A Kiss of Adventure (19 page)

“Making it up? You don’t believe I’m a writer? I told you Mungo Park is my ancestor, and I’m working on his biography. You didn’t believe me?” He turned to the phone as his call was answered. “Hey, Robert. Graeme. We pulled into town a couple of minutes ago. . . . Yeah, I found her.”

He gave Tillie a thumbs-up. While he talked, she scanned the town, half expecting a camel caravan to parade over the bridge. The place was silent. Graeme hung up the receiver.

“He’s coming down to get us. Did you know it’s four in the morning?”

“He must be a good friend.”

“Robert’s with a mission here in Mopti. Comes from Scotland near Mungo Park’s birthplace. I met him in Bamako. We both hung out at the library.”

“Are you really writing a book about all this? Or are you looking for the treasure like everybody else?”

“I told you what I do.”

“There’s a lot you haven’t told me.”

“This hasn’t been a leisure cruise, Tillie. I need you to have faith in me.”

“Faith.”

“You’re good at that, remember? Believing in something you can’t quite put your finger on. Trusting someone who can’t tell you everything past, present, and future.”

She wanted to respond, but a pair of bright lights swung around and stopped in the center of the marketplace. “That’s Robert.” Graeme beckoned her toward the Land Rover, where a gray-haired man waited behind the wheel.

“Hey, Robert, sorry to get you up in the middle of the night.”

“No trouble,” he replied in a thick Scottish accent. “Mary’s waitin’ up at the mission. And this must be your young lady.”

“Robert McHugh, I’d like you to meet Matilda Thornton,” Graeme said as he climbed into the back of the Land Rover. “Tillie, this is Robert.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. McHugh.” Warming to the softness in his blue eyes, she guessed the man to be in his sixties. She sat down beside him. “Please, call me Tillie.”

“And I’m Robert to you.” He drove the rattling Land Rover out of the market area and into Mopti. It was a short distance to the mission, an old whitewashed building.

“The truck’s in the garage,” Robert told Graeme as they climbed back out into the night air. “But you must come inside and relax a bit.”

The door to the mission house flew open, and a tiny white-haired woman bustled down the steps. “Robert? Are you back already? Graeme, you found her! I’m so pleased. And is this your young lady, then? I’m Mrs. McHugh, dear, but you must call me Mary.”

“I’m Tillie Thornton.”

“Such a lovely name. My goodness you are thin. Have you had anything to eat lately? You look as though you’ve been through quite an ordeal. Do come inside and warm yourself. I’ve made some tea, and I just baked a cake this morning—yesterday morning. Oh, who knows which day it is? Come in, come in!”

Tillie couldn’t help but smile as she followed Robert’s wife into a warm living room. Four overstuffed chintz-covered chairs congregated around a newly built fire. A tray of teacups with tiny roses painted around their rims sat on a table nearby. A wolfhound rose from the carpet and greeted his master with a wet-nosed nudge.

“Your home is lovely,” Tillie said with a laugh of disbelief. “I feel like I’m in Scotland somewhere. Like I could look out the window and see gorse and heather instead of sand.”

“I know just what you mean. I’ve been into the desert myself, and home does seem a dream when I get back to it. Now sit yourselves down, both of you. I can hear the kettle whistling. I’ll just pop into the kitchen and bring out my teapot. We’ll have a bit of tea before we trundle you off to bed.”

Tillie sank into one of the chairs and shut her eyes. An hour ago she would have sworn she would be spending this night fending off the
amenoukal
. Now she was waiting for a cup of hot tea served by a Scottish missionary.

What next, Lord? What next?

“So, you found her with the Tuareg, did you?” Robert McHugh was asking Graeme. “They can be a difficult lot, can’t they? Mary, did you hear that? Tillie’s just spent some time with a band of Tuareg.”

The little woman bustled into the room bearing a pot of tea and a large raisin cake. “With the Tuareg, did you say? My goodness, how did that happen? You must tell us all about it.”

As the four sipped milk-and-sugar-sweetened tea and devoured thick slabs of raisin cake with marzipan icing, Graeme and Tillie related the adventures of their journey.

“Now what about this Arthur Robinson chap?” Mary asked. “The Englishman. How does he fit in?”

“Good question.” Graeme glanced at Tillie.

