Treasure of the Golden Cheetah (44 page)

“Then maybe you’ll find someone else or maybe no one,” Sam finished. “You said all along that you felt hobbled by the idea of marriage. We both need time apart to think.”

“But I
have
thought, blast it. I have. And I . . .” This time Sam didn’t need to shush her. The words had choked in her hot throat. She pulled the sapphire ring off her left hand and held it out to him. “Here,” she managed to say.

Sam put his hand over hers, closing her fingers around the ring. “Keep it. Whatever we decide in the end, there’s a bit of sky locked in that stone. I did promise you that.”

Jade’s lips tightened as she swallowed and struggled to master her voice. “You’re coming back, Sam,” she said. “You’d better come back to me. If you think for one instant that I’m going to forget about you, then you’re crazy. I’m going to see you in every sky and hear your voice in every lion’s roar.”

She pulled the silver Berber amulet out of her shirtfront and tugged the chain over her head. “And if I have to keep your ring without you,” she said, slipping the amulet over Sam’s head, “then you have to wear this.”

Sam fingered the silver box for a moment, studying the filigree work. “Blasted thing’s probably haunted,” he said, attempting a smile.

“One can only hope,” Jade replied.

 

 

TWO DAYS LATER, Jade stood on the station platform and watched as Sam handed up his valise. She still couldn’t believe he was going back to America without her. She fingered the sapphire ring on her right hand. It didn’t belong on her left. It didn’t feel good on her right.

A mass of brooding clouds covered the late-September sky, cutting the burning afternoon sun’s glare into a hazy twilight. The rains were making their way into Kenya earlier than last year. Most of Nairobi had retreated indoors into clubs, hotels, shops, or taxis in anticipation of the coming downpour. The first storm never lasted more than an hour, but its icy rain was no less brutal when it pelted the skin, forcing its way through shirts and dresses.

She watched him hand his ticket to the conductor. In a moment he’d be on the train and gone. And with his departure he’d leave a gaping void in her soul, an ache that already felt like a ravening lion devouring her from within.

The sky flashed white for a moment, just as it did when her magnesium flash went off.

Is God taking a picture of this?
A booming rumble answered her.

Sam turned to wave good-bye. Jade bit her lip and forced her hand up. She saw his face tighten, and in the next instant she was in his arms and felt his burning kisses on her lips, her cheeks, her eyes. For one moment she thought he’d changed his mind.

“Take care of yourself, Simba Jike,” he whispered as he turned to go.

“I love you, Sam,” she called after him as he climbed the steps. “You’d better haul your horse’s patoot back here to me! I’m giving you just four months. Four months! Do you hear?”

He was gone, swallowed up by the car. She looked in vain to see him at one of the windows, but he’d moved to the other side.

The whistle blew and the engine chuffed, its steam driving the pistons. The connecting rod pushed once and the wheels spun on the track, searching for some traction. Another chuff and the locomotive inched forward, jerking the cars along.

Jade followed the train out away from the station as the rains broke, washing her in a cold embrace. She felt the chill cut through her, a chill of emptiness.

“I’ll get him back if it’s the last thing I do!”

Her tears fell and mingled with the icy rain, carrying her vow into Africa’s fertile soil.

AUTHOR’S NOTES

THOSE OF YOU who are familiar with Kilimanjaro might wonder about Menelik’s cave. Taking a cue from geologists who write of eroded parasitic cones and lava tubes, I used the idea for the burial cave. It is not on the map because Jade promised to keep it a secret.

The legend of the first Emperor Menelik’s campaign through East Africa springs from native stories. The Maasai claim it is why they no longer have any gold; it was all lost to Menelik. Mentions of it pop up in guidebooks, and, true or not, it made a fun premise for a tale of adventure and intrigue.

Although most histories don’t mention her, mountaineer Emily Benham was the first woman to climb to the top of Kibo Peak on Kilimanjaro in 1909. Her biographer, Raymond John Howgego, has placed a brief account of her ascent with an extensive list of articles written by Ms. Benham at
http://www.howgego.co.uk/explorers/Gertrude_emily_Benham.htm
.

Another woman’s ascent to the top of Kilimanjaro is recorded in Africa’s
Dome of Mystery
(1930) by Eva Stuart-Watt. This young missionary lived with her mother and sister on Kilimanjaro from 1924 to 1927. She recounts many of the Wachagga stories, including their tale of humankind’s fall from God’s grace. Eva ascended the slope in September 1926. There’s a great photograph of her kneeling next to the frozen leopard, first publicly reported by Dr. Donald Latham, who dug it out of the snows, and later made famous in Hemingway’s
Snows of Kilimanjaro
. Ms. Stuart-Watt wrote of the leopard, “No one can tell what induced it to venture into a land so cold and desolate; but possibly the smell of meat carried by some safari had led it to follow their trail.” I give a possible inducement and reason for its burial under the snows.

For a treatise on Kikuyu spirituality, there can be no better source than Jomo Kenyatta’s work
Facing Mount Kenya: The Tribal Life of the Gikuyu
. In works I’d read previously, I’d always seen the tribal healer’s title spelled as
mundu-mugo
, hence the use of that spelling in my first books. But Mr. Kenyatta spells it as
mondo-mogo
, and I bow to his knowledge and use his spelling in this book.

Some readers might recognize the reference to Mr. Clutterbuck, the father of Beryl Markham (née Clutterbuck). At this time, Beryl was wed to Jock Purves. It wouldn’t last long.

I have been asked where people might find copies of
The Traveler
. This magazine is a figment of my imagination, and I write Jade’s slightly irreverent copy just as I write Maddy’s purple prose novel excerpts.
The Traveler
is loosely based on a magazine from that time period called
Travel
. Sometimes I sit on the basement floor of the university library’s stacks and browse it. It may be possible to find it on microfilm through an interlibrary loan.

And if readers are interested in more tidbits of historical interest, I invite them to visit my weekly blog, “Through Jade’s Eyes,” at
http://suzannearruda.blogspot.com/
. A new one shows up each Monday, barring unforeseen circumstances.