Before dawn Alexandra was up again, jogging through the grass in her flimsy slip-on shoes. She carried her thorny branch, swinging it around her now and then to ward off some imaginary enemy. As light gilded the land, the animals came to life. Herds of brown-skinned gazelles mingled with zebras. Strange cow-like beasts with humped backs and long gray beards eyed her beneath their curved horns. Antelope in coats of burnished copper lifted their heads to regard her. She didn’t know the names of any of them, and the memory of Dr. Thornton’s admonitions ate at her.
“I’m supposed to design fabrics, and I don’t even know what I’m looking at,” she muttered as she trotted along. “I don’t know where I am. I don’t know where I’m going.”
Worry gnawed at her insides. What if Nick Jones rented a Land Rover? What if he was coming after her even now? She was clearly visible in the open grassland. The perfect victim. But did he really want
her
—or just easy prey?
Shuddering, she moved ever forward, running when she could, walking when her blistered feet protested too much. The sun rose, burning down on her fair skin. Flies danced around her eyes. Thirst dried her mouth and parched her throat. Hunger clawed at her stomach. She saw no vehicles, no houses, no people. Nothing but endless grass dotted with wildlife—zebras, gazelles, giraffes. It was hopeless. As she moved ever toward the mountain, Alexandra gradually realized the monster probably would get his wish after all. She would die.
The sun slipped toward the west. Three vultures began circling overhead. Their shadows made dizzying patterns on the grass, and she blinked to clear her vision. Her feet ached. The thorn branch dangled in her hand. Her steps dragged.
Stop and rest? Try to find water? Keep moving?
She couldn’t think clearly.
She passed a herd of elephants. Huge gray creatures lifted their trunks to sniff the air. Her scent would intrigue them. Intrigue the others, too . . . those with claws and fangs. She tried to swallow, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
I’m going to die, Lord. It won’t matter about designing for Bloomingdale’s and Macy’s. It won’t matter about the account deficit. Nothing will matter. The animals understand I’ll get too weak, and I’ll lie down . . . and then they’ll come.
She wiped a tear off her cheek and licked the salty moisture from the back of her hand. Kilimanjaro loomed in the distance, still so far away. No matter how many steps she took, it never got closer. Like an apparition . . . a hope . . . a promise . . . it hovered just out of reach. Too far to save her.
I look up to the mountains—does my help come from there? My help comes from the Lord, who made the heavens and the earth!
Alexandra closed her eyes and stumbled on. No help from the mountain. No help from Mama Hannah. No help from anyone. Only God.
“Lord, Lord.” Her mouth formed the words again and again. She sensed the wild animals watching. Waiting. The thorn branch would do no good. “Lord, Lord, Lord. Lord, save me. Save me.”
A sudden chill of fear forced her eyes open. She stopped. Just ahead of her a dog crouched low. Roundeared, black-faced, it bared a set of shiny white teeth. Long mottled hair in shades of tan and black covered the beast. And then she saw another behind it. Exactly the same colors, muzzle, teeth. And another. Three stood just to her left. Two to her right. She turned. Four dogs crouched behind her.
Dear God, it’s a pack. They’re wild. They’ll tear me apart! Please help me.
She stiffened, gripping her stick with both hands.
“Nice dog,” she said in a low voice.
The animal’s neck ruff lifted. Its lips curled back in a snarl. It gave a loud growl and rushed her. She screamed.
Something flew through the air, piercing the dog’s flesh. The canine yelped and fell. The other dogs lunged at her, barking wildly. Alexandra lashed out with her thorn branch, shrieking, shouting. Again an object zipped through the air, and another dog dropped bleeding at her feet. At that, the pack fled, their mottled coats vanishing in the grass.
Unable to stop screaming, she sank to her knees, wracked with nausea and sobs. The two dead dogs lay prone, their bright blood staining the yellow grass. And then a pair of small brown feet appeared between them.
“Epuonu mbaa too muroishi,”
said a husky little voice.
