Listening for Lions (5 page)

“Where will everyone go?” I asked.

“We go back to our
shamba
s. I only stay here to watch over your parents' things.”

“Kanoro, I don't trust the Pritchards.”

“No one trusts them. They sent away all their servants, only keeping in their home two men who would do their bidding. It was those men who came here with the coffin saying it was you.”

“Kanoro, show me the grave.”

“Who would want to look upon her own grave?”

“Show me, Kanoro.”

There next to my parents' grave was a cross with my name: Rachel Sheridan 1906–1919.

“Kanoro,” I said, “I want to go away with you and your people.”

“Oh, child, that can't be.” The wrinkles appeared on his forehead. “The government men in Nairobi would say we
took you away. They would come after us and shut us up in their jail. We would be like animals in a cage.”

Kanoro was right. My plan had been a foolish one with no thought for anyone but myself. There was something else as well. I saw that I had become unlucky. Everyone around me had died. I was thought to have died myself. Like my red hair, I would be seen as dangerous. Much as I wanted to escape the Pritchards, I knew it was impossible. I would go to England, and if the truth were discovered there, even a jail in England would be better than another day with the Pritchards.

“There is no one coming from the mission board, Kanoro. Divide everything among the hospital staff. The pots and pans will be useful, and Father's tools. But Kanoro, I promise I'll come back one day and the hospital will be just as it was. One thing. You must not tell anyone that you saw me. They must think me dead. Now I have to go back to the Pritchards.”

Kanoro said, “You should not have made the trip alone through the bush. I will go back with you.” When he had pulled the thorns from my legs and bandaged my blistered heels, he took up Father's rifle, holding it proudly, and together we retraced my steps with no adventure except for a porcupine that sent up its quills at the sight of us and then waddled away. When the Pritchard house came into view, Kanoro stopped abruptly, as if the house might cast an evil spell on him.

“Rachel, you are like my own child. How can I let you go into that place? The people in there are like buzzards. They will peck at you until nothing is left.”

I tried to comfort him. “Tomorrow I leave for England and I'll never have to see the Pritchards again.” I threw my arms around him.

Kanoro held me for a long moment and then said to me, “However far you go from here, you must carry me with you in your heart. If you are lonely, you must know that every hour I will be thinking of you. If you are among evil people, you must be like the lion, gathering your strength and awaiting your time. That time will come, and when it comes, you will come back to us.”

Though I had little hope, I promised. “I will come back, Kanoro.”

A moment later I was inside the Pritchards' house, where a furious Mrs. Pritchard took me by both arms and began to shake me until my teeth chattered.

“You foolish girl. Where did you sneak off to? We have looked everywhere for you. Has anyone seen you? What were you thinking? You could have ruined everything for us. We rescue you from a miserable orphanage and give you a chance to be someone, and this is the thanks we get.”

Mr. Pritchard freed me. “The girl is back, Emma, and she leaves tomorrow. There is nothing to be gained by such talk.” The threatening look he gave me was worse than any shaking. In a menacing voice he said, “I am sure,
Rachel, that it will not happen again. Now go to your room and tidy yourself for dinner.”

It could not happen again. When I walked into my bedroom, I saw that the window now had bars across it.

M
rs. Pritchard was to accompany me on the train that would take me on the overnight trip from Nairobi to Mombasa, where I would board the ship. For three days I had resisted wearing Valerie's clothes, but now I had to put them on. Mrs. Pritchard herself had altered the clothes to fit me, sitting by the hour, tears dropping onto the silks and linens as she took in seams and shortened hems. Seeing her unhappiness, my dislike began to melt away. I said, “I know how you feel about your daughter. I think of my mother and father all the time.”

She gave me a bitter look. “Older people must expect to die; Valerie was only a child.”

There was no comforting her.

I sat in the train, miserable in the dead girl's clothes with a cold and silent Mrs. Pritchard beside me. Though she had urged me for days to wear her daughter's clothes,
when at last she saw them on me, there was so furious a look of resentment on her face, I was afraid that, as in the story of the shirt woven as a curse by an evil woman, Valerie's clothes would wrap around me and burn me.

As we left Nairobi, we traveled along the Athi River with its thick grasses and herds of animals. After a restless night I awoke to the desolate Taru, an area of grassless land. Africa was hurrying by as if someone were turning the pages of a book too quickly. I was miserable at what I was leaving behind. Even the railway itself had a sad story. When it was being built, many of the men brought from India to work on it were devoured by lions. I felt my own future would be no better.

Mombasa was an island with harbors and ships everywhere you looked. On its eastern shore was the Indian Ocean, which appeared to me to have no ending. We spent the night in a small hotel near the railway station. I shared a room with Mrs. Pritchard. She said it was for economy's sake, but I believe she did not want to let me out of her sight. The great lump beside me in a white nightdress was so frightening, I didn't close my eyes all night. At breakfast Mrs. Pritchard sent back her poached eggs because they were too runny. When new ones appeared, there was a great fuss because the eggs were too hard. As she scolded the poor waiter, I scrunched down in my chair and wished I were invisible.

