Echoes From a Distant Land (15 page)

Millions of them died in the wide waters of Lake Rudolph, but countless billions more continued south, into the wooded hills of the Pokots' land, and onwards to the Mau escarpment where they tumbled into the Great Rift Valley like a black avalanche. There they devoured maize and millet, leaving the fields festooned with broken and bare stems. Beans, barley, lucerne and other forage crops disappeared under their onslaught and, when all the more nutritious vegetation was taken, they consumed even the thin covering of valley grasses — the last vestige of fodder for the herds and flocks.

The swarm climbed the Kikuyu escarpment and, for a day or so, Sam and the farmers of the fertile hills outside Nairobi held their breath, hoping the prevailing northerly winds would sweep the plague southwards down the Great Rift Valley. But the northerly dropped and the locusts invaded the lush food gardens of Kikuyuland.

When the plague descended on Kiambaa, Sam watched the sky darken, then dashed outside to rally his staff to pen his small herd of cattle while he lassoed his horse and took it to the stable.

For the remainder of the day, all he could do was to stand at the window of his Kiambaa farmhouse and watch his twenty acres of pasture disappear. Meanwhile, in Nairobi, no garden, bush or vegetable was spared.

Within three months, it was obvious to Sam that many of his farming clients would be forced to default on their loans.

He thought the bank might survive the disaster, but another, even greater calamity was looming much further away. It had nothing to do with drought or pestilence, famine or flood, but it was to prove more devastating than any to Sam's finances.

Many thought the Wall Street crash of 1929 would remain a localised phenomenon, but it grew tentacles that eventually reached to all corners of the world.

 

From the blistering heat of the Amboseli Plains came a Maasai herder carrying his load of cattle hides to the trading post at Namanga. He dumped the fifty-pound load on the weighing machine at the
duka
, and waited while the Indian trader weighed them.

He had no use for cash other than to pay his poll tax; and he made this, his annual pilgrimage, in preparation for the tax collector's visit.

The herder couldn't read or write, nor could he tally the various brass weights being loaded on the other side of the balance, but he knew to within half a pound that his load was the same as the one he'd carried forty miles to Namanga last season.

The trader scribbled figures on a pad, counted out a few notes and a handful of coins and slid them across the counter to the herder.

The Maasai's face fell before he erupted into a tirade in Maa, jabbering about the price offered and accusing the Indian of thievery.

The Indian understood not a word, but the Maasai wasn't the first in his store to complain. He returned fire in Parsi, telling the Maasai that it was not his fault that the Mombasa merchants had dropped the price from thirty shillings per frasila to six.

The Indian trader couldn't explain the price fall. He knew nothing of the chain of events following the collapse of the New York stock market. He didn't know that unemployment in Europe had soared and people could no longer afford new shoes. Shoe stores cancelled standing orders. Footwear factories slashed their leather orders and the tanners cut back their demand for hides. Dramatic falls across all the industries were occurring all over Europe.

The Maasai herder had never heard of Europe and most of Sam's clients never suspected events on the other side of the world could affect them. They did, and the Rural Bank of Kenya went into bankruptcy.

 

Sam paid off the few staff he had, and let them take any of the farmhouse furniture or fittings they wanted. Then he sold the Kiambaa farm for a pittance, and prepared to move his personal effects to the Muthaiga flat.

The new owner would take the cattle and other livestock. Sam wanted to keep his horse, but couldn't find a way and regretfully left it too.

He took the little mare for one last ride over the dirt tracks surrounding Kiambaa. He enjoyed riding and it reminded him of his time as a horse-breaker in the American west. Riding always made it easier for him to think; and he again wrestled with the question of his future. He had very little money. His only asset was Ira's electrical business and patents, which were virtually worthless in the present financial situation.

As he unsaddled the mare he knew that if he could somehow find work with horses it might overcome the bitter taste left from the collapse of his business, and the financial ruin of his many clients.

1930

Edward was reading a month-old
Times
from the latest bundle of newspapers to arrive from London.

‘Do we really think this Labour chap, Ramsay MacDonald, can do anything about this wretched Depression?' He gave the page an irritated flick. ‘The market's still floundering, for goodness' sake!'

Dana picked up the
Sunday Express
and casually flipped through the articles as she nibbled on a piece of toast. She fingered the lion-fang pendant sitting at her throat on a short silver chain. Faizal's friend had done an excellent job, setting the base of the fang in a silver clasp with a tiny lion motif engraved on it.

