Walking Home (27 page)

Again she made nothing but sense. When had she got so wise?

“Just take a sip from the container and I will finish the rest,” I suggested.

She put her hands over her mouth. “I will only drink once you have emptied the container,” she said, her words muffled.

“You are a very stubborn girl.”

She nodded her head. I couldn’t very well force her to drink, and there wasn’t that much time. We had to make a fire, cook, eat and possibly dig for water before the sun set, and then we had to find a way to sleep in a tree.

“Fine.”

I opened the container, tipped it back and drank. The water tasted so good. I needed it so much. Back and back I tipped the container, until the last drop fell into my mouth.

“You get the wood ready for a fire and I will get the water.”

I grabbed a cup from my bundle and the water container and set off. The lip of the ravine was steep and undercut, but at the very bottom was a thin trickle of water that stained the sand. It wasn’t much, but it was good that I didn’t have to dig. I slid down the side and walked across the sand to the water. It slowly
snaked through the ravine, gathering in small puddles scattered along its route. I didn’t want the sitting water, but that which was moving.

I dropped to my knees, straddling the stream, and dipped the edge of my cup into the thin flow, tipping it ever so slightly so that water could gather at the bottom. I brought the cup up to my face and eyed the contents. It was full of sand but looked clean. I took a little sip—Jata didn’t need to know. It was cool and tasted fine, just a little gritty. If I’d had a basin and enough time, I would have filled it and allowed the sand to settle. But I had neither. I decided to try to pour only the clean sliver at the top of the cup into the water container. Less than a mouthful went from cup to container.

I dug down into the sand in the middle of the stream and then sank the cup up to the rim. It quickly filled with water. I had an idea. I removed my shirt and stretched it over the top of the cup. As I poured, the material caught most of the sand and the water fell into the container. That still didn’t mean it was fit to drink, but it was better. I repeated this process time and time again, until the container was two-thirds full. That was much more than enough for tonight. Tomorrow I’d fill it to the top.

Lugging the container back up the slope, I was surprised to see that Jata had not only prepared the fire but also started cooking our dinner on it.

“It took three matches,” she said. “I am sorry.”

“We still have matches left. Thank you.”

Jata smiled up at me as she stirred the pot. I knew that I was leading, that I was the one caring for her, but she kept giving me reasons to move forward. Even in the darkness, she always gave me hope.

“We will eat and then seek shelter,” I said.

“Where will we sleep tonight?”

I pointed up.

“In the sky?”

“In the tree.”

“We cannot sleep in a tree!” she protested.

“You think we can sleep in the sky but question if we can sleep in a tree? I know that you have never flown like a bird, but I have seen you climb a tree. But first, we eat.”

I tied the end of the blanket in a knot so that it held both Jata and the branch that supported her. She was wrapped up snug in a crook of the tree.

“There you are, as safe as a baby being carried by her mother.”

Almost before the words came out I felt badly for saying them.

“Was I carried like that when I was a baby?” she asked.

“Of course you were. I remember.”

“I wish I could remember more.”

And I wished I could remember less.

“Do you miss our parents?” she asked.

I was going to say “every day,” but I didn’t because that was a lie.

“Every minute. I miss them every minute.” I smiled at her. “Now go to sleep.”

“Will you sleep?”

“I will try, but I will also watch,” I said.

“Watch what?”

“Hopefully my sister sleeping! But if you fall, I will be there to catch you. I will sleep when we rest tomorrow. Then you can watch me and make sure I don’t fall.”

I lowered myself to a branch below Jata. I’d already tied up the blanket with our remaining food to keep it safe from marauding animals. For good measure, I’d also hauled up our water container and crammed it into another crook. I wasn’t sure why I’d bothered, because I couldn’t imagine any animal clever enough to undo the lid and take a drink. But it seemed better to have all of what we owned up in the tree with us.

Below us, the fire continued to burn brightly. I’d taken every last bit of fuel and thrown it in. It provided not just the light to guide our climb but also ongoing protection. Animals feared fire, and this was a good fire. It continued to bathe us in light even high
in the branches. I only wished I could feel the heat. The sky was cloudless, which meant the night was going to get cold.

