Heart of Light (29 page)

“Well, he might, but . . . The beasts don't, you know? No animal comes near him. If he walks away from the encampment, birds fly in front of him and impala flee.”

“So . . . he smells bad?” Nassira asked, confused.

“I don't know,” Kitwana said. “When we . . . when the binds were set, there was another power in that room. A dark power. It is said that supernatural creatures scare the wildlife.”

“And what does this have to do with the other Englishman going into the forest, and your waking me?” Nassira asked impatiently.

“I don't know,” Kitwana said. He sounded miserable and confused. “I've asked my superior in the Hyena Men what should be done. He hasn't told me yet. And now the other Englishman has gone into the jungle. I don't know what to do.”

“Why are you even worried?”

“Something is going on there, though from the man's expression . . . He looks like one of the deposed chieftains my father used to give asylum to,” Kitwana said. “Like a man who's lost his kingdom, his honor and everything he had to live for.”

One of the deposed chieftains Kitwana's father gave asylum to? What a strange thing to say.
Where
did Kitwana come from? In her mind Nassira pictured a land populated by deposed despots. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Kitwana said, “he looked like a man about to commit suicide. A lot of deposed chieftains did, you know. Even after they were safe.”

Nassira jumped out of the bed and ran out of the encampment. Before she could think too much about it, before she could fully visualize the pale Englishman with the scared eyes dying in the jungle, she ran to his rescue, picking up the spear of one of the carriers that lay beside the pile of trunks and boxes. He reminded her too much of Kume for her to allow him to die like that.

She found her feet regaining their old ways as she ran over the hillocks. She smelled the familiar scent of the grasslands, heard the roar of the lion in the distance and the faint lowing of cows farther off. Without thinking, she would have been able to tell where all the villages of the Masai were, even those that had moved or been founded since she had been away. She would know it by the smell and the sounds in the night, and the way the grass was trampled in paths by boys who pastured their fathers' cattle.

Following the Englishman was easy. Nassira could see where his big feet had trampled the grass. Nassira set her spear down and looked around, her eyes getting used to the dark and showing her where the Englishman had ripped his heavy canvas pants on a thorn tree, leaving the pale fabric flapping there like a distress flag.

Picking up the spear, she resumed her walk over the familiar terrain, following him, tracing every one of his steps marked on the earth, on broken branches and trampled grass. He was walking foolishly, with the arrogance of all Europeans, trampling ground they didn't know and that didn't belong to them, unaware and without caring, trampling it as though it didn't matter—as if it were, like everything else, including the cultures and souls of occupied peoples, their own to despoil or preserve.

She followed his track, growing closer until she could follow him by the sounds of scurrying and running creatures scared by his passage.

Her feet hurt where thorns had pricked through her sandals. She'd once walked this country barefoot and at ease, but that was past. The magnitude of what she'd lost in going to England, to fight for the honor of her land, for her land's freedom, came to her like the bitter reflux of indigestion.

She'd once been able to walk on thorns barefoot and not notice. She'd once known her father's cows, each by name.

And Kume . . .

She remembered how much she had been attracted to Kume at first sight, how much she had admired him. And then, on the first raid—when she had followed the warriors out of curiosity—she'd seen how Kume behaved.

It wasn't that Kume was a coward. He went with the warriors to the thick of things, he tried to ride at the palisade of the other tribe's cow enclosure. He did his best. And it wasn't that Kume was clumsy. There was nothing wrong with the way he leapt forward, the way he brandished his spear, the sure way he ran over the uneven ground.

Had he been alone, dependent only on his own movements, there would be nothing to fault him. But there seemed to be a curse on poor Kume, who always charged in such a way that he caused another warrior to bump into him, or ran in such a way he tripped one of his fellows, or jumped over the palisade in such a way that blocked the onslaught of the other Masai.

After that first raid, Nassira should have stopped loving him. She was conscious most other Masai women would have. After all, most women wanted the perfect warrior, who could protect them and raid for a large quantity of cattle. Nassira, too.

She wanted a life companion to whom she felt at least equal, if not inferior. But Kume of the velvety eyes, the noble features, the muscular body, had another claim on Nassira's affections. He needed her help to survive. And because he needed her, she would stay with him.

And because Nigel reminded her of Kume, she could never ignore him while he needed her help. She glared at the moonlit high grass, the low thornbushes, the acacia trees. She listened for the distant roar of a lion, the near snigger of hyenas, the sound of scurrying paws. The Englishman shouldn't be out here in Africa. Had he never heard of the dangers of the bush at night? Did he not care?

Of course he did not care; they thought themselves superior to everything.

She continued on painful feet, growing increasingly unaware of her surroundings as her rage at the Englishmen grew. And then she tripped. Righting herself, she noticed a boot in the path at her feet. It had caught on some low-growing thorns and sat impaled by them on three sides. The Englishman had ripped his foot from it and stepped forward, barefoot, onto the thorns, on which he left his blood and skin, and little scraps of his sock.

Nassira bent down and pulled the shoe from the thorns. Carrying it, she hurried forward. Her spine tingled. A proud man who thought he owned the earth didn't leave his shoe and willingly step forward like that. Only a man who didn't care about his own life would do it. Only a man looking for death.

Kitwana had been right.

What would she find ahead? How could she explain to Kitwana that the man sent to look for the ruby of power was dead, that the mission was at an end? Because the other Englishman and the woman might or might not continue in search of this stone that would give power back to Africa. She could see the frail Englishwoman turning back to find her family, her protectors in England. As for the dark-haired man, if he chose to stay or return for the jewel, he'd never keep the same carriers. And
he
lacked the Hyena Men's brand. They could lose track of him entirely.

