The Crocodile's Last Embrace Page 8

  Entering the hut released a flood of memories in Jade, from her naming ceremony to this past September when the old shaman had warned her of death watching for her on Mount Kilimanjaro. Now it seemed that she was to play the role of witness or perhaps of arbitrator. She didn’t relish either prospect any more than she enjoyed sitting in the dark, smoky hut. The scents of dried mud, thatch, and herbs clashed with those of unwashed bodies and the smoldering remains of a fire. Jelani motioned for her to be seated, but the two men were ordered to stand. Biscuit took his place beside Jade, sitting upright with his front paws neatly together, his head level with hers.

  Jelani spoke first, in Swahili so that Jade could understand. “This man, Irungu,” he said, pointing to the one who had the wailing woman, “has accused this man, Mutahi, of witching him.” His finger now pointed to the man who wore the necklace. “This is a serious charge, but it is one for us to decide here and not for the British to decide.”

  Since no one had been killed, Jade agreed but she said nothing. When her opinion was wanted, she’d be asked for it.

  “Why should we not send them to the British?” asked the chief. “We pay hut tax for their protection. They decide what is the law now.”

  Jade watched Jelani’s face. She knew he opposed paying the hut taxes, so she was certain that his opposition here stemmed primarily from accepting those British services. To do so would only enhance the colonial belief that more taxes were owed.

  “Some things they do not have laws for,” said Jelani. “They do not understand witchery. They will give us mockery. Would you have that? Would you have them shame you?”

  He had struck a nerve there, and the chief shook his head vehemently.

  Jelani nodded. “I will retell the story now so that all may know what this shauri is about. Irungu’s wife accepted a gift from Mutahi, a gift of herbs for cooking and drinking. She gave these to her husband, who became so ill that his soul left his body and wandered with the goats. My master made him well again so that he did not die. Now Irungu accuses Mutahi of giving him poison so that he might steal his hut, goats, and wife.”

  “That is not so,” shouted Mutahi. “I do not want his hut. And I do not want his lazy wife. Maybe she witched Irungu.” At that accusation, the woman outside started wailing again.

  “Silence, woman!” shouted the chief. The sobs and hysterical moans ceased immediately. “Put them to the test. Have them lick a hot knife.” Both men protested against facing the ordeal.

  “Enough,” said the old mondo-mogo. “I have no need to hear your yammering mouths. I have talked with my spirit ancestors and they have told me what I need to know. I have seen beyond the village even to Kea-Njahe.”

  Jade leaned forward to hear better. The old healer spoke Swahili poorly and mixed Kikuyu with it. But she recognized their name for Ol Donyo Sabuk. Kea-Njahe meant the mountain of the big rain, and it was a favorite spot of Ngai, the Maker, second only to his preference for Mount Kenya. She saw that Mutahi trembled, his shell-casing necklace jittering on his scarred chest.

  “That man,” the mondo-mogo said, pointing to Mutahi, “has been there. But he has gone into dark places where he did not belong.”

  Mutahi’s shaking increased but the mondo-mogo paid no attention. Instead, he reached for a wooden bowl beside him, shook it, and spilled several bones onto the pounded-dirt floor. He bent low over them, murmuring indecipherable incantations. After poking the bones, he beckoned to Jelani. The youth squatted beside his teacher, his gaze fixed on the bones, his ears attentive to his master’s comments. Twice he nodded. Then he stood as the mondo-mogo gathered up the bones and put them back in the bowl.

  “The mondo-mogo has shown me the truth as the bones have shown him,” said Jelani. As he spoke for his master, he took on the man’s mantle of power, his eyes never wavering, his voice ringing true. “There is witchery here, but it is not Mutahi’s doing. Yet all are guilty. First, Mutahi is guilty of stealing and of being a fool.”

  The accused gasped. “Stealing?” Mutahi said. He fingered his shell casing. “I have worked for many whites on safari. Bwana Nyati knows of me. I do not need to steal. I—”

  “You have stolen, Mutahi. This poison that you brought was one taken from a dark place. A place that hides in the shadows, not daring to look on Ngai’s greatness. That is what the ancestor spirits say through the bones. But you took it as a fool and not with the purpose of evil.”

