Heart of Light (28 page)

Now he looked at Peter and arched his eyebrows and managed to sound—he hoped—defiant as he said, “Damn it, Peter. You can't expect Mrs. Oldhall to cross that thing.”

“Natives cross it all the time,” Kitwana said quietly from the back. “That type of bridge is not uncommon and it often lasts for generations.”

Nigel looked over his shoulder at the black man, who stared back at him impassively, giving no impression at all of being aware of any social breach in speaking to his betters that way. In fact, Kitwana seemed to be under the impression that there was no difference between him and English gentlemen—as though his upbringing, his thoughts, his reading, could have infused him with that wisdom of the ages that came to England from as far back as Greece and Rome.

Nigel was no man to judge another solely on his birth station or the color of his skin. In fact, that had often been a point of contention between Nigel and Carew and their parents. Not that Nigel spoke about it, but he often thought that their parents' belief in
old and magical blood
was a bunch of rot—and not very good rot, at that. But he knew from his contact with his language masters and other people belonging to less civilized races that a man's upbringing surely formed the man. And one such as Kitwana—come from who knew what tribe in the deepest Africa—couldn't possibly compete in knowledge and breeding with the Englishmen.

He glared at Kitwana, who impassively stepped behind Emily and said, “It really is quite safe, Mrs. Oldhall.”

And there is was, the other thing slowly driving Nigel to distraction. Two months married and he'd yet to consummate his union.

Yet in this long trek through the jungle, there had been scant opportunity to pursue Emily and make her aware of his longing, his desire. The tents were scarcely private, and Nigel didn't wish for their intimate conversation to be heard by all the carriers, or by Kitwana, who spoke such good English.

Meanwhile, Peter and even Kitwana himself—seemingly unaware of their transgression—made love to Emily with their eyes and pursued her with suggestions and questions.

Nigel was so occupied in trying to stare down Kitwana—who looked, oblivious, past Nigel's shoulder and at Emily—that he jumped, startled, when he heard Emily speak.

“I wouldn't want to be the first on the bridge,” she said. She eyed the dubious basketry with the same sort of look that Nigel had given it.

Nigel laughed, relieved. “No. Nor would I.”

“Nassira tells me that it's a good three days' walk down the road before we come to a place where the chasm is narrow enough to attempt to jump,” Kitwana said. “Even then, that is more dangerous. We could breach it with our own ropes, granted, but this bridge has survived the test of time.”

Nigel thought to order Kitwana onto the bridge, then bit his tongue. In Roman and Greek histories—which he had read at boarding school—he'd always despised those generals who, having power over their men, ordered them to march forth into dangerous situations. Nigel himself would not do that. Yet neither did he want to go onto the bridge on his own.

Peter chuckled. He tossed another of his interminable cigarettes down and stomped on it with the sole of his sturdy boot. “Come,” he said, “is everyone here such a child? I'll take the bridge first. Will you come after me, Mrs. Oldhall?”

In Emily's face, Nigel read her startled surprise at being thus challenged to follow after the first crosser, then he read pleased approbation.

Feeling acid bile climb his throat, Nigel said, “I'll go instead of Emily.”

But Emily looked at him and shook her head. “No, Mr. Oldhall, I crave the honor.”

“Then I'll go behind you, Emily. I'll protect you.”

Though how he could save her if she fell, he had no idea. He imagined himself hanging from the remains of a bridge by one hand, holding Emily with another, and climbing the frayed ropes by the force of his manly arm. But he was not so deluded as to think he could carry off such a feat. He'd done well at games in school, but not as ridiculously well as other boys, Carew among them.

Emily was already striding toward the shaky bridge, following Peter, and looked over her shoulder with a baffled expression at Nigel's words. He scowled and stepped forward, hard on her heels, calling to the carriers, “Follow us as soon as we reach the other side. Come two at a time.”

When he turned back, Peter was walking nonchalantly backward on the bridge, with his eyes on Emily.

Emily turned deathly pale as she first set foot on the rickety structure. She handed Peter her umbrella, and he took it without remark as she set her golden, long-fingered—ungloved—hands on two ropes that ran, like guides, to either side of the bridge.

“Come on, Mrs. Oldhall,” Peter said, and danced backward with an acrobat's grace. “There's nothing to fear. Quite sturdy bridge, after all, as you see.” And he did a little dance, tapping his feet upon the unsteady weave at the bridge's bottom.

He backed up, and Emily followed.

Nigel tried not to look down at the gaping abyss, following Emily as though she was light and love and all that was good in the world. Because she was. Emily was all that mattered to Nigel at the moment as she walked across the bridge, doggedly following Peter.

Nigel closed the gap between himself and his wife's graceful figure, and stepping very close behind her, put his hand over hers on the guiding ropes. “I'm here, Emily. You have nothing to fear.”

“I'm not afraid,” Emily said. “Only, looking down makes me quite dizzy.” She shook his hand away. “Let me do this, Nigel. Do not interfere.” And she crossed the rest of the bridge very rapidly, following a fast-retreating Peter.

Nigel walked on, his heart clenched in darkness and filled with ice, cursing himself for not being able to imitate Peter's grace. For not being able to capture Emily's fancy. For being as he was, mute and dumb, forever the second son, hidden in shadow and never stepping forth into the light of glorious deeds.