Tillie stirred her tea. “Arthur’s on his way to Timbuktu. I’m supposed to meet him there.”

“Won’t you be taking the plane back to Bamako this afternoon?”

“I’m not sure.”

“But you’ll be going on to Timbuktu, won’t you, Graeme?” Robert asked. “You can’t give up your project. Finding that journal will add an important chapter to the history of the Niger. You mustn’t abandon it.”

“Sometimes I think I’m on a wild-goose chase,” Graeme said. “Maybe Mungo Park just scribbled down a few thoughts and stuck the paper in a necklace. For all I know there never was a journal.”

“There’s a journal,” Tillie said quietly. “Khatty told me about it. A book, she called it. She said it was very old, and that the paper in the amulet came from the book.”

Robert slapped Graeme on the back. “Then you must go on looking, my dear man! You can’t give up your search until you’ve exhausted every possibility. Tillie is welcome to stay here with us if she’d rather not go anywhere. She’ll be perfectly safe until you get back from Timbuktu, won’t she, Mary? Really, old man, I cannot tell you how important I believe this is.”

“Yes, Graeme. Do go on.” Mary beamed at Tillie. “We should love to have you here with us, dear.”

Graeme sat up and placed his hands on his knees. “I don’t know what Tillie wants to do, but I’m sure I’ll think better after a little sleep.”

“Of course! Here we are chattering away, Robert, and they’re nearly dead on their feet. What time is it? Half past five! It’s almost time to get up. I have the guest room all ready. Graeme, show Tillie to it, and you can sleep in Robert’s study.”

Mary bounced to her feet and scurried around the room tidying up the tea things. Graeme showed Tillie down a long hall lined with oak-framed portraits of the McHugh children. At the far end of the house was the tiny guest room. He pushed open the door.

“Mary brought the linens and rugs from Scotland years ago,” he said. “They were in the old manor house out on the moors where she grew up. The rocking chair was her mother’s. You’ll feel like you’re home.”

“You’ve visited a lot?”

“They’re good friends.” He shrugged off his burnous and draped it on a blue chintz sofa. After stepping out of his boots, he padded over to the fireplace, lifted the poker, and stirred the glowing coals.

Tillie curled onto a chair and rested her cheek on its padded wing. Strange to step from a world of tents and camels to one of tea and cake and blue chintz. Disoriented, she looked up when Graeme walked to her side and draped himself onto the neighboring chair. His physical presence seemed to fill the little room.

“Good shower in the bathroom next door. Water’s always hot.”

“I’m beat.”

“We’ve been up all night. It’s dawn outside.”

She ran her fingers through the tangles in her hair. “I feel a little slaphappy. Kind of like when I was eight years old and had been to a slumber party and stayed up all night with my friends giggling and trying on makeup.”

He acknowledged the image with a sleepy grin. “Too tired to talk?”

“I don’t know if I’ll make sense.” She looked into his eyes and knew there was no escape this time. “Okay, talk.”

“Those two days we were separated. You thought things over. The amulet. Your boyfriend. Me. So what’s the verdict?”

She brushed her hand over her eyes. “I missed you, Graeme.”

“Arthur?”

“Worried about him . . . that’s all.” She paused. “Listen, Graeme, out there in the desert, I had good memories of our days together. I wanted to see you again. At the same time . . . I’m confused.”

“You don’t know who I really am. The whole writing thing. The police in Djenne. The journal.” He hooked one leg over the arm of the chair. “What’s your heart telling you?”

“I’m trying to listen to my head.”

“And?”

When she didn’t answer right away, he jumped out of the chair and knelt to stir the fire again. “I’m trying to be rational, too, but something’s happening. Something I didn’t count on. Here’s the deal. I came to Africa to do what I needed to do. I had a goal. . . .”

His voice drifted in a circle around her head. Desperate to understand who this man was and what he could mean to her, she shifted in her chair to keep awake. “Okay,” she mumbled. “You had a goal.”

“Right. I did the things I needed to do to get where I wanted to be. Research. Contacts. Travel. Set everything up.”

Her eyelids drifted down. She could listen with her eyes closed. “Mmm, you set everything up.”

“Came to Mali. Library . . . Tuareg . . . you in the marketplace. You know?”

She swirled up to consciousness. “The marketplace.”