  “It is Irungu who covets. He desired Mutahi’s hut for his lazy wife,” continued Jelani. “Mutahi only presented the poison as a gift, for that is what he thought it was, a gift to make Irungu no longer wish Mutahi’s hut. Irungu’s wife is guilty of laziness and of having a tongue that wears down a man as water wears down a rock.”

  “Mutahi might have killed me,” said Irungu. “Perhaps his witchery is so strong that he clouds the mind of the mondo-mogo.”

  At that, the old healer’s head snapped up and his black eyes locked onto Irungu’s. “Is it so strong that it clouds the minds of the ancestors? Or has your greed clouded your mind? Perhaps your spirit was better when it went walking from your body. Why has it come back still grasping for what is not yours?” The mondo-mogo peered intently into Irungu’s eyes. “If you wish for Mutahi to lick the knife and then vomit out his sins, I will prepare a goat for sacrifice.” His bony finger quickly aimed at Irungu. “But then you must also undergo the cleansing.”

  Irungu ducked his head. “I am sorry, mondo-mogo. Forgive me.”

  “Yes,” said the old healer. “Forgive is what the bones tell me to do. They say to forgive all of you this time, but beware another shauri like this. Then you shall be beaten, or worse.”

  The two Kikuyu hurried out of the hut, nearly colliding in their haste. The chief bowed briefly to the mondo-mogo and Jelani, nodded at Jade, and left. Jade remained where she was, sitting on the dirt floor, Biscuit beside her. She’d been called in for some purpose and she waited to see what it was.

  She didn’t have to wait very long.

  “This shauri concerns you, Simba Jike,” said the old healer. “But I do not know how. My body grows old. Soon I will join my ancestor spirits.”

  Jade saw Jelani wince at that pronouncement. She knew that, with this old man’s passing, Jelani would lose not only a teacher, but also a man who had become a second father to him. He would assume the full mantle of responsibility as healer, a role that apparently carried much weight with the villagers, including the chief.

  “Thank you for telling me this,” said Jade. She had no idea how she fit into a native squabble, but the old man’s warning warranted her gratitude.

  The shaman waved a bony hand in dismissal. “Do not thank me, Simba Jike. I am not able to see clearly how it concerns you. But I know I must tell you this.” He paused to cough. Jelani retrieved a gourd dipper of water and gave it to his teacher.

  “Then know that I have heard what you told me,” said Jade. She shifted to rise. This little trial had overtaxed the aged healer and he clearly needed to rest. Before she could get to her knees, he held out his hand, signaling her to wait while he drank.

  “You have not heard what I must tell you,” he said with a wheeze.

  Jade sat back down.

  “I must tell you that the power of the crocodile is in the water.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The Swahili word for crocodile is “mamba,” not to be confused

  with the poisonous snake by the same English name.

  Perhaps mamba should actually translate into “deadly.”

  —The Traveler

  “I DON’T UNDERSTAND. What was your teacher telling me?” Jade and Jelani had left the mondo-mogo’s hut and found a quiet, shady place outside of the palisades to sit and talk. Biscuit had taken his dinner, a scrawny chicken that Jade had paid dearly for, to an even more secluded spot thirty yards away.

  “When the crocodile is on land, he is not as powerful as in the water, where he is hidden,” said Jelani.

  Jade shook
her head. “I understand that much. But I don’t understand why your teacher told it to me. Is your village being plagued by a crocodile? Has it taken some of the women when they draw water?”

  “We have no trouble with a crocodile. Not now, though many have died that way in years past. Now the women have for many months gone down to the river in large groups, trumpeting like elephants. They beat the water with poles and they throw rocks while they take turns washing or filling their jars. They are also instructed not to go to the same spot each time to draw water. Crocodiles watch and learn where people go.”

  “Clever idea,” said Jade. “Yours?”

