A Touch of Betrayal (13 page)

“Well, I—”

“The world’s upside-down now, see? You’re in Africa, the Southern Hemisphere, the Dark Continent. In Africa, darkness is light.” He spread his arms to encompass the glittering heavens. “And light—” he snapped off the flashlight again—“is darkness.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Am I?”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m
different
.
You’re
crazy. My seven socks have driven you crazy. Africa has driven you crazy. You’re the one who’s crazy, Miss Prescott.”

As drums and chanting filled the night air, Alexandra stopped just outside the wall of dried thorn brush that formed a protective barrier around the Maasai
kraal
. She didn’t want this twisted conversation. She didn’t want this primitive bunch of Africans. She didn’t want this frustrating, challenging, stubborn American who thought he knew everything. She wanted normalcy—her nice, clean condominium and her silver Volvo, her tidy bank account, her sleek office and leather portfolio, and her orderly schedule. She just wanted to go home.

Dear God,
she breathed in prayer,
take me out of this place. Please help me get back where things are normal. And please, please make this infuriating man shut up!

“Coming into the ballroom, Miss Prescott?” he said, holding out a hand. As she reluctantly took his fingers, he gave her a polite bow. “May I have the first dance?”

Alexandra walked into the
kraal
and stopped in disbelief. She had been to dances—plenty of them. She had danced at her high school prom. She had danced at her debut into Dallas society. She had danced at charity balls, wedding receptions, gallery openings, and galas. But she had never seen anything like the sight that greeted her just inside the thorn fence.

The women appeared to be wearing their brightest togas and all their beads. The men had on their loincloths. They faced each other in two long rows—men on one side and women on the other. Then they leaped high into the air to the rhythm of the song.

“It’s like something out of a Tarzan movie,” she said. “Half-naked natives leaping around a fire.”

“They’re dancing,” Grant clarified. “And they’re not naked.”

Alexandra gawked at the incredible height the men reached, thrusting out their necks and surging their shoulders upward. “If the NBA recruiters ever got a look at these guys . . .”

Grant laughed. “Come on. It’s fun.”

“But my feet!” she protested as he drew her toward the crowd of dancers. “My feet are still sore, and I—”

“Leap as high as you can. They’ll love it. How tall are you, anyway?”

“Five-ten,” she replied, before adding the part she had always hated. “And a half.”

“A Maasai dream come true.” He positioned himself opposite her and began to move to the beating drums. “The taller the better. I’m six-two, and most of the Maasai men are my equal in height. Have you noticed?”

“It must be all that milk and blood they drink.”

Alexandra joined the group of women who parted shyly to allow her among their ranks. As they danced, their flat, beaded collars bounced up and down to the rhythm. She listened to the song—a high-pitched, chanted phrase followed by a deep chorus of response—and tried to feel the beat. Slowly she began to attempt the bouncing and head-thrusting movements the other women demonstrated.

“What are they singing about?” she asked Grant during a pause in the song. “Sounds emotional.”

“War,” he said. “The government won’t let the Maasai fight anymore. It’s been a big problem for the warriors.”

As she tried to match the women’s movements, Alexandra studied the interplay of colors, the incredible swirl of pattern, and the array of fabrics, feathers, and beads. Although the scent on the people’s skin was unpleasant to her at first, she found she quickly grew accustomed to it, focusing instead on the acrid smell of wood smoke from the fires and the fresh breeze drifting down from the mountain. The women beside her gingerly fingered her clothing and hair, giggling in amazement and whispering among themselves as they danced.

When Alexandra touched the toga of the woman beside her, she was greeted with a broad smile. In moments, the Maasai had unfastened one of her smaller bead collars and slipped it around the visitor’s neck. Then she demonstrated how to make the collar flip up and down in time to the music.

“Did you see this?” Alexandra asked Grant, who had been leaping up and down in a sort of contest with some of the other men. “That woman over there—she gave this necklace to me.”

“These are generous folks,” he said. “They’ll want to feed you some meat in a little while. It’s been grilled over an open flame—not bad, really.”

“Oh, Grant, I don’t think so. I’m mostly vegetarian, and I try to avoid fats. Cholesterol, you know, is—” Alexandra glanced around her, realizing how silly her words sounded in this situation. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to sit down and rest my feet.”

She moved over to an empty stool beside one of the low mud dwellings. Again, she felt terribly off-balance. Her thoughts reeled from deficit brokerage accounts to murderous stalkers to houses made of cow dung. Nothing was right. Nothing was in order.

Covering her eyes with both hands, she bent her head.
Dear Lord, what’s happening to me? What am I supposed to do? Now Grant tells me I can’t leave this place for six more days. I’m frightened of that horrible killer . . . and I’m touched by these odd people . . . and I’m fascinated with a man who is so foreign . . . so different. . . . Oh, Father, I need some help here. I need some guidance. I’m feeling so—

“Ah, good evening, Miss Prescott! And how are you this fine night?”

She lifted her head to find Sambeke Ole Kereya standing over her. The Oxford-educated Maasai had donned a knit wool cap with a pompon at its point, and he was wrapped up like a burrito in a deep red blanket. Beside him stood little Mayani, the boy who had saved her from the wild dogs’ attack.

“Sambeke, Mayani!” she cried, starting to stand. “You’ve come all this way.”

