Echoes From a Distant Land (13 page)

Sam sat back in the carriage, unsure if his impulsive decision to visit his home had been wise. He had changed; he worried that his family and friends in the village would feel awkward in his presence. Perhaps he would appear to them more of a
mzungu
than a Kikuyu. Would he be able to talk to them at all? So much had happened to him that would mean nothing in Igobu.

The process of change had happened slowly — too slowly for him to notice while in America — but now that he was heading home, his early years in the village came from what seemed like a different life.

The train line now extended past Thika to Nyeri, then all the way to Nanyuki. Progress.

From Nyeri he hired a car to take him to Igobu, but had to abandon the journey five miles from the village when the pitted road reverted to a footpath.

He carried his jacket over his shoulder and wound up his sleeves, but still arrived at his home village hot and sweaty.

When he walked through the village outskirts, the dogs barked and the children ran screaming to their mothers. A small and inquisitive crowd gathered at the outlying huts. Finally, someone recognised him and a howl of ululations arose from the women. The crowd approached; many hands patted him tentatively, and once his identity was confirmed he was seized and almost carried to his family home.

Igobu had changed very little. There was a handful of new family compounds, here and there a hut sported a corrugated-iron roof instead of the traditional thatch, and of course a batch of new children swarmed about the common space. Otherwise he had landed in exactly the stamping ground of his own childhood. His head swam with disorientation.

His father came out of his tent, puzzled by the commotion at his door. He remained a big man and perhaps even still the
strongest in Nyeri Province, but to Sam's eyes he had shrunk. They embraced, but their conversation was hesitant, like that of two good friends separated by the years sometimes is. His father's mannerisms had changed. No longer did he thrust out his barrel chest and look over his nose as he talked: he was more reserved, even a little unsure.

Sam's mother came from her hut, at first not recognising him perhaps because of his Western clothes, but she soon dissolved into grateful tears, wailing and slapping a hand into his chest as she rested her head against it. She told him she'd never forgiven him for leaving the village, but thanked Mogai for his return.

When the crowd had dispersed and Sam sat with his family, feeling quite uncomfortable in his suit, his grandfather arrived, frail and querulous.

‘They say this is how my name is written,' the old man said, pointing to a piece of card he removed from a canister hanging around his neck. ‘And this is the mark of my finger. They say I must carry this everywhere I go!'

He turned the card to Sam then looked at it again, studying it as if it were something he'd not seen before. He made a face and added in an incredulous whisper: ‘And I must show it to any
askari
who asks to see it.'

‘
Guuka
hates the
kipande
,' his father explained. ‘The rest of us are used to it now. What can you do?' He shrugged. In the old days Kungu would have been incensed, storming around the village and demanding the chief take action.

‘And now we are Kee-nya,' his grandfather continued. ‘
Kee-nya!
'

‘So I heard,
guuka
,' Sam said. ‘A new name. Just another change, ah?'

His grandfather gave him a disbelieving look. ‘
Pah!
' he said, and spat into the dust before walking away.

‘He is in poor health,' Sam said to his father, preferring to comment on the more obvious physical changes than to the more worrying change in his grandfather's character and disposition.

 

Sam walked alone to the mission school. It had been one of the first to be established in the region and Sam was there when it was built. The roof of fronds was steep and much higher than the squat traditional huts that the Kikuyu built, but the men of Igobu built it as requested by the missionaries.

After the first wet season, when the chill rain swept in on the wind from the mountain, many parishioners stayed away and the men were again co-opted into supplying labour and materials, this time to add frond-panel walls. But in the next dry season it was too hot, so they cut large window openings into the new walls to allow the light and cool breezes to enter. Sister Rosalba had planted white roses around three sides of the church.

Father O'Dwyer made monthly visits from Nanyuki, thirty miles away. He came in his little donkey trap to say mass in the
makuti
church. Sam had been mightily impressed by the priest's vestments, which could be red, purple or green satin, depending upon the liturgical calendar. The ochre-painted, feather-clad medicine man, so feared and respected by the Kikuyu, was colourless in comparison. The vestments alone had won many converts.

