A Kiss of Adventure (9 page)

“It’s going to be harder navigating here,” Graeme said. “I did the Nile in Uganda once, and the hippos were a nuisance. Keep your eye on the—whoa!” He jerked the oar from the water. “Hang on, Tillie!”

She whirled around as a huge head surfaced inches from the boat. A beast with piggy eyes and round rubbery ears blew a spray of water into the air. Shouting at Tillie to use the pole, Graeme plunged the paddle into the river. The hippo easily matched their speed and opened its enormous mouth in rage at the invasion of its territory.

Tillie thrust the pole into the river, but it failed to hit bottom. The hippo’s huge maw opened like a pink cave with wide flat teeth and sharp incisors instead of stalactites. The creature was so close she could see the hairs on its gray chin, the remnants of grass stuck to its tongue, the purple veins inside its cheeks. A deafening bellow rolled across the water before the hippo snapped its mouth shut and plunged under the water.

“Where is it?” Graeme demanded. “Don’t lose it!”

“To your left,” she shot back. “There.” She watched the animal glide along beneath them. “It’s following us, Graeme.”

He leaned over the edge of the boat. “Whatever happens, hang on to the boat. Don’t go into the water.”

“What’s it going to do? Why won’t it leave?”

“We’re in its territory.” He tried to steer the boat toward the swiftest current. “I’ve heard of them biting canoes in half. And they’ll take the head off a calf.”

“But they’re herbivores, aren’t they?”

“Mean herbivores.”

Tillie prayed in earnest as the hippo followed the tiny boat. Suddenly it surfaced again, trumpeting in anger and spewing water over Graeme through its flexible nostrils. Graeme let out a roar of disgust, grabbed the hem of her skirt, and began to wipe his face.

“Not with my skirt!”

“Where’s the hippo?”

Tillie scanned the water, but the beast had vanished.

For a moment all was calm. “Did it leave?” she whispered.

“Don’t know. Let’s hope so.”

He leaned over. River water sloshed against the side of the boat with a gentle, slapping sound. A kingfisher cried overhead. A leaf drifted by.

“I think he’s gone.” Graeme let out a breath. “I bet he—”

The hippo surfaced directly under the boat. Tillie grabbed the dripping sides of the tiny craft as it lifted into the air. Graeme tried to reach out to her.

“Hang on!” he shouted as he slid along the bottom. “Don’t let go!”

She clung until her white hands ached as the boat rose and fell, tipped and turned like some carnival ride gone amok. Graeme grabbed for her arm just as the boat capsized with a loud splash. Tillie tumbled into the muddy river, briefly conscious of blue sky above before she went under .

She floundered for heart-hammering seconds before flailing to the surface as she sputtered for air. Graeme shouted at her from ten yards away. He had somehow stayed with the boat. “Tillie, swim! Swim to shore.”

No. She wanted to go to him, but he was floating away fast. Too fast. Her leaden legs drifted out from under her. She went under a second time.
They’ll take the head off a calf.
Her thoughts reeled with images of hippo jaws ready to snap at her bare legs . . . of water snakes disturbed from their nests . . . of crocodiles eager for an easy dinner.

She fought back to the surface, choking on muddy water. Painfully aware that Graeme was struggling for his own life, her mind cried out to their only defense.
God! Help us!
She swallowed fear, breathed the prayer again, and willed her limbs into motion.

Terror threatened to overtake her. She knew with every stroke that her legs might disappear between the teeth of some animal; with every splash her life could be snuffed out. She was a moving target to the crocodiles, no different than a struggling antelope or drowning gazelle. Lunch.

Fighting heaving sickness in her stomach, she struggled on. Toward the bank. It was too far. She couldn’t see Graeme at all. She’d lost him. Hannah’s voice drifted like a river current into her head:
“He will give his angels charge concerning you, to guard you in all your ways. They will bear you up in their hands, lest you strike your foot against a stone.”