The elder motioned her to remain seated while he squatted on the bare ground beside her. “Oh yes, my dear. The ceremony of
Eunoto
is a very important event for our tribe. Every able Maasai in the area has been traveling to this
kraal
for many days. The warriors, you see, are to become junior elders.”

Alexandra laid her hand on Mayani’s head in greeting, and then the child knelt at her side. “Junior elders?” She looked up at Sambeke. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Of course not. You have nothing with which to compare such an event. It is a great step into a new stage of life.”

Alexandra’s debut flashed across her mind—a lavish party, thousands of dollars spent, and a fancy dress that now languished at the back of her closet. “What does it mean, really, this
Eunoto
ceremony? Does it actually make a difference in the warriors’ lives?”

Sambeke chuckled. “Until now, these men could not marry! After the ceremony, they will wed, have children, and put their spears aside in favor of the fly whisk and the walking stick.”

“I see.”

“Poor Dr. Thornton,” the elder said, shaking his head. “We Maasai feel great sorrow for him. He is of the English, you see, and as you well know, their culture leaves much to be desired. A real pity—few ceremonies, no feasts, and so little structure upon which to base one’s life. Indeed, a Maasai always knows who he is and where he belongs in the organization of the clan. But our dear friend, whom we respect greatly, has no cattle at all, and he certainly has no hope of obtaining a wife. I’m afraid that even within his own culture, the man is a hopeless case.”

Alexandra tried to hide her grin as she watched the tall anthropologist listening intently to something one of the Maasai was telling him. “Why do you say Dr. Thornton is hopeless?” she asked. “Just because he has no cattle and no wife?”

“What more is there in life? Only God—and Dr. Thornton refuses to believe in the One of Many Colors. His scholarly mind and his search for fact and measurement have become a barrier to discovering what is real truth. He is a good man but a very sad case. Perhaps you can bring joy and hope into the life of our friend, Miss Prescott.”

“Thanks, but I don’t think I’m qualified. Besides, I’m going back to America in a few days.”

“Really?” He seemed surprised. “You have seen the beauty of our life, and you would choose to leave us?”

“It’s just that I have . . . my own life. I’m designing a new line of fabrics.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s what I do. It’s my job.”

“To make pictures on cloth? Oh, Miss Prescott, we elders have been discussing you all this day, and we believe that God has brought you here for a very important reason.”

Alexandra was incredulous. “You’ve been discussing me? Why?”

“You are to do something much greater than make pictures on cloth.”

“But that’s what I
like
to do.”

He shook his head sadly. “You do not have a husband, Miss Prescott.”

“No, and I’m not interested in marriage, Sambeke.”

“Why is this?”

“Men I meet seem to be after my . . . my money.” Suddenly Grant’s words flashed into her brain.
You don’t need diamonds when you’ve got stars. You don’t need silver when you have the moon.
“Most men, anyway. I can’t trust them. If I ever did marry, I would want the man to love me for myself and not for my wealth. Can you understand that?”

“Oh yes. Yes, indeed. In Maasai culture, however, such issues are irrelevant. Marriages are made for the good of both parties. And that is why, Miss Prescott, I have come to help you.” He stood solemnly. “I have been commissioned by the elders to arrange a good marriage for you.”

“A marriage? To whom?”

“To Dr. Grant Thornton,” he said with a smile, “of course.”

S
EVEN

“Marry Grant Thornton?”

Alexandra glanced up to find the man himself staring at her from across the
kraal
—a look of shock that mirrored her own written across his face. Evidently, he had just been offered a similar proposal by the elderly Maasai man who stood beside him.

“No, no, Sambeke,” she said, standing quickly. “You don’t understand how we do things in America.”

“On the contrary, I do understand. Lest you forget, I spent many years of my life in the so-called civilization of the West. I can tell you, my dear, that we Maasai have very few instances of unhappy marriage, while you people have great numbers of divorces. Now why is that? I will tell you. First, it is because you choose mates from the heart, while we choose from the mind. Second, we provide love and support for the marriage and the children throughout the lives of our people. The threads that bind us together are many and strong. Yours are few and pitiably weak.”

“I agree with what you’re saying to some extent, Sambeke. But you must understand that I barely know Dr. Thornton. He and I come from two different lifestyles, and we have very little in common. I can’t possibly marry him.”

“Wrong! If the two of you would simply reflect on it, you would see that you have a great deal in common. You are both good people, both strong and healthy, both very lonely. Were Dr. Thornton a Maasai, tomorrow he would be joining his friend Kakombe in the ceremony that ends warrior-hood and signals the age of marriage and family. It is time for our beloved anthropologist to settle down and wed a fine woman.”

“Maybe so, but I am not that woman.”

“Balderdash! You are well within the years for bearing children, my dear. And you have no provider. No protector. We all saw how easily an evil man was able to abduct you and leave you to die in the wilderness. But with a good husband like Dr. Thornton, you would always be safe, cared for . . . and loved.”

Alexandra rubbed her forehead. She could see Grant making his way through the dancers toward her. How embarrassing.

“Thank you, Sambeke,” she said in a low voice. “I appreciate your concern for my future. Really I do.”

“Then you will consider this matter. You have six days. After that time, we will perform the ceremony of marriage.”

“Sambeke, you old warthog,” Grant said on arriving. “What are you up to now?”

“Where is the greeting of respect that I should be accorded?” The old man gave a grunt of disapproval. “
Old warthog
is certainly not an honorable address for a Maasai elder.”