“But then we started traveling together . . . the Land Rover . . . that night by the river . . . lost you . . . missed you . . . wanted you . . .”

His voice went around and around like bathwater down a drain, and there was nothing she could do to hold it.

When she opened her eyes, Tillie realized Graeme hadn’t moved from his chair, either. Tousled black hair had fallen over his closed eyes, and his breathing was deep and easy. He had sprouted a thick growth of whiskers in the days of travel, and she couldn’t resist reaching over to brush her fingers against his chin. She traced the curve of his cheek and stroked her fingers up into his hair. When she pushed aside a dark curl, his eyelids slid open. She dropped her hand.

He caught it. “Don’t stop.”

As he wove their fingers together, she let out a sigh. “Graeme . . . about last night. I’m sorry. I fell asleep while you were talking.”

“So did I.” He smiled. “Mornin’, glory. You’re beautiful.”

She touched her hair, remembering the tangles and paint and dirt. “You’re a better storyteller than I was at the
ahal
.”

“I never lie.”

Propping her chin on her hand, she regarded him. “But you don’t tell the whole truth, either. You’re exasperating.”

“Likewise.” He ran the side of his finger up her cheek. “Well then, what’s the plan, Cinderella? What are you going to do today?”

She looked beyond him to the open window. Late morning sunlight streamed through the branches of a frangipani tree. Outside on the street, horns honked. Someone rang a bicycle bell. The sweet perfume of tropical blossoms filled the room.

Images drifted through her mind: Hannah and their little house in Bamako, an airplane tracing the course of the Niger River southward, Arthur in his gray suit and striped tie, Khatty swirling past her tent, a brass lamp swinging in the desert breeze . . .

What should she do? Go back to the familiar, to safety? Or go on into the unknown?

Some trust in chariots and some in horses
. . . or Land Rovers . . . or airplanes . . .
but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.

“Trust me.
”

“Let’s see about that truck,” she said. “It’s high time I found the treasure of Timbuktu.”

ELEVEN

When Graeme stepped out of the bathroom, he spotted Tillie riffling through a basket she had found beside her door. She had showered before he did, and her hair hung in damp, dark gold tendrils almost to her waist. One of Mary McHugh’s terry-cloth bathrobes, pink with little white-ribbon roses, clung to her skin.

“Mary’s left us some things,” she told him, unaware how long he’d been watching her. “Her note says she and Robert will be back at three. They’ve gone to the market.”

“Anything to wear in there?” He had wrapped a towel around his waist. The thought of pulling on the same jeans he’d worn for five days was enough to make him consider a pink terry-cloth bathrobe himself.

Tillie lifted out a man’s white shirt, though it would be small on Graeme. Then she unloaded two pairs of khaki slacks, a few pairs of socks, three khaki shirts in various sizes, and a pair of well-worn suede boots. At the bottom of the basket lay a thick chocolate bar and two small oranges.

She stood and tossed him the white shirt. “It has a pocket for your notes.”

“Still doubting I’m a writer?”

“You don’t act like a writer.”

“What does a writer act like?”

“A writer writes things down now and then.”

He grinned. “I’ll try to do better. Now how about those pants?”

She handed them to him. “I kind of like the towel.”

Facing her, he could read a reflection of his own thoughts in her eyes. They were a pair. A matched pair. They shared more than common interests—they knew their own hearts.

Her drying hair floated around her face in wild, honeyed waves. Her eyes spoke conviction and passion. She had been tested; she would be tested again. He knew she would hold strong.

As Tillie turned into the guest room and shut the door behind her, it came to him that he loved this woman. All his life he had been aware that he’d never known love. Never felt it. Was convinced he wouldn’t know it if he saw it. Couldn’t feel it if he tried.

In the hallway of the little mission in Mopti, his uncertainty evaporated like a drop of dew on a Sahara morning. He loved Tillie Thornton. Heart and soul.

He could go on without her, but he wouldn’t want to. He would do all in his power to protect her. Please her. Honor her. Fulfill her. And if the time came, he would lay down his own life to save hers.

Graeme slid his arm around Tillie’s waist as they walked down the hall. They had just entered the living room when the front door opened and Mary scurried into the room. “Oh, la, you’re up!” she sang out. “Had your lunch?”

“Not yet,” Tillie said.