Alexandra lifted her head. A boy, no older than eight or ten, stared down at her, his brown eyes bright with curiosity. He wore a length of red fabric tied toga-style over one shoulder and a choker of red and black beads.
She brushed a hand over her eyes. “I thought . . . thought I was dead,” she choked out. “You . . . you ran them off. Killed them. Who are you?”
“Isuyian,”
the boy said and pointed at the two dead dogs.
“Owuaru.”
“I don’t understand . . . but thank you—for what you did. The dogs. You saved my life.”
“Isuyian.”
He squatted near one of the dogs and pulled his short spear from the animal’s side. Then he walked over to the other dog and jerked out a sharpened stick. With a smile that revealed a pair of missing lower incisors, the victorious hunter regarded Alexandra with a shy gaze.
She struggled to her feet. “Do you know a man by the name of Grant Thornton? Dr. Grant Thornton?”
The boy stepped toward her and bent his head.
“Na kitok,”
he said.
Alexandra stared down in bewilderment at the youngster. “Uh . . .
na kitok
.”
He giggled.
“Aa. Na kitok,”
he repeated. Then he took her hand and gently placed it on his head.
“Iko.”
“Iko,”
Alexandra said.
The boy lifted his head and beckoned her with a long, skinny arm.
“Ilotu!”
As she followed him through the grass, she realized he had been guarding a small flock of goats when the wild dogs surrounded her. Now he began to drive his flock with a thin stick. Relieved to be in the company of a human carrying a spear—small though the boy was—she walked beside him.
It was impossible to communicate. “Do you have any water?” she asked. He smiled. “Do you have food?” she asked. He smiled. “Where are we going?” she asked. He smiled.
At one point, he stopped and lifted the dry gourd that hung by a leather strap from his shoulder. He pulled off the leather lid and took a long drink. At the sound of liquid gurgling down his throat, Alexandra nearly wilted.
“May I please have a drink?” she asked, pointing at the gourd. “I’m thirsty.”
The boy offered the container. When she caught a whiff of its contents, she nearly collapsed again. Sour milk mixed with something else. Something with a really nasty odor. She shut her eyes and took a swig.
Gag! What was the stuff? The boy chuckled at the face she was making and took his gourd away. Alexandra clasped her hands. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not used to it.”
“Yooz-toot.”
“Used to it.”
The boy shook his head and laughed as though this was the funniest thing he had heard in quite some time. “Yooz-toot,” he said over and over. Then his face sobered, and he bent over and gently touched her skinned knee with a fingertip.
“Osarge,”
he said. His brow furrowed.
“Aainyo?”
“A bad man chased me.”
The boy shook his head in obvious pity. He regarded her for a moment, then patted his chest. “Mayani,” he said and pointed at her.
“Eira ng’ai?”
“Alexandra.”
“A-link-anda,” he repeated slowly. Then he beckoned again.
“Ilotu.”
She’d hardly had time to absorb the exchange before he was off again, driving his little flock ahead of him. So, his name was Mayani, she thought as she hobbled along in her useless shoes. Her rescuer.
Why had God sent a child? Why had she been given someone who couldn’t even speak to her? She had no idea where he was taking her—though she felt sure it couldn’t be to Dr. Thornton’s camp. That request had passed right over Mayani’s head. If he was taking her to his village . . . to a group of Africans . . . people just like the boy . . . with horrible things to drink . . . and nobody who could speak English . . .
“Alinkanda!” he called just ahead of her.
“Ilotu!”
As the boy ran excitedly on, Alexandra moved more slowly. In the distance she now could see a circle of flat-topped igloos made of mud. None of them was taller than four feet, and none possessed a window. Around the arched doorways played naked children tended by bald-headed women. Like some otherworld assemblage of plaid Scottish tartans, Indian paisleys, and Italian checkered tablecloths, the people’s togas displayed an amazing variety of patterns—all in red hues.
A few elderly men loitered in a circle playing some sort of game with stones. Mayani approached them head down. One of the men rose and laid his hand on the boy’s head. They spoke for a moment, then the man lifted his focus to Alexandra.
“Alinkanda!” Mayani called.