During Sam's time away, the church had been enlarged by the addition of two thatched annexes, one each side under the original high thatched roof. It was no longer the elegant, soaring structure he remembered. Now it appeared to be just a bigger, fatter version of the squat Kikuyu huts that surrounded it.

The school had gained an additional thatched classroom. He stood in the playground as the children trooped past him with round and curious eyes.

The teacher, obviously a nun, but wearing a lighter form of the Consolata Sisters' habit, came towards him.

She smiled and said, ‘I'm Sister Sirena.' There was a question in her eyes, but she resisted voicing it.

‘Hello, Sister. I am … I was a student here. Many years ago, obviously. But I am wondering if I might see Sister Rosalba.'

‘No, I'm sorry. Sister Rosalba passed away years ago.'

‘Oh …'

‘I was sent out from Rome as her replacement.'

‘I see. How did she … Had she been ill?'

‘No. It was an accident. I understand she was very proud of her roses. White roses. A little innocent vanity about her name, perhaps.'

‘Her name?'

‘Rosalba — white rose.'

‘I see.'

‘I'm told she was having trouble keeping her roses safe. An old female elephant would come some nights to pluck and eat every last one of them. Sister Rosalba would rush outside and chase her away. One night, she went out, thinking it was the same elephant, but it was a young bull.' She wrung her thin white fingers together. ‘It must have been awful for the sisters. She had been thrown to the ground and … crushed.'

Sam thanked her and headed back to his parents' compound, but he wasn't ready to meet more friends and relatives. He took a side path that he recalled led to the stream that supplied the village. It was at this stream he'd once seen a leopard, thinking it was an
irimu
— a spirit. He remembered he almost wept at the power and the beauty of it; even now there were tears in his eyes recollecting it.

But it wasn't the memory of a leopard that brought on his melancholy. It was Sister Rosalba's face that came back from beyond his years of absence. How could he have so cruelly ignored her letters? She had given him a hunger for knowledge, even when that knowledge was difficult to accept.
If God didn't dwell on Kirinyaga, where else could he live?
It was she who had planted a seed in his mind that sprouted as soon as the light of an opportunity appeared. It would have taken so little effort to respond to her letters, and to have her pass on his love to his family.

He could see her bustling among the children, her veil flying behind, while in pursuit of some urgent matter, probably a child in distress. Sam recalled her as always busy, always hurrying, but what had she achieved? Within the context of his experiences in America he now knew more about the life Sister Rosalba had left behind in Rome, or whatever other city had been her home. How
could she leave that sophistication and find satisfaction in teaching dirt-ignorant kids in a little place like Igobu? And then to die here, suddenly and ignominiously, under the large flat pad of an elephant. It was too bizarre and too wasteful of a life that might have achieved something useful elsewhere. He tried to imagine his own life continuing on the path he was taking until Ira lifted him from it. He shuddered.

He returned to his father's hut, his eyes still hot with tears, but he had lost the ability to socialise. His family pressed him to stay overnight, but he couldn't. He realised the village where he had spent his childhood could never again be home. He left, promising to return another day.

As he headed back to his car, he realised he would find it difficult to keep his promise to return. He had changed too much. It brought to mind another conversation with Sister Rosalba.

He'd been to see the
mondo mogo
for a love potion to use on Mothoni. The nuns didn't approve of the tribe's witch doctor, and Sister Rosalba challenged him about his beliefs.

‘Samson, Samson,' she'd said, shaking her head. ‘I know it must be hard for you. On one hand you want to have a good education, one that will see you enter the white man's world. The Lord knows you have the ability. But on the other hand you are first a Kikuyu; and you are now about to become a warrior.'

‘Yes, Sister,' he'd said.

‘Do you remember what we have taught you about the Kikuyu ways?'

‘Yes, Sister.'

‘And you remember what we've said about the games you boys play with the girls at this time of your life?'

‘Yes, Sister.'

‘Hmm, then what is it to be?'

Sam didn't understand the question.

‘What do you want to be, Samson? A Kikuyu warrior or an educated man?'

Remembering his reply now, he was wryly amused by his younger self's naivety.