Or a crocodile, Lord. Or a hippo.

And then her feet touched the sandy bottom of the river. She struggled to stand and saw that she had made it to a clear spot, a grassy inlet sheltering two white-feathered cormorants.

They stared at the gasping creature rising from the river like some incarnation of the Swamp Thing, then flew off in alarm.

Stumbling up onto the grass, Tillie heard a swishing sound behind her. She swung around to see a huge gray crocodile staring at her from the shallows. Its powerful tail whipped back and forth. Then it surged forward on squat legs.

Choking back a scream, Tillie scrambled toward the nearest tree. She nearly tripped over a surprised baby crocodile . . . grabbed a low limb . . . pulled her legs up at the last instant.

Trees! Thank God for beloved, beautiful trees! She hauled herself to the top branches. Below, the crocodile snapped at the tree trunk twice in frustration before waddling off.

Dear Lord, where is Graeme?
She pushed through a veil of leaves and scanned the river. At first she saw nothing. Then far down the bank she spotted the hazy outline of the tiny boat. It was upright and bobbing close to the shore. Graeme had righted it! But where was he?

Fear prickled down her spine. Graeme had stayed with the boat. The hippo would have gone after him.

“Graeme!” she shouted, coughing up a mouthful of water. “Graeme, where are you?”

Listening for a response, she stiffened at what she heard. Behind her on the bank came the soft jingling of camel bells. She leaned back on the thick branch and closed her eyes. The Tuareg had caught up.

Their chieftain would see the boat. He would know she was here. Her first thought was to crouch in the tree. She could wait forever. Trees were her second home. Maybe the
amenoukal
would think she had drowned or been eaten. She peered through the leaves.

The white camel led the caravan. Its rider’s slate blue turban and veil covered all but his black eyes. His broadsword glinted in the sunlight. Tied to his spear, the rag from her skirt fluttered in the breeze. The battle banner of his crusade, his quest for the grail.

There could be no doubt the man would find the boat and would order every tree searched, every hillock explored, every inlet examined. He would not rest until he was certain she was gone. And she would be, she decided suddenly. If she ran, if she kept hidden, she could reach the boat before they saw her. She had to.

Arms and legs aching, she broke a dead branch from the tree. Not much protection, but better than nothing. Checking to confirm that the crocodile was gone, she climbed down the tree and crouched beside a root. The caravan was close already, and she would be exposed as she ran, but she had to take the chance.

She had lost her sandals in the swim. Could she do it barefoot? “No snakes,” she murmured. “Please, Father, no snakes.” She gathered her dripping skirt around her hips and took off through the stubbly grass toward the boat. Behind her, she heard a shout. They had seen her.

The camels loped down the track behind her. She focused on her goal.
The boat. The boat. The boat.
The words pounded in her brain. Her pursuers were gaining. She ran around a sleeping crocodile. She leaped over a tangle of thorny brake. Camels snorted behind her. Warriors chucked and whipped at their beasts. The
amenoukal
shouted. Closer. Closer.

The boat. The boat.
She was almost there when something rushed out of the forest, hit her full force, and knocked the ragged breath from her chest. She reeled, stumbled, plummeted. Her head exploded. White stars flared like fireworks. Night fell.

Tillie jerked awake. A hazy aqua sky canopied her. Where was she? What had happened? She struggled to sit up and couldn’t. Her head felt like a squashed papaya.

“Mornin’, glory.” Graeme’s voice drifted out of nowhere.

“Graeme? Where are you?”

“I’m here, Tillie-girl.” His hand covered her forehead, brushed the hair that blew in the soft breeze. “We’re back in the boat.”

He lifted her slowly to a sitting position. It was true. They were floating along in their little boat as though nothing had happened.

“Where’s the
amenoukal
? Are there crocodiles?”

“You’ve been out for a while. I was looking for you in the woods when I heard the Tuareg coming down the track.

That’s when I spotted you. The
amenoukal
almost had you, and then we sort of knocked heads. I barely got you into the boat in time.”

