Authors: Michaela MacColl
BERYL PERCHED HIGH IN THE BRANCHES OF A CEDAR TREE AND watched as the new settlers headed out on horseback. The sun beat down hard, and they wore hats to protect the bald spots on their skulls. Captain Clutterbuck was to be their guide for two weeks, perhaps more, as they inspected new settlement sites. Her father’s straight back made it easy to pick him out of the crowd. But no matter how hard she willed him to, he didn’t look back.
When the horses had disappeared from view, Beryl half fell, half climbed down from the tree. She must go to the village and see Kibii. It had been three days since the incident with Mehru, and she had seen no one. She had waited up each night, hoping in vain that Kibii would come.
She approached the village feeling like a stranger, unsure of her welcome. What if Mehru had been badly hurt? Was Arap Maina angry? Why had Kibii not come?
The village was deserted, except for the women minding the babies crawling in the dirt. The dogs lay sleeping in the sun, barely rousing themselves to bark at her. With relief, Beryl spied Naipende sitting under a tree, sewing beads onto a bright scarlet shuka.
“Hodi,” Beryl said. It was Swahili for “I’m here, am I welcome?”
“Kaaribu, Beru,” Naipende said in her serene way. It meant “Come, you are welcome.”
Jebbta came up carrying a large pile of scarlet fabric. Beryl wondered why. The last time she had seen so many new togas, there had been a wedding in the village.
“What are you doing here, Beru?” Jebbta asked in an accusing voice.
“Since when do I need a reason, Jebbta?” Beryl shot back.
“You have caused too much trouble. You should not be here. Not after what happened to Mehru.”
“Jebbta, is that any way to greet our guest?” Naipende scolded.
“Mehru wasn’t hurt, was he?” Beryl said. She couldn’t keep the anxiety out of her voice.
“Beru, he is fine. Just some bruises,” said Naipende. Despite her reassuring words, Beryl could see that her dark eyes had worried shadows.
“Because of you, the boys have to grow up early,” Jebbta blurted out.
“What are you talking about?”
“Arap Maina has decided that the boys should be circumcised this season,” Naipende said, her hands busy sorting out the fabric.
“But that’s wonderful—Kibii thought he would have to wait at
least another year.” Even as Beryl said it, she wondered if it really was good news.
“I’ll have to work twice as hard,” Jebbta cried. “Because there won’t be any boys to help!”
“You’re just upset because Mehru won’t look at you once he is a murani,” Beryl retorted.
“It’s still your fault.”
“Why?” asked Beryl.
After a sidelong glance at Naipende, Jebbta refused to answer.
“Naipende,” Beryl said as she sank down next to the older woman. “What’s going on?”
“Arap Maina was afraid that the boys would do something foolish. To avenge Mehru.”
“Against Daddy?” Her father had never had trouble with his native workers, but Beryl had overheard him talking about violence in other settlements, especially the Boer colonies to the south. “Could that really happen?” she asked softly.
“The rituals will keep them busy. They have already forgotten what happened.”
“Are they in the clearing?” Beryl asked.
“You cannot go there, Beru,” Naipende warned gently.
“Let her go,” said Jebbta spitefully. “She will soon see she is not welcome anymore.”
Beryl barely heard the last words; she was running fast toward the boys. As she reached the trees that ringed the clearing, she stopped. She knew she had no place at the preparation for the male ritual. Dropping to her belly, she crawled forward in the tall grass, like a lioness stalking her prey.
Arap Maina, standing tall in his red tunic and wearing his necklaces of cable wire, was speaking to a large circle of boys. There were more than she had ever seen in the village. Arap Maina had called in all the boys from the outlying pasturage. The ritual was held only every four or five years, and many boys were waiting to become men.
Beryl edged forward so she could hear. Arap Maina’s sharp eyes did not miss her arrival, and with the slightest tilt of his head, he told her to stay hidden and quiet. As soon as Beryl heard what he was saying to the totos, she didn’t need to be told twice. He was explaining the reason for the circumcision ritual. The boys hung on every word, although they surely knew what Arap Maina was going to say.
