Treasure of the Golden Cheetah (25 page)

Then the scene shifted, dissolving until only Zakayo’s body lay before her. All voices, all the outcries diminished, becoming nothing more than the rush of blood coursing past Jade’s ears. A faint wail, like a newborn, rose up from the ground. It built in strength, joined by more keening moans. She saw the blood spread, covering the ground, felt the countless numbers of Chagga who had died in battles and feuds on this mountain press in on her.

As if in answer, the cries ceased, replaced by a crooning whisper. It took the form of the Una River first; then the wind in the treetops joined it in harmony. Kilimanjaro was singing a lullaby to its dead, soothing them as a mother might. With the singing came another sensation: the overpowering feeling of being stalked, of eyes boring into her vulnerable back. She could almost smell the hot, carrion-laced breath on her neck and tensed against the inevitable attack.

Something warm pressed against her shoulder, and a rasping tongue caressed her hand. Jade jumped crablike to the side, still keeping low to the ground. Her hands seemed to be tied to something in front of her. But instead of the expected leopard or lion, she beheld an enormous cheetah in front of her, his bronzed coat and unusual spot and stripe patterns glinting in the near-blinding sun.
Where am I?

“Jade.”

Harry’s voice jolted her back to the present. To her surprise, she held a neatly folded pulp bandage in her hands, firmly pressed over the chest wound. Her bloody handkerchief lay to one side. Biscuit leaned against her thigh and Jade drew strength from his warmth.

“Let go, Jade,” said Harry softly. “He’s gone. That went right through the heart.” He gently pried her hands loose from the bandage. There was very little blood on it. Most had soaked into her kerchief or drained out the larger wound in his back and seeped into the soil.

“Someone shot him,” she said, her voice foreign in her ears. “Someone had a live round.”

Jade pushed the bandage against the wound and continued to apply pressure, unwilling to admit the uselessness of the action. Slowly, she became aware of the others around her. First Harry’s presence, solid and businesslike. It served as a foundation to ground herself on. A cacophony of noise and smells assaulted Jade’s senses. Damp, molding earth, acrid sweat, sweet blood, and the residual smoke from the blanks all blended into one cloying scent. The actors jabbered nonstop, debating how this accident could have happened, while the Chagga men muttered fearfully and angrily among themselves. A series of hysterical, gasping outbursts dominated the noise.

“But I didn’t mean . . .” “I can’t understand . . .” “You have to believe . . .”

“Someone take care of Miss Porter,” Jade said, startling herself with her own voice.

“I have her,” said Pearl. She knelt beside the shocked woman and put her arm around her in a rare show of sympathy and compassion. Bebe joined them and added her own soft reassurances.

Maybe there’s more to them after all
, Jade thought. “Mr. Murdock,” Jade called. When she caught his attention, she nodded towards the women. The man went to Cynthia’s side and spoke to her, trying to lead her away.

“Can you say something to those Chagga men, Harry? Before this turns ugly?”

“That was my next move,” he said. “Once I knew you were all right.” He stood and, with palms out to the side to show that he meant no harm, walked slowly but steadily in their direction.

Jade rose to her feet, her immediate gaze on the Chagga. Her Winchester leaned against a chair beside her tent, about twenty paces from where she stood. Harry’s own Mauser was slung across his back. She kept her side vision and her ears alert for any movement, any sound. That sense of being stalked hadn’t diminished, and, other than her knife, they were an unarmed group open to attack.

Well, most of them are unarmed.
Cynthia’s rifle had held at least one live round. It might have a second. Jade was close enough that she could snatch it up if she needed it. She prayed she didn’t. But they’d just promised these men that everyone would be safe, and now one of them lay dead. Add to that the difficulty of communicating with them without Zakayo. Jade hoped that at least some of them knew a smattering of Swahili. Judging from how well they followed the director’s edicts, possibly most of them did. Still, Jade didn’t like to think what would happen if they decided on retribution instead of some other method of recompense.

