Promise the Night (2 page)

“Simi, you are the most useless pet.” She kicked at the baboon and chased him back under the bed, a favorite hiding place. “I don’t know why Daddy doesn’t just skin you for a blanket. Buller is worth a hundred of you.”

She pulled on her usual clothes: a man’s shirt tucked inside a pair of khaki shorts cinched tight with one of her father’s belts. For warmth, she tied a blanket around her shoulders. She pulled on her boots and strapped her father’s machete to her belt. Its long blade was useful to clear underbrush, but she had another use for it today. If she found that leopard, she would need more than her little knife to protect herself.

Opening the door slowly, so as not to attract attention, she was relieved to see her father striding down to the stables, barking out orders. She hugged the outer wall of the hut until she was out of sight and headed into the woods.

The forest was forbidden territory. Her father would be furious. She glanced back; she could still see the huts of the farm behind her. But after a few more steps, the shadowy trees and dense underbrush engulfed her.

It was easy enough to find their path from the night before, because the leaves were still bruised. She followed the trail deeper into the forest until she reached a small clearing and the blood trail disappeared. All around her, she heard the forest beginning to stir. She didn’t know where to go next.

The chittering of the monkeys mocked her failure.

Into the glade, she whispered, “Buller, I’m sorry. I was stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”

The sun rose higher and the night shadows receded. She would have to return before her father noticed she was gone. But how could she go back without Buller? She perched on a rotten tree trunk and sank her head in her hands.

The hairs on the back of her neck began to tingle. Something was watching her. Had the leopard come for her? She lifted her head slowly and peeked through her fingers. Standing at the edge of the clearing, not ten feet from her, was a native boy. She’d often watched packs of boys like this marching on the road. The red cloth of his shuka, the toga the natives wore, was a like a splash of blood against the green leaves.

Beryl swallowed hard, dropped a hand to her machete, and forced herself to look him straight in the eye. His face looked as if it was chiseled in polished black stone. A fluttering of a startled bird in the underbrush made her suddenly appreciate how far she was from home.

“Who are you?” she asked.

The boy stepped into the clearing, a patch of light shining on his shaved skull. He stared at her and shook his head quizzically.

Beryl switched to Swahili, a language she had spoken since she was a toddler. “Why do you spy on me?”

He answered, “I am not spying. I am looking for a foolish white girl who has gotten lost in the forest.”

He was about the same age as she, Beryl realized, and her fear left as quickly as it had arrived. “Then you must be looking for someone else, because I’m not lost. I’m looking for my dog.”

“Why was your head in your hands?” he asked. “Is your dog hiding there?”

“I’m thinking. You wouldn’t understand.”

Suddenly he grinned, and his bright white teeth transformed his face into that of a possible ally.

“My name is Kibii. I am from the Nandi tribe,” he said.

“Beryl,” she answered with a small smile of her own. “I’m British.”

His mouth shaped the unfamiliar name and he tried a few times to pronounce it. “I’ll call you Beru,” he said finally. “You are the daughter of the Captain; he said your hair was the color of a lion.” He reached over and with one finger touched her hair, which lay wild and tangled around her shoulders. Beryl didn’t flinch;
ever since she could remember, Africans had wanted to touch her blond hair.

“My father sent you?” she asked.

“He said you were in the woods, even though he had forbidden you to go. It was Arap Maina who sent me to find you.”

“Who is Arap Maina?” she asked.

“My father. He has come to work for your father, Captain Cluttabucki.”

“Clutterbuck,” Beryl corrected. “How did you find me?” If Kibii had found her so easily, perhaps he could help her track Buller.

“You left a trail like a wounded warthog.” Kibii stood even taller. “I am a hunter.”

“Can you find my dog? A leopard took him last night.”

“It happens.” The boy shrugged. “But it is only a dog. In my village, we have many dogs.”

“Buller is not just a dog,” Beryl said. “He is my only friend.”

