Heart of Light (5 page)

A PROUD DAUGHTER OF THE MASAI

Nassira, daughter of Nedera of the Masai, hurried
down the narrow metal stairs of the carpetship.

A tall, young woman with skin the reddish-brown of well-polished mahogany, she had features that evoked the statues of ancient Egypt and a proud bearing, in marked contrast to the way she stumbled down the stairs, undignifiedly

The British clothes she wore—a maid's uniform and heavy black shoes that laced up the ankle—made walking difficult, yet she hadn't had time to change, because Nigel Oldhall hadn't waited for his trunks. He'd left his wife behind and hurried out of the carpetship. And Nassira had to follow him.

Running down the stairs against the flow of other servants, Nassira fought maids and trunk-carrying valets. She could read disdain in the too-pale eyes of the doughy-faced women and shabby-suited men who pushed past her, shoving at her with their elbows and shoulders. Nassira swallowed back affronted pride that people such as these, Water People, would think themselves superior to her.

She was a woman of the Masai, the most important tribe of all, the most favored by God. God, whom the Masai called Engai, had given the Masai all the cattle in the world, while the other tribes had received only the animals of the forest. Over the centuries, some of the cattle had strayed, some even ending up in the hands of whites. But the Masai were ever too willing to recover their stolen property. Their cattle raids had made them feared, the acknowledged lords of the region. Even lions feared Masai spears. And now Nassira had to endure disdain from the white people.
Water People
. Long ago one of the Masai holy men had foretold that white people would come out of the river, and their innards would be full of lard. Yet Nassira had long practice in disguising her feelings. She'd lived in London for six months, and there learned that no one knew of the Masai, or the offenses of the white people against the Masai. Instead, they assumed that white men were the undisputed lords of creation and that they had brought civilization and peace to the other continents. And they expected Nassira to be humble, to give them way. Nassira had done it for six months, but she had no time to do it now.

She couldn't lose sight of Nigel Oldhall, who was on the quay and walking fast toward the street, pursued by a group of men hawking goods.

Shoulder forward, Nassira pushed past the multitude of people and leapt over a trunk carried by two men. Nigel Oldhall would lead her to the jewel and the instructions for the ritual that would make Africans as strong as Europeans, capable of casting off the yoke of European oppression.

Years ago, at the Maniata—the ritual warrior camp of the Masai in which adolescents learned to hunt lions and raid cattle—Nassira had learned why Africa was so sorely enslaved by the arrogant Water People. A spell had been wrought by a long-ago European, who had gathered to him the power of all people on the European continent. While that spell had deprived the common Europeans of power, it had given great power to a few Europeans. Power that could not be matched, even by the greatest shamans of Africa.

Burning to avenge the ills done to her people and her land, Nassira had joined an organization called the Hyena Men, which promised to harness the power of Africa as Europe's power had once been harnessed, to put it in righteous hands that would defend justice. But to do it, they needed a jewel of great magical power, the twin of the one the long-ago European king had used.

To find that jewel, called Heart of Light, Nassira had gone to London. Yet once there, she had discovered that an Englishman was being sent to Africa in search of that same jewel. When she'd tried to make mind-contact with members of the Hyena Men in London, all her transmissions had been blocked. When she'd tried to physically find the other agents in London, she found they'd left their addresses and employment with no forwarding notice. It was as though the streets of London had swallowed them.

In the eyes of the white people she questioned, Nassira had read disdain. But Nassira knew better. So she'd resigned her job as a cleaner in Nigel Oldhall's gentleman's club and found employment as a maid aboard the carpetship.

She elbowed and pushed people aside, yet she fell steadily behind the tall blond man. He had a longer stride, and he presumably knew where he was going. As he disappeared into the crowd, she struggled against people who would not let her pass, not give her the right of way because her skin was darker than theirs. Water People, not fully human.

She wished she could go back home, to her mother's comfortable house—its smoky interior and the kraal with the hundred cows, each of which she knew by name. Once she'd made a poem for them and sung it in the kraal.

