A Kiss of Adventure (28 page)
“You’ve been stealing the books from the Sankore Mosque, haven’t you, Arthur?”
The answer was written in his expression. His eyes washed a pale empty blue as her words registered. The color drained from his face, and he grabbed for her arm. His Tuareg guards jerked him back. The Englishman struggled and called her name, but she turned away.
Tillie could see the
amenoukal
surrounded by his men. They were carrying the chest to a higher platform of rock to open it in view of the whole caravan. Khatty was at her husband’s side, where no doubt she would remain.
In the distance a sound like thunder rolled across the night. Remembering the sandstorm, Tillie glanced into the sky. No lightning flickered on the horizon. No dust swirled toward the well. She wandered across the uneven terrain.
She was free. They had all forgotten her, Tree-Planting Woman. Even Arthur had struggled into the mass of swarming Tuareg, hoping for a glimpse of his lost dreams. In silence, she surveyed the deserted well. Her focus fell on the box that had held Mungo Park’s hat. The little chest lay abandoned, so she picked it up.
The thunder was louder now, and she stared at a low formation of silver-lined clouds that billowed over the horizon. Wanting to feel the desert breeze wash away the memory of the well, she climbed onto one of the two stone fingers that formed the waran’s open mouth. She threw off her burnous and gripped the jagged rock, her well-worn boots finding sure footing.
When she had climbed to the tip of the peak, she looked down at the bustling hive of Tuareg. Blue-clad backs pressed and writhed; turbaned heads craned to see. She smiled, the weight of the search lifted from her shoulders.
Thank you, Father. Thank you for showing me the real treasure.
She tucked Mungo Park’s hatbox under her arm. Suddenly the
amenoukal
leapt to his feet, his shrill cry piercing the air. He raised his broadsword and brought it down on the wooden chest. It shattered into a hundred fragments across the stone. He flung the treasure pouch into the air, and its contents spilled out in the fading light.
It wasn’t golden nuggets that flew in every direction. Or gold coins. It was seashells. Cowrie shells. Ahmadi Fatouma’s treasure was nothing more than hundreds upon hundreds of cowrie shells.
“Mansong, the king of Segou,” Tillie whispered. “Graeme said Mansong gave Mungo Park five thousand cowrie shells.
That’s
the treasure of Timbuktu!”
A laugh bubbled up in her throat. She tossed back her head, and the breeze caught her hair. Cowrie shells! Thunder rolled over her laughter, drowning out the sound.
“Tillie!” someone shouted.
She swung around toward the voice. It had come from the west, across the desert. Was she imagining the
djenoun
again? Peering into the setting sun, she shielded her eyes against the glare. A loud rumble roared toward her. That sound . . . it wasn’t thunder at all. It was the roar of an airplane’s engines.
A wing dipped as a battered old two-seater with a single propeller flew past the rock. A hand shot out of the open cockpit. She saw a ripple of black hair and the flash of a boyish grin.
“Graeme!” she shouted.
“Hang on, Tillie-girl. I’m coming to get you.”
The airplane circled the Well of Waran and began a descent to the desert. Heart racing, Tillie slid down the stone. Loose rocks scattered under her feet. She fell, her ankle twisted, her palm split. She rolled onto her knees and leapt back to her feet. The old wooden chest tucked under her arm, she ran on. She jumped over a crevice and slid on her bottom down a narrow ravine.
Behind her, the Tuareg spotted the plane and gave chase. The enraged
amenoukal
raised his spear and led his men over the stone away from their scattered treasure. Shouting, screaming, they raced after her.
The rusty old airplane came to a stop on the strip of level road. Graeme rose out of the cockpit to beckon Tillie. His black hair blew away from his face, and she could see a strip of cloth tied around his head. He was wounded, but he was alive. Alive.
Her feet hit the sand. Racing up one dune and down the next, she glanced to her side as the
amenoukal
’s spear dug into the sand. The tattered banner of her skirt flapped in the breeze. The spear’s shaft swung back and forth and then toppled over.
Graeme climbed half out of the cockpit, and Tillie could see that the propeller was still humming. He stepped out onto the wing. She smelled diesel fuel, hot metal, smoke. Tillie reached the aircraft and lifted her hands. Graeme leaned toward her. In a replay of their first meeting, his arm swung out over the edge of the wing and snapped around her waist like an iron band. Lifted horizontally into the air, she saw the blue-black sky sprinkled with stars spin overhead, the dunes whirl below. Her breath was knocked from her lungs, and her hair floated over her face like a fan. Mungo Park’s box tumbled from her arms into the cockpit. She followed it into a tiny space where her knees met her chin.