“It’s half-past three already, did you know? Time for tea.

Robert’s out in the garage working on the truck with the chaps. It’s looking very good, he thinks. Graeme, will you just pop out there and call him in to tea? Tillie and I shall set the table. We’ll make it a high tea. Come along, dear!”

Tillie watched Graeme walk out the door; then she turned to follow Mary. The little woman bustled here and there, picking up this, exclaiming over that, taking a random path through the house. Tillie thought it was sort of like tagging after a pink helium balloon that has lost most of its air and wants to bounce along the ground just out of reach.

The kitchen was a medium-size room with a gas refrigerator and stove. The two women gathered the tea things from the pantry and set them on a wheeled bamboo cart. Tillie carried armloads of cold meats, breads, scones, butter, jams, and cakes into the dining room. Mary whipped up two large omelettes filled with cheese and mushrooms.

When the tea was ready and everyone had assembled in the dining room, Robert blessed the food. The meal tasted better than any Tillie could ever remember eating. Graeme gave her an amused look from time to time as she devoured three scones dripping in honey and butter, her entire omelette, and two slabs of cold roast gazelle, while washing the food down with cup after cup of hot tea laced with milk and sugar.

“Have you made your plans yet?” Robert wanted to know. “The truck’s running rather well at the moment. I think it should get you to Timbuktu, if that’s where you’re going.”

“It is,” Tillie said. “I’ll be going on with Graeme. You know, Robert, I’ve resisted my part in this mess with the
amenoukal
ever since that child threw the amulet around my neck. But this morning I finally realized I want to know what the blasted treasure is myself.”

Mary hooted. “A girl after my own heart! When I was your age, lass, I was ready for any adventure. Why do you think I married this roving minister? Not for the money, I can assure you of that!”

“Now, Mary.” Robert patted her hand. “It’s not been a bad life, has it? We’ve had enough to live on.”

“More than enough. My life’s been all the richer for having married this man and followed him round the globe on his mad whims.”

“Mad whims?” Robert echoed.

“Your callings, then. ‘The Lord has called me to India, Mary,’ he announces. ‘The Lord has called me to Peru.’ ‘The Lord has called me to the Sahara.’ Your callings have made for a full and rewarding life. The Lord has blessed us richly, as he always does when we follow his will.”

“I admire you, Mary,” Tillie said. “It must take a lot of strength to keep leaving your home behind all the time.”

“My home is with Robert, just as yours will be with the man you choose to marry. You’ll never need another, lass.”

Mary looked from Tillie to Graeme, as if expecting one of them to say something revealing about their relationship. When neither did, she went on unfazed.

“Now, what can we get you for your trip? I shall fill that basket with food. You’ll find precious little to eat between here and Timbuktu, you know. And I’m glad to see the clothing fits. We keep a supply of old army things in the church. You never would believe who shows up needing something to wear! Robert, haven’t we a few old blankets we could spare? And sheets—you’ll need sheets to put up as a buffer against the wind. You’ll have to spend the night in the desert. It can be dreadfully cold, as you know.”

Robert nodded. “One can’t be too careful in the desert. I shall get the blankets and whatever else looks handy while Mary sees to the food. Graeme, you and Tillie had better go out to the garage and get the feel of the old truck. She’s rather temperamental, I’m afraid.”

Gradually the canvas-covered truck bed was loaded with supplies, including several spare cans of gasoline and water. Before long, Graeme and Tillie climbed into the huge, rusty vehicle and said their good-byes. Graeme fired up the engine, a sound like a tank battalion coming to life, and they headed down the road to Timbuktu.

The late afternoon had gone gray and windy. As the truck rattled along the rough track beside the river, the sun dipped lower and lower.

“When will we get to Timbuktu?” Tillie shouted over the racket from the unmuffled exhaust.

“Tomorrow afternoon, I expect. The road veers away from the river pretty soon. We’ll be in the desert in a few minutes.”

“Why doesn’t the road follow the river?”

“There’s an internal delta up ahead. Gets pretty swampy. No one can be sure where the Niger will go when the rains come.”

“Feels like there’s a storm coming now.”

“Sky looked pretty clear from Mopti, but I’ve never seen the desert this color.”