When he reached the other side of the bridge, Peter had given Emily back her umbrella and grinned at her. “You are now a confirmed African explorer, Mrs. Oldhall. Crossing that bridge without even a shiver was a feat that would scare most well-brought-up misses.”

They both looked away from Nigel as he walked up to them, and lowered their eyes as though they'd been caught in a guilty moment. Nigel wanted to do something crazy: to call Peter out. But then, his marriage was no marriage, and who should court Emily but a gentleman worthy of her? Nigel's own honor told him to step aside. And yet how could he give up on Emily so easily?

THE DUES OF MEMORY

Nassira had lain awake a long time. She was no
longer used to walking all day. Her days in London had softened her. And pretending to be a cook was exasperating. No matter what she did, the meat burned. And then, since returning to her homeland, she kept longing for her mother's hut, her stepmother's cooking. Days ago, she'd heard a herd boy sing in Maa. Her tongue and heart craved the familiar syllables that no one around her now understood.

She tossed and turned on the bed she'd contrived from grass and a sheet of fabric from her luggage. She slept on one side of the fire, the men on the other. Not that they were all asleep—they never were. Kitwana demanded they keep sentinels,
to ward off dangerous animals, particularly the ones that went on two feet,
he said. He always assigned shifts of two men to stay awake through the night. And, perhaps with misguided gallantry, he always exempted Nassira from this.

She could hear two men whispering from the other side of the blazing fire. They fed the flames now and then, sending a spray of ash and glowing embers up through the dark night, toward the distant stars. But knowing those men were awake, hearing their talk through the night, could not distract Nassira from her thoughts. They were too far away for her to hear their words. From a few stray sounds carried in the wind, she suspected they spoke a language she could not understand.

Besides, Nassira could not have shared her doubts and her longing with anyone. Well, maybe with Kitwana. But certainly not with these men, anonymous comrades in arms in the liberation of Africa.

She turned again on her uncomfortable bed. Walking the paths of her homeland again revived memories she thought almost forgotten. And all of it was made worse by the fact that the more she knew Kitwana, the more she liked him, whether or not she wished to. He was kind and attentive. And, in time, when she'd seen him in his native clothes, very handsome. But he was also not a Masai and didn't show the slightest interest in Nassira. In fact, he seemed to spend much of his time looking at the Englishwoman—for all the good that might do him. Nassira wondered if he was even aware of how often his gaze strayed to Emily Oldhall.

Ah, Nassira and her unfortunate liaisons.

When she'd been in the Maniata, the warrior camp—where adolescent Masai women were free to choose whomever they wanted and to have as many lovers as they pleased—Nassira had picked first Kume ole Lumbwa, a tall, straight-limbed young warrior with sparkling dark eyes. Nassira had felt an immediate closeness to Kume and loved him as much as she could love someone. In her mind, when she thought of the future mate in her life, she'd thought of Kume. In fact, she'd had the half-formed intent of marrying Kume when she returned to her home. Traditionally Masai women married men from an older age group, but Nassira knew her father was not likely to deny the fancy of his only daughter. And her father needed an adoptive son more than he needed an ally, and Kume would serve as both.

Turning, she opened her eyes and saw a man bending over her, and sat up quickly with a stifled scream. The man—Kitwana—reached down and covered her mouth with his hand. For a moment, Nassira had the strange idea that Kitwana craved a tryst.

During the last few days, she'd learned to appreciate Kitwana's compassionate leadership, the calm way in which he dealt with even the Englishmen. She no longer thought him arrogant or too proud of his Zulu heritage. But she'd sensed no attraction from him.

She started to open her mouth, to explain she'd only screamed because he'd startled her, but Kitwana dropped to a squatting position by her bed and bent his head toward her, whispering, “The Englishman is gone.”

“The Englishman?” Nassira asked, forming the words almost soundlessly against Kitwana's palm.

Kitwana removed his hand and nodded. “Mr. Oldhall. He's taken off from the camp. I want you to find him.”

“What?” Nassira asked, louder than she'd intended.

Kitwana flapped his hand up and down frantically, motioning for her to keep quiet. He gestured with his head toward the other side of the fire. “I want you to go because you know the terrain and this is Masai territory. I judge you'll be safer than any of us, walking around this countryside. Any of the men might run across one of your deranged Masai Moran raiding parties and get killed before he can explain he means no harm.”

Nassira opened her mouth to protest the term
deranged,
but closed it again. Having been in a few raiding parties, she wouldn't call the brave warriors of the Masai insane, but she knew their behavior as a group was often akin to what Englishmen called
berserker,
a state in which fear was impossible, rational barriers were ignored and bravery became all.

She slid upward in her bed and sat up. She was wearing a tight body wrap, the company not being suitable for a woman to sleep naked. “Why not take a party in search of this man?” she asked. “And why should we care if he went into the jungle? Perhaps he just went to satisfy a call of nature?”

Kitwana frowned, wrinkling his forehead, as though his head hurt. “No,” he said. “I saw him leave, and I think he has some foolishness in mind.”

“Foolishness?” Like going forth in search of the ruby and leaving them all behind? “How can you tell anything from watching him leave camp?”

Kitwana might have read her thought. He shook his head gently. “You know there's been some tension between the Europeans. The two men and Em—the woman . . .” He shrugged. “Have you noticed the dark one? Mr. Farewell?”

Nassira felt a surge of impatience. What was she supposed to have noticed about the man? “I've seen him. And listened to him. He likes the sound of his own voice. Why?”