‘Why can't I be both?'

Impossible. He couldn't be both. Not then; not now. His time in America had irretrievably changed him. There was now no choice. The country was racing towards a European culture. He was no longer a warrior. He wasn't sure if he were even a Kikuyu any more.

Dana awoke with Edward's freckled arm flung across her body and the sheets in a tangle. His chest rose and fell with the rhythmic breathing of sleep and he was softly snoring. She had always found it slightly distasteful to awake beside the man she had been intimate with during the night. It was one of the reasons they didn't share a bedroom.

She knew Edward preferred to sleep where he fell at the end of love-making, and last night Dana had been prepared to be accommodating.

In fact, the whole evening had been composed to please Edward. Dana had unashamedly set out to seduce her husband so he would be in a favourable frame of mind for the matter she intended to raise with him. She knew he would be difficult to convince, but equally, she knew she had to try.

The night had begun as it usually did. They dressed for dinner, although there was just the two of them. She wore a clinging silk gown that swept the floor. It was a little old-fashioned and she seldom wore it, but it was Edward's favourite.

They made small talk while Faizal, their Somali servant, served the soup. During the appetiser — a very tender guinea fowl — Dana began to act a little flirtatiously. After Faizal had served the impala and coconut main course, Dana told Edward she was wearing the pink suspender belt that he particularly admired under her gown. This sparked his interest, but then during dessert she added that she was wearing no underwear. The night's progression was then almost assured.

There was a soft knock on the bedroom door. She slipped out from under Edward's arm and, at the door, took the tea tray from Faizal.

‘Edward,' she said, as she placed the tray on the table beside her bed. ‘Edward, darling. I have your tea.'

Stirring, he snuffled a form of reply.

‘Come, darling. Take your tea. It'll pick you up.'

He opened an eye then closed it again. ‘Thank you, darling,' he mumbled.

‘Come on,' she coaxed. ‘You were a lot more energetic last night, my dear.'

He smiled and lifted his head. ‘Thanks to your shenanigans,' he said.

Dana chuckled. ‘I didn't hear you complaining.'

She had to admit, it had been a successful seduction, culminating in her sitting astride him, suspender belt intact, and riding him to his climax.

He sat up and fondled her bottom through her silk dressing gown as she poured his tea.

‘Now stop that,' she chided, and moved out of his reach to add the milk and sugar.

She sat in the armchair and watched as Edward took a tentative sip of his tea.

‘Ahh …!' he said, predictably. Dana could place a bet on which of the many vocal rituals he could use in any one of a range of situations. They included his little homily —
God …! Save …! The King! —
as he climaxed.

She let the tea revive him before beginning the conversation she'd spent days planning.

‘Edward, darling?' she began.

‘Hmm …?'

‘You know that we've discussed the matter of having a family of our own.'

There was a pause before he acknowledged her. ‘Yes …'

‘Well, I've been thinking about it quite a bit lately.'

She waited for a response. When it didn't come, she went on. ‘And I think that now would be a good time to start trying.'

He replaced his cup on the saucer. ‘Now?'

‘Yes,' she said, keeping her gaze on the bedspread rather than let him see the uncertainty in her eyes.

‘Have you considered our lives here?' he asked. ‘We would be most circumscribed by any attempt at a pregnancy. I presume I don't have to remind you that it was your extramarital affairs that put us here in the first place.'

You mean your debts, she thought, but kept her retort to herself.

‘Your, ah,
needs
, Dana, gave rise to our decision to delay that sort of thing. Neither of us is suited to a monogamous relationship. We both know that.'

Dana knew it was silly to want a child under their present circumstances, but logic had taken flight at dusk on the hill as she watched the matriarch elephant lead her family from the forest to the distant lake.

‘Couldn't we just try, and not change anything else?'

‘That's preposterous! And have you get pregnant to god-knows-who? No, it will never do. We will stay with what we agreed; and when we go back to England, well … we'll review the matter. Until then, I shan't hear another word on the subject.'

 

The African sky was ink black behind the stars. Across the heavens, the diamante band of the Milky Way was scattered like an unloved trinket. A shooting star appeared like an arrow piercing a black velvet curtain and was quickly gone.