She hesitated. Were there cannibals in Africa? If she went into this village, would she be jumping from the frying pan into the fire?
Dear God, what should I do? You’ve brought me this far—alive. Shall I trust them?
Her earthly father’s voice echoed in her head.
Don’t trust anyone, Alexandra.
And her mother’s voice:
They’re nasty people. Nasty.
The last time she had made an attempt to trust someone, she had ended up in Nick Jones’s clutches. She swallowed and looked for an escape. No choice but the wilderness presented itself. She squared her shoulders.
Okay, Lord, I’m going to trust you in this. Guard me!
The African man walked toward her, Mayani following respectfully. He was an old man, his head bald as a coffee bean and his eyes framed in a pair of thick, round, silver-rimmed spectacles. In the tops of his ears, he wore mismatched beaded loops. His earlobes, stretched to form huge holes, displayed a second pair of ornaments. One was a set of double iron bells. The other was a small round plastic bottle with a red lid. As he approached, she realized that the printing on the bottle read Tylenol.
“Yieyio,”
the man said.
Alexandra bent her head as she’d seen the little boy do and repeated the word he’d taught her.
“Iko.”
He did not put his hand on her head, but he began to ask her questions. She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re saying. I am American.”
“Amedika?”
“Yes. I speak English. I am looking for Dr. Grant Thornton. Dr. Thornton. The storyteller.” She searched her brain. What was the name of the town he had mentioned? “Walkie-talkie?” she said.
“Totona penyo!”
The old man motioned her to wait. He walked to the nearby compound of huts and spoke at length with the other men. Finally, they all rose and solemnly approached her. Clad in red plaid wool blankets despite the heat, they made an intimidating group. Still, Alexandra decided to hold her ground.
“Iko,”
she said as they approached. This struck two of the dignified elders as so hilarious that they dissolved into giggles. The others managed to restrain themselves.
One man stepped forward. “Alinkanda?”
“That’s my name. Alexandra Prescott. I don’t speak your language.”
“On the contrary, you speak it quite well,” the man said in a clipped British accent. “We simply find it a bit humorous that you have stated a portion of our traditional greeting in the wrong order.”
Alexandra stared at the man. “You speak English?”
“I should hope so, my dear. I hold a doctorate in political science from Oxford University. Sambeke Ole Kereya, at your service. Dr. Kereya, if you like, although I won’t insist on it. You may call me Sambeke.” He smiled, revealing his set of missing lower incisors.
“I’m . . . I’m pleased to meet you, sir,” Alexandra managed.
“I realize it must come as a bit of a shock to hear me speaking. You see, at age twenty-three I was sent off to England. It was 1968, and an official in the Kenyan government thought it would be a jolly idea to bring a dose of civilization to the Maasai. That’s the name of our tribe. After studying Western civilization for eight years, I decided we were much closer to the ideal out here on the plains. And so here I am. Now, may I inquire as to your presence in these parts?”
“I’m . . . I’m looking for someone. A Dr. Thornton.”
“
Bwana
Hadithi! The storyteller. Of course.” He regarded her solemnly. “But it would not be like Dr. Thornton to lose one of his students in the bush. Are you certain he is aware of your presence?”
“I’m not a student. I met him at the airport. He’s . . . he’s the only person I know out here . . . and . . . and . . .” The memories of Nick Jones’s attack flooded in, and Alexandra struggled to focus. “I need to . . . need to get help.”
“You’ve been injured. Mayani tells us wild dogs attacked you.”
“Yes.”
“But I think . . .” He studied her. “I think the wild dogs did not chase you into the bush.”
“No. There’s a . . . a problem. . . .” She swallowed. “Sir, may I come into your village? I’d like to sit down. I’m very . . . very thirsty.”
Sambeke turned and began to speak to the women who had gathered shyly behind their men. They hurried forward and led Alexandra toward the huts. Her request might have been a mistake, she realized right away. Every inch of bare ground inside the village was covered with a thick layer of dried cow dung. Some not so dry. The odor nearly knocked her flat, and the flies . . .