Authors: Michaela MacColl
The darkness goes on forever, and I’m flying blind.
I pull my compass from its pocket in the door. Tom gave it to me long ago, in Africa. He said, “Trust this, but nothing else. When you’re up there, instruments can go wrong. If you can’t fly without looking at your airspeed and your altimeter—well, then, you can’t fly. You’re like somebody who only knows what he thinks after reading the newspaper. The compass will tell you where you ought to be going—and the rest is up to you.”
My compass tells me my heading is correct. I have to trust it. Once or twice the moon has made a brief appearance, but there are no landmarks to check my course. There’s nothing but water.
An electrical storm pops up, just to make things more interesting. The sorry thing is that I welcome the storm—at least I can see something besides clouds and water. I’m flying at two thousand feet. I’d rather fly lower, to keep my eye on the ocean, but the wind is bucking like a wild stallion. Too dangerous.
A huge gust of wind grabs my little plane and shakes it. The Messenger takes a terrific toss. Something’s wrong; I can’t imagine why the gauges are fluctuating so wildly. Think, Beryl, think: Why is the plane behaving in such an extraordinary manner? A flash of lightning outside. Where’s the water?
I look up. The water is above my head. I’m flying upside down. I’ve never felt so disoriented.
EVERYTHING HAD CHANGED. UNTIL THAT AFTERNOON, BERYL HAD moved easily between her father’s world and the Nandi village. But on the path that afternoon, with the thuds of the Captain’s boot against Mehru’s skull, she had seen that the divide was as big as the Great Rift Valley.
Night had fallen completely before Beryl could bring herself to leave the protection of the forest. She came up the path slowly, past the edge of the stables. She stopped to greet Camiscan in his dark-ened stall. He neighed, first in warning and then in recognition.
“Here, boy,” she said, holding out her hand. The stallion whinnied gently and nuzzled her palm, tasting for the treat she usually brought him.
“Not tonight, boy. I have to go home and get some sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll bring you something sweet.” She stroked his muzzle and gave him a small kiss.
“Coo-ee, I can’t believe you kiss him, Beryl. He bites everybody!”
It was Arthur, out hours past his bedtime. He was in his nightshirt, and he looked up at her through his tangled dark curls. “Are you in trouble, Beryl?”
“What have you heard?” she asked.
“Everybody’s upset, but no one will tell me why.” He took the last few steps separating them and touched her arm. “You’ll tell me, right?”
“I would, if I knew myself.” She hugged him. His head barely reached her chest, but his sturdy embrace made her feel better. “Come on, let me take you to the house before Emma has a fit.”
Arthur put a trusting hand in hers and they walked to the large cedar house. She could smell the fire burning, and the glow at the windows beckoned her. She shooed Arthur in the side door and walked away toward her own hut. Slipping inside, she sighed in relief. She lit her lamp with one of her carefully guarded store of safety matches.
Beryl flopped down on her bed and examined the wound on her thigh. The bleeding was long stopped, but it needed some first aid. Wondering if she could pilfer a bandage from the main house without meeting her father, she was startled by a gentle tap on the door.
“Come in,” she said after a brief moment.
The door opened and a woman holding a lamp stepped in.
“Emma,” Beryl said coldly. At least it wasn’t her father.
“Beryl,” Emma responded. Her voice had no warmth either. A basket hung over her arm, and she brought it to Beryl’s bed. “I brought my medical kit.” She pulled out white gauze and a bottle of iodine. There was no table, so she dragged over an empty crate and laid out her supplies.
“How did you know I was back?” Beryl asked as she looked warily at the iodine.
“Beryl, you don’t think Arthur can leave the house in the mid-dle of the night without my knowing? It was his idea to wait in the stables.”
“That little sneak. He didn’t tell me.”
“You aren’t the only one who has secrets.” Emma laid out a clean nightdress, the kind Beryl never bothered to wear. “Pull off that filthy shirt.”