“You nearly killed me.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “But thanks.”

“Better me than that Targui . . . or a croc.”

“I thought you’d planned to use me for crocodile bait all along.”

The corner of his mouth turned up. He reached out to her and ran the side of his finger down her cheek. “Changed my mind.”

She shivered. “Graeme, he’s going to get me next time.”

“There won’t be a next time. Not if I can help it.” He looked away, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “When I couldn’t find you in the river . . . couldn’t hear you . . . I went crazy or something.” He gave a low chuckle. “You’ll get a kick out of this. I prayed.”

“Really? What’s the world coming to these days?”

He smiled at her, his face gentling. Deeply moved by his confession, she laid her hand over his. “Thanks, Graeme. It helped.”

Her head throbbing, she slid down into the boat and shut her eyes. Knowing he was there was enough. She was so tired. She felt more drained than she’d ever felt in her life. She was sore and bruised, her skin was torn and scraped. Every finger ached; every joint felt wrenched from its socket. Her mouth tasted brackish, her eyes stung, her ears rang. Breathing was an effort. She coughed every time she inhaled.

And there was something else about the experience. Something more significant. For the first time in her life, she had relied totally on God. She hadn’t been able to trust in her own plans—there were no plans, no schedule, no checklist. No one had been there to rescue her. No one had told her what to do.

Trust me,
he had whispered in her heart that day in the Bamako market. One day at a time. One minute at a time. And she had.

Wrapped in the warm damp arms of the little boat, rocked by the river, she felt God’s peace fill her. In Bamako, where she had everything planned and organized, she hadn’t been able to hear his voice. But in the middle of a crocodile-infested river, he had spoken to her heart. Through prayer, through impossible circumstances, even through Graeme and his concern, the Holy Spirit was showing her his ways. His plans. Himself.

“Trust me. Trust me alone.”

Letting out a breath, she ran her fingers over her damp cotton skirt. She could feel the amulet beneath her blouse. It was safe. She almost wished she’d lost it in the river. Mungo Park’s beloved Niger.

Though she wanted to sleep, hunger scratched at her stomach with its gnarled fingers. She hauled herself up on her elbows, folded her legs under her, and ran her fingers through the damp tangles of her braid. The comb would have been lost in the river with the knapsack. And Graeme’s notes for his story on Mungo Park were lost, too. If there really were any notes.

It bothered her how easily she trusted this man in the boat. An uncomfortable pattern was developing. Something would remind her of his suspect character—that he had kidnapped her, that he was hunting the amulet and the treasure, that he claimed to do and be things he had never proven. But then she would fall under his spell, and all her uncertainties would fade. She would laugh with him, share food with him, tell him her ideas and listen to his, and pretty soon she would begin to rely on him again. She would trust him.

She’d heard about kidnapping victims who developed relationships with—even obsessive dependencies on—their abductors. Weren’t there stories of lawyers who fell in love with convicts they were defending? who even went so far as to help them escape? Even the Bible related the story of David, who joined up with the Philistines for a while when he was running from Saul.

Tillie mentally shook herself. She wasn’t falling in love with Graeme. And she wouldn’t trust him too far. She couldn’t afford to.

Pulling the wet rubber band from her hair, she watched the sun begin its familiar descent in the African sky. From the pale gold hue of a frangipani blossom, the sun would transform into the bright yellow of ripe bananas and then to the brilliant orange of mango juice. She loved Africa. It was impossible to imagine true happiness anywhere else.

“Are we going to make it to Segou tonight?” Her bobby pins were knotted with twigs and leaves, and it was all she could do to work them out.

Graeme’s glance took in her struggle with her hair, and the corners of his eyes crinkled in silent amusement. “I don’t know. The river’s moving at a snail’s pace, and that spill we took slowed us down. I think we ought to just drift tonight. If we snag, we snag. It’s better than camping out with the crocodiles.”