We took a taxi across the city to the ship, which looked
to me as large as Noah's ark, but Mrs. Pritchard was scornful. “It's little more than a tramp steamer,” she said, “made to carry sisal and coffee, not passengers. The passenger steamers carried troops during the war and are being refitted.”

I was introduced to Miss Limplinger, a governess whose charges had outgrown her, and who was returning to England. Mrs. Pritchard had made arrangements for Miss Limplinger to share my stateroom on the voyage and to watch over me. The woman was tall and so thin that even through her clothes you could make out the sharp angles of elbows and knees. Her eyes were very bright and inquisitive, like a bird hunting among the grasses for insects.

She seemed delighted to have me in her care, as if she missed having children to order about. “Just leave her to me, Mrs. Pritchard,” she said. “I know all about young girls. I can promise you she will be in very good hands.” As if to prove her point, she took a firm grip on my arm.

“I am sure she'll give you no trouble,” Mrs. Pritchard said. She leaned down and gave me a cold kiss. “Good-bye, my dear. Your grandfather's solicitor will cable us when you arrive. Write at once and let us know how your dear grandfather is.” She gave me a long look that made me think of the leopard pouncing upon the little duiker. When the ship pulled out and she became no more than a speck on the shore, I breathed a great sigh of relief.

The harbor was crowded with every kind of boat. There were hundreds of dhows, their sails billowing out in the breeze. Mombasa was a city of traders, and the little boats would sail with their cargos up and down the African coast and even to India. In the distance I could make out Mombasa's ancient coral fort looming over the harbor. In my history lessons I had learned that the fort, built by the Portuguese in the sixteenth century, was the scene of one bloody battle after another. First, all the Portuguese there were killed. When more Portuguese came and took back the fort, all the new Portuguese were killed by the sultan of Zanzibar, and then the Africans got rid of the Arabs and then the Arabs came back until the British took over the fort. Now it was a prison. I felt I was a prisoner myself and wished the fort with its bloody history had not been my last sight of Africa.

A flurry of gulls swooped and shrieked above us. “Those are the same gulls you will see this summer in England,” Miss Limplinger said.

“And then in the fall the gulls will return to Africa?” I asked.

“Yes, indeed,” she said.

I thought the gulls very lucky, for by then the grandfather would have died and I would be in an English orphanage.

On board ship everything was unfamiliar, including myself. I was called Valerie now and asked questions about
my childhood in Africa. I had to choke back any mention of my father and mother, of Kanoro, of the hospital and the Kikuyu, all the things that were dear to me. Some of the passengers had met or heard of the Pritchards, and I had to watch every word I said. Sometimes I had no answer to a question, and then I learned to look very sad and the person who asked the question would apologize: “Of course; you are homesick and I shouldn't have brought all that up.”

I had thought I would have the long voyage to find myself again and to decide how I could tell the grandfather the truth without killing him. Instead I had Miss Limplinger buzzing like a mosquito in my ear. I longed to stand looking out across the wide, empty sea with its hidden creatures just below the surface like wild animals concealed in tall grass, but Miss Limplinger followed me everywhere. She had been told to keep an eye on me, and she would do her duty.

When we took our meals, Miss Limplinger was careful to look about the table to see if there was someone important or aristocratic. Finding such a person, she would grovel and bow and scrape. She would stick to them after dinner when we went into the salon for coffee. I saw that many of the passengers liked being fawned over. She was like the egrets that perch on the backs of the hippos, living on the hippos' lice and pleasing the hippos who found their attentions useful.

Miss Limplinger was anxious to let me know that she was not looked upon as a servant, but considered one of the family. “The Govetts, who employed me, took me everywhere,” she said. To prove her point she was full of gossip about the people she had met. This one was not as well-off as he seemed, that one was distantly related to the husband of the king's wife's sister, another one was dying of some terrible disease. There was much chatter about what all the women wore: “Her skirt well above her ankles!”

I paid no attention to these stories until one afternoon she said, “I once saw your parents in Nairobi at a Government House garden party. I can't be sure, but I do believe you were with them. One doesn't forget ginger hair, although I don't recall you as being so thin. Of course I never for a moment believed the tales of your father being disowned and sent away by your grandfather. That was just malicious talk, I am sure.”

I didn't believe it was malicious talk. Hadn't Mrs. Pritchard almost said as much before she had caught herself? What did that mean? Was the grandfather truly looking forward to my visiting, or was I being forced on him, the first step in the Pritchards' desire to return to England? Would my coming truly make him better, or would this reminder of a son he had had to send away cause him more misery?

After our lunches I would have my one moment of solitude and peace to consider all this. Miss Limplinger
settled onto a deck chair with a book and assigned me the seat next to her, giving me a book to read as well, but after a bit she drifted off to sleep and I was free for an hour to think my own thoughts. On this day, after hearing that Mr. Pritchard might have been sent to Africa as a result of some mischief, I determined to work out a plan for my arrival. I knew Miss Limplinger was to turn me over to the grandfather's solicitor. The moment I was alone with him, I would tell my story. I didn't care if he sent me to an orphanage—all that mattered to me was finding my way back to the truth. Living day after day with a lie was like carrying around a great burden that I longed to set down.