The Captain’s shirt was stained with blood and dirt from the forest. It wasn’t worth an infection just to irritate Emma. Beryl pulled off the shirt.
Emma touched the barely healed scars on Beryl’s back and sighed. “Let’s get you in the bath.”
“I don’t have a bath.”
Emma held up the lamp to illuminate the darkest part of the hut. She pointed to a canvas bathtub that had not been there in the morning. Beryl walked over to it and saw that it was half full of tepid water. She looked at Emma suspiciously.
“It’s high time you had a proper bathtub,” Emma said. “Get in. We can’t bandage that wound until you are clean.”
Beryl stepped gingerly into the tub. She winced when the water touched her wound. Without a word, Emma handed her a cloth and a bar of soap. Beryl began to wash herself while Emma pulled out more wonders from her basket.
“I’ve brought you some dinner. I can’t believe that you like eating roots, or whatever you find out there. There’s cold meat and some cheese and fruit.”
Beryl couldn’t think of anything to say except “Thank you.”
Emma sat on a wooden box next to the tub. “Beryl, a talk between us is long overdue.”
Beryl slipped under the water. She held her breath as long as she could, but when she surfaced and opened her eyes, Emma was still there.
“Your father was very upset today,” began Emma.
“I know. But he didn’t understand. If he had only asked me…”
“Beryl, what do you expect? He saw you without your clothes, bleeding, and being attacked by a…a…savage black boy.”
“Which bothered him more? That it was a boy, or that he was Nandi?”
“Does it matter? He thought you’d been violated. So did his friends. Don’t you understand what harm a scandal like this can do to a girl’s reputation?” Emma’s voice was bitter.
“Reputation? The only reputation I care about is how good a warrior I am. What will the Nandi think of me now, after what Daddy did?”
“Your father was protecting his good name with the only people who count up here. If you don’t care about your own reputation, think of his, young lady.”
“Don’t call me that,” said Beryl angrily.
“Beryl, look at yourself. No, I mean it: Look at yourself. Your body is changing. You are no longer a child to play games. You’re almost a young woman.”
Beryl slid down so that her chin rested on the surface of the water, but she couldn’t hide what was happening to her. With her physical training, she had not missed the changes. Her chest was
no longer flat. Hair was growing where it never had before. Soon her monthly bleeding would start. But that didn’t mean she had to like it.
Beryl looked over at Emma, whose face was in shadow. The moment felt familiar. But that was impossible. She had never had a tub before. Then she realized that it was a time for talking, such as she had shared with Kibii many, many times. Could she possibly tell Emma her secrets? Emma! Perhaps, this one night, sitting in this remarkable tub, she could.
“I know I’m growing up,” Beryl said. “But I don’t want to.”
“Why not?” Emma’s voice was full of exasperation. “It’s natural, not to say inevitable.”
“Because if I become a woman, I can’t hunt. I can’t go running at night. I can’t wrestle. Right now, Kibii and I are the same; we’re both totos. Once I become a woman, then he’ll become a man. And nothing will ever be the same, will it?” It was the longest speech she had ever made to Emma, and it ended with a question Beryl already knew the answer to.
Emma looked sad and triumphant at the same time. She gestured to Beryl to get out of the bath. A towel lay ready next to the tub, and she wrapped it around Beryl’s body. “It’s not the end of the world,” she said, rubbing Beryl dry.
Beryl lifted her arms over her head to let the towel do its work and glared at Emma from under them.
“Well, for you, perhaps it is.” Emma choked down a little laugh. “Let me put some iodine on that cut.” She gestured for Beryl to sit on a crate. “I do understand. You don’t want to give up your friendship with Kibii. But you’ll have to.”
Beryl opened her mouth to protest, but Emma’s voice cut her off.
“Don’t bother, Beryl. You could kill every lion in the highlands, but you will still be a white girl. You’re the daughter of a respected landowner, his heir. You must stop humiliating him. As if your father doesn’t suffer enough.”
“What do you mean?”
