his throat. “Mambokadzi, I gave Haywood’s beaters Ash’s bloodied shirt, told them it was from when the lion took him. But to be safe, we’ll go up into the hills for a time. Once we know they’re not searching for him, we’ll return.”

  “Sometimes you are smart,” Mambokadzi said. “But you are dumb too, crazy white man. They will not search for him. They search for the lion.”

  Roy looked at her inquiringly.

  “If they think a lion killed their firstborn son, their…” Mambokadzi frowned, obviously struggling for the right word.

  She made a noncommittal gesture. “The son who makes all the important children, carries the family name on his back.”

  “I don’t think I’m quite the heir my father hoped for,” Ash said quietly. “I don’t think he’ll do too much looking.”

  “Not for you, maybe,” Mambokadzi answered. “But masaramusi-man here tell him and his brother that lion took their possession. They must have its head. That is their way, their thinking.”

  “And if they run through quite a few lions before they find the one they’re looking for, it’s no skin off their noses—they consider the extra dead lions just part of getting their way.” Roy glanced at Ash. It must be hard for him to hear us talk of his family this way. But if anything, Ash looked scared, not offended.

  Mambokadzi spit again and cursed in Karanga Roy couldn’t follow. Then she leaned forward and took Ash’s hand. “There is one other thing you must do, masaramusi-man. Before you hide, you need to go to Thornside, heal up Mwale. He took a beating when he brought back that shirt and your lion tale.”

  Ash started, but Mambokadzi held his hand fast. “Do not fear now, lion-boy. That place is full of danger, but I got me some power here too, mm-hm. You listen to me: your spirit is strong. This crazy masaramusi-man, he thinks he knows more than an old woman, but I say, you go with him. You do, you will be safe.” She turned to Roy. “Boy, I know what you want to say, but you trust me. He goes with you, you will both be safe, mm-hm. Besides, what else would you do? Leave him here by himself?”

  “Lion-boy?” Ash asked.

  “Surely there’s a third option,” Roy said coldly. “One that doesn’t involve leaving an innocent man defenseless nor forcing him to go back to the very hell he just escaped from.”

  “I did not say he had to go back there.” The old woman cackled with laughter, and Roy sneaked a glance at Ash, who shrugged.

  “I simply said he has to go with you. You need to learn how to listen, masaramusi-man. Otherwise, you never hear what you need to know. Take him with you and get ready for the storm. It is coming again. These bones do not lie.” She gave Roy a dour look, then turned back to Ash, squeezing his hand tightly. “You, I know you are a listening one, and your journey is nearly done. Once, you were a lion. Your mama knew that, sure as she knew the storm meant her days were numbered. You went away and became a man, but there is another storm coming, son. And you have to remember. You have to find your place.” Mambokadzi tapped the tip of her nose with her forefinger. “What I see, I know. You listen to me”—she shot a glance at Roy—“you will come to no harm.”

  “I don’t understand,” Ash said slowly. “What about my mother?”

  Roy reached over and put a hand on his knee.

  Mambokadzi looked from one of them to the other and back. Over on her fencepost, Onai cawed sharply, darting her head back and forth as if to clear it.

  “You know what we say about the storms.”

  “No,” Roy said carefully. “We don’t. What about the storms?”

  “And what about my mother?” Ash asked again.

  Mambokadzi shook her head and held her cup out for a refill. “You children are all the same.” As Roy poured her more tea, she continued. “Out here, the land takes care of its own. Every ant, every bird, every beast, all of them live off the land. The land cares for them. But sometimes, the land gets angry. It sees all the injustice, all the pain and suffering men bring, and it acts up a little. It seethes, and it storms.” She sipped her tea. “I remember the last time, maybe twenty years ago. The land was so angry, so very angry. It saw men who stomped across it, digging their heels in, stealing lions and elephants, anything they could with their guns and their tricks and their hate. So the land, it had enough, and it started building up a powerful storm. The thing you do not know is that this land is powerful tricky too. So one night, when the winds were rising and the clouds piling up, the land stole one of the men’s children. It called him through a window. It sang him songs and called his true name and tempted him out into the night.” She took a long drink of tea.

  Ash looked nervously at Roy. Roy shrugged, but he kept his hand on Ash’s knee.

  “It called that child far from his home, guiding him across the veldt, through the long grasses. It raised a storm so fierce the hyenas dug in their dens, noses to tails. A storm so fierce the elephants wrapped their ears around them and even the flying ants went to ground, afraid to even bite.

  “But not the lions, no. The land has never made a storm too fierce for them. The land called the lions, and it gave them this child of men. It gave them the boy nobody would miss. And when the child cried, the lioness soothed him with her licks. When he was cut by the grasses, she made him whole again, and then finally he went to sleep in a ball, just like all her other cubs.” Mambokadzi finished her cup of tea. “’Course neither the land nor the lions counted on his mama coming looking for him, but by that time it was too late: the storm had done its job, and given the boy a lion’s soul. It had claimed him. Storms can do that, you know.” She set the tin mug delicately in the dust at her feet.