“The pain you will feel has a deep meaning,” Arap Maina said. “The cut is the break between childhood and adulthood. You will take on responsibility to protect the family and the tribe. You will be consulted on important decisions.”
Kibii was in front, his back straight with pride just for being his father’s son. Mehru was there, too, his right eye plastered shut with swelling and a barely healed cut across his forehead. Beryl chewed her lower lip, remembering the sound of her father’s boot on Mehru’s skull.
Arap Maina’s kind face was at odds with his harsh message. “No matter how the cut hurts, you must not move a muscle or even blink.”
Beryl touched the knife wound on her thigh and winced as she thought of the pain Kibii would feel. But she knew that it was all he dreamed of. They all did.
“The slightest movement on your part means that you are a coward and your family is disgraced.” There was no comfort in Arap Maina’s voice. “If you flinch, the cut will still happen, even if the elders have to hold you down.”
None of the boys would look at each other. Despite their brave demeanor, Beryl could smell their fear.
“But do not despair.” With a tiny shift in tone, Arap Maina again became the gentle man she knew and loved. “Every warrior in the tribe has undergone this ritual. I did not raise any of you to fail. You will support each other, as brothers.”
Solemnly the boys nodded, never taking their eyes off Arap Maina.
“Next week, we will begin with the ritual of the Horn of the Ox. Now it is time to prepare. You must gather feathers for the headdress you will wear when you are a man. An elaborate headdress is a good omen for your future as a warrior. Now listen, and I will tell you how to make it.”
Beryl slunk away and walked slowly back to her father’s farm. No one called for her to stay. No one even noticed she was gone.
A week later, on the eve of Kibii going under the knife, Beryl slipped down to the village in the middle of the night. She went to Kibii’s hut and left two enormous ostrich feathers at his door.
“Good-bye, Kibii,” she whispered.
LOCATION: Off the coast of Newfoundland, Canada
DATE: 11:50 A.M. GMT, 5 September, 1936
I check my watch. It’s been nineteen hours. An hour or so ago, the sun rose in my eyes. I was never so glad to be blinded by the sun. I spot a few ships below, so I’m hopeful that I’m on course.
There! I glimpse something through the wisps of fog. There it is again: the cliffs of Newfoundland. I’m exhausted and frozen, but I feel a triumph that I haven’t felt since my first lion hunt.
They said it couldn’t be done. J. C. thought I was going to my death. Even my dear Tom wasn’t sure I could succeed. Sitting in my cabin, I revel in the sun-light. I can see land. I’m following the wind and by my calculations, my last tank is three-quarters full.
The cliffs come closer and I’m busy calculating the distance to New York, a smile plastered across my face. I begin to sing a Nandi marching song, my voice cracking after the long solitary journey. I’ve made it.
When I was a child, the only stories my father told me were from mythology. I should have remembered that only the gods have the right to be confident.
The engine begins to spit and cough.
Phut, phut.
There’s no more fuel. And I’m only human, like poor reckless Icarus.
THE FROSTY MIST ROSE SLOWLY OFF THE GROUND AND FLOATED around them, seeking the sun. It would burn off soon enough, but for now, Beryl and her father were trapped in a fog where the only sound was the clopping of their horses’ hooves. Beryl felt the pressure shift in the air and spotted a stork with its enormous wingspan gliding above her head. Its flight was soundless. She remembered another ride she had once taken with her father.
“If we keep up this pace, we’ll be at the Elkingtons’ for lunch.” Her father’s voice broke the silence like an egg cracking.
“It’s a good thing that Emma and Little A decided not to come. They’d need the wagon, and it would take twice as long,” Beryl added, watching her father’s profile. Was it true that Emma wasn’t welcome?
Staring straight ahead into the gloom, her father said, “Emma preferred to stay home and get some housecleaning done.”
