Promise the Night (19 page)

His daughter, Margaret, trailed behind her bulky father, almost hopping with excitement at seeing Beryl. She waited for the adults to walk away and then rushed up to Beryl, who was sitting on the edge of a trough pulling off her sweaty riding boots, followed by her dirty socks.

“Hello, Beryl.” Margaret looked down at Beryl’s bare feet with a frown crinkling her pale forehead.

“Margaret,” Beryl replied.

“I thought you’d never get here,” she said. “You haven’t been here in almost a year.”

Beryl said indifferently, “You could always visit us.”

Margaret shook her head, “Oh, no. My mother would never permit it.”

“Why not?” Beryl asked.

“She says your household is irregular.” Margaret sounded puzzled, as though she were parroting an adult conversation she hadn’t understood.

“What does that mean?” Beryl asked warily.

“I don’t know.” Margaret twirled around, making her skirt flare. “Do you like my new dress?” She wore a frilly white tea dress and a straw hat with another white ribbon around the crown, carefully protecting her skin from the sun.

Mrs. Elkington often said that Margaret and Beryl could be twins, since they were both tall with long blond hair. But Beryl’s hair was a wild mess, while Margaret’s was neatly plaited with white ribbons.

“It’s only last year’s fashion,” Margaret said proudly.

“It’s very nice,” Beryl lied.

“I wish we could get the latest styles more quickly—it takes forever!”

“Why do you care about what’s fashionable two continents away?”

“You don’t know anything, Beryl.”

“I know that fashion is stupid.” Beryl started toward the house.

“Didn’t you bring shoes?” Margaret asked.

“Why?” Beryl asked. She looked down at her stained and callused feet. “I always walk barefoot. You couldn’t stalk a warthog with your squeaky boots.”

“Why would I…Never mind, Beryl. I don’t know why I bothered. Come have tea; I baked shortbread and gingersnaps.”

After the long ride, the thought of cakes and biscuits set Beryl’s mouth to watering, so she willingly followed Margaret behind their house. Beryl always laughed when she saw their garden. Mrs. Elkington had tried to create an English garden with white-painted lawn furniture and a bone china tea set. The illusion worked, until you looked beyond the patch of cultivated grass that needed hand watering from the well twice a day in the dry season. Africa didn’t go away just because you pretended it wasn’t there.

The men gathered in a circle around her father. The Captain chuckled at one of Mr. Jim’s jokes. Next to Mr. Jim’s cannonball shape, the Captain looked like a white Nandi warrior, straight as a spear. Beryl sidled over to listen. They were talking solemnly of politics in faraway England, the price of grain, and the prospects for the Nairobi St. Leger horse race. The few women present were fussing about a table covered in blindingly white linen. Beryl examined the treats they were arranging on platters, pretending not to notice how the adult women were looking her over and exchanging knowing glances.

Margaret began pouring tea from a silver pot and offering one lump or two of sugar to the guests. Beryl hovered, waiting for her sweets so she could escape. Even though the party was outside, she found it hard to breathe. The conversation, the manners, even the bone china seemed to suck away her air. She practically grabbed a plate out of Margaret’s hands and backed quickly away, mumbling her thanks. Reaching the veranda, she edged around the corner. Out of sight of the others, she shoved the pastries in her mouth. Licking
her lips, she took a good look around.

The Elkington farm was at the edge of the Kikuyu Reserve. The country looked different here. There was no forest, just plains. Beryl began to explore, her body carving its way through the hazy air like the sharp edge of her knife. As she ran through a stand of trees, her feet crunched the dead cicadas on the ground. What she found on the other side stopped her in her tracks.

Paddy the lion was sprawled there without a care in the world.

As lions go, he was quite small. But the last time she had faced a lion, Arap Maina and Tepli had been there. And they had nearly died. Paddy was only a few yards away; nothing compared to the distance he could leap if he chose. She stared at his black mane and his rusty red fur. She remembered stroking that fur when he was a cub.