  Jelani shook his head. “Not all of it. I told them to go to different spots each time. The sticks and the trumpeting are my mother’s idea. My mother is Mumbi, younger sister of the mondo-mogo. She has some of the seer’s gift. For many years she has had this idea that the crocodiles do not harm the elephants, but no one would listen to her. Now she has my mouth to speak through and all the villagers call her a wise woman.” His lips twitched, and Jade thought the smile was less of pleasure and more of amusement.

  “I’m sure your mother’s status is well deserved,” Jade said. “Your teacher, is he ill?”

  “He grows very old, Simba Jike. He has already predicted his own death this year.” Jelani’s head bowed and his chest rose and fell in a deep sigh. “I am not ready to be mondo-mogo.”

  “How so? Is there more for him to teach you? Can you learn from another man in another village?”

  “That is not it. I am not ready to shoulder the burden. But my teacher reminds me that the elephant must carry his own tusks.”

  “Carrying your own isn’t the problem,” said Jade. “It’s carrying everyone else’s. I think you are trying to carry the burden of all your people.”

  Jelani looked sidewise at her, a wry smile forming on his handsome young face. “And Simba Jike never carries anyone else’s burdens, does she?”

  He laughed, and Jade could tell it was at her expense. Somehow, coming from her young friend, it didn’t sting and she was happy to hear it. He’d grown so serious in the time she’d known him. Jade joined in his joke. “No, I just run around trying to save elephants and leopards and solve murders.”

  “And so whose burdens do you carry this time?” Jelani asked.

  “Only my own, I think.” She told him briefly about the terrible package and the letter she’d received. She omitted her hallucinations and the strange vision in the smoke, for the very fact that he would take them seriously. The last thing Jade wanted was another smelly ointment or medicine pouch to carry. She wanted information.

  “I know I have a strong enemy in David’s mother,” she said. “She is in prison, but she had a lover who came to Africa long ago. I believe he has helped her in the past and is probably still helping her.”

  “And you do not know who this man is?”

  “I know his name, Mathers Pellyn, but I don’t even know if he lives in Nairobi. He could be anywhere. Mombassa, perhaps.”

  Biscuit, finished with his meal, joined them and plopped at her feet, washing himself like some great, spotted house cat. Jade reached down and stroked his head.

  “Have you seen anyone new and odd in this area?” Jade asked. “A new settler who doesn’t farm or keep animals? Someone who comes and goes a lot?”

  Jelani shook his head. “A man from the British Office of Native Affairs,” he said with a tinge of loathing in his voice, “comes once each month to see that we are being good Kikuyu. But he is not new. I have seen this man for many years.”

  “Hmmm,” Jade murmured. “Such a man would certainly be able to move about the colony easily.”

  “And that is all the burdens you are carrying?” Jelani’s black eyes locked onto Jade’s in a look that bore into her soul.

  She didn’t flinch. “I found a dead body, if that is what you are wondering. The death is suspicious, but I have no involvement in it beyond telling the inspector what I saw and heard.”

  Jelani nodded. “That is good, Simba Jike. It gives the police something to do besides look at our shauris.” He jerked his head towards the village.

  “Do you still speak out for self-rule?” Jade asked.

  Jelani’s eyes opened wide in mock innocence. “Simba Jike, how can you say such a thing? You know that such talk is forbidden. But when I asked you if there was another burden, I did not mean dead men. I asked about your heart. It has been many months since Bwana Mti Mguu left,” he said, referring to Sam by his African name meaning “tree leg.”

  Jade frowned. “Over four months.”

  The youth’s brows furrowed as he shook his head. After a long silence, Jade suddenly felt very foolish talking about a lost love to a lad of no more than fourteen. She hadn’t intended to; she only wanted to ask him about strangers in the vicinity and to see how he was faring. She looked up at the sky and gauged the daylight left.

  “I’d better be on my way. I’m camping at Fourteen Falls tonight. In less than a week I’ll be bringing some girls on safari there.”

  Jelani nodded. “I will find and send a spirit to watch over you, Simba Jike.”

  Jade smiled. “Thanks, Jelani. But I think I have enough people watching over me.”

