True at First Light

by Ernest Hemingway

  “I try to hold him down, Willie,” I said. “But he gets away from me.”

  “How does he feel about aircraft?” Willie asked.

  “I can’t reveal that before Mary,” I said. “When we are airborne I’ll give you the word.”

  “Anything I can do to help you, Miss Mary, count on me,” Willie said.

  “I just wish you could stay around or that G.C. or Mr. P. was here,” Mary said. “I’ve never been present at the birth of a new religion before and it makes me nervous.”

  “You must be something along the lines of the White Goddess, Miss Mary. There’s always a beautiful White Goddess isn’t there?”

  “I don’t think I am. One of the basic points of the faith as I gather it is that neither Papa nor I are white.”

  “That is timely.”

  “We tolerate the whites and wish to live in harmony with them as I understand it. But on our own terms. That is on Papa’s and Ngui’s and Mthuka’s terms. It’s Papa’s religion and it is a frightfully old religion and now he and the others are adapting it to Kamba custom and usage.”

  “I was never a missionary before, Willie,” I said. “It is very inspiring. I’ve been very fortunate that we have Kibo here that is almost the exact counterpart of one of the foothills of the Wind River range where the religion was first revealed to me and where I had my early visions.”

  “They teach us so little at school,” Willie said. “Could you give me any gen on the Wind Rivers, Papa?”

  “We call them the Fathers of the Himalayas,” I explained modestly. “The main low range is approximately the height of that mountain Tensing the Sherpa carried that talented New Zealand beekeeper to the top of last year.”

  “Could that be Everest?” Willie asked. “There was some mention of the incident in the East African Standard.”

  “Everest it was. I was trying to remember the name all day yesterday when we were having evening indoctrination at the Shamba.”

  “Jolly good show the old beekeeper put up being carried so high so far from home,” Willie said. “How did it all come about, Papa?”

  “No one knows,” I said. “They’re all reluctant to talk.”

  “Always had the greatest respect for mountaineers,” Willie said. “No one ever gets a word out of them. They’re as tight mouthed a lot as old G.C. or you yourself Papa.”

  “Nerveless too,” I said.

  “Like us all,” Willie said. “Should we try for that food, Miss Mary? Papa and I have to go out and have a little look around the estate.”

  “Lete chakula.”

  “Ndio Memsahib.”

  When we were airborne and flying along the side of the Mountain watching the forest, the openings, the rolling country and the broken ground of the watersheds, seeing the zebra always fat looking from the air running foreshortened below us, the plane turning to pick up the road so that our guest who sat beside Willie might orient himself as we spread the road and the village before him, there was the road that came up from the swamp behind us and now leading into the village where he could see the crossroads, the stores, the fuel pump, the trees along the main street and the other trees leading to the white building and high wire fence of the police Boma where we could see the flagpole with the flag in the wind.

  “Where is your Shamba?” I said in his ear and as he pointed, Willie turned and we were over the Boma and up and along the flank of the Mountain where there were many clearings and cone-shaped houses and fields of mealies growing green out of the red brown earth.

  “Can you see your Shamba?”

  “Yes.” He pointed.

  Then his Shamba roared up at us and spread green and tall and well watered ahead and behind the wing.

  “Hapana tembo,” Ngui said very low in my ear.

  “Tracks?”

  “Hapana.”

  “Sure that’s your Shamba?” Willie said to the man.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Looks in pretty good shape to me, Papa,” Willie called back. “We’ll have another dekko.”

  “Drag her good and slow.”

  The fields roared by again but slower and closer as though they might hover next. There was no damage and no tracks.

  “Don’t have to stall her.”

  “I’m flying her, Papa. Want to see the other side of it?”

  “Yes.”

  This time the fields came up gently and softly as though they were maybe a green formally arranged disk being raised gently for our inspection by a skilled and gentle servant. There was no damage and no elephant tracks. We rose fast and turned so I could see the Shamba in relation to all of the others.

  “Are you very sure that is your Shamba?” I asked the man.

  “Yes,” he said and it was impossible not to admire him.

  None of us said anything. Ngui’s face had no expression on it at all. He looked out of the Plexiglas window and drew the first finger of his right hand carefully across his throat.

  “We might as well wash this and go home,” I said.

  Ngui put his hand on the side of the plane as though grasping the handle of the door and made a motion as though turning it. I shook my head and he laughed.

  When we landed at the meadow and taxied up to where the hunting car was waiting by the wind sock on the leaning pole the man got out first. No one spoke to him.

  “You watch him, Ngui,” I said.

  Then I went over to Arap Meina and took him aside.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “He’s probably thirsty,” I said. “Give him some tea.”

  Willie and I rode over to the tents of the camp in the hunting car. We were sitting on the front seat. Arap Meina was in the back with our guest. Ngui had stayed behind with my 30-06 to guard the plane.

  “Seems a little on the sticky side,” Willie said. “When did you make up your mind, Papa?”

  “The law of gravity business? Before we went out.”

  “Very thoughtful of you. Bad for the company. Put me out of business. Do you think Miss Mary would care to fly this afternoon? That would put us all up and we could have an interesting, instructional and educational flight in pursuit of your duties and all of us be airborne until I leave.”

