The Unlikely Allies
Read The Unlikely Allies Online
Authors: Gilbert Morris
© 2005 by Gilbert Morris
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
Ebook edition created 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners.
ISBN 978-1-4412-7060-3
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
Most Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version ®. NIV ®. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.© Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide.
www.zondervan.com
Some Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
Cover illustration by Bill Graf
Cover design by Melinda Schumacher
To Gale Towne—
Many years have gone since we were all a clan in Forrest City, and there are many empty places. But the memory lingers on, and one day we’ll all sit down at the Master’s table together.
Here’s to all the Gilberts, Gale, and especially you!
CONTENTS
12. When the Heavens Are Falling
20. “We’ll Hang Her in the Square”
CHAPTER ONE
The Calling
Lifting its head suddenly and making a quick half-turn, the black-maned lion’s nostrils swelled as it sniffed the air. It froze, jowls dripping blood from the wildebeest it had been feeding on, golden eyes glittering in the bright African sun. Its body was one long coil of hard muscle, a killing machine. As the wind stirred the long grasses of the veldt, the beast crouched and began advancing toward a stand of tall grasses fifty yards away.
Mallory Winslow tried to stay absolutely still as she crouched low in the grass, unarmed and defenseless against one of the largest lions she had ever seen. The lion padded by noiselessly, like a tawny ghost, so close she could see the powerful muscles rippling under the hide. She had been close to lions many times before and had even killed one once, but then she’d had a powerful rifle in her hands and had been accompanied by her father and two other hunters.
Even so, she was not alone. She glanced at Ubo, the Masai warrior crouched at her left hand, his ever-present spear in his hand. Just the sight of him gave her confidence, for he was the pride of the Masai warriors. His spear was his most precious possession, which he had carefully anointed with animal fat and polished until it gleamed. Two black ostrich feathers were attached to its tip with a string of beads.
Mallory felt a touch from Ubo, and she knew he was saying silently,
I am here. Do not be afraid. You are a daughter of the Masai!
The lion froze and stared at them for what seemed a long time. Then suddenly the lion coughed deep in its chest, turned, and ambled back toward the carcass of the wildebeest.
Again Mallory felt the touch of Ubo’s hand, and she glanced at him. With his head he signaled a silent retreat. Mallory followed him for nearly half a mile. Finally Ubo stopped, planted the butt of his broad-headed spear in the ground, and turned to the young woman.
“That lion is beautiful,” he said in the Masai tongue.
“Yes, Ubo.”
Mallory studied Ubo’s tall, lithe figure. Masai warriors had been known throughout their history as absolutely fearless. Visitors to the Masai country were always impressed by their intelligence and beauty. Ubo stood several inches over six feet and was as lean as a panther. He wore a single garment, a red tunic with one strap over his right shoulder. His inky black hair had been dyed with ocher and lay in tiny rows arranged neatly on his head. Around his forehead was a string of beads, red and white and blue, meticulously made by his sweetheart. His earlobes had been elongated and decorated with tiny beads, and a chain of the same material hung around his neck. He had coated his legs with ocher mixed with fat and, while it was still wet, had drawn intricate patterns.
“I thought he was going to charge, Ubo.”
“So did I, but you were not afraid.”
Mallory smiled, looking up into his deep brown eyes. “I am never afraid. Not with my friend Ubo to protect me.”
Ubo took in the young woman who stood before him. As always, he marveled at her, for she was not like other women. He had known her since she was a child. Mallory Anne Winslow had jet-black hair and dark violet eyes, a color Ubo had never seen in anyone else. She had an olive complexion, oval face, and a wide mouth. She was very tall for a woman, a trait she had inherited from her father, John Winslow. Her violet eyes and black hair came from her mother, Jeanine. She was now twenty-two years old, and Ubo remembered the time
she had talked him into letting her accompany the warriors of his tribe on a lion hunt. No woman was ever permitted, and even now Ubo could not understand how she had finally gotten him to agree to it. He smiled a gentle, thoughtful smile and shook his head. “How is it, daughter, that you can get me to do anything you like?”