Harry spoke to them, loud enough for Jade to hear. Words for “mistake,” “sadness,” “peace” were repeated again and again. She heard him offer to carry Zakayo back to the village with gifts. When Jade glanced away for a moment to find Jelani, she saw him return from the spring, a hollowed gourd in hand. He began sprinkling water, first on Zakayo’s body, then on Jade, and finally on the camp in general.

If the Chagga noticed the young Kikuyu’s prayers, they didn’t react. However, they did cast nervous glances at Biscuit. The cheetah still stood by Jade’s side, head up, regally standing guard beside her and Zakayo. Did these men remember the old storyteller’s tale of Menelik’s cheetah? Did they hold her pet in awe, thinking he was part of the past come to revisit them?

“Biscuit,” Jade said softly. “To Harry. Greeting.”

Biscuit rubbed the side of his head against Jade’s hand, then walked off towards Harry. His shoulders pumped up and down like pistons, accentuating his square head and barrel-shaped chest that tapered into a lean body. He held his tail out behind him, the white tip raised like a banner. Biscuit took his place next to Harry’s side and rubbed his head against Hascombe’s knee. Then he chirped a greeting to the Chagga.

The effect electrified the Chagga. As one, they stretched out hesitant hands for Biscuit. When the cat didn’t move, they grew a little bolder and touched his broad head. Biscuit only raised it higher, like an imperial lord allowing his minions to approach. After a few moments, Jade made a low clicking sound with her tongue. The cheetah turned and strode back towards the body, the men following.

“Pay them, Mr. Julian,” said Jade. “Give them Zakayo’s wages, too.”

“Why should—”

“Do it!” snapped a woman’s voice.

Jade turned to see Cynthia, Murdock still trying to persuade her to come away. Her previously ashen face had taken on a flush of anger.

“Do it and be generous,” she said.

Mr. Julian opened a bag containing the German rupees, still the currency of Tanganyika, and counted out the coins.

“Just give them the whole damn bag, Rex,” snapped Cynthia.

The two larger men picked up the body by his shoulders and feet and started back to their village, the other men following.

Jade picked up her woven Berber bag, shouldered her own rifle, and called to Biscuit.

“Where do you think you’re going?” demanded Harry.

She tipped her head in the direction of the Chagga men. “With them.” When he started to protest, Jade stopped him. “Harry, I need to visit their village. I’ll be back in time for dinner.” Harry’s eyes opened wide and his face flushed as he struggled visibly to control his next words. “Why for the love of . . . No!”

Jade stood her ground. “Yes, Harry. It’s important for two reasons. One, with Zakayo dead, I need to find out what I can about that boomslang and if that woman did in fact catch it. Someone else might know something. And,” she added, signaling him to wait, “if we leave without seeing the elders and giving some show of regret for Zakayo, we might find a nasty surprise in the morning.”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, hesitated, then nodded. “I don’t like the idea, but you’re right about that last part, at least.” He took hold of her shoulders in his big hands. His jaw worked as though he struggled for words. “You know I wouldn’t even consider letting any other woman try this, but I believe you can do it. Still, I’d feel much more at ease if you took Nakuru with you.”

“You’ll need him even more while I’m gone. I’ll take Biscuit. They seem to respect him. Maybe some of that feeling will rub off onto me.”

 

 

THE CHAGGA MEN appeared to accept Jade’s company. Perhaps Biscuit’s solid presence helped. Or maybe the last goat, a black male kid, which she led as a goodwill offering, did the trick. She hoped the animal would be accepted in the right spirit. As she’d told Harry, it would have to do, since they didn’t have seven cows, seven goats, and a daughter to offer for the blood debt. She’d read a few accounts of Chagga tribal life, enough to know that human sacrifice, while rare in the past, was no longer practiced. At least, she hoped not.

On the path up to the village, Jade considered the difficulty of her task. She didn’t speak Machame, the Chagga tongue, but she knew from watching the old storytelling elder that he understood some Swahili. It had also become apparent from the daily bargaining for produce that many of the women knew some as well. It stood to reason, living as close to Moshi as they did, that they’d have dealings with the people there.

Twice, Biscuit stopped and looked over his shoulder at the trail behind them. Once, he chirped. Jade waited each time, expecting to see Nakuru or even Harry catch up to them. Finally, when it was clear that no one was following, she and Biscuit continued after the Chagga.

