The Clouds Beneath the Sun (50 page)

“Can you let down the back of the Land Rover?” Christopher shouted.

She got out and went round to the rear of the vehicle, pulling out the bolts that kept the back flap in place. She let it down.

When the two men reached the Land Rover, Daniel climbed up and hauled the lion’s hind legs on board.

“Give me a hand here,” breathed Christopher, holding one of the animal’s forelegs.

Natalie took the other one. The animal’s fur certainly was mangy but it was surprising how warm the lion still was. There was a big black-red patch where it had been shot in the neck.

With Daniel pulling, and Christopher and Natalie lifting, the lion was hauled onto the back of the Land Rover. They could fit it in only by bending its spine. They shoved and pushed and pulled, till it fitted the space. Clouds of flies were already buzzing round the bloody patch where it had been shot. It was still stiflingly hot.

One more time Aldwai had to fire at the hyenas to keep them away.

How ugly hyenas were, thought Natalie, not for the first time. How different from the magnificence of lions—lions other than the poor creature they had manhandled into the Land Rover.

Christopher and Daniel slid back the bolts of the flap at the rear end of the vehicle and stood for a moment, resting after their exertions.

Daniel went to the backseat compartment of the Land Rover and took from it a bottle of water which he handed round. They were all sweating copiously.

Christopher, looking intently at Natalie, said, “I’d say we’ve earned our showers today—eh?” He smiled.

Following his gaze, she looked down, at her own shirt front. The khaki was stained dark with sweat all over and clung to her breasts. So tightly slight bulges were prominent where the wet cotton hugged the outline of her nipples.

•   •   •

“You’ve got tick typhus.”

“What?” Natalie, lying on her back in bed in her tent, was sweating but feeling a chill all at the same time. She looked up at Jonas with alarm.

“Don’t worry,” he said, somewhere between a growl and a chuckle. “It’s not typhus like the nineteenth-century, industrial Charles Dickens variety. It’s tick typhus, more like a cross between a very bad dose of flu and chicken pox.”

“No! Isn’t that bad enough? How did I get it?”

Jonas rummaged in the bag he had brought with him. “I should imagine it was handling that emaciated lion you brought back to camp the other day. It’s been confirmed that it had biting sickness. Christopher’s gone down with it, too.”

“Oh dear. What happens now?”

“Tick typhus usually lasts twelve to fifteen days. The rash on the palms of your hands is the telltale sign. It might spread to your arms and legs, even the soles of your feet, which is where Christopher is most affected right now. You’ll feel some muscle pain and probably more than one headache.” He lifted a small brown glass bottle from his bag. “Aureomycin, an antibiotic, take it twice a day, beginning right now, and be sure to finish the course—remember what happened to Mgina’s little brother.”

She nodded. “The trial is only—what?—nineteen days away.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine by then, trust me. But no digging in that time. Have lots of rest—you’ll feel tired anyway—and keep out of the sun, try not to sweat, that makes the rash worse. I’ll tell Mgina to bring you water for a shower three times a day instead of the usual once. Shower when you have a fever, not when you feel a chill. Showers keep your skin clean and cool.”

He handed her two tablets. “Take these. No alcohol, by the way. You won’t feel like doing much for the first few days and don’t push yourself. Sleep as much as you can. Your body will recover more quickly in that way, and you’ll scratch yourself less.”

“Is Daniel suffering from this too?”

“No. Being African, he may have acquired some immunity. Or he may just have been lucky. We don’t know. Now, I’ll come back before dinner to see how you are. I’m just off to give Christopher his antibiotics.”

Jonas went out.

Natalie had woken up the day before with a fever and a rash on the palms of her hands. She had fought off the fever for half a day but then felt too ill to continue and collapsed in bed. Jonas had been away with Jack that day, warning the nearby tribes about the biting flies that had, in effect, killed the lion Natalie had spotted. The tribes were to be on the lookout for early signs of disease among their animals. She had been asleep when they returned and they hadn’t wakened her.

This morning the rash on Natalie’s hands had been much worse and she was shivering with a chill. Jonas had immediately known what was wrong.