I settled in my own crook and wrapped my arms around the branch, locking them together on the other side. There wouldn’t be much sleep for me. There
couldn’t
be much sleep for me. I closed my eyes and tried to remember and to forget.

My eyes popped open and my whole body jerked as I gripped the branch even tighter. I’d done that same thing dozens of times since drifting off. I had no idea how long I’d been asleep this last time. It could have been two seconds or two minutes or longer. The fading fire gave the only hint of the passage of time. It was nothing more now than a few embers throwing out more shadows than light.

Most of the light was coming from above. With no clouds, the millions of stars in the sky all gave their small token of light. Those and the half moon gave shading to the ground. The moon changed each night. It was more and more and more until it became full, and then it was less and less and less until it vanished completely, only to repeat again. The stars were different—they stayed the same. They could be covered by clouds, but they still remained in place. They were that way when I was young, and they would be that way when I was
old—and even when my grandchildren were old. In this tree, at the camp, at our homestead near Eldoret—they were always the same. And I was sure they would be the same in Kikima. I just wished that I could find out soon.

I looked up at Jata. I couldn’t tell if she was asleep, but I could tell that she was motionless, at rest. My little star in the sky above my head.

Just then, there was a sound below, so soft that it could have come from inside my ear. The fire crackled, one of the embers calling out in pain. Before the fire at the church, I would never have thought about a fire that way—that wood tossed into the flames would cry out in pain. Now I did.

A large shadow shifted on the ground and my heart seemed to stop beating. There was the unmistakable outline of a lion! It edged forward silently, more shadow than substance, caught in the glowing light of the smoldering fire. It moved hesitantly, alternating between sniffing the ground and looking ahead. It had appeared from the ravine where I’d gathered our water, and I was sure that it was following my path. It was following its nose, tracking, hunting—for me.

As it approached, it grew in size. It was male with a tremendous mane framing its head. He moved warily forward, then stopped before reaching the fire. He was cautious, perhaps even afraid of the glowing embers. I
was sure a full fire would have sent him running. That thought was calming—lions
were
afraid of fire. That gave me more certainty that my other piece of knowledge—that lions couldn’t climb trees—was also correct. Jata and I were safe up here. I just wish I
felt
safe up here.

The lion was leading with his nose, searching, being pulled forward by the scent that I had left behind. He circled around the embers until he came to the spot where we had sat to eat. He started snuffling, drawing in scent so strong that he appeared to be not just smelling the air but tasting it.

He continued in a wide track around the fire, following the invisible trail until he came to the base of the tree. His ears and nostrils twitched, and then ever so slowly he raised his head until he was looking up at me and I was looking down at him. The light caught his eyes—glowing green eyes unlike any color I’d ever seen before—and those eyes were looking right at me.

His tail swished back and forth, almost like another living animal. Did a swishing tail mean the same as it did with the cats in our village? Was the lion angry? And if he was, was the anger directed at me or at the tree that blocked his path to me?

Slowly I reached for the club I’d taken from the man who’d attacked us when we were with Omolo. It wasn’t much, but it was the only thing I had. I held it in front of me. The tree trunk, height and this small piece
of wood were the only things that stood between me and the lion. And then there was a little more height and one more obstacle between it and Jata. That was me. If he ate me, would that be enough? Would he leave her alone?

Suddenly the lion placed both front paws on the side of the tree and started up the trunk! I was so afraid I couldn’t scream, and it happened so fast I couldn’t react. Higher and higher, paw above paw, he stretched his full length toward me … and then stopped! He was standing on his back legs and stretching toward the sky, but he wasn’t able to climb. Then he reached up and took a swat at me with his gigantic paw, missing my feet by a few centimeters!

I struggled farther up my branch and knocked over the water container in the process. It tumbled over and flew past me, hitting the lion right on the tip of his nose! The massive cat roared out in pain, dropped down and ran away, vanishing into the darkness!

“Muchoki!” Jata called out.

I tried to respond but no words came.

“Muchoki!” she screamed again.

I swallowed hard to try to make words come forth.

“I’m here. Everything is fine.”

“I thought I heard the roar of a lion,” she cried out.

I didn’t want her to know what had just happened. “How would you even know what a lion sounds like?
You have never seen one or heard one roar. You must have been dreaming.”