Their entrance into the village was met by stunned faces and a momentary silence, quickly rent by the wailing of every woman present. Two women, one older and another at least ten years younger, hugged each other. The eldest shrieked and moaned louder than all the women, and Jade assumed she was Zakayo’s wife. That much seemed likely, but whether the younger woman was a daughter or a secondary wife, she couldn’t tell.

Three men, two who were part of the group that brought his body back, went to a nearby banana grove bordered by dracaena shrubs with their cornlike leaves. They stepped carefully among the skulls that lay between the trunks. First the oldest broke off a dracaena branch, then the younger men.

His sons?
They went into the older woman’s hut and remained. Jade longed to see what was happening, but didn’t dare intrude on their ritual. The women, in the meantime, had taken the body and stripped it. They placed it onto a sleeping hide and bent Zakayo’s body until it was doubled up, chin to knees. The older woman took long strips of rawhide and bound the body into this new position. Dull thudding from inside the hut and the occasional puff of dust led Jade to believe that the men were digging a grave inside. No one paid any attention to her. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. Finally, a slow movement from her left caught her attention. The old storyteller, Sina, moved towards her with a slow dignity.

“Shikamo,”
Jade said, choosing the more formal greeting for an elder. Literally it meant, “I grab your feet,” an indication of subservience.

Sina nodded.
“Marahaba,”
he replied, giving the Swahili blessing in response.

He motioned for Jade and Biscuit to follow him. She expected him to return to his hut, but instead, he led her to the banana grove, where he took a seat on a log. Jade sat at his feet, the kid goat on one side and Biscuit on the other. Next, the old storyteller called to one of the other men who’d come back from her camp and motioned him to join them. The man did, but he looked warily at Jade, his expression shifting between fear and anger.

Sina spoke to the man, who replied at length, pantomim ing firing a rifle, falling and rising again, and finally falling completely. Jade noticed that Zakayo’s name was not mentioned. She wondered if it was taboo to speak the name of the dead. The elder next pointed to Jade, his brows raised in a question. The man shook his head.

Sina nodded and turned back to Jade. He cocked his head slightly and spread his hands. The movement conveyed a question. Why?

Jade took a chance and answered, “
Ajali
, accident.” The elder nodded. He pointed to the goat, and Jade handed over the rope that served as a leash. Sina looked at the kid’s coat and nodded approvingly. It appeared that the apology had been made and accepted. She wanted to ask him about what had happened to Rehema, to see if anyone knew about the boomslang, but now, in the midst of the villagers’ grief, it suddenly seemed insensitive to ask. She fidgeted and shifted position, debating with herself about staying or leaving.

But the elder sensed her agitation and opened the conversation, using the man beside him to assist when pantomime and his own limited Swahili failed him. “You know that woman who cursed you is dead,” he said. “She ran from our village, bloated with blood.”

Jade nodded. Rehema had been part of his household. She wondered if Sina grieved for what was either a new wife or one of his daughters.

“Your life is in great danger now,” he continued. “More than before.”

Jade frowned, but didn’t reply. To contradict the elder might close the discussion. She noted the old man’s concern but, more than that, the expectant gleam in the younger man’s eyes. Clearly, she thought, this was good news to him. Time to assert herself.

“I do not fear death. It has stalked me before and not won. And when Ruwa,” she added, using the Chagga’s name for God, “wants me, then it will be time enough.”

Sina smiled, the gaps between his teeth showing. “Perhaps if you left the mountain and returned on the iron snake, you would escape. Perhaps the curse only stays on this mountain. But you could never return.”

“I will go north again,” she said, pointing the way to Nairobi. “But not yet. I do not run from fear. I am Simba Jike, and now it is time for me to lead those others on this mountain. When my job is done, I will go home then.”

Sina nodded. The other man scowled, but held his peace. “And this goat?” asked Sina.

“The man who was killed may have need of it,” Jade said. It made no difference to her if the family ate it or if it was considered a sacrifice to his ancestors. She intended only to show good faith and forestall any reprisals.