Cool air spilled from the high ridges of the Aberdare Ranges. It rolled onto the farm's high eastern pastures, gathering the earthy scent of mist-moistened grass, then ambled through the vegetable
shamba
with its rows of beans, leeks and tomatoes. It played with the petunias around the veranda, where Dana reclined in a cane swing chair gazing at the silver sliver of the moon suspended in the sky like a lantern.

Midnight air, she called it.

The farmhouse, named Zephyr by her overly imaginative husband, creaked and sighed when the cool breeze arrived after twelve hours of hot equatorial sun. Edward had built Zephyr in the style familiar to any Englishman: two storeys, a short veranda
skirting the main entrance, bedrooms each side of a central hall, whitewashed brick walls with protruding casement windows and cedar shingles that ran to the steeply pitched, corrugated-iron roof.

Midnight air. Dana enjoyed the symmetry of it: the warm gentle breeze by day, and the cool breath of night — the bold interloper — sneaking like a lover through the bedroom window when all is quiet.

But it was already five in the morning. Dana had been unable to sleep and had lain awake on her bed for hours in anticipation of the excitement of the coming morning. When she finally conceded that sleep was impossible, she pulled on her khaki slacks, her pale green shirt with the many pockets and her leather vest to ward off the morning chill. Walking quietly down the hall, she passed Edward's bedroom and the snuffling snores that always followed a night on the whisky, and entered the study, where she took her .350 Rigby Mauser and a double-barrelled shotgun from the gun rack.

She loved the Rigby, but hated the shotgun. The Rigby was slender and potent. Its twenty-six-inch blue-grey barrel could deliver death at great distance and it had a satisfying recoil that knocked Dana's slender frame backwards if she were not properly braced.

The shotgun was ugly and heavy and, with the Rigby, too heavy for one gun bearer. She included it because Bill Judd had told her it was good insurance at close range, but it meant she would have to take Benard, the new boy, to help Jonathan, her regular gun bearer.

The fourth member of their safari would be Ndorobo, who would lead her to her quarry. On dainty feet, the little hunter would scamper into the hills above the farm where he would use his magic to find the hiding place of her lion. ‘The night I was born, a lion was also born,' he'd once said in answer to her question about his hunting skills. ‘He my brother. I know what he know.' It was the longest conversation he'd ever had with Dana, preferring at other times to use signs and grunts to make himself understood.

In the east, the hulking, shadowed shoulders of the Aberdares appeared against a faintly lighter sky. In silhouette they were enormous, and seemed more savage with their many folds and valleys concealed in the darkness. Among those secluded undulations, in the
dappled grassy clearings before the hills merged into the bamboo forest, Dana's lion would be waiting. She wondered if it would know it was she who had already, if unsuccessfully, stalked it. Would it know that when it wandered into her domain it had set in motion the process of its own destruction? Would it know at the moment of its death that it was not a great white hunter who had bagged it, but a mere woman, part wanderer herself?

It was the anticipation that thrilled her. Knowing that the wilderness she was about to enter might prove deadly made her skin tingle. It was like the interval — the heart-stopping moments — between the meeting of eyes between man and woman, and the confirmation that the desire was mutual.

She let her mind wander languidly back to the previous weekend's dinner party. It was a great success. Her present favourite was Archie who, like his wife, Polly, was a great dancer and the life of the party. But it wasn't a matter of choice in these matters, it was luck — that's what made it so exciting — so she had to wait and see what the cards would bring.

‘I see you,
bibi
,' said a voice from the gloom.

She'd not heard him approach. She seldom did. ‘I see you, Ndorobo,' she said, although he was still concealed in darkness.

‘And
bwana
?'

‘Sleeping.'

Ndorobo always asked, but Edward never joined them on safari. In these matters he chose to let his young wife do as she pleased.

She stood, pushed her fringe back, and captured it under the rim of her hat.

‘Bring Jonathan and Benard,' she said. ‘We go.'