“How much more cleaning can she do?” Beryl asked.
“Never mind. Let’s just ride.”
Her father had returned from his trip with the settlers a week earlier, but he had still not said a word about the incident with Mehru. Waiting for him to bring up the subject, Beryl felt as though her saddle was made of tacks.
To distract herself, she stole sidelong glances to see how the Captain sat on the Baron. Beryl deliberately lengthened her reins like his, resettled herself in the saddle several times to imitate him, and practically sprained her ankles trying to keep her heels pointed down as his were. Luckily, Wee McGregor was tolerant of all her wiggling.
“Beryl, stop fidgeting. You’ll drive that pony to distraction,” her father snapped.
“Sorry, Daddy.” But Beryl couldn’t help smiling; it was such a relief to have him scold her as he usually did.
As the sun rose in the sky, Green Hills Farm was lost behind them in the summer haze, but there were still hours of riding before they would arrive at the Elkington farm. Her father reined in his gelding to ride close to her. He sighed. “You look like a wrinkled sack. Would it have been so difficult to dress up today?”
“What else should I wear? It’s a long ride.” Beryl’s khaki trousers and white linen shirt were identical to her father’s, except his had creases in all the right places. He had never abandoned the discipline he learned in the army. She tried to smooth out the wrinkles, but soon gave up.
The tranquil landscape was suddenly shaken by a lion’s roar. The deep sound was several miles off, but the horses skittered nervously. Wee McGregor grabbed the bit between his teeth and tried to bolt, but Beryl was prepared for his tricks.
“That’s Paddy,” she said cheerfully, holding tight to the reins and pulling Wee McGregor around in a circle to keep him from running off.
“Jim Elkington is a fool,” said the Captain, smacking the top of the Baron’s head with a crop to bring him under control. “Whoever heard of naming a lion?”
“Paddy is Margaret’s pet,” Beryl said. “He’s perfectly tame; it’s not as though he’s a wild lion.”
Margaret was Jim Elkington’s daughter. When Paddy’s mother had been shot, Margaret had saved the cub by hand-feeding it from a bottle with milk and eggs. The lion had reached full growth by eating meat that Elkington’s workers caught for him.
Beryl was fascinated by Paddy. She had often watched the lion wandering Mr. Jim’s farm like an emperor surveying his domain. He always walked alone. He had never seen the inside of a cage, but he reeked of humans and he would never be accepted by wild lions.
Her father snorted. “A tame lion is an unnatural lion—and untrustworthy. Beryl, don’t you ever forget that.”
“I’m not afraid,” she assured him.
The Captain pulled his horse in front of Beryl’s and grabbed Wee McGregor’s bridle. “Young lady, I know you’re brave enough. Going on that fool lion hunt proved that. But even warriors show some caution. Watch yourself around that lion.”
She nodded without saying anything. He stared at her with his stern gray eyes, unsatisfied with what he saw. “Beryl Clutterbuck, I’m not certain the Le May woman was totally at fault. I think you asked for the trouble she gave you.”
“But Daddy! She was awful!”
“And ugly to boot. But don’t tell Emma I said so.” They grinned at each other. “And I know you were just defending yourself from that boy, what was his name?”
“Mehru.”
“But you seem to find danger wherever you go. Today, let’s not go looking for it, all right?”
Beryl bobbed her head more enthusiastically this time. The Captain kicked his horse into a canter. The sun beating down on their backs, they galloped toward the roaring of the tame lion.
They arrived at the farm in the middle of the afternoon. The Captain’s new Indian servant, Bishon Singh, had arrived the night before and was waiting for them. He held their bridles as they dismounted. Mr. Jim came down from the house to greet them. He was a bald man and very round—but his roundness was muscle, not fat. His belt was a strip of rhino leather he had cured himself. His kiboko, cut from the same rhino hide, was coiled and hung on a loop at his hip. Mr. Jim was no gentleman farmer, ordering the natives to do the dangerous work—he did it himself.