The boy looked at her for a long time without blinking. “Then I will find him,” he said finally. “You lost the trail here?” he asked, looking carefully around the clearing.

Beryl nodded. Kibii headed into the underbrush for about ten yards. Beryl stood up and brushed the bits of rotten tree from her shorts. Remembering what her father had said, she didn’t dare hope too much. She spoke to his back. “Do you see anything?”

“Ssshh,” Kibii said, without looking at her. “You talk too much.” He began moving about the forest, spiraling out from their starting point in wider circles.

“Blood,” he said, showing her a speck on the ground. He loped into the forest, his feet making no sound. Beryl followed as best she could.

He finally paused along a stream. “I have heard elephants that run more quietly,” he said, frowning. “A hunter as loud as you would starve.”

Beryl could feel her face redden, like a sunburn. “I’ve never hunted,” she admitted.

“Of course not. You are a girl,” he said. He knelt down and touched an area of churned-up mud. “That is your leopard. He is still dragging your friend.” He seemed to read the ground as easily as Beryl’s father read the racing forms.

Kibii followed the stream and Beryl trailed behind him. She looked around curiously; she had never been this deep in the forest. Brightly colored birds flew out of the bushes, cawing loudly. A stick cracked. She whirled around to face…nothing.

“Beru, we are close,” Kibii said, brushing aside tree branches overhanging the water. “Here!”

“Buller!”

The dog lay on his side in the mud, his snout near the water’s edge. His jaw was pierced through. Beryl guessed the leopard had tried to crack it in two with its sharp teeth. There were long gashes in his black-and-white coat, and his fur was caked with blood. He wasn’t moving.

“He’s dead!” Beryl cried.

Kibii shook his head. “The dead don’t bleed,” he said, pointing to the blood oozing from a cut on Buller’s cheek.

The dog’s eyes flickered open and his tail thumped weakly. His eyes closed again. Dashing away her tears, Beryl closed her own eyes in thanks.

“His injuries are very bad.” Kibii shook his head. “You should kill him now—he would suffer less.”

“Buller is tough,” Beryl said, her voice trembling. She cleared her throat and began again. “Help me save him.” Scooping water in her hand, she began to wash away some of the dried blood from the dog’s snout.

“It is a waste of time,” Kibii said.

“Kibii, please.” She laid her hand on his forearm. He started, like one of her father’s horses when a fly landed on its flank, but then he relaxed.

“Wait here.” He was swallowed up by the thick underbrush in seconds.

Beryl cradled Buller’s head in her lap and stroked his favorite spot behind his ears. He moaned, and for the first time Beryl knew the sound of agony. “It’s all right, boy,” she said. “Hold on.”

The forest seemed suddenly quiet. She looked at the thick greenery that surrounded them as far as she could see. What if Kibii didn’t return? She couldn’t get Buller home alone. But no sooner did she doubt him than Kibii emerged from the underbrush, holding a bunch of green leaves.

“What is that?” she asked.

“My father taught me healing. This plant is good dawa,” he said.

She nodded. “Good medicine.”

He packed Buller’s worst wounds with the leaves. Then he pulled Beryl’s blanket from around her shoulders and wrapped it around the dog. With deft hands, he fashioned a sling so that he and Beryl could share the burden. Beryl watched with growing admiration; he had skills she had only dreamed about. Sweating in her thin shirt, she staggered as she helped Kibii carry Buller’s sixty pounds out of the forest.

“Hold on, boy,” she whispered.

Kibii, in the lead, glanced back, but didn’t say a word. She wondered if he understood any English.

Beryl had completely lost her bearings, so when they emerged from the forest she was startled to see her father’s compound only a few hundred yards away.

“Quick!” she said. “To my hut. We can get Buller inside before Daddy sees us.”

But they had covered only half the distance to the hut when they heard an angry voice.

“It’s my father,” Beryl said.