  For a long moment, no one said anything.

  Finally, Roy narrowed his eyes. “Bullshit.”

  Mambokadzi laughed long and loud, one arm c
lutching her ample belly. Onai joined in, her high, twisted eagle cries blending with the old woman’s mirth before she spread her wings and took to the sky.

  Mambokadzi leaned over and slapped Roy’s thigh, shaking it. “Boy, you keep me young. You stay out here, I will live forever.” She gathered her dress around her and got heavily to her feet.

  Ash cleared his throat. “You mentioned my mother,” he tried again. “I’m not quite sure—”

  “I know, Kashiye,” Mambokadzi said. Her eyes were soft and caring. “But you will.” She accepted the staff Roy handed her. “Another storm is comin’, after all. The land is angry again. It needs the boy with the lion-soul, mm-hm.” She turned and made her way toward the gate. “Do not forget,” she called over her shoulder. “Mwale needs your crazy magic over at Thornside.” As she said the word, she spit into the dirt, then continued to the gate.

  “All right, Mambokadzi,” Roy said, rising. “I’ll go. And while I’m there, I’ve got a good mind to—”

  “Mwale,” Mambokadzi said firmly. She waited at the gate but made no move to open it. “You heal him; then you leave.” She shook her head. “You will know when the time comes. Kashiye will know when it comes.”

  Roy and Ash followed Mambokadzi to the gate, and Roy opened it, holding it for her to pass through. Overhead, Onai flew in wide, lazy circles. As she left the compound, Mambokadzi paused once and looked back. “It is good,” she said, then turned and marched off into the veldt. Onai floated off after her, silent in the wake of her mistress.

  “What a strange old woman,” Ash said.

  “She knows things,” Roy said again by way of explanation. “I cannot argue with her.”

  “No, and I would not have you try. Certainly not on my behalf. In a way, she has a good point. If you are at Thornside tending a wounded man, my uncle will hardly suspect you of hiding me.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. Still, how well do you feel? It’s a long trek to Thornside, and you’re still lame.” Roy gestured.

  “Today, my knee feels as good as new. It must have been only bruised.”

  Roy raised his eyebrows, surprised. It was true; Ash was walking with barely a limp. But when he’d first examined Ash’s knee, he’d thought it badly sprained, at least, if not worse. “Okay. But we’ll take it slow, and I’ll strap it if it troubles you. Come. Let’s get our things together. I’ll need my medical kit, it seems, and we’ll spend some weeks in the bush.”

  “Tell me one thing first.”

  Roy looked at Ash questioningly.

  “Kashiye. Why did she call me that?”

  “All I can tell you is that it means cub. Lion cub.”

  An enigmatic smile touched Ash’s lips fleetingly, then was gone. “Lion cub,” he repeated softly. “Well, I’ve been called worse.”

  Roy cleared his throat gently. “She also mentioned your mother. Do you think—”

  Ash shrugged in response.

  Roy paused. Something about Mambokadzi’s story—the boy who became a lion during a thunderstorm, his mother giving him to the lions to change—something about it was nagging him, not least because he’d never heard anything like it in Karanga mythology before. He wasn’t vain enough to think he’d heard all the stories of a whole culture, but… He looked over at Ash, staring up at the sky. Why had the old woman come all the way from her village to tell it to them? If all Mambokadzi had needed was for Roy to treat one of her people at Thornside, she had a whole squadron of volunteers who did her bidding.

  “Ash.”

  His companion looked over.

  “That story, the lion-boy in the thunderstorm… Didn’t Mambokadzi mention something else too? She mentioned your mother—”

  Ash ducked his head, swallowing hard.

  “Did something happen to her? Was she out here? In Africa?”

  Ash didn’t respond.

  “Ash.” Roy chose his words carefully. “Did something like it happen to your mother? Out here?”

  Ash shrugged.

  “She knew the storm meant her days were numbered.” Roy cleared his throat and tried again. “Your mother. Did she—”

  “She died,” Ash said abruptly. “And it had nothing to do with any thunderstorm.” He shook himself. “If we’re going, we should get started.” He turned and headed for the hut without looking back.

  Roy looked after him thoughtfully. Lion-boy, huh? So much of Ash was an open book, but at the mention of his mother, he’d clouded over like a monsoon and just as quickly gone to ground, making it clear no further discussion was welcome. But in Mambokadzi’s tale, the mother had given her son to the lions.

  Roy gave Ash his peace in the hut, poking indeterminately at the dirt with the toe of one boot. Maybe he was overestimating Ash’s strength. He was still recovering from a beating that would’ve killed a weaker man. Questions about his missing mother would simply have to wait. Ash helped Roy pack a few clothes, supplies, and the medical requirements into two knapsacks, gently foiling Roy’s efforts to make his own pack heavy and Ash’s light. “I can do my share,” Ash said, an amused light in his eyes. He watched as Roy laid out by the door a quantity of dried fruit and a brown paper package. “What’s that?”