She knew enough to let her husband have his rant, which he didn't confine to politics. He fumed about the state of the roads, the weather and anyone who displeased him. In the latter case he could carry a grudge for years; the 10th Earl of Seddon was not a man to forgive and forget.

After ten years of marriage, they'd arrived at something of an accommodation. Edward would allow her the occasional extravagance, such as her taste for fashionable clothing, and she would not remind him that he had lost most of his family's inheritance by gambling too heavily on the stock market. The crash of the year before was still recent enough for her to draw down on the reserves of Edward's guilt in cash for her occasional extra needs. He had, however, recently drawn the line at adding to her small thoroughbred herd, and no prompting of implicit guilt, sexual persuasion, or sulking could alter his decision.

Jonathan appeared at the end of the veranda. He shuffled his feet to indicate he had something to say.

‘Yes, Jonathan?' she asked.

‘There is a man to see you,
memsahib
.'

‘What man, Jonathan?'

The servant mumbled his reply.

Edward, scowling over his newspaper, demanded he speak up.

‘It is the matter I told
memsahib
about many days ago,' he said, this time louder than necessary.

‘Blasted impertinence!' Edward snorted. ‘Keep a respectful tongue in your head, boy, or I'll have it knocked out of you.'

‘It's all right, dear. I'll go see to it.'

Dana followed Jonathan outside, through the flower garden enclosure, to the stable. It was one of her casual farm labourers, an itinerant, who a month ago had asked Jonathan to pass on the information that he knew someone who had a small horse. Curious, Dana had pressed him for details. The horse was for sale, he'd said, but when Dana questioned him further, he became coy and defensive, as if he had inadvertently admitted to a crime, which Dana thought could quite possibly be the case.

She dismissed the fellow, not wanting to become involved. If this someone knew someone who had stolen a horse, then it was not a matter for her. She was not about to assume the position of policeman.

It was not uncommon that a native came to her with a story fabricated to grab her attention. Invariably there was no substance in them. She assumed they liked her to think they knew someone important — important enough to own something like a horse. Or perhaps it was just to gain the kudos for holding the
memsahib
's attention for the few moments it took to spin a story.

She asked the man what he wanted this time and he again repeated his story about his friend and the small horse, but that the small horse was now sick.

‘What do you want me to do about it?' she asked the man sternly. The thought of a sick horse disturbed her, but she was not yet convinced the story was genuine.

‘My friend would like to know if the
memsahib
who also owns a horse would like to buy this beautiful small horse, which is also now very sick, and also maybe will soon die.'

The man's candour seemed to suggest he was telling the truth. Perhaps there was indeed a horse for sale, but what convinced her to investigate further was that this horse, small though it may be, might soon die unless someone did something about it.

She sent a small boy who had been idling near the stable to tell Edward she was on an errand and followed the man to a clearing in the forest about a mile away. It was surrounded by a thorn
boma
sufficient to keep the predators at bay, but too small for the horse, which, apart from being a runt, was on the brink of starvation. Dana could immediately see why. The enclosure had not a blade of grass. Whatever it might have had at the outset had long ago been consumed, leaving the packed, dry earth devoid of growth. Strewn around the enclosure were tufts of the near indigestible fibrous stalks of forest grass, of such poor quality as to be impossible to sustain the creature for any length of time. The little filly was not sick, it was starving. It was such a sweet thing, she was prepared to pay the man his price, but she didn't want to be accused of theft, so she asked how he came to have the horse.

He said another Kikuyu had given him the horse.

‘I have not heard of any Kikuyu who keep horses,' she said.

He agreed and said that even he didn't believe the man was a Kikuyu because he wore
mzungu
clothes, but spoke Kikuyu fluently.

Dana had limited knowledge of such matters, but thought the little horse was an Abyssinian, meaning it was probably already at its full height, but the breed was famed for stamina and endurance. It was doubtful the filly had a pedigree unless generations of wild horses, bred within the confines of the towering canyons of Abyssinia, could be considered a case of line breeding.

She hadn't thought beyond getting the filly back to health, but as she led her to the farm, she formed an idea — an idea that might require some persuasion before Edward would agree. It was, however, an idea that excited her, and could help overcome the boredom of her isolation out there on the edge of the Aberdare Ranges.

