Authors: Michaela MacColl
After a time—I don’t know how long—my eyes open. I blink against the brightness. There’s wetness on my forehead. I touch it. I’m relieved beyond measure to see it is blood. Dead pilots don’t bleed.
I unstrap my harness and stumble out. Standing knee-deep in the bog, I can only stare at my watch. Twenty-one hours and 25 minutes.
“STUDENTS, TAKE YOUR SEATS.”
Miss Seccombe clapped her hands briskly to get the girls’ attention. In daylight, her wispy grayish-brown hair was pulled back so tight that it stretched her small face out to the hairline like an elastic band.
With a sigh, Beryl turned her gaze from the window and back into the large classroom. The wide planks of the floor were fastened together by iron brackets recessed into the wood, making the floor resemble a railroad track. Cumbersome wooden desks were laid out in precise rows, and white porcelain inkwells perched on the tops of the desks like warts. Wincing from her new black patent-leather boots, Beryl moved to her desk. She rubbed her nose, and the smell of flowery soap Miss Seccombe had insisted she use made her sneeze.
“Get out your books.”
Beryl lifted the heavy lid and pulled out her pen and books. She let the lid slam down with a bang.
“Miss Clutterbuck, is that noise necessary?” asked Miss Seccombe.
“No, ma’am,” muttered Beryl.
The other girls tittered. They did that a lot. Beryl thought they sounded like colubus monkeys. If she closed her eyes, she almost felt she was at home.
Miss Seccombe cleared her throat. “Before we begin, I have a special announcement.”
The class stirred expectantly.
“As you know, the class will be performing Alice in Wonderland for the holiday play. I think it will be a lovely welcome to our new student, Beryl, if she plays Alice.”
There were muffled gasps from the other girls. Mary stood up in indignation, shoving her desk across the floor with a loud squeak. “Miss Seccombe, I was to play Alice.”
“I know, dear.” Miss Seccombe smiled her hyena smile. “But it’s someone else’s turn to play the lead.”
Doris piped up, “Beryl looks the part more than you do, Mary.” There was a chorus of agreement from the others. Beryl, who had never heard of Alice in Wonderland, was too bewildered to say anything. Mary’s face was flushed, and there were tears in her eyes.
“But Miss Seccombe…” Mary wailed.
“Take out your books,” said Miss Seccombe, ending the debate.
First the class read a passage in their primers about two sisters named Polly and Molly, and a tea party at a parsonage. Then Miss Seccombe lifted her bell, her signal that the class was moving on to something else. Beryl was used to telling time by the position of the sun. Even her father’s preoccupation with his pocket watch was less irritating than the tinkling of Miss Seccombe’s bell.
“Girls, for composition, I want you to write an essay about
a moment that changed your life. I’ll give you an hour for your first draft.”
Even though it was her first essay, Beryl didn’t pause to consider her subject. She knew exactly what to say. With a decisive nod, she dipped the nib of her pen into the inkwell and began to write busily, filling up page after page.
Miss Seccombe rang her little bell. “Excellent concentration, girls. Who would like to read her essay first?”
Beryl was not surprised to see Mary’s hand shoot up. With a resigned nod, Miss Seccombe told her to begin.
Mary stood up, her starched cotton dress falling perfectly straight without a single wrinkle. Her hair was neatly gathered with a bow, so her black curls cascaded down her back. In a high artificial voice, she recited:
“The moment that changed my life was the day my grandmother sent me a dress from Paris. My father told me I looked like Princess Mary and he took me to tea at the New Stanley Hotel. The manager came out to greet us and lead us to the best table. We had tea from India and biscuits from London.”
Beryl stopped listening and let her mind drift to Green Hills Farm. As though she were picking at a scab, she mentally listed all the favorite activities she had already missed that day: waking to the sun coming up over the mountains; the clean, cold alpine air; early morning workout with the horses…
Finally, Mary finished and Doris stood up. She talked about taking a ship from Dover to Mombasa. Beryl, who had been only two years old when she had made the same journey with her parents,
rather enjoyed Doris’s essay.
