A Kiss of Adventure (22 page)
Graeme shrugged and began digging the loose sand away from the tires. Tillie slammed the tailgate and helped him dig. When they walked around to the cab, Graeme opened the door to a shower of sand and slid onto the seat. Tillie climbed in beside him.
“There’s a compass on the dashboard,” he told her. “Robert assured me it works. I know we’re going north, and I expect the storm has wiped out the road only part of the way. If we can get over these dunes, we’ll find it again somewhere ahead. But this truck wasn’t made to go over sand. That’s what dromedaries are for.”
Tillie reflected for a moment. “Do you suppose the
amenoukal
is near?”
“No idea. Let’s go.”
He turned the key in the ignition, and the engine ground over. He could hear Tillie breathing in prayer, “Come on. Come on, start.”
As if in answer, the engine coughed to life and began its familiar rattle. She let out her breath and leaned back as he put the truck in gear. It lurched forward as though eager to leave the desert, spun for a moment, then climbed out of its ruts and rolled across the sand.
“Doing good, babe,” he whispered as the truck crept over the uneven surface.
Keeping a close eye on the compass, he worked the gears, edging forward, careful not to stall. The truck wailed like a banshee. Over one dune. Down the steep side. Into a ravine. Up a slanted scree. After what seemed like hours, the truck suddenly crested a hill, and they spotted the road a hundred yards to the west. The desert faded, and the landscape returned to typical Sahel terrain.
Tillie reached over and kneaded Graeme’s taut back. He let out a breath. “It’s getting dark, but I want to keep going.”
“I’ll drive.”
“She’s all yours.” He pulled the truck to a stop but left the engine running. They traded places, and he watched her take the wheel, throw the engine into gear, and maneuver the truck back onto the road. Amazing woman.
The night closed in quickly, and Tillie flipped on the headlights. The landscape altered little during mile after mile of bumpy road. Stars winked on one by one in the rain-washed sky. She rubbed her eyes. Yawned.
Graeme felt tired enough to sleep again. He shut his eyes. Memories of Tillie dancing across the dunes played inside his eyelids. Rain streamed down her hair. She laughed.
“Graeme!” The truck bounced to a stop.
He lifted his head. “What’s the matter?”
“Look at that light.” A faint glow lit the horizon just ahead. “What is it?”
He took her hand and wrapped it in his. “It’s Timbuktu.”
The mysterious Queen of the Sands rose out of the desert like an ageless, shimmering jewel. Tillie and Graeme sat in the old truck and gazed at the city that meant the end of their quest. For a long time they could neither move nor speak, each thinking private thoughts of what might occur in Timbuktu and what their future would be once they left her.
“She’s beautiful,” Tillie whispered.
Graeme turned his head and studied the woman beside him. “Are you ready for what may happen here?”
“I can face anything. Do you have a plan?”
“We’ll go into the town and find the Sankore Mosque. I know a guy who works in the library there. I think he can help us.”
“You know about that library?” Doubt drifted up inside her like oil on a clear pond. Arthur had told her the hidden library held volumes of great antiquity and value. And someone was stealing them and smuggling them out of Mali. “Who is this man you know? How do you know him?”
“Mahamane Samouda. He helped me with some of my research on Mungo Park. He speaks English. We corresponded in it. He’s prominent in Timbuktu, and he’s aware of just about everything that goes on. He’ll know if Arthur and Hannah are here. And he’ll have word on the Tuareg if they’re in town.”
At the mention of Arthur, Tillie’s fears joined her doubts. “Graeme, about Arthur—”
“He said he’d meet you in Timbuktu, right? I’m sure he’s waiting.”
Twisting the beaded band on her finger, she searched the darkness. “He was upset the last time we were together. I don’t know how he’ll react when he sees me again.”
“He didn’t want you traipsing up the Niger?”
“Not with you.”
“Ah.”
“When I told Arthur about the amulet and the treasure, he got very interested in finding it. He said it could give us financial security after we married.”
Graeme’s brows drew together. “Is that why you decided to look for the treasure? Are you thinking about life with Arthur again?”
“I’m thinking Arthur may be more interested in the treasure than in me these days.” Her mind reached back for something he had said. “Arthur’s worried about having money. He said we should find the journal. He said it would . . . it would be worth a lot.”
Graeme leaned forward. “Mungo Park’s journal?”
“He said it would have immeasurable value of its own.”
“If he values his life, he’ll forget that idea.”
“Graeme! How could you say such a thing?”