Natalie had never been so ill before and the thought of lying in bed for days on end bored her. At the same time, she had to admit, she couldn’t go out into the sunshine with her rash, nor could she quite face writing papers for Eleanor and
Nature
.

She settled down, lying on her back, looking up at the roof of the tent, her hands lying on the edge of the bed where they could catch what breeze was going.

There would be no late-night visits from Jack, not in the full sense anyway, while she was laid low.

How could she think about sex while she was ill? she wondered. With ease, it seemed.

How she had changed—and was
that
natural? Had she become a freak or had she been a freak to start with and simply matured into a normal woman? Would she ever know?

Somehow she dropped off to sleep but was awakened by noises in the back tent which adjoined hers. Someone had brought water for her shower.

She got up and went through.

Mgina was there.

“Hello.”

“I am sorry you are not well, Miss Natalie. Dr. Jefferson says you must not shower if you feel chill.”

“No, no, don’t worry, Mgina, I’m feeling sweaty.” Natalie stepped out of her damp pajamas and stood under the shower. The water—tepid rather than hot—was very cooling as it began to evaporate on her skin. She soaped herself carefully and let the water remove the suds. The palms of her hands still itched—worse, they were still sore—but holding the soap seemed to help.

“And how are you, Mgina? How is married life? How is Endole and where is he?”

“He is looking after the cattle, Miss Natalie. With the biting sickness, all the cattle are being held close by the village.”

Natalie nodded, patting herself dry with the towel.

“And are you happy, being wife number three?”

Mgina passed across a new towel. “This is softer, Miss Natalie, better for your rash.”

As Natalie took it, she added, “I am pregnant, Miss Natalie.”

“Oh, but that’s wonderful! A new life to replace Odnate and so soon. Is your mother pleased?”

Mgina nodded.

“As soon as I’ve got rid of this rash, Mgina, we must celebrate. Let me think what to do.”

“Will you be well for the trial, Miss Natalie?”

Natalie frowned. What was Mgina saying? Why was she so interested? It was unlike her to ask questions. Was she—was she the leak in the camp, the link to Marongo, and even to Richard Sutton Senior? Natalie remembered now that Mgina had been in her tent late one night, when they had all been listening to jazz, when the British minister was visiting—she couldn’t remember his name. Mgina had brought fresh flowers but… they hadn’t really been needed. Had she been snooping, using the flowers as cover? Natalie had never challenged her, the episode had slipped her mind. Mgina had known Natalie and Jack were flying to Lamu at Christmas, she had volunteered to help them pack the plane. Natalie didn’t want to think about it.

“Oh yes,” she replied eventually. “Nothing has changed there.”

Mgina nodded and picked up Natalie’s dirty pajamas and left the shower tent. Natalie went back to her own quarters and lay down on the bed, naked. The twenty minutes after a shower were always the most comfortable time.

But her mind was in a swirl. Was Mgina the innocent young woman Natalie had always thought she was, or was she … something other than she seemed? Yes, she came from a different village from Ndekei but she was a Maasai; her loyalties would be the same.

She would need to discuss this with Jack. He was bringing her dinner later.

How did this bloody illness change things?
Did
it change them? Was she giving evidence or was she not? How long could she put off her decision?

Again, despite herself, she dropped off to sleep.

•   •   •

Jack placed the dinner tray at the foot of Natalie’s bed and kissed her head. “Chicken,” he breathed. “Your favorite.”

She swung her feet off the bed and sat up. She’d been ill now for more than a week and the antibiotics were beginning to kick in. Her temperature was more under control, the chills were fewer, the sweats less intense. But the rash on her hands was still pronounced and she continued to be hit by the occasional biting headache. She wasn’t out of the wood yet and Jonas insisted she remain in bed.

She picked up the chicken leg and chewed it. “My appetite hasn’t fully returned yet.” She replaced the leg on the plate. “How is Christopher doing?”

“About the same as you. But he has a rash on the soles of his feet and has difficulty walking. No difficulty eating, though.”

She nibbled a potato. “How’s his mood?”

“Well, I’m sorry to say this but he’s not too enamored of you, just now. He wishes you had never spotted the damned lion, he says.”

“Why?”