 

Dana was emerging into the bright light of morning when she saw Jonathan returning to the yard at the head of his half-dozen men.

‘Did you find him, Jonathan?'

‘No,
memsahib
.'

She'd sent the men to scour the thickets around the farmhouse for her new yearling colt — the young thoroughbred she'd bought just after she rescued the filly from the forest.

She glanced at the filly in the enclosure beside the stable. In the months following her rescue, she had quickly regained her condition with the help of the nutritious Kipipiri grasses. She was a beautiful little mottled grey, with a snow-white mane and tail and a heart bigger than herself, and Dana had named her Dancer for her spirited high-stepping gait. It was her purchase of Dancer that had given her the idea of starting a breeding program.

The filly stood a good two hands shorter than Toby. Her elegant pasterns and fine cannon bones reflected her Abyssinian ancestry, which was an excellent start, but she needed to cover her with a good stallion. Toby was gelded, so was useless for the purpose. She couldn't afford to buy a tested stallion and hoped the colt would eventually prove his racing capabilities. That, however, was a couple of years away. She had no money for the alternative, which was to pay stud fees for a stallion to service Dancer, and Edward could not be persuaded to help.

Having failed to find the yearling near the house, she thought he must be in the high pastures. She would have to find him before the day was done. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that another lion had invaded the farm's territory, but even a leopard or a hyena could be equally destructive if the colt remained outside the home pen overnight.

Dana went to the shed adjoining the stable, where Jonathan helped her fold back her roadster's canvas top. She pressed the starter button and thrilled to the sound of the motor as she warmed it with a few revs. She then drove across the grasslands towards the four hundred acres they held in the high ground.

Dana had purchased the Willys-Knight roadster from the president of the Muthaiga Club the previous year. She was
immensely proud of its silver-grey livery, red spoked wheels and black guards and running boards. She loved to collapse the white canvas top for a breezy spin around Nairobi, scandalising those matrons who still thought it unseemly for a woman to drive. The car was a pure indulgence — a luxury she'd permitted herself before her interest in horses exhausted Edward's limited tolerance for such extravagances.

Not far from the house she scattered a herd of Thomson's gazelle, the stag's propeller tail flicking as he shook his tiny antlers in annoyance.

She checked the quality of the pasture as she drove. They'd been spared the worst of last year's locust plague but it had been unusually dry for the time of year and the grass was thinning quickly. She expected she would need to buy fodder for the horses before the rains came. Another expense.

A dozen zebras trotted off to a safe distance. Dana stopped the car and stood up behind the wheel to check the herd with her field glasses. It was possible the colt might have found comfort in the company of the zebras, but he was nowhere in sight. Upon reflection, she thought it more likely that the zebra stallion would have seen the colt as a threat and chased him off.

She drove almost to the edge of their cleared land, beyond which the forest held sway. She stood on the running board and scanned the edge of the savannah. A movement caught her eye. Almost hidden in the thin lines of trees, a couple of giraffes ambled through the cedar and podocarpus. A moment later they had melted into the forest.

The sun was high and Dana was about to turn the car for home when she saw a cloud of dust rising against the eastern sky. She squinted into the glare as she drove towards it.

A herd of about a dozen horses cut across the sloping grasslands towards the north, with a single horseman at the rear, keeping the stragglers and outliers under control. She was annoyed. There was hardly enough pasture for their own animals without sharing it with itinerants.

She stopped the car. Even from a distance, Dana could make out the quick dainty steps of animals born to be fleet of foot. The
high-stepping hooves and perky angle of their tails showed spirit and strength. She thought there was a resemblance between these horses and little Dancer, her Abyssinian, but that was most unlikely. The Emperor of Abyssinia had declared it a crime punishable by death to remove any of the country's bloodstock from his mountainous domain.

The herd was now only a quarter of a mile from her but in another minute they would be into the steep valley and out of her reach. She tooted the roadster's horn. The herdsman turned towards her. Dana waved to him: she must know more about these magnificent animals. But after a moment's hesitation, the distant figure wheeled his herd over the rise and away — to where, Dana could not imagine. Certainly, she knew of no one in that vicinity who kept such animals, and the rider didn't look at all familiar.

It might have been just the shade from his broad-brimmed hat, but otherwise Dana would have said the rider was, most improbably, a black man.