He hesitated, weighing his words. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m not looking for the treasure. I want that journal. If Arthur tries to get in my way—”
She stared at him. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this! The journal is just a book, Graeme. And I don’t care if Arthur does find the treasure.”
“The
amenoukal
will make sure that never happens. I imagine the Malian government will make sure, too. Look, let’s leave Arthur out of this until we’ve talked with my friend at the mosque. If we can pool the information we already have with anything Mahamane Samouda can tell us, we may be able to head in the right direction. Are you with me?”
“What does it look like?”
His smile was mirthless. “Partners.”
Tillie wished she could shake off her discomfort and return to the easy camaraderie they had shared during the sandstorm. She threw the truck into gear, stepped on the gas, and sent them rattling toward Timbuktu. “All right. Let’s go find Mahamane Samouda.”
The moon was high, and Tillie’s watch told her it was nearly ten o’clock when she turned onto Timbuktu’s only paved street. It ran between rows of boxlike clay houses, relics of antiquity suffering the indignity of a tarmac road. Beehive ovens perched at the street corners, and minarets rose high over the town.
Finding the Sankore Mosque wasn’t hard. It was the oldest and largest of the three mosques in Timbuktu. Studded with long wooden spikes, its tall, slope-sided minarets pointed skyward. A wall of stone and clay, buttressed and topped with rounded crenellations like a Muslim version of a medieval castle, surrounded the mosque. Except for strange, thin Arabic melodies floating from latticework windows, a deathlike silence shrouded the town. Tillie parked the truck, and she and Graeme climbed out.
“I’m not allowed inside, am I?” she whispered as they walked up the steps of the mosque. “I don’t think women are permitted.”
“We’ll see.” Graeme knocked on the heavy door. A cockeyed old man in a white cap and caftan opened it. Graeme asked him a question in French. One of the man’s wandering eyes looked at Tillie, and the other studied Graeme—then he scowled and started to shut the door.
“Mahamane Samouda?” Graeme asked.
The doorkeeper hesitated, then signaled the couple to wait. Fifteen minutes dragged by until finally a middle-aged man appeared at the door. He looked outside. Skin the color of latte, eyes sharp and black, he adjusted a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose.
“Oui?”
“Mahamane Samouda?” Graeme repeated.
“Oui. C’est moi.”
“I’m Graeme McLeod. I wrote to you from the United States and from Scotland.”
“Ah, Monsieur McLeod.” The man nodded. “Graeme McLeod from United States. You are here in Timbuktu? Have they sent you—”
“Yes,” Graeme cut in. “This is Matilda Thornton. She’s with me.”
Tillie held out her hand, unsure of the Muslim man’s reaction to an unveiled white woman. But Mahamane grasped her hand firmly. “Welcome. You like coffee? Something to eat? Come inside.”
Graeme put his arm around Tillie’s shoulders as they walked through the front door. They slipped out of their shoes as Mahamane indicated and followed him down a long hall away from the inner holy areas.
“I am in the library tonight preparing a lecture. You are fortunate to find me. Usually I am at my home at this late hour, Monsieur McLeod.”
He opened a door and led them into a cavernous room. A small brass lamp hanging on a long chain from the ceiling provided the only light, but it was enough to reveal a hint of the splendor the mosque must once have contained. Threadbare carpets in shades of indigo and burgundy had been strewn haphazardly across the floors. Chairs studded with brass nails were clumped in groups, as though scholars had just abandoned them. Like a maze with no defined entrance or exit, row upon row of carved shelves rose to the ceiling. Each shelf was crammed with scrolls and large books with leather bindings. A musty smell permeated the room, the scent of mildew mingled with old leather, incense, and wood smoke.
Mahamane led Tillie and Graeme to a darkened corner of the room and motioned them to sit beside him on two faded red brocade pillows trimmed in raveled gold fringe.
“Now, Graeme McLeod,” he said in a library whisper, “what do you need of me?”
Graeme opened his mouth to speak, but a door opened. The cockeyed doorman entered, carrying a tray with a silver pot of steaming coffee and a plate of dried dates. Mahamane dismissed the man, then filled three tiny cups with thick black Arab coffee. Tillie accepted hers and took a sip.
“As you know, we’ve come from Bamako to search for Mungo Park’s journal,” Graeme began.
“There is such a document?”
“We think so. The Tuareg told Tillie about it.”
“Ah, the Tuareg.” The man’s expression told Graeme he doubted the Tuareg would tell the truth about anything.