  “Mary would like to fly.”

  “We could have a look at the Chulus and check the buff and your other beasts. G.C. might be pleased to know where the elephant really are.”

  “We’ll take Ngui. He’s getting to like it.”

  “Is Ngui very high in the religion?”

  “His father once saw me changed into a snake. It was an unknown type of snake never seen before. That has a certain amount of influence in our religious circles.”

  “It should, Papa. And what were Ngui’s father and you drinking when the miracle occurred?”

  “Nothing but Tusker beer and a certain amount of Gordon’s gin.”

  “You don’t remember what type of snake it was?”

  “How could I. It was Ngui’s father who had the vision.”

  “Well, all we can do at the moment is hope Ngui watches the kite,” Willie said. “I don’t want it changing into a troop of baboons.”

  Miss Mary wanted to fly very much. She had seen the guest in the back of the hunting car and she was quite relieved.

  “Was his Shamba damaged, Papa?” she asked. “Will you have to go up there?”

  “No. There was no damage and we don’t have to go up.”

  “How will he get back up there?”

  “He’s hitchhiking, I think.”

  We had some tea and I took a Campari and Gordon’s with a splash of soda.

  “This exotic life is charming,” Willie said. “I wish I could join in it. What does that stuff taste like, Miss Mary?”

  “It’s very good, Willie.”

  “I’ll save it for my old age. Tell me, Miss Mary, have you ever seen Papa turn into a snake?”

  “No, Willie. I promise.”

  “We miss everything,” Willie said. “Where would you
like to fly, Miss Mary?”

  “The Chulus.”

  So we flew to the Chulus going by Lion Hill and crossing Miss Mary’s private desert and then down over the great swampy plain with the marsh birds and the ducks flying and all the treacherous places that made that plain impassable clearly revealed so that Ngui and I could see all of our mistakes and plan a new and different route. Then we were over the herds of eland on the far plain, dove colored, white striped and spiral horned, the bulls heavy with their awkward grace, breaking away from the cows that are the antelope cast in the form of cattle.

  “I hope it wasn’t too dull, Miss Mary,” Willie said. “I was trying not to disturb any of G.C.’s and Papa’s stock. Only to see where it was. I didn’t want to frighten any creatures away from here or disturb your lion.”

  “It was lovely, Willie.”

  Then Willie was gone, first coming down the truck path at us bouncing into a roar as the widespread crane-like legs came joggling closer to clear the grass where we stood and then rising into an angle that creased your heart to take his course as he diminished in the afternoon light.

  “Thank you for taking me,” Mary said, as we watched Willie until the plane could no longer be seen. “Let’s just go now and be good lovers and friends and love Africa because it is. I love it more than anything.”

  “So do I.”

  In the night we lay together in the big cot with the fire outside and the lantern I had hung on the tree making it light enough to shoot. Mary was not worried but I was. There were so many trip wires and booby snares around the tent that it was like being in a spiderweb. We lay close together and she said, “Wasn’t it lovely in the plane?”

  “Yes. Willie flies so gently. He’s so thoughtful about the game too.”

  “But he frightened me when he took off.”

  “He was just proud of what she can do and remember he didn’t have any load.”

  “We forgot to give him the meat.”

  “No. Mthuka brought it.”

  “I hope it will be good this time. He must have a lovely wife because he’s so happy and kind. When people have a bad wife it shows in them quicker than anything.”

  “What about a bad husband?”

  “It shows too. But sometimes much slower because women are braver and more loyal. Blessed Big Kitten, will we have a sort of normal day tomorrow and not all these mysterious and bad things?”

  “What’s a normal day?” I asked watching the firelight and the unflickering light from the lantern.

  “Oh, the lion.”

  “The good kind normal lion. I wonder where he is tonight.”

  “Let’s go to sleep and hope he’s happy the way we are.”

  “You know he never struck me as the really happy type.”

  Then she was really asleep and breathing softly and I bent my pillow over to make it hard and double so I could have a better view out of the open door of the tent. The night noises all were normal and I knew there were no people about. After a while Mary would need more room to sleep truly comfortably and would get up without waking and go over to her own cot where the bed was turned down and ready under the mosquito netting and when I knew that she was sleeping well I would go out with a sweater and mosquito boots in a heavy dressing gown and build up the fire and sit by the fire and stay awake.

  There were all the technical problems. But the fire and the night and the stars made them seem small. I was worried though about some things and to not think about them I went to the dining tent and poured a quarter of a glass of whisky and put water in it and brought it back to the fire. Then having a drink by the fire I was lonesome for Pop because we had sat by so many fires together and I wished we were together and he could tell me about things. There was enough stuff in camp to make it well worth a full-scale raid and G.C. and I were both sure that there were many Mau Mau in Laitokitok and the area. He had signaled them more than two months before only to be informed that it was nonsense. I believed Ngui that the Wakamba Mau Mau were not coming our way. But I thought they were the least of our problems. It was clear that the Mau Mau had missionaries among the Masai and were organizing the Kikuyu that worked in the timber-cutting operations on Kilimanjaro. But whether there was any fighting organization we would not know. I had no police authority and was only the acting Game Ranger and I was quite sure, perhaps wrongly, that I would have very little backing if I got into trouble. It was like being deputized to form a posse in the West in the old days.