The airplane’s engine
thunk-thunked
from idle to full rev. In the seat ahead of her Graeme worked the controls. The plane rolled forward over the sand, a deathly slow start. The Tuareg poured over a dune and swarmed toward them.
“Keep ’em busy!” Graeme shouted.
Tillie tore off a boot and hurled it at a Targui who reached for the plane’s wing. Stunned, he stumbled backward, but another warrior took his place. Tillie’s second boot glanced off his chin, tangled in his veil, and made him lose his grip.
“I got it now,” Graeme shouted. “Hang onto your hat. We’re going for a ride.”
The plane’s forward thrust pressed Tillie against the brown leather seat. Graeme accelerated as the aircraft bounced across the sandy road, dipped and surged and half floated into the air before slamming onto the road again. Behind them, the Tuareg swarmed over the plane’s tracks as they tried to keep up.
When Tillie was sure her eardrums would burst from the engine’s roar, the plane lifted into the cobalt sky.
“Graeme!” she cried. “You did it.”
“
We
did it.” His voice was filled with elation. “Look at our pal down there.”
She leaned over the side of the airplane and saw the
amenoukal
standing on a dune. His spear was at his side again; his broadsword hung loose in one hand. “Look, Graeme. There’s Khatty.”
Graeme hung one arm out and waved at the two figures.
“Maktoub!”
he shouted.
“Maktoub.”
It was God’s will.
Khatty pulled off her turban and waved it in farewell. Then the tall, blue-veiled Targui beside her lifted his spear in salute.
“Did you see that?” Tillie called. “The
amenoukal
waved at us.”
“He’s saying we were worthy adversaries.”
“So was he.” She slumped back in the crumbling leather seat. How could this all be happening? Graeme had been killed. But here he was. Alive.
The plane veered into a sweeping turn. “There’s Arthur,” he called over one shoulder.
Below the plane, the Englishman sat dejected at the lip of the Well of Waran. The splintered chest and the treasure pouch lay beside him. He was running his fingers through the piles of tiny round opalescent shells that were the legacy of Mungo Park’s guide, Ahmadi Fatouma.
“Shall we go get him?” Graeme yelled.
Tillie considered for a moment. “No,” she shouted back. “He got what he wanted. Leave him with it.”
He turned to her. “The journal? Did he get his hands on it?”
“No.” She touched the slender book hidden under her shirt. “Graeme, at the Sankore Mosque, I saw—”
“There they come!” He let out a whoop that cut off Tillie’s words. The plane swooped down to buzz a line of Land Rovers headed for the wadi of the Well of Waran. Police Land Rovers.
The officials smiled and waved as the airplane blasted over them. When Graeme lifted the plane’s nose again, Tillie slid forward and draped her arms around his neck. His black hair blew across her cheek, and she laid her head against his.
Despite the breeze, the night was warm. The stars seemed brighter from up here; the full moon began a gradual ascent. Bright silver-white, it lit up the sand until each grain glittered like a diamond and each dune wore a shining halo. The flight was not long, and as the plane began to lose altitude, Tillie spotted what looked like an alabaster snake winding across the desert.
“What’s that?” she called.
“The Niger.”
“Mungo Park’s river.” She gazed down at the curling channel and smiled. From here it was the stuff of dreams. “And that glittering spot in the sand?”
“Timbuktu.”
The plane descended, and the lights grew closer, changing from silver to gold and red and blue—the colors of lamp flames, cooking fires, coals warming thick black coffee, braziers roasting kabobs of goat. The river rippled in the wind, drifting shoreward to lap at the banks where egrets stood. Hippos rose from the water and waddled out to munch on reeds and papyrus, while crocodiles crawled along the shore in search of a stretch of warm sand.
As the plane bumped down onto an expanse of barren, moonlit track between the river and the town, Tillie drank in the dry smell of the sand she had come to know so well. The breeze died to a gentle caress as Graeme eased the plane to a halt and cut the engine. The propeller slowed to a tired whirl and stopped.
He climbed out of the cockpit and helped Tillie across the wing. The amulet tumbled from her shirt and clanked on the cool metal. When she dropped into Graeme’s arms, he held her close against his chest, and she could hear his heart thudding against his ribs.
“I was scared to death for you,” he whispered. His breath warmed her cheek. “I was sure I’d lost you.”
“But I thought the
amenoukal
had killed you. In the mine—I saw his broadsword. You were down in the water, and he swung it at you.”
“You thought I’d been killed?”
“The last thing I saw before they knocked me out was the sword coming down on your neck.”