Graeme went on. “We feel pretty sure the journal—if it still exists—was stored near Timbuktu.”
“Or inside Timbuktu?”
“Possibly. We need to know more about the town. Can you tell us what Timbuktu was like when Mungo Park was here? Which buildings were in the town. How the economy worked. Do you have any books on that?”
“Ah, Timbuktu was very different in those days. But wait one moment, please. Permit me to find the sources.” He gave a slight bow, then stood and vanished into the maze.
“Is there any way the journal could be in the library somewhere?” Tillie whispered. She could see Mahamane Samouda climbing around on ladders and stools. “This place is incredible.”
“I asked him to check when I wrote to him. The journal’s not here.”
Mahamane carried three thin volumes back to his visitors. He arranged himself on a cushion and opened the first book.
“We do not have any record of Mungo Park’s visit to Timbuktu.” He began flipping through the pages. “Of course, such information presumably could be found in the journal you seek. But here I have a letter from a man named Laing to another man named Warrington. It was written on September 21, 1826, some years after Mungo Park’s death.”
Tillie leaned forward, trying to see the words inscribed in the old volume. “What does the letter say?”
“Many things. Mr. Laing tells Mr. Warrington that he has no time to give a full account of the city of Timbuktu because he is saving the details for his journal. But he does say . . . let me see . . . ah, yes. ‘In every respect except in size (which does not exceed four miles in circumference), it has completely met my expectations.’”
“But what were his expectations?” Tillie asked. “Had Mr. Laing heard of Timbuktu from someone else? from Mungo Park?”
Graeme took the packet of notes from his pocket and began leafing through them. “Remember Leo the African? Laing had heard the same tales of Timbuktu that Mungo Park knew.”
“You have done your research. Indeed, the only recorded description of Timbuktu available in the days of both Laing and Park was this—” he lowered the second book and opened it—“the writings of Leo Africanus. He speaks of this mosque, the Sankore Mosque. He tells of the palace erected in the time of King Mansa Musa. That was between 1312 and 1337. He speaks more of the king of Timbuktu in the time of his visit. At that time, the king was Muhammad Toure. Here Leo mentions the trade in fabrics, spices, copper, gold, ivory, ostrich feathers, and slaves. He tells of the fertile farming from the Niger River overflow. He says that the people of Timbuktu are hospitable and hold many celebrations. And here he speaks of the trade routes from Timbuktu to Venice, Genoa, and Cairo.”
Mahamane stopped reading and leaned back against the wall. Graeme had been taking notes as the scholar spoke, and he now began sorting his cards into small piles. Tillie watched as he worked.
It felt strange to see him doing something he had claimed to do from the start, but something she had never quite believed. Now she saw for herself that Graeme was indeed a writer. He was researching Mungo Park. He wanted to find the journal, not the treasure. Or rather, the journal was the treasure he sought.
But what was Mungo Park’s treasure? Something from the town of Timbuktu? Had Timbuktu in the Scottish explorer’s time looked the way Leo Africanus described it? Though two hundred years had gone by, it must have been nearly the same. Laing had come to Timbuktu after Mungo Park and had written that the city lived up to his expectations in all but size.
So what was the treasure? Could it be gold, as the
amenoukal
and Arthur hoped? Might it be ivory or silver or copper? Maybe Mungo Park had been given some treasures from the king’s palace. After all, the explorer had known the kings of the Niger.
Graeme looked up from his sorting and spoke to Mahamane. “Now what about Mungo Park himself? Do you have any information about what might have happened to him after he left Timbuktu?”
“Permit me also to find it here in my book.” He lifted the last volume from the stack and ran his fingers down one page after another. “You see, the Englishmen who had sponsored Mungo Park were upset when he did not return from his second journey to Africa. They made every attempt to find out what had happened to him. In 1810, a man named Isaaco volunteered to go and find out. He reached Sansanding. You passed it between Segou and Djenne, though you probably did not see it. There he found Mungo Park’s guide Ahmadi Fatouma.”
“What did the guide say?” Tillie asked.
“He told Isaaco the story of what happened to Park. He said that the Scotsman decided to stay on board his little boat and never land, so he would not have to pay ransom to the kings of the Niger. He made enemies everywhere. The boat was under constant attack. At Timbuktu, Park and his crew were attacked by three canoes, but they held them off and finally killed the attackers. When they got to Yauri, Mungo Park sent gifts ashore for the king.”