Tillie wanted to talk to him about the amulet. She had made up her mind to find the treasure—if there was one— and now she wanted to hear his thoughts. But her throat would never hold out over the din of the truck, so she sat back in her seat and lifted the amulet from beneath her shirt.

Opening it carefully, she took out the old document and unfolded it. She had a strange feeling that there were clues in the wording itself. Mungo Park certainly had not intended to sound like he was writing out a charm or an ominous portent, but the Tuareg had interpreted his words to have deep significance for their future.

Robert had said Graeme was hunting Park’s journal. Behind the cover of the sunglasses Mary had given her, Tillie studied him for a long time. His face, chiseled by hard living and the sun, seemed relaxed; his intent eyes were fixed on the road ahead. His neck and arms were deeply tanned, making his crisp, white cotton shirt fairly gleam. She could see the bulge of his note case in his pocket. Why hadn’t she ever noticed that before? She couldn’t help wondering if there were other things she should be seeing and wasn’t.

Looking down at the document again, she read the words.

25 December, 1806—

I believe it is Christmas Day somewhere, though not here. I know I will not live to see tomorrow. The Bight of Benin the blight of Benin. . . . Ahmadi Fatouma has the wealth in safekeeping for me. . . . Mine mine mine! I have the wealth. I possess the treasure of Timbuktu. One day, one day the white man will come here. One day, one day the white woman will come here. . . . She will plant trees. She will find the treasure of Timbuktu. . . .

What on earth had he meant? More important, what did the Tuareg think he meant? She reread the page. She knew the Bight of Benin was the name of the gulf at the mouth of the Niger River. But what was the blight of Benin? the treasure of Timbuktu? the tree-planting woman? Once again, she folded the paper and reinserted it in the locket. None of it made sense.

She put the amulet back under her shirt, dropped her hands to her lap, and let out a deep sigh. The sky had turned to violet, and thin clouds lay across the distant horizon. The truck left the riverbank to rumble down the rutted track in the midst of low brush, sand dunes, and a few scrubby trees.

The sun was a huge orange gumdrop in the sky when Graeme pulled the truck to a stop beside an outcropping of rock. He set the parking brake and turned off the ignition.

“Time to eat,” he said.

“Let’s keep going. I’m not hungry yet.”

“I’m not surprised, the way you scarfed down those biscuits and eggs.”

She took off her sunglasses and looked at him through lowered lashes. “I didn’t notice you holding back.”

“I never hold back. Let’s see what Mary put together for us in that basket.” He threw open the squeaky door and climbed out of the truck.

Tillie sat for a moment, wondering how he could possibly think of eating. Resigned, she looked around the side to see if he had found the basket. Graeme was nowhere in sight. She slid out of the seat and jumped to the ground. At the back of the truck, the canvas flap was still in place.

“Graeme? Where are you?”

“Up here. On the rocks.”

He had scaled the outcropping and was scanning the horizon with a pair of binoculars. Her heart jolted. “Do you see the Tuareg caravan?”

“Not a trace.” He clambered down the rock. “No camels in sight.”

He unzipped the canvas flap and sorted through the provisions in the back of the truck. “Lantern, candles, blankets, water, sheets. Good for Mary. Listen, I want to keep going as long as we can see the road tonight.”

“Sure. Anything wrong?”

He had told her he never lied. But if their pursuers were in sight, she deserved to know.

“The sooner we get to Timbuktu, the better off we’ll be.”

Graeme hauled the heavy basket from the truck and carried it to the rock. He spread a checkered cloth, then dug around inside the basket and pulled out a package of sandwiches and a block of cheese. Suddenly Tillie realized she was hungrier than she thought.

“I’m glad you decided to go to Timbuktu,” he said around a mouthful. “Seems the real Tillie is coming out of hiding.”

“The real Tillie?”

“A woman who loves life, who takes risks. Most people would call it quits after the stuff you’ve gone through. But not only are you still here, you’re champing at the bit to find out what that treasure is.”

“Got me all figured out, huh?”

“Hardly.”

“You know, I looked over the document again. I don’t want to wait until the
amenoukal
catches me again before I figure it out.”

“He’s not getting his hands on you.”

Tillie looked up from her sandwich, surprised at the vehemence in his voice. He tossed his half-eaten sandwich back in the bag and slid off the rock.

“Do you think we can decipher where the treasure is?” she asked.