Humor gleamed in Mallory’s eyes, and she turned her head to one side, a manner she had when she was amused. “You have to let me have my own way because I’m such a good child.”
Ubo laughed deep in his chest. “I remember when you were a little girl, all skinny and thin, but you thought you were too tall.”
Mallory smiled at the memory. “I was ashamed to be so tall. I thought a woman should be small.”
“A woman should be as God has made her. He made you tall, and I remember once I threatened to cane you if you didn’t stand straight.”
“I remember. I think you would have done it too.”
Ubo’s eyes clouded with sadness, and he said, “Come. It is time to go.”
As the two made their way back toward the compound, Mallory surveyed the African landscape. This was all she had ever known, except for one visit to the United States when she was fourteen. This was her world—the twisted trees, the vistas of space, the herds of animals that shook the hard-packed earth like thunder as they raced across it. She had learned all the names of the beasts, the birds, and the vegetation from the tall Masai who walked beside her, adjusting his steps to hers.
“What is it like, this place to which you go?” Ubo asked.
“Norway? Why, it’s altogether different from Kenya.”
“Different how, daughter?”
“It’s very cold there much of the year. It snows, and the waters are all covered with ice.”
“Tell me again about the snow and the ice.”
Mallory had tried before to explain snow and ice to Ubo, yet she herself had only seen pictures. Her one visit to the States had taken place in the summer. There were no adequate words in the Masai language to convey
cold.
There were many words for heat, but cold was a foreign concept—at least the kind of cold that freezes water. She was good at languages and had picked up Masai simply by spending time with the Masai people. She had learned French and German in school, as well as Latin at her father’s insistence, and during the last two years she had learned to speak Norwegian with Anna Jorgensen, a missionary from Norway.
“I do not understand this cold land you speak of,” Ubo said. “Are there any lions there?”
“No. Not a one.”
“Then how do warriors prove their courage?”
“I don’t think they do. Not the way the Masai think of it.”
“And what is the name of the people you will go to tell about Jesus God?”
“They are called Lapps.”
“Tell me about them.”
“Well, let’s see. . . . They live in the very coldest part of the country, and they keep cattle for their livelihood.”
“Oh!” Ubo said, delighted. “That is just what we do. Ubo own many cattle—wealthy man!”
“Yes, but their cattle are different, Ubo. I’ve seen pictures. They’re smaller than your cattle, with big antlers, and they’re called
reindeer.
The Lapps keep herds of them, and they eat them and use their hides to make their clothing and tents.”
“Do they mix their blood with milk for their drink?”
“I doubt it.” Mallory laughed at her friend. “I think only the Masai do that.”
As the compound came into view, a wave of sadness washed over Mallory at the realization that she would be unlikely to see this dear friend of hers for many years. “Don’t forget me, Ubo.”
He laid his hand on the young woman’s head—a very
unusual gesture for him. “Not while the rivers flow! You go to tell people about Jesus. I will pray for you—and you must pray for Ubo and for your Masai family.”
“I will every day, Ubo.” When he removed his hand, she simply whispered, “Good-bye,” then turned and walked away.
Ubo watched her go, knowing that he was losing something precious out of his life. He had learned to love this young woman, and it had been Mallory Winslow who had led him to worship Jesus—something that the other missionaries had failed to do. As she disappeared inside the walls of the mission compound, he walked away, his shoulders bowed with grief.
****
“Mallory—here you are!”
Mallory had seen Paul Joubert’s vehicle parked in front of the main building of the compound. She knew he would be there—and she knew she had to talk with him—but now as he came toward her, she wished he hadn’t come.
Paul approached her with a sober look on his square face. He was not a tall man and was stocky and muscular. He was an Afrikaner, a man of twenty-five whose fair skin was sunburned, as usual. He put out his hand to greet her, and when she took it, he enclosed both of hers. “I’ve been waiting for you for two hours. Where have you been?”
“Oh, I just wanted to take one more look around before I left.” Mallory shook her head and added wistfully, “I’m going to miss this place.”