Authors: Michaela MacColl
That was Camiscan’s chance. Before Beryl knew what had happened, the stallion’s head twisted back toward her. His huge teeth grabbed her shoulder and dragged her off his back. She hung there, suspended between his great jaws, the pain in her shoulder making her head swim. Camiscan threw her in the air like a cat might torment a mouse. She fell to the ground with a thud, still gripping the reins.
“Beru!” Kibii shouted. “Cluttabucki, help her!”
The impact had knocked the breath out of Beryl. Her only reality was the throbbing in her shoulder and the jerking of her whole body as the stallion tossed his head at the other end of the reins. Camiscan neighed loudly, as though to say he was still the king.
From far away, Beryl heard her father snap at Emma to stop caterwauling and be useful. She felt his confident hands as he checked her wound. He pried the rein from her fingers and she heard the soft clopping of Camiscan’s hooves moving away. Hours later—or perhaps it was only moments—her father, with surprising
gentleness, was helping her sit up. Arthur, none the worse for wear, and Kibii stared down at her with something close to awe in their eyes.
“Beryl, talk to me,” the Captain said. “Can you hear me?”
“Daddy,” she croaked. She touched her shoulder. No blood, just a soreness that was bound to be black and blue by evening.
He smiled and lifted her to her feet. “You’re all right?” he asked as he gave her a quick hug.
Beryl staggered for a moment until her natural balance won out over her wobbling legs. She nodded.
“Get back on, then.” The Captain gestured to Camiscan, tied to the fence.
“Clutt, she can’t!” Emma cried.
Kibii muttered something in Swahili, and Arthur looked green. Beryl’s lip throbbed.
“All right,” she said. “Tomorrow.”
“Now.” He was merciless. “You have to show him that he can’t throw you and get away with it.”
“I just have to catch my breath,” she pleaded.
He waited, his gray eyes measuring her courage.
She beckoned him closer. “Daddy, I’m scared,” she whispered, afraid to meet the disapproval in his face. To her surprise, his words were kind, almost gentle.
“Of course you are,” he said. “I would be, too.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “But that doesn’t change what you have to do.”
He made it sound impossibly simple, Beryl thought. But she had trusted him her whole life. She nodded.
“That’s my girl.”
She walked stiffly to Camiscan. Her father lifted the reins back over the stallion’s head and cupped his hands to lift her into the saddle.
“Don’t trust him for a minute,” the Captain warned.
When Beryl clucked, Camiscan moved off with a stride as smooth as silk, a perfect gentleman. As she led the stallion through his paces, she could feel the admiring eyes of the Captain, Emma, and the boys on her. She sat even straighter, careful not to wince, no matter how her shoulder ached.
“She’s got as good a seat on a horse as any man,” the Captain said to Emma. “Her mother was the same.”
Beryl glanced at Emma. Under the dirt and tears, Emma’s face was grim.
“Boys, watch Beryl and learn,” the Captain said. “She just showed you two important lessons. No matter what happens, don’t let go of the reins. And never let a horse think he has the upper hand.” He moved to the gate. “All right. Back to the stable.” As Beryl steered Camiscan through the narrow gate, her father touched her knee. “Well done.”
Beryl grinned all the way back to the stables, knowing that she would wear the bruises on her shoulder like a badge of honor.
LOCATION: Elstree, England
DATE: 3 September, 1936
I was a terrible student with my governess and then at school. I only paid attention to things that interested me, and those teachers didn’t know anything that interested me.
My real teachers taught me how to survive and thrive in Africa. My father taught me to ride and to trust my instincts to stay on a horse. Arap Maina taught me discipline and how to handle a spear. And Tom Black taught me to fly. None of them were ever easy on me. They knew the only way to teach survival was for me to experience danger firsthand. I remember best those lessons that nearly killed me.
Once I was flying with Tom Black over the Great Rift Valley toward the Ngong Hills. My altimeter said we were eight thousand feet above sea level. I opened the throttle to climb. But the plane was sluggish; she had no more to give. We were doing eighty miles an hour, fast enough that I didn’t want to discover what would happen if we didn’t clear the hills. More stick, more throttle. The weight on the wings grew heavier. I was just a beginner and I was beginning to get a bit rattled, but not Tom. He sat in the cockpit, motionless and silent, carefree.
The wall of rock was rushing toward us before Tom took the controls. He banked sharply, dusting the trees and hills with blue exhaust. He put the nose of the Gipsy down until we were skimming the flat valley floor. Then he spiraled up until we were high above the hills and headed home.
“Now you know what a downdraft is,” said Tom casually. “You get it near mountains, and in Africa it’s common as rain. I could have warned you—but you shouldn’t be robbed of your right to make mistakes.”
Is there a better way to learn?
CAMISCAN’S HIDE TWITCHED UNDER BERYL’S HAND. SHE PRESSED her palm against his withers and spoke sternly. “Boy, I’m going to keep grooming you every morning and night. You just have to get used to it.” Camiscan still preferred Beryl to anyone else, but she was careful not to turn her back on him.
“Beryl, I’m bored.” Arthur’s head popped up over the stall door. “Will you play with me?” Although his fair skin was peeling from the sun, his breathing problems had improved in the clear air of the highlands. Under Beryl’s tutelage, he was becoming an expert on the dangers of Africa. Emma would faint if she knew how expert.
“I’m working, Little A. Go away.”
His voice, already high-pitched, became a whine. “There’s nothing to do here! I’m bored.”
Camiscan was growing restless. She thought for a moment.
“Play with Simi,” she suggested.
“The monkey who scared Mama?” Arthur asked doubtfully.
“He’s a baboon!” Beryl corrected with scorn. “And he was just defending himself after she poked a broom in his face. His favorite toy is that red ball—he’ll play catch for hours.”