“And mine.” Kibii stopped dead in his tracks, forcing Beryl to do the same.

Buller whimpered. Beryl took a firmer grip on the sling.

The Captain, who was of modest height, looked taller as he strode over. Beneath his short-cropped hair, his face was red with anger. “Beryl Clutterbuck, I’ll have your hide for this.”

Following him was an African man who looked like a grown-up version of Kibii. He was tall and thin, with skin like polished leather. Unlike Kibii’s, his skull was wrinkled. A shuka was draped elegantly around his body. He wore dozens of necklaces made of wire, and earrings that dangled down to his shoulders. Around his upper arms, iron bracelets pressed into his skin.

“Daddy, we found Buller!” Beryl said.

“Did I not forbid you to go in the forest alone?” her father asked.

“I know, but Buller…”

“No buts. Do you have any idea how dangerous it is out there?” With his thumb and forefinger, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. Beryl was startled to see how tired he looked. “I don’t have time to worry about you gallivanting in the woods.”

“But we found him! I couldn’t follow the trail, but then Kibii helped…”

Her father’s fists clenched and unclenched as though he were just keeping from striking her. Beryl fell silent.

“How badly hurt is he?” he asked. “Because it would be just like you to risk your life for a lost cause.” He unfolded a bit of cloth and looked at Buller’s injuries. He whistled under his breath. “I’ve half a mind to put him down, just to teach you a lesson.”

Beryl gulped. She stared at her father and hoped the tears would stay behind her eyes; the Captain hated weakness. Only strength could save Buller now.

Kibii whispered to his father in a rapid language Beryl couldn’t quite understand. Arap Maina stepped forward. “May I look at the animal, Captain?” he asked, very respectfully.

The Captain gave permission in his clipped Swahili. “Go ahead, Arap Maina. I think it is hopeless, but my daughter loves the animal.”

Beryl and Kibii lay Buller on the ground. Beryl held her breath as Arap Maina checked the wounds. He straightened up and faced Captain Clutterbuck.

“Sahib, with care, the dog will live. Your daughter need not be sad.”

Beryl exhaled.

“Good, she can take him with her to England,” the Captain said. He held up a hand to stop Beryl’s howl of protest. “Beryl,” he said in English, “if you keep running wild, you’re going to get yourself killed.”

“I want to stay here with you,” she pleaded. “You need me. I’m your best stable lad. Who else can ride like me?”

“I can’t run the farm and keep you out of trouble at the same time.” He was implacable.

“But Daddy, this is my home. Please don’t make me go…”

Kibii whispered to his father again and Arap Maina interrupted Beryl’s pleas. “Sahib, perhaps I can care for your daughter?”

“You were hired to supervise the men,” the Captain said with a frown. “Not to be a blasted nanny to a little girl.”

“I’m nearly eleven!” Beryl fell silent at her father’s look.

“I have come here to work,” said Arap Maina, “but also to teach the totos, the children of the tribe, the ways of the Nandi. I can teach your daughter as well.”

“Daddy, I’d be safe with him. You wouldn’t have to worry anymore.” Beryl wanted to jump up and down with excitement, but she dared not fidget while her father considered Arap Maina’s offer.

“She wouldn’t be a nuisance?” her father asked slowly.

“No, sahib. The children of our tribe are just as likely to get into trouble.” Arap Maina glared at Kibii, who dared to laugh. “My son says she has the tread of a water buffalo, but she learns quickly. And she is a loyal friend.”

The Captain stared at Beryl, taking in the bloodstained shirt and the cuts and scratches on her bare legs. “Arap Maina, I accept your offer. Since her mother left, she has been nothing but a worry to me.”

Beryl’s heart suddenly felt like lead. Her father’s thoughts and eyes were already wandering down the hill, where the gristmill was.
Half the farm’s income came from grinding maize, but Beryl could see the wheel had stopped. The native workers were beginning to drift away to other tasks.