Impatient, thinking of her home and frustrated by the people around her, Nassira finally managed to push out of the carpetship and found herself in the crowded quay. The Arabs starting toward her backed away as they realized she was not an Englishwoman.

They smelled funny, just as the Englishmen did. Englishmen smelled of soap and artificial fragrances; these other people smelled of soap and spices. None of it was right. There were too many people, all around, just like in London, all crowded together. Nassira longed for pasture and savanna, for the cloud-wreathed peaks of her rift-valley home. But she kept her gaze on the blond head quickly getting lost amid the vendors in the quay.

“Miss. Ma'am—” A hand reached out and grabbed Nassira's arm.

The confusion of names addressed to her made her stop. In front of her stood the wife of Nigel Oldhall.

Not that the woman looked English. Unlike the pasty-skinned women that Nassira had grown accustomed to seeing in London, this woman had skin of a rich golden brown, like the color of the sun shining on summer-dry grass. But she was English and married to Nigel Oldhall, whom Nassira had followed all the way to Africa.

“I need . . .” the Englishwoman said, and hesitated. She wore a white lacy dress and looked as at ease in it as Nassira felt in her stiff, dark maid's outfit. She clutched a parasol convulsively in her dainty hand. Her gaze turned toward where the blond man had disappeared. She swallowed, then continued with renewed force. “I must have a carriage for myself and my luggage. To take me to the Luxor Hotel.”

Her voice was reedy and seemed to tremble on the verge of tears. Her man was nowhere around. Had he told her to go to the hotel alone? Nassira raised her eyebrows. Even she knew that Englishmen didn't treat their women with such carelessness. What could be wrong? And where had he gone?

The Englishwoman stepped in front of Nassira. “You must call me a cab.” Tears filling her blue eyes, the woman said again, “You must.”

Eyes downcast, Nassira ducked her head and murmured something in purposely broken English, something about not knowing what to do. But the Englishwoman grabbed her arm again. Her hand felt too cold. “Please,” she said. “Please, you must help me.”

Nassira nodded. Something in the woman's need—in her fear—demanded Nassira's help. Nassira, too, had been a stranger in a land she could not understand. She had wandered the streets of London, lost. And Nassira was not a frail Englishwoman but a Masai who, as the single daughter—the single child—of a powerful man with three wives had been trained to herd the cows. Her father had even, despite disapproval from the tribal elders, allowed her to use his cattle stick. Nassira had faced the savanna and found herself quite strong enough to defend her cattle against the wild beasts.

But Englishwomen were frail creatures who could die of a breath, and who, in Nassira's experience, were quite capable of losing consciousness at any moment because of a shock. And Nassira, strong woman of the Masai, had once had a brother. When she was ten, her mother had given birth to a baby boy. Though small and frail, he had nonetheless been welcomed by everyone. But one night, during a long dry spell, he'd died in his sleep, next to Nassira. Though Nassira knew it was not her fault, to this day she still thought she should have been able to save him. And for the sake of his memory, she could not abandon anyone truly helpless, not even a Water Person.

“I need my luggage put in a carriage, and I need a seat for myself in the carriage. My husband and I . . .” The woman's hand trembled. “My husband and I have reservations at the Luxor.” A small hesitation and tears trembled on thick, dark lashes. “My husband was called away on some business.”

A look at the distant glimmering of blond hair, and Nassira thought that the Englishman would come back for his wife. Surely, he would not abandon her. Even among the Water People, such things were not done. The woman's family and people would punish him if he did.

Nassira could find the Hyena Men and tell them to find the Oldhalls at the Luxor. So she smiled at the Englishwoman and said, “I'll call the carriage.”

Striding past the press of debarking passengers, Nassira reached the road that circled the carpetport and that was filled with a great press of carts, carriages, and other vehicles, all so close together that it was a wonder anyone ever moved at all.