“Will you come with me?”
“I told you. I’m working.” She turned back to Camiscan and brushed his long legs. “Simi’s probably on the porch underneath that bench.”
“All right.” He trudged off, kicking the dirt.
Beryl smiled to herself and patted Camiscan. “Arthur had better watch out,” she murmured to the stallion. “Or else he’ll get a big clout across the head. Simi doesn’t like to share.”
Her hand was closing the latch of the stall to lock Camiscan in for the night when a shriek split the evening. Only Simi sounded like that: like a human screaming, but without words. Beryl took off at a run in the direction of the house.
“Help!” Arthur cried.
“I’m coming!” she called.
Another baboon shriek. She had never heard Simi so angry.
Beryl took the shallow steps with a leap and skidded to a stop on the porch. “Simi!” she shouted. “Get away from him!”
The baboon had trapped Arthur in the corner of the porch. His arms wrapped around his head, Arthur had made himself as small a target as possible. His face had a huge welt. The baboon had struck once already.
“Simi, get away from him!” Beryl repeated. She smacked her hand against her leg, as her father did when he gave Simi an order.
Simi bared his sharp teeth. With contempt in his eyes, he turned back to the little boy.
Beryl’s eyes shot around the compound. Where was Daddy? Where was Arap Maina?
“Help me, Beryl!” Arthur screamed.
“Don’t move, Arthur.” She was trembling, but her voice was steady.
Simi turned back to Arthur, and with a long swipe of his claws raked down the boy’s shoulder. The blood welled up on the skin, and he shrieked from the pain.
Beryl darted in to grab Simi’s arm. The animal must have had eyes in the back of his head. With his other arm, he reached across, lifted her by her shirt’s collar, and threw her hard against the railing. She lay on the porch floor, the rough cedar pressed into her skin. A cut on her cheek bled, mixing with the tears rolling down her face. Simi was too strong for her.
The baboon moved toward Arthur. “Beryl!” he cried. “Do something!”
Beryl pushed herself up. She wouldn’t fail again. She had to save Arthur. Casting about for a weapon—any weapon—she cursed herself for leaving her knife in her hut. Her eyes lit on her father’s rungu, propped against the front door. She grabbed the narrow end of the walking stick and swung it in a wide circle above her head. The heavy, knobby end connected hard with the side of Simi’s head.
Thwap.
The baboon went down like one of her father’s trees.
Holding her breath, Beryl gripped the rungu in front of her. The baboon lay still on his side. She exhaled when she saw the widening pool of blood under his skull.
Arthur whimpered. Beryl spared him a glance. “Are you all right?” she asked.
He looked up at her, his face streaked with blood and tears. “Is he dead?”
“I think so.” She approached the body. The baboon’s face was unusually peaceful. It was easy to forget the wild beast and remember the years he’d been the family pet, to smile at the memory of all the pranks Simi had played.
“I’m sorry, Simi.” She bent down to stroke his fur.
Simi’s eyes popped open and Beryl stumbled backward. He screamed from deep inside his throat. The baboon’s lips curled back and he leapt at Beryl’s face, claws extended.
Without thinking, she struck out again with the rungu. Simi tried to grab it for himself. Beryl held the stick in front of her, like Arap Maina held a spear. She rammed the stick into Simi’s body, crushing his stomach against the wall. Simi wrapped his arms around his body and hunched over. He hid his face the way baboons did when another creature bested them.
Beryl watched with wary eyes, rungu at the ready. With a quickening of her breath, she knew what Arap Maina would do. She had to finish this, or Arthur would pay the price later.
Another swing, and Simi’s skull shattered. Brains and blood showered the wall. Arthur’s hair and back were covered with little bits of baboon. Simi fell to the ground with a thud.
A moment later, the rungu fell from her hand. She touched her throbbing cheek with her fingertips.
“Beryl?” Arthur’s voice trembled. “Is it over?”
“Yes, he’s dead.” She was panting.
“You said that before.”
“He’s really dead now.”
She extended a hand to help him up. Arthur clung to her waist and began sobbing.
“Why are you crying now?” she asked. “It’s over, you ninny.” She hesitated, then reached down and put her arm around him.
In the corner, she spied the forgotten red ball.
Moments later, the Captain and Emma came running. Emma’s anxious eyes searched only for her son.
“Arthur, what happened? We heard screaming…” She pulled him away from Beryl’s arms, moaning at the bloody cuts. She ran her fingers over his face and shoulders. She glared at the Captain and said, “What did she do to him?”
“Emma, why don’t you just ask me?” Beryl said in a flat voice. “And I didn’t do anything to him. I saved him.”
Emma ignored her and began speaking with Arthur in a low, urgent voice.
The Captain’s keen eyes were examining the porch. He caught his breath at the sight of Simi’s body. Then his gaze traveled to Arthur’s injuries, the rungu dripping with gore, and finally to the flecks of blood spattered on Beryl’s face and clothes.
“You killed Simi,” he accused.
“I’m sorry, Daddy. I had to,” Beryl said, without looking at his face.
“Do you know how much he cost? And that was three years ago—I’ll never be able to get another.” His voice was cold and angry. It took all of Beryl’s courage not to run away.
Rescue came from an unexpected quarter.
“Charles Clutterbuck! Are you mad? That creature…” For once, Emma was not pointing an accusing finger at Beryl. “That vile beast nearly killed Arthur, who was only trying to play with him. Beryl saved his life. So don’t you dare talk about money!”
Beryl finally looked at her father, deliberately widening her eyes so he wouldn’t think to ask why Arthur was playing with the baboon in the first place.
“Why did you use my rungu?” the Captain asked in a more measured tone.
“I didn’t have my knife. Arap Maina says a warrior should never be without his knife. I won’t make that mistake again.”