Finally, Miss Seccombe called on Beryl. In a clear clipped voice, Beryl began:
“Several months ago I hunted a lion with the Nandi warriors on my father’s farm. I was the first girl they ever let go with them. My best friend, Kibii, the leader’s son, was not allowed to come…”
From Beryl’s first words, the class was spellbound. Mary tried to snicker, but the others hushed her.
“I walked home with the lion’s paw stuck on my spear. I was a murani!”
Beryl looked around the room with a huge grin. If she couldn’t be at home, writing about it had been an unexpected comfort. The other girls’ faces wore stunned and admiring looks. Doris’s eyes were shining and her mouth was voicelessly shaping the words, “I was a murani.”
Then Beryl saw Miss Seccombe’s face, which was frozen in what could only be described as horror. “Miss Clutterbuck, the assignment was to write a true story.”
Beryl stared down at Miss Seccombe. She imagined her blue eyes were gimlets drilling into the teacher’s puny head. “Every word was God’s own truth,” she said.
“I don’t permit blasphemy, either,” said Miss Seccombe in a cold voice. “How dare you use the Lord’s name to justify your lies?”
The other girls’ mouths hung open.
Beryl said, “I can prove it.”
The girls began whispering and giggling. Beryl ignored them and limped out of the room, wincing when her shoes pinched her feet.
“Where are you going?” Miss Seccombe squeaked.
“To get proof,” Beryl said without pausing.
When she returned, Miss Seccombe was still ringing her bell to calm the classroom. Silence fell completely as Beryl carefully placed a linen bundle on Miss Seccombe’s desk.
She gestured to Miss Seccombe to unfold the cloth. Miss Seccombe shook her head warily and put her hands in the wide pockets of her skirt. Smirking, Beryl opened the bundle herself. Triumphantly, she held up the dried-out lion’s paw. She stood proud, daring anyone to doubt her word again.
Miss Seccombe’s eyes rolled to the backs of their sockets and she fanned herself with her handkerchief. Mary shrieked and backed away. Doris led the rest of the girls in a rush to get a closer look.
Finally Miss Seccombe found her voice. “Miss Clutterbuck, we’re going to need new rules for you. It never occurred to me to prohibit wild animal body parts in school. That—that—thing is confiscated!”
“No!” Beryl shrieked. “It’s mine. I earned it! You can’t take it!” She dropped into a warrior’s crouch, one arm raised as if she were carrying her buffalo-skin shield, ready to defend her prize. Her hand slapped at her skirt, but Emma had made sure Beryl’s knife had not made the journey to Nairobi. She had managed to bring only a small sharp pocketknife, and that was hidden in her chest in the dormitory.
“Give it over, young lady,” insisted Miss Seccombe. Looking more closely at Beryl’s defiant face, she added grudgingly, “You can have it back when you return home.”
Beryl was too angry to believe her, and edged forward to snatch it.
Doris grabbed her arm and dragged her back. “Beryl, leave it,” she whispered. “You’ll get it back.”
Beryl took her eyes off the lion’s paw and looked down at Doris’s hand on her arm.
“You’ll get it back,” Doris repeated. “But if you fight her, you’ll never see it again.”
Slowly Beryl’s body lost its tension and she stepped away from the desk. Her shoulders slumped and even her hair felt as though it were weighing her down, trapping her here.
Miss Seccombe gingerly grabbed a linen corner between two fingers and folded it over the paw. Her lips pursed tightly, she held the bundle far from her body and scurried out of the room. When she returned, she gave Beryl a look filled with dislike. “Miss Clutterbuck, you will stand in the corner. You may not participate in our spelling lesson.”
Beryl kept her face blank as she walked over to the corner and faced the window.
“Not to the window, Beryl. To the wall. Letting you daydream would be no punishment at all.”
Beryl stood facing the wall, wriggling uncomfortably in her scratchy clothing. Under her wide skirt, one leg was bent as she stood in the Nandi way. For the next hour, Beryl imagined she was a huge bird, soaring back to the highlands, the train chugging slowly beneath her. She heard the far-off whistle of the train and wasn’t sure if it was real or her imagination.