  “When I’m away, Mambokadzi sends the children from the village to tend the goats and the pig,” Roy explained. “I always leave them something. The package is hair ribbons—the children love bright colors and pretty things.”

  “I think,” Ash said slowly, hefting the two knapsacks, “that you are a very kind man.”

  Chapter Seven

  Roy set an easy pace as they departed. Thornside was nearly a half-day’s hike from the compound, and Roy hoped they would reach their destination before the heat of the day. If Ash struggled, they could rest by a water hole Roy knew until the heat passed and complete their journey in the cooler evening.

  But as they went on, Roy realized that Ash was coping well with the trek, both physically and emotionally. The young man was fit enough, hardly seeming to notice his injuries and keeping up with ease, and out on the veldt he appeared even more relaxed than he’d been earlier.

  “Roy, what sort of tree is that?” Ash asked, pointing to a stark, leafless trunk. “It’s the same kind I uh…I rested at yesterday, isn’t it?”

  “A baobab,” Roy said, nodding. He slowed his pace, unclipped a canteen from his belt, and passed it to Ash.

  Ash took a short swallow of water and handed the canteen back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It looks dead.”

  “It’s not dead. It only has leaves and fruit when the rains come. But the natives have another story for why it looks that way.”

  Ash cocked an eyebrow, and Roy went on. “When the world was made, God gave each of the animals a tree to plant. Hyena got the baobab. Hyenas aren’t considered the best sort of animals, and as it happened, Hyena got it wrong and planted his tree upside down.”

  “Careless of him.” Ash’s eyes were alight with amusement. “I can definitely see where that story came from.”

  Roy grinned, a wave of pure happiness starting in his chest and spreading throughout his body. He watched an answering grin spread over Ash’s face. The young man was enthralled by the veldt and interested in everything. At the same time he saw its power—Roy saw it in Ash’s eyes, in the way he followed carefully where Roy went, in the respect he accorded even the smallest creatures they saw.

  Roy remembered the first time he’d set eyes on the vast grassland. Left broken and empty by the horrific aftermath of combat, accompanied by the ghosts of maimed and dying soldiers, he’d returned from war to the barbaric civilization of small-town Missouri and known he had to get out. He’d come to Rhodesia to escape, and his first glimpse of the veldt had resonated with something in his soul.

  As the two of them marched, the cool of the morning submitted to the blaze of the African sun, conjuring up hordes of darting insects, humming around them in thick clouds.

  Ash brushed them away from his face, and Roy dropp
ed a hand on his shoulder. “They’ll stop soon. When the sun gets a little higher, and it gets hotter, most of ’em’ll stop for a while.”

  “Yes?” Ash was starting to sound tired, and Roy gave his shoulder a squeeze.

  “We’re nearly there.” He passed Ash the canteen again. “Here.”

  Ash sipped slowly, and Roy watched, smiling. He took in the young man’s handsome, chiseled features, delicate lips on the mouth of the canteen… Roy touched his own lips with his tongue.

  The things they’d done, the way Ash had touched him had awakened feelings Roy had thought he’d never experience again. Feelings he’d thought the horrors of war had turned to dust. A tingle of anticipation made its way up his spine, and Roy took a deep breath. The ball of tension he’d been carrying since the first shell had landed in northern France loosened—just a fraction—and he felt a warm rush of happiness.

  Roy took the canteen back from his companion and had a shallow swig. He restored it to his pack and pointed toward a stand of trees. “Come on. Thornside’s only another mile on from here.”

  As they walked, Ash asked more questions about the land they traveled through, and Roy was only too happy to answer. He explained that the rules of the native villages were tribal laws. Skirmishes between tribes were infrequent but not unheard of, although Roy had learned that the majority of the tribes were united in their anger at the British, especially the newly formed Ministry of Native Affairs.

  “The way I see it,” Roy said, “the natives have done pretty well managing their own affairs for thousands of years. I don’t know how foreigners think they could do it better.”

  Ash nodded but said nothing.

  “Mambokadzi’s people are Karanga,” Roy went on, “and they were farming this land when the dirt was still new. Mambokadzi’s the nganga, the village spirit healer, so she takes care of whoever’s being attacked by evil spirits or ancestor spirits, bad luck—things like that. Illness, fever, broken bones, well, that’s where I come in. You know, I never thought I’d use any of my army training again…” Roy stopped, his progress stilled by a flood of hard memories coming at him in a rush. Images and sounds he’d hoped never to encounter again. He swallowed hard, blinking rapidly and forcing himself to focus on the trees, the grass, the pale and open blue sky above. But the thick, prickly thornbushes by the side of the path gave way to a vision of a boy of nineteen, his skin blistered and peeling from mustard gas, his scream choked off to a gurgle as the blood ran…and ran and ran…