The resolve that I would soon speak the truth was the fragile raft that kept me afloat all those long days upon the sea. And the days were long. All my life I had been free to wander about; now I was imprisoned in a room no larger than a closet with Miss Limplinger hovering over me like a hawk over a pigeon.

She chose my clothes and my food. She showed me fond letters she had received from children who had once been in her charge. I saw that she could not understand why I kept my distance from her, why I did not open my heart to her, but there was a terrible lie between us and I could not reach across it. I thought of confiding in her, but her love of gossip held me back. I was afraid my sad tale would be nothing more than a story she would whisper to her next charge.

Each day I was a little farther from the Africa I loved. Occasionally the ship would dock to take on or put off cargo. We stopped in Alexandria, Egypt. I had read about Egypt's pyramids and Cleopatra and the great ancient library in Alexandria that was burned along with all its irreplaceable books. I longed to see Egypt, if for no other reason than to place my feet on its soil, but Miss Limplinger said the country was unhealthy and full of thieves and we kept to our stateroom. We stopped in Naples, but it was in the middle of the night and I had only a glimpse from our stateroom porthole of Mount Vesuvius at dawn. There was snow on the top of the mountain, and I thought of Mount Kenya and how far away it was.

It was the end of February, and as we approached England, the air became colder and colder and I realized I had no warm coat. When we sat in our deck chairs, we wrapped ourselves in blankets. When Miss Limplinger spoke, the cold air turned her words into little clouds of smoke as if she were a dragon. The day we landed in Southampton, I saw my first snow. It was as if the snow had finally come down from Mount Kenya and was swirling all around us. I could not think what I was doing in so frigid a country. I was as cold inside as out, for my secret lay in my heart like a chip of ice.

“We are passing Portsmouth,” Miss Limplinger said. “And that is Southsea Castle.” She pointed out a great pile of stone in the distance. There was real excitement in
her voice, and I think she was truly happy to return to England.

“Is the war not over?” I asked, for there were battleships everywhere.

“Portsmouth is a naval base,” Miss Limplinger answered. “The town is always crowded with sailors, and a loutish lot they are; however, we will be docking in Southampton.”

Our ship sailed along a great breakwater that must have been a mile long. There were old towers and forts along the shore and, as we reached Southampton, wharf after wharf crowded with every kind of ship and barge.

“The armies of King Henry V boarded their ships here to invade France,” Miss Limplinger said. There was a note of regret in her voice, and I felt sure she was sorry no great fleet was in the harbor about to set off against France.

The grandfather's solicitor, Mr. Grumbloch, was at the dock to meet us. He was dressed all in black, and sitting on his head was a round black hat shaped like an overturned bowl. He peered out at me from thick round glasses, but the odd hat, the black clothes, and the thickness of the glasses could not disguise the bluest eyes I had ever seen. He was like the red and yellow barbet that nests among the low bushes to hide its bright colors.

His first words were “Is that thin coat all you have? Well, I'm not surprised. It is just like your father to leave it to us to clothe you properly.” He thanked Miss Limplinger
and handed her an envelope. From the eager way she took it, I was sure there was money inside, and I understood that she had been paid to care for me and had not done it from any kindness. I had been no more than a package to be handed over for a price. Still I was reluctant to say good-bye to her, for she was my last tie with Africa, but as soon as the envelope was tucked into her purse, she was gone with only a quick farewell.

Mr. Grumbloch took me by the arm. “I had not thought my duties would include clothing a child, but I should be deficient in my responsibilities if I were to let you freeze to death. Come along.”

I was hustled into a large black automobile that reminded me of the big black beetles that scuttled about among the grasses. “Your grandfather has sent Nivers with his car to collect you and take us to Stagsway.” A man in a uniform, whom I took to be Nivers, tried not to stare at me, but his curiosity got the better of him. He was a small man and precise in his way of opening car doors and tucking a blanket around me. There was a streak of gray in his black hair, so he looked a little like a badger. He said, “Welcome to England, Miss Valerie.”

I had just set foot on England and already two people were deceived. I meant to get to the truth at once. As soon as he found out I was an imposter, there would be no more polite greetings of welcome or buying of coats.

When Mr. Grumbloch had settled beside me and had
straightened his hat, which had been knocked to one side in his getting in the car, I said, “I have something I must tell you.”

“I have no time and no wish to hear what it is your parents are asking for now; all that must wait. You must see your grandfather at once or you will not see him alive. He is holding on to his last breath so that he can set eyes on you before he dies. He hopes to find you are not as bad as he fears, and I trust you will not disappoint him.” The blue eyes fastened upon me.

I choked back the truth. It would have to wait. If I told the grandfather upon his deathbed that his son had deceived him and that I was an imposter, I would certainly hasten his death. I would truly be a murderer, just as Mrs. Pritchard had threatened. I would wait, and after his death I would return the coat.