“Remember me, Paddy?” she whispered. “We used to be friends.”

He lifted his large head and stared at Beryl through his heavy-lidded yellow eyes. The only sound she heard was the thumping of his tail on the dry ground. Beryl fought to control the panic welling up in her stomach.

Very casually, almost as if she were scratching an itch, she reached down to her calf and pulled her knife out of its sheath. Her father’s description of a tame lion, “untrustworthy,” hung in the haze. Paddy shimmered in the waves of heat. She took careful, measured steps and started to walk past him.

To show Paddy that she was not afraid, she began to sing a marching song that Arap Maina had taught her. She sang in Swahili, so Paddy would be sure to understand.

Kali coma simba sisi

A sikari yoti ni udari!

Fierce like the lion are we,

Warriors, all are brave.

Perhaps she imagined it, but the tuft at the end of Paddy’s weighty tail seemed to beat time with her song. Her voice cracking with the strain of sounding braver than she felt, she went past him, up the hill, out of his line of sight.

Once on the other side of the hill, she bent over, breathing deeply to settle her stomach. She had been lucky, she thought, as she replaced her knife in its sheath. Looking out over the hot and dry horizon, she noticed that there was no wind to stir the grass. For all its teeming life, Africa was often silent, as it was that day.

Beryl began to practice running on the balls of her feet, quietly, as Tepli had taught her. Suddenly, she heard a low growl behind her. She whirled around. Paddy raced up the hill toward her, making hardly any noise. He gathered his haunches and leapt. Beryl went down under his massive paws as easily as if she were a gazelle. His large fangs sank into the flesh of her right leg.

Paddy lifted his head and slammed Beryl onto the earth. Beryl opened her mouth to scream, but her cry was ground into the dirt. Paddy’s musky smell blocked everything else. His weight settled on her back; she could feel the claws of his hind paws behind her neck. An immense roar became her whole world.

From very far away, she could hear the voices of men. Bishon Singh was shrieking for help. Mr. Jim’s shouts were punctuated with the whistling crack of his kiboko.

Paddy’s teeth slipped out of Beryl’s calf as he turned his heavy head to look at the intruder. The pain in her leg stabbed like a knife. Her body shook with the rumbling of his angry growl. Suddenly, his claws were pushing off Beryl’s body as he abandoned his prey and faced the new enemy.

Beryl dared to open her eyes in time to see Mr. Jim rush headlong at Paddy. But Paddy didn’t back down. Beryl struggled to stand on her throbbing leg. Her head swam. Suddenly Bishon Singh’s hands were on her, scooping her off the ground. He threw her over his shoulder and started running.

As she bounced, she could see Mr. Jim and Paddy circling each other like duelists. Paddy roared his terrible roar. To Beryl’s surprise, Mr. Jim lost his nerve. He dropped the whip and clambered up the nearest tree.

Then Bishon Singh carried her away and all was nothingness.

“So what happened next?” Beryl asked Bishon Singh. She lay in a soft bed in a room with white organza curtains. Her wounds were bandaged, and her head was befuddled with liberal doses of whiskey administered to numb the pain.

Bishon Singh dipped his head so low that Beryl feared his massive turban might tumble off. “Miss Beryl, I was happy with the duty of advising your father that you had been moderately eaten by the large lion. Your father returned very fast. But the large lion has not returned at all.”

The next day, Margaret came in to change Beryl’s bandages.

“Hello, Margaret,” Beryl said cheerfully. “How’s Paddy?”

“They didn’t find him until yesterday,” she said. “But only after he killed a cow, a horse, and a bullock.”

Beryl burst out laughing. “I’ve always thought that meat you hunted yourself tasted better.”

“You don’t understand, Beryl.” Margaret looked up from Beryl’s leg, where she was unwinding the bandages. Her eyes were red from weeping. “Papa says he has to stay in a cage now. Forever!”

Beryl was silent, remembering how she felt when Miss Le May locked her in her hut.