“Because of being ill, he’s missed his test as a pilot, and because he will have been grounded for more than two weeks by the time he has fully recovered, he will have lost the number of required hours of flying time, and have to start all over again. He won’t now be able to get his license for at least another month.”

She groaned. “I couldn’t know the damned lion had the wrong kind of tick.”

“I know that and, deep down, he knows that too. He’s just irritated with you, that’s all.”

Natalie weighed this. Then she said, “I suppose everyone sees you bringing me dinner every evening?”

“Yes, I suppose they do.”

“So everyone knows … you know, about us?”

He crossed one leg over the other. “They don’t know everything, Natalie. They know I bring you dinner. They can read between—or beyond—the lines if they wish. But you’re not the topic or focus of gossip, if that’s what you’re worried about. The fact that I don’t visit you late at night now probably means that they think less is happening than really is—or was.”

He let a silence go by as she ate more potato.

“I miss our late nights.”

She nodded. “Me too. Christopher is not the only one who wishes I hadn’t spotted the bloody lion.”

Another pause, then she raised her conversation with Mgina.

“It could be her,” said Jack. “But then it could be anyone. The damage has been done, you will be well enough in time to give evidence. There’s no point in worrying yourself silly over Mgina.”

She nodded. “Maybe so. Any news from Nairobi?”

He didn’t reply straight away, but then said, “No.”

“You’re lying!”

Yet another pause. “Get well before you face what they’re saying in Nairobi.”

She stopped eating. “I’m not a child, Jack, and I’m on the mend. Tell me.”

He uncrossed and recrossed his legs, to buy time. “There have been demonstrations outside the prison where Ndekei is being held. There’s going to be a concert in support of Ndekei on the night before the trial starts. Ndekei’s wife, Atape, and his children will be paraded onstage. They will be in court.”

“So it really will be a circus?”

He nodded. “I’m afraid so. The politicians have got hold of the trial. They won’t let go.” He paused, then said, “Hold on” and went out.

He soon came back. He had two newspaper cuttings with him. “This is a long editorial in the
East African Gazette
, a couple of days ago. It’s quite interesting, thoughtful, and concludes that Kenya shouldn’t go back to tribal law but that in this case—the Ndekei case—the evidence is only circumstantial and, in the wider interests of Kenya, the trial should be abandoned.”

“What?”

He nodded. “Read it. We’re lucky to have a copy because the other cutting, as you will see, is a short news report which says that the editorial in the
Gazette
was in contempt of court and the paper has been closed down.”

She looked up. “Can they do that?”

“They can and they do. One of the censors just wanted the offending article ripped out but that was judged impracticable, with so many copies being printed, so all the papers were pulped and the editorial offices closed down for a week.”

“Which makes the trial even more newsworthy.”

He nodded.

“But you are still not trying to dissuade me?”

“I know better. We all do.”

If they knew what she suspected, about Richard and Ndekei, and if it were true, what would everyone say then? she wondered. Her illness had prevented her from contacting Maxwell Sandys. How much did that matter? Would she ever know?

“Is Tudor still the judge?”

“Yes. He’s coming in for some stick too.”

She lay back down on the bed and put her arm behind her head. “What would happen if I were too ill to give evidence?”

“I’m not sure. It would probably be up to the judge. He could either postpone the trial or insist the proceedings go ahead, without you. Which would mean, I suppose, that the prosecution’s case would collapse.” He bit his lip. “You’re not thinking of being too ill to give evidence, are you?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be true any more to say that I haven’t wavered. This illness, this rash, has played havoc with my system. When you’re sweating and scratching it’s not easy to know your own mind.” She sighed. “If Mgina
is
the—” She looked at Jack. “I’m just exhausted the whole time.”

He nodded. “I’m not too sure any of it matters anymore anyway.”

She rolled onto her side. “What do you mean?”

“Atape and Ndekei’s children are not the only people going onstage at the concert. Marongo is going to speak. I strongly suspect he may use the opportunity to announce a deal with Russell—that avenue seems to have acquired a momentum all its own.” He took out his cigarettes. “We have to make the most of this season, because it will probably be our last in the gorge.”