She hurried forward and, like one who's been asleep, she was suddenly aware of the stopping of every sound in the background except for the roar. The roar of the lion sounded awfully close. Nassira had never killed a lion. Her father had, and it was the crowning glory of his life, the story he repeated at every chance.

She ran forward, brandishing a spear in one hand and the Englishman's shoe in the other. And found him standing with his arms dangling loosely, looking not so much like a human being as like a doll, inarticulate, inanimate.

Closer, Nassira could hear his breath, fast and raspy and catching on the high notes into something not quite a sob. It was a sound of utter shock and fear. But what could scare a man who wanted to die?

Nassira peered into the dark velvety night ahead of the Englishman and could see, amid the tall grass, a vast shape, larger than a man. A lion. Nassira felt the skin at the back of her neck tightening.

This was the lion they'd heard for days. A lion who followed a human party, neglecting the more abundant cattle that he could eat, was a man eater. Some lions were. The Masai often killed such lions when they threatened their villages and their children. But a lion-killing party usually consisted of several warriors, each expert in handling the spear, many accustomed to the sight of enraged lions.

Nassira had never faced a lion. She'd never seen a lion live and up close. She'd only seen the carcass, when the warriors cut it up for prizes. Somehow, the huge creature crouching just steps away was quite different from those carcasses.

She took a deep breath and tried to think. She could not pull the Englishman away. If she stepped forward, the lion would leap. She could not shout at the Englishman to run. The lion would either lunge at her or run after him.

Nassira looked at the shadow and saw his hindquarters wag, his front quarters lower. In a breath, he would attack.

Her spear shook, in a hand suddenly slick with sweat. She'd often heard young warriors brag of their lion-killing exploits, describing and showing how they brought the mighty beasts down. The idea was to wait for the lion to jump, and when it jumped, to hold the spear upright, to tilt it just so, so when the lion fell on the downward arc of its leap, it would impale itself on the spear, and with its great weight bring about its own death.

Then it was up to the warrior to jump out of the way of the falling carcass, so that she didn't end up crushed under the lion. Nassira swallowed, and the sweat-slick spear rattled in her hand. Fear filled her completely. She felt like the worst of cowards.

Then she remembered when she was very small and a group of boys from a nearby village had surrounded her, threatened to thrash her for her presumption in speaking to them as an equal though she was only a girl. There were six boys, half naked and furious, incoherent in their perceived superiority. They were all bigger than her, and two of them carried sticks. They'd surrounded her, striking out at her with feet and hands and weapons.

Her parents had been away—Nassira didn't even remember why. There was no one who would rescue her if she screamed, no adult within the reach of her terrified voice. Then, as now, she'd felt totally helpless, completely unable to defend herself. But when it looked as if she had nowhere to turn, she'd found a crazy bravery somewhere inside her. She'd jumped at the attackers, teeth and nails striking at unprotected faces and extended hands.

Her attack had sent them fleeing and they'd never bothered her again. But the lion was not snot-nosed little boys. She doubted the lion would fear her teeth and nails.

She could creep away. The lion, focused on the Englishman, would not even notice. The Hyena Men could maybe still manage to follow Farewell and Mrs. Oldhall. After all, the Englishwoman was the one who had bonded the compass stone to her. Perhaps all would be well without this pale man so obviously unsuited to the rigors of exploring in Africa. He wasn't needed.

It was a gamble, but at least Nassira would have a chance. Where she stood now, in the moonlit night with the stench of the Englishman's fear and the smell of the lion sharp in her nostrils, she could see only two ways out of this.

She could try to save Nigel Oldhall, and then she would certainly die with him. Or she could let him die and hope for the best. If she ran away now, she would live. And no one, Masai or English, would hold it against her that she'd turned away. No one, not even the Masai, expected a young woman to stand up to an enraged lion. Much less for her to do it in defense of someone so completely unconnected to her.

Nassira's heart beat too fast in her chest. She licked her lips—they felt too dry and about to crack. She could turn her back on Oldhall and live. But could she live with herself knowing she could have saved this human being and hadn't? She held on to the spear to steady herself, and the feel of the spear in her hand revived her.

She'd have to kill the lion. Nassira leapt forward, taking a deep breath filled with the scents of her homeland. She exhaled, freeing her fear and rage into the warm night air. She slid in front of Nigel, who let only something like a loud breath escape him.

The lion, enticed by the movement, leapt.

Nassira tilted her spear. She smelled the lion musk and all blood fled her heart. Her breath ached, rattling through her throat. Her arms felt heavy and cold.

The lion leapt like a bird slowly rising to flight, seeking currents of air to soar upon.

She surged forward a few steps. The lion was over her, seemingly suspended in fear-lengthened time. With a growl, it started falling.

Nassira held her spear straight up and moved one step to the side as the lion fell. The spear found the lion's heart. Nassira scrambled back some more. A shower of blood burst from the lion's great heart and sprinkled her face and arms. The lion fell, just at her feet, clawing toward her legs. She pulled the Englishman back.

The lion writhed and screamed and then was still.

Little by little, Nassira became aware that her heart was still beating. The lion had died and she had survived.

She looked toward the Englishman. He was paler than ever, his strange blue eyes wide open as they turned toward her.

In those eyes, Nassira read surprise, shock, gratitude, and something very much like worship.

GENTLEMAN'S DISTRESS, LADY'S DUTY