Holding her shoulders square and herself as upright and proud as she could, she approached one of those carriages. Looking up at the man who sat in the driver's seat—a most disreputable personage, wearing a dirty caftan and head cloth, but then all of the drivers looked disreputable, even in London—she commanded, “Take the English lady over there to the Luxor Hotel with all her bags. Fast.”

The man looked bewildered for a moment, perhaps marveling at the impeccable English issuing from the dark woman.

“Now,” Nassira said. “The English lady to the Luxor Hotel. And get her bags.”

He jumped from the driver's seat and hurried toward Mrs. Oldhall. He picked up her bags and salaamed, saying he would take good care of her. Nassira smiled at the Englishwoman, who smiled back tearfully.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Oldhall said. “Thank you so much.”

Nassira nodded, embarrassed, and turning her back on the Englishwoman, she walked toward the carpetship. She must try to find the Hyena Men. She knew they were in Cairo.

Her cabin in the servant's quarters was very small and narrow and the walls seemed to her too smooth and straight. Sometimes she would wake in the middle of the night and not be able to believe where she was, in this place of straight walls and floors one on top of the other, in this strange ship that flew atop a magical carpet, on the currents of air.

The Masai had no carpetships, nor did their magic allow them to make anything fly. But over time, she'd become comfortable here, with the small bed covered in its dark blanket and her trunk where she kept all her belongings.

Slowly, she got out of her uniform, folded it, set it in the trunk. From the trunk, she removed a loose caftan she had fashioned in London for this purpose, which would allow her to blend in better in Cairo. In her heart, she longed for the wrap of her people, but it was not to be, at least not yet.

She must find the Hyena Men. Then, having done her part, she would be allowed to go home. She would tell them where Mrs. Oldhall stayed, and that if they kept a close watch on her, her husband was bound to come back. And then someone else could follow the Englishman to the jewel.

It wasn't that Nassira believed less in Africa's cause than she did when she'd first decided to leave tribe and family to struggle for her land's freedom. But she thought she had done her part, and perhaps now others should carry it forth.

How to find the Hyena Men, though? She couldn't look by any normal means, as she didn't know where they hid. And if she just wandered about aimlessly, it wouldn't do much good. Asking strangers would not help, either. She knew three tribal languages and English, but most people in Cairo spoke either French or some Arabic dialect. So she must contact them with magic. Magic was dangerous, of course. Others could track your transmission, hold it and through it overtake your magical power . . . into their control. But it was the only resource left to her.

Both her parents were high holders of magic power. From them, she had inherited a level of magical power comparable to that of the best shamans. Her father's oldest wife, whom Nassira called Lamb—after the gift the woman had given Nassira at birth—was a shaman's daughter and she had taught Nassira to use that magic, revealing to Nassira much ancient lore of powerful Masai in the process. It was that magic that had allowed Nassira to discover Nigel Oldhall's mission. When Nigel stayed in his club in London, ostensibly to be near his fiancée, he always received correspondence, and always burned it in his ashtray.

Curious about this, Nassira had taken the ashes and performed a spell on them. The letters that had been on the burnt paper had then formed in midair like ghosts and allowed her to find out Nigel Oldhall's travel plans.

But calling upon the Hyena Men was not as simple as reconstituting words upon paper. Not only did Nassira have to ensure that she was safe, she had to attempt to contact people she did not know, who resided she knew not where, except that they were somewhere in Cairo.

A summoning spell would serve better than a communication spell, as it would find its recipient on its own. From her trunk, she withdrew a branch of a tree from her native land, the desiccated tail of a lion her father had killed when he was a young warrior, and a dozen stones picked from the ground around her mother's house. Touching these, Nassira felt the magic of her land flow through her, awakening her power. She set the pebbles and stones in a circle around herself on the floor of the cabin. Holding the branch in one hand, the lion tail in the other, she felt as though she sat in the center of her homeland's power. Calling to her magic, as if to a wellspring within herself, she visualized the hyena that was the symbol of the Hyena Men organization.