Margaret went on, “And it’s all your fault!”

“My fault?” Beryl asked, suddenly angry. “I was mauled!”

“You know better than to tempt Paddy like that—running past him like a rabbit in those bare feet. He was a good lion until you came.”

Beryl started to protest, but stopped. If she hadn’t been so reckless, would Paddy have attacked?

Margaret finished unwrapping Beryl’s leg. She looked down at the assortment of punctures. “It’s only a scratch,” she sniffed. “It’s not like you won’t be able to walk.”

Beryl sat up and looked down at the ugly red wounds. “Are you insane? Paddy tried to eat me!”

“And thanks to you, he’ll die in a cage!” And to Beryl’s surprise, Margaret burst into tears and ran howling out of the room.

A few days later, Beryl was well enough to ride home. She followed Paddy’s plaintive roar to find the noble beast imprisoned in a too-small cage behind the stables. When Paddy saw Beryl, he stopped roaring and stared at her with dulled eyes.

Beryl’s own eyes filled with tears as she saw that he no longer looked at her as prey. “I’m sorry, Paddy,” she whispered. “I know you were just taking your chance to be a wild lion.”

“His only chance, as it turns out.” The Captain came up behind her. “Jim Elkington promises to keep him locked up for good.”

Beryl felt a pang in her chest. “Oh, Daddy, he couldn’t help attacking me—it’s in his nature.”

“Just as it is in yours to risk your neck. Well, no more. I’m clipping your wings.”

As though the cage door had clanged behind her, Beryl whirled around to face her father. “What do you mean?”

“You’re going away to school. I can’t trust you to keep out of trouble if you stay up here.”

“Did Emma…” Beryl began angrily.

“Beryl—you brought this on yourself.” The steel in her father’s voice silenced her. “You could easily have been killed last month, last week, two days ago. No argument. You go to Nairobi as soon as Emma can get you packed.”

They mounted their horses. Beryl thought furiously as they rode. They had covered several miles before she spoke again. “Daddy, I don’t need to go to school.”

“Beryl, the subject is closed.”

“I want to stay up here.”

“No.”

The horses clip-clopped for half a mile or so before she tried again.

“Daddy, I’m not my mother to be frightened away, or Emma to cower in the house. I want to be your partner on the farm.”

“You’re too young,” he said automatically. Then he did a double take. “How old are you now?”

“I don’t keep track,” Beryl answered. This wasn’t the time to remind him that she was only twelve. Another birthday had come and gone without anyone at Green Hills Farm, including Beryl, taking notice.

She went on, “But I’ll tell you one thing: If I were a Nandi girl, I could be married now.”

“If you were a Nandi girl, I wouldn’t have to worry about you getting into trouble.” The Captain went on, and his voice was suddenly bleak, “You could have been killed by that lion.”

“What if I gave up hunting?” Beryl offered.

“Beryl, it’s not enough. I have a reputation to worry about. It makes me look eccentric if you don’t get an education.” His tone was final.

Beryl wondered if she could salvage anything. “How much education do I need?” she asked. “I don’t want to go to university— I want to stay in Africa and help you run the farm.”

“You’ll need more mathematics if you are to help me with the books.” It was a tiny crack in his resolve—Beryl wasted no time driving in a wedge.

“So, three months of arithmetic and I’d be ready.”

“Two years,” he countered.

“Six months should be plenty. I’ll study hard.”

“One year, and that’s as low as I go—Emma will insist on that much.”

“Agreed. A year.”

“But if you don’t last a year, I’ll…” The Captain trailed off,
trying to think of the most awful punishment he could devise. Finally his eyes lit up: “I’ll send you to your mother in England!”

Swallowing hard, Beryl nodded.

During the rest of the ride, Beryl had time to consider the bargain she had made. Her taunting of Paddy had cost her a year of schooling—but the lion would live out the rest of his life in a cage. They had both paid for her folly with their freedom.

LOCATION: Off the coast of Nova Scotia