Emma wouldn’t meet Beryl’s eyes, and instead busied herself smearing Beryl’s thigh with iodine. Beryl held back her yelp at the sting. Emma handily wrapped the wound with gauze. As Beryl waited impatiently, Emma stowed her medical gear and then lifted the nightdress over Beryl’s head.
“His position is an odd one,” Emma said finally. “Since your mother left you here, people ask questions about how you’re being raised.”
Beryl lifted her arms and pushed them through the sleeves of the nightdress. “What blasted business is it of theirs? Daddy and I are just fine, thank you very much.”
Emma took a comb and sat behind Beryl to untangle her mane of hair. “Beryl, didn’t you ever wonder why I came? Your father needs to have a woman here for you.”
“We don’t need you,” said Beryl, knowing she was being rude, just when Emma was acting rather decently.
Emma ruthlessly forced the metal comb hard through a mess of tangles.
“Ow!” said Beryl. There was no response. Finally, she glanced behind her and and was surprised to see Emma blinking back tears.
“Beryl, I know you hate me.” Emma dragged the comb across Beryl’s head again. “But if I hadn’t come here, your father would be nagged constantly to send you away.”
“No! He wouldn’t do that.”
Emma kept talking, unsurprised by Beryl’s outburst; after all, Beryl had been shrieking “No” at her for the past year. “So I came. But since I am married to someone else, the wives of the other settlers won’t come to call. That is why your father has so few visitors.”
“That’s the way we like it!” insisted Beryl, but she could hear the doubt in her voice.
“Your father does not like it,” Emma retorted. “He loves parties and company. But he’s an exile up here. Because of us.” Her angry combing became gentler.
Beryl found herself feeling sorry for Emma. She shook herself; her shadow on the wall looked like a quivering monster.
“My father is fine. I’m fine, too.” Beryl wasn’t sure who she was reassuring.
“Are you fine, Beryl? Truly? Your father wants me to find out.” Emma’s hands had finished her deft teasing out of the tangles, and now she stroked a brush through the length of Beryl’s wet hair.
“Why doesn’t he ask me himself?”
“Men aren’t always comfortable asking their daughters difficult questions.”
Beryl didn’t answer.
Emma took a deep breath. “Has Kibii ever touched you?”
“Of course he has. All the time. He taught me to wrestle.”
“Has he ever…done more than touch you?”
“How do you mean?” Beryl wished Emma would just say what she meant.
“Well, a man…and a woman.” Emma was overcome by embarrassment, then inspired by a new approach. “Do you know where babies come from?”
Beryl took pity on her. “Emma, I’m a farmer’s daughter. I put the stallions out to stud all the time.” Beryl’s eyes opened wide as the point of Emma’s questions finally dawned on her. “Kibii and I aren’t those kind of friends.”
“Are you that kind of friend with anyone?”
“No, of course not.”
Emma looked relieved.
“Is there anything else that Daddy wants to know about?” Beryl’s face became as guarded as any Nandi’s.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Good night, Emma.” Beryl paused, and then remembered some remnant of her manners. “Thank you for bringing me dinner.” And, as an afterthought, “And for the bathtub.”
“You’re welcome.” Emma got up quickly, as though she couldn’t get out fast enough. The door shut behind her with a bang.
Beryl sat cross-legged on her bed and began to wolf down her dinner.
LOCATION: Somewhere over the North Atlantic
DATE: 05:00 A.M. GMT, 5 September, 1936
The storm clouds close in, tossing my poor old Messenger in every direction. Each slam of air sends me off course, bit by bit. I have so little spare fuel, I dare not correct until I know where I am…until I sight land. I scrape the ice from the glass of my cockpit to improve my visibility. No luck.
My hand is cramped and shaking as I unscrew the top of my last thermos of coffee and pour the lukewarm liquid into a cup. A gust of wind buffets the plane and the coffee—the last of my supply—spills all over my lap.
I’m so weary, so cold. For the first time since I was a child, I am near tears.