He groaned and looked up into the sky. “I thought you knew what happened. We were on a ledge, remember? At the last instant, I dove off it into the water. The
amenoukal
grabbed me and nicked my head with his sword. I squirmed between his feet and swam underwater. I was sure he wouldn’t follow me. You know how the Tuareg feel about water. I was swimming blindly, down one tunnel after another, and when I finally came up, I was lost. It took me hours to find my way back to the entrance of the mine— I’m still not even sure how I did it. By that time, the police had arrived. I guess you were gone by then?”
“Someone hit the back of my head, and when I woke up, I was in the
amenoukal
’s tent a long way from the mine.”
“All this time you thought I was dead? Tillie, I’m sorry.” He cupped her face in his hands and brushed her cheeks with his thumbs. “The police took me straight to the clinic in Timbuktu and had my head and leg patched up. Then they located an old plane down in Mopti and ordered it flown up here for me. They’ve been out with their Land Rovers, and I’ve been flying from Timbuktu halfway to Algeria looking for you.”
“Graeme,” she shook her head, “why would the police do that for you? At the Sankore Mosque, I saw you put the three books Mahamane Samouda had shown us into your shirt.”
“You did?” He shook his head. “You’re a better detective than I realized. No wonder you were spooked in Timbuktu. Remember the smuggling ring that has been taking rare books and selling them on the European black market?”
“Arthur told me. He was working on it.”
“He sure was.” Graeme gave a wry chuckle. “When the police and Mahamane Samouda found out I was writing a book on Mungo Park, they asked me to do whatever I could to help protect the books. I’ve been helping them for several months now. Mahamane Samouda has been sending me the library’s most valuable books a few at a time, and I’ve been keeping them safe until we could assemble enough evidence to crack the smuggling ring. We suspected the old doorkeeper had something to do with it. A couple of days ago we connected him with Arthur Robinson.”
She looked away. She’d been hoping she was wrong about Arthur’s involvement. Dismay filled her at his deception. “He mentioned the black market.”
“He was the link with the exporters, through his position in the embassy. I didn’t make the connection until you told me what he had said about the journal’s value.” He searched her face for a reaction. “Look, I know you cared about him. I don’t think he was a bad guy. He just let greed seduce him. It was easy work, and the money was too good.”
“He wanted to lay up treasures on earth, ‘where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal,’” she repeated softly. “It’s from the Bible.”
“About that.” He raked a hand through his hair. Then he looked up into the sky, remembering. “I want to tell you what happened to me when I was searching for you, Tillie-girl.”
Graeme closed his eyes for a moment, remembering that desperate night he’d landed the plane in the desert after another futile day of searching for the Tuareg caravan.
He looked down at Tillie, still barely able to believe he’d finally found her.
She needs to know what happened. All of it.
“I spent days looking for the Tuareg caravan,” he began, “and found nothing. Finally one night, I was sitting there in the desert. I knew I had to get back to the Timbuktu airstrip, that I didn’t have much fuel—” he broke off and looked at her, and in his eyes she could see the pain he’d felt—“but I didn’t care. How could I? I figured you were dead.”
“Oh, Graeme . . .”
He shook his head. “It only made sense. I knew the
amenoukal
wouldn’t keep you alive once he realized you couldn’t find the treasure. And when I thought of you lying dead in the desert, I felt empty inside. Empty and hopeless.” His voice was choked, but he continued doggedly. “My gut twisted into a knot. I hadn’t eaten much of anything for days. I didn’t want to stop looking. As for sleep—” he gave a rueful laugh—“that was pretty much out of the question. I just knew I needed to think. So I brought the plane down on a stretch of open desert, cut the engine, climbed out of the cockpit, and collapsed.”
He looked up at the sky, a faraway look in his eyes, and felt Tillie tighten her hold around him. He could do this. He could tell her.
“I can still feel the sand under my back. It was cold and hard. And there were millions of stars. I lay there and watched them and realized I’d only been in that much pain once before—”
He broke off, echoes of that pain washing over him. Tillie waited in silence. Grateful, he drew a deep, steadying breath and went on. “It was when I was a boy, watching my mother’s face, her eyes wide with fear because my father was holding a gun to her head. I couldn’t let him hurt her. So I did the only thing I could. I didn’t even think about it, I just acted.”
Graeme jerked as he recalled how he had grabbed a kitchen knife . . . swung at his father . . . heard the cry of shock . . . seen the blood. “I killed my father, Tillie. He died in my arms. I was only a boy, and because of the circumstances, I wasn’t charged. But that hardly mattered. My life was changed. I swore I would never trust anyone again, never let anyone close enough to hurt me. I would never love another human being as long as I lived. And then . . .” He looked down at her, his heart filling with tenderness. “Then you came along, Tillie-girl. And you turned everything around. You taught me to hope, made me want to open up again. You showed me how to have faith.” He cupped her face with one hand, almost afraid to believe she was really there. “Then I lost you, too.”