Finally Beryl was released to recess by the tinkle of the little bell. She was the first out the door. Inhaling deeply, she looked around
the dusty yard, searching for possible escape routes. Doris’s voice at her shoulder startled her.
“We all play skip rope at recess. Do you want to join us, Beryl?”
Beryl looked at the group of girls. The hostility from the night before was gone. Most of them were watching Beryl curiously. Except Mary. She stood to one side, pretending not to notice that Beryl was being included by the others.
“Skip rope?” asked Beryl. “How do you do it?”
“Haven’t you ever skipped rope before?” Doris asked in a surprised voice.
“I’m sure I can do it—just tell me how you win.”
The girls giggled again like monkeys. Beryl ground her teeth and waited for Doris to explain the rules.
“You don’t win. Two of us turn the rope, and you hop over the rope when it hits the ground. We all sing the rhyme.”
“Why?” Beryl asked. “To strengthen muscles?”
“In the civilized world, we do things for fun,” Mary said. “Feel free not to join us.”
Doris stepped forward. “Mary, be quiet. Give Beryl a chance.”
There was a murmur of agreement from the other girls.
Doris was being decent, and Mary didn’t want Beryl to play. That was reason enough for Beryl to join in. “I’ll try.”
Doris nodded. “All right.” She pointed to Mary with a mischie-vous gleam in her eyes. “Mary, you take this end, and I’ll take the other. Beryl, don’t worry if you trip at first—it happens to everyone.”
The girls began turning the rope. Beryl studied the way it came down and flopped on the ground and then rose again in an arc. Once she understood how it worked, she jumped in. The girls started chanting in time to the snap of the rope on the dusty ground.
Grace, Grace, dressed in lace,
Went upstairs to powder her face.
How many boxes did it take?
One, two, three, four…
Beryl’s feet were fast, even in the tight shoes. She didn’t miss a hop. In the back of her mind, she blocked out the high-pitched chanting of the girls. In its place, she hummed the Kikuyu jumping song to keep the rhythm.
“Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred.” As the weary voices of the girls reached the century mark, Beryl leapt high in the air and landed perfectly with both feet planted on the rope. The girls gaped for a moment, and then deliberately turned their backs and walked away. Doris stayed there, chewing on her lip.
“What’s wrong?” Beryl asked.
Mary was still holding the rope. She gave it a hard tug. Beryl, staring after the others, was taken unawares. She fell to the ground, her feet splayed and her skirt askew. She glared angrily at Mary, who was doubled over with laughter.
“You look ridiculous,” Mary taunted. “And I don’t believe that you hunted a lion!”
Beryl lunged over to grab her ankle and twist—a Nandi wrestling move guaranteed to bring down an opponent standing above you. But she got tangled in her skirt and fell down again into the dirt. To her fury, Mary laughed harder.
“Oh, Beryl! If Miss Seccombe could see you now, she would never cast you in my part.” She sashayed over to the others, leaving Beryl lying in the dirt, fuming.
Still holding the rope, Doris looked thoughtful. Beryl looked up at her and asked, “Why did they go? Didn’t I do it right?”
Doris dropped the rope. “Beryl—in skip rope, we take turns. If you never miss, no one else gets a turn.” She hesitated, as though there was more she wanted to say, then shrugged and left Beryl in the dirt, alone.
Beryl passed the rest of the day without speaking a word. When she returned to the dormitory that evening, the room fell silent the instant she walked in. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as her eyes darted around the room. The girls avoided looking at her, particularly Mary.
Ignoring them as best she could, Beryl strode over to her bed to strip off the itchy coverlet.
As she lifted the pillow, she sucked in a hiss of surprise. A long, thick snake lay coiled in a tight circle. Its yellow skin was dotted with brown spots. It snapped at her, its forked tongue tasting her scent. She looked closer at the snake—it was harmless, a sand boa. Behind her, Beryl could hear the smothered giggles of the other girls. Her lips turned up in a wicked smile; she had an idea.