 

In the Kenyan highlands, dawn never comes languidly from sleep. It leaps upon the landscape like a ravenous beast, devouring morning mists, tossing golden dawn colours into sleeping valleys.

Jonathan had arrived at the house owl-eyed, but as soon as Dana handed him the Rigby, he slung it over his shoulder and was
immediately alert. Not so the young Benard, who shuffled his feet and let the snout of the shotgun dip dangerously close to the dirt until Jonathan gave him a poke.

Ten minutes from the house, Ndorobo spotted the lion's spoor in the damp soil and pointed it out to Dana. The huge pug mark, missing a claw on the front left paw, proved that the lion that had been stalking Edward's cattle for weeks was still around. Ndorobo had told her it was an old male with a limp, the likely result of a battle lost while trying to retain leadership of the pride. ‘He old. Very angry,' the little man had said sagely, making a pantomime of the old male skulking away, leaving his harem to the younger, stronger victor. He shook his head sadly, and added, ‘Very angry, that old one.'

Without the pride to assist in the hunting, the old lion had grown hungry and in desperation had found easier game on the Northcotes' farm. He had taken two calves and a heifer in the last month.

Ndorobo scuttled among the grassy tussocks in a widening circle, head down, his skinny rump bobbing, until he found what he was seeking. A second set of pug marks told him the remainder of the story, which he shared with Dana without speaking a word. He swept his hand from the hills to the valley and pastureland. The big male had come out of the Aberdares, used the rocky outcrop on the property's northern boundary for reconnaissance, and passed the point they were now standing before heading to the home pasture where the herdsmen had confined the cattle for safety. Another gesture indicated the uproar from the dogs — the barking that had awoken Dana around midnight — at which time the wily predator had retreated back into the hills to await a more favourable opportunity to seize one of Edward's cattle. Ndorobo pointed the way.

Since arriving in the White Highlands nearly five years before, they had always been
Edward's cattle
because, as he seldom neglected to remind her, his was a landed family. Her antecedents were tinkers and fortune-tellers, as was obvious from her olive skin and emerald eyes. In any case, her motivation was not to save Edward's precious cattle: the lion had broken into the enclosure
where she kept her thoroughbred mares and killed one before the staff chased it away.

It was the third time she'd made the journey into the hills in search of the old killer, and she was determined to avenge her loss by making it her last.

Ndorobo headed towards the hills, with Jonathan and the Rigby a pace ahead of Dana. He carried the rifle as all good gun bearers should — over the shoulder pointing forwards, with the butt towards Dana. It meant that the Rigby was in arm's reach and in a position ready to be immediately fired. Benard took up the rear with the back-up heavy-calibre shotgun.

They climbed towards the east where the sun was still mercifully concealed behind the high timbered slopes. Even the previous farm owners, in their enthusiasm to supply the colony's insatiable demand for good timber, had made no attempt to clear this rough and broken land, smothered in meandering vines. It remained an outpost of the forest: a reminder of the wilderness that lay beyond the next valley. Occasionally a mist, or the remnants of a cloud, floated past them down the slope, tangling itself in the lianas and wrapping the roots of the soaring podocarpus trees in diaphanous silks.

They approached the crest of the first ridge and sunlight began to spear through the thinning trees. Dana shielded her eyes, but she did so reluctantly, not wishing to miss the first moment when the glorious panorama was revealed.

Suddenly the ground gave way in a downward tilt. The trees parted and the morning breeze, Edward's zephyr, was chasing the mist away, revealing the verdant pasture with only the occasional giant podocarpus or cedar thrusting into view. This was where Edward had been fattening his cattle and where the old lion had found them easy pickings, before the herd was moved closer to the homestead.

The valley swept past their vantage point through an arc from Mt Kipipiri, carrying a tributary of the Malewa River northwards before it made its long sweeping bend to the west to join Lake Naivasha. On the far side of the valley rose the Aberdare foothills, the first part of which was the formidable and almost impenetrable
bamboo forest. It was in this valley that Dana would have to take the lion. To hunt it in the forest was madness.

Dana and the gun bearers rested while Ndorobo inspected the trail ahead. He soon returned, his head bobbing with excitement.