  G.C. turned up after breakfast, his beret over one eye, his boy’s face gray and red with dust and his people in the back of the Land Rover as trim and dangerous looking and cheerful as ever.

  “Good morning, General,” he said. “Where is your cavalry?”

  “Sir,” I said. “They are screening the main body. This is the main body.”

  “I suppose the main body is Miss Mary. You haven’t strained yourself thinking this all out have you?”

  “You look a little battle fatigued yourself.”

  “I’m damned tired actually. But there’s some good news. Our pals in Laitokitok are all going in the bag finally.”

  “Any orders, Gin Crazed?”

  “Just continue the exercise, General. We’ll drink a cold one and I must see Miss Mary and be off.”

  “Did you drive all night?”

  “I don’t remember. Will Mary be over soon?”

  “I’ll get her.”

  “How is she shooting?”

  “God knows,” I said piously.

  “We’d better have a short code,” G.C. said. “I’ll signal shipment received if they come out the way they should.”

  “I’ll send the same if they show up here.”

  “If they come this way I imagine I’ll hear of it through channels,” then as the mosquito bar opened, “Miss Mary. You’re looking very lovely.”

  “My,” she said. “I love Chungo. It’s absolutely platonic.”

  “Memsahib Miss Mary, I mean.” He bowed over her hand. “Thank you for inspecting the troops. You’re their Honorary Colonel you know. I’m sure they were all most honored. I say, can you ride sidesaddle?”

  “Are you drinking too?”

  “Yes, Miss Mary,” G.C. said gravely. “And may I add no charges of miscegenation will be preferred for your avowed love for Game Ranger Chungo. The D.C. will never hear of it.”

  “You’re both drinking and making fun of me.”

  “No,” I said. “We both love you.”

  “But you’re drinking though,” Miss Mary said. “What can I make you to drink?”

  “A little Tusker with the lovely breakfast,” G.C. said. “Do you agree, General?”

  “I’ll go out,” Miss Mary said. “If you want to talk secrets. Or drink beer without being uncomfortable.”

  “Honey,” I said, “I know that in the war the people in charge of the war used to tell you everything about it before it happened. But there are many things G.C. doesn’t tell me about. And I am sure there are people who don’t tell G.C. things too long ahead of time. Also when people told you all about everything in the war you weren’t camped in the heart of possibly enemy country. Would you want to be wandering around by yourself knowing projects?”

  “Nobody ever lets me wander around by myself and I’m always looked after as though I were helpless and might get lost or hurt. Anyway I’m sick of your speeches and you all playing at mysteries and dangers. You’re just an early morning beer drinker and you get G.C. into bad habits and the discipline of your people is disgraceful. I saw four of your men who had obviously been on a drinking bout all night. They were laughing and joking and still half drunk. Sometimes you’re preposterous.”

  There was a heavy cough outside the door of the tent. I went outside and there was the Informer, taller, and more dignified than ever and impressive in his shawl-wrapped, porkpie-hatted drunkenness.

  “Brother, your Number One Informer is present,” he said. “May I enter and make my compliments to the Lady Miss Ma
ry and place myself at her feet?”

  “Bwana Game is talking with Miss Mary. He’ll be out directly.”

  Bwana Game came out of the mess tent and the Informer bowed. G.C.’s usually merry and kind eyes closed like a cat’s and peeled the layer of protective drunkenness from the Informer as you might slice the outer layers from an onion or strip the skin from a plantain.

  “What’s the word from town, Informer?” I asked.

  “Everyone was surprised that you did not fly down the main street nor show Britain’s might in the air.”

  “Spell it ‘mite,’ ” G.C. said.

  “To respectfully inform I did not spell it. I enunciated it,” the Informer went on. “All of the village knew that the Bwana Mzee was in search of marauding elephants and had no time for aerial display. A Mission-educated owner of a Shamba returned to the village late in the afternoon having flown with the ndege of Bwana and he is being tailed by one of the children of the bar and duka run by the bearded Sikh. The child is intelligent and all contacts are being noted. There are between one hundred and fifty and two hundred and twenty certifiable Mau Mau in the village or within short outlying districts. Arap Meina appeared in the village shortly after the arrival of the airborne owner of the Shamba and devoted himself to his usual drunkenness and neglect of duty. He is voluble in talking about the Bwana Mzee in whose presence I stand. His story, which has wide credence, is that the Bwana occupies a position in America similar to that of the Aga Khan in the Moslem world. He is here in Africa to fulfill a series of vows he and Memsahib Lady Miss Mary have made. One of these vows deals with the need for the Memsahib Lady Miss Mary to kill a certain cattle-killing lion indicated by the Masai before the Birthday of the Baby Jesus. It is known and believed that a great part of the success of all things known depend on this. I have informed certain circles that after this vow has been performed the Bwana and I will make the visit to Mecca in one of his aircraft. It is rumored that a young Hindu girl is dying for the love of Bwana Game. It is rumored—”