  “Yes, your Saint Peter and his bait bucket.”

  “Him, too.” She stood and dusted off her trousers. Biscuit rose with her, extending his slender forelegs in a luxuriant stretch. “You shouldn’t worry, Jelani. You will be a fine mondo-mogo when it is time. And you will have the wisdom of your mother to help you.”

  As if she heard them speak of her, the woman burst out of the palisade gate and hurried to them. Jade assumed Jelani’s mother was no more than forty years old, but a hard life had aged her as it did most of the native women. Her pinched face was creased with wrinkles born of worry, and her spare frame testified to years of hunger. She carried a short digging stick in her right hand. Like many of the Kikuyu who lived this close to Nairobi, the woman wore a more concealing garment than the usual animal-hide apron and beads. Jade recognized the blanket wrapped around her as one that she’d given Jelani as a gift on their return from Kilimanjaro.

  “You are Simba Jike,” she said in Swahili. It was not a question.

  “I am,” replied Jade. She’d never spoken with Jelani’s mother before. Until a few minutes ago, she hadn’t even known her name. The woman had always been at work in her garden or doing other chores. Jade waited, curious as to what this woman would say to her. Would she thank Jade for teaching her son to read or for helping him write and sell articles to the London newspapers? Jade felt compelled to greet her with honor, paraphrasing Ezekiel 19:2-3:

  “What a lioness was Jelani’s mother! A lion of lions! Among young lions she couched to rear her whelps. One whelp she raised up, a young lion he became.”

  The old woman thwacked Jade atop her head with the digging stick. Jade felt the sting even through her thick felt hat.

  “Beat foolishness out of your head,” said Mumbi. She raised her hand to strike again, but Jelani caught her arm.

  “Mother, stop!” he said. His tone was gentle but firm.

  “Foolishness in her head,” repeated Mumbi. “I have seen the crocodile take hold of the lioness and drag her under. One waits for this one now.” She raised her stick again.

  “Mother, go back to your hut,” ordered Jelani.

  Mumbi waved her digging stick in the air as she returned to the gate. She called over her shoulder, “A lioness alone and away from a pride will die. Foolishness!”

  “What did I do to earn that?” asked Jade, rubbing her head.

  “Be grateful it was not a bigger stick,” said Jelani.

  JADE’S CAMPFIRE BLAZED, providing warmth in the cool evening air as well as protection from whatever stalked behind glowing eyes. The air was rich with a fine spray, thanks to the arc of falls a few hundred yards downstream. Their muted roar made a backdrop to the jackals yipping in the distance. A few swallows fluttered overhea
d while she pitched her tent.

  A second, smaller ring of stones housed Jade’s cooking fire. After photographing the falls from below, she had grabbed her pole and managed to land two large rhino yellowfish below the falls, but not until after they’d both put up a considerable fight. Once back in camp, she’d quickly scaled and filleted one, placing it in her skillet to cook. The other she filleted and gave to Biscuit. A fish eagle, reminiscent of the bald eagle with its great white head, had eyed Jade’s catch for a while, even following her up to the top of the falls. It flew away downstream after Jade tossed the head and entrails into the river.

  Now the fragrant scent of fish browning in butter filled the air, and Jade inhaled deeply. This is the life! She’d known that she’d feel better once she got out of Nairobi. She loved Bev and Avery, but it was getting harder and harder to stay in Parklands. She grabbed a folded cloth and used it to remove the water pot from the fire. Since none of the shops were open on Sunday when she left, she hadn’t been able to replace the coffee that Bev took. Jade threw in a handful of spiced red tea and let it steep while she listened to her fish sizzle.

  I should go to Lake Victoria and do a story there. Get away. Then, before the thought was finished, another followed on its heels. And what if Sam comes back when you’re gone? Do you expect him to hang around and wait for you?

  She ignored her own question, since it broached the next one: what if he didn’t come back? Jade tended her fish instead and tried not to focus on life without Sam. It didn’t work. She knew that, ultimately, she’d need to leave Kenya to avoid memories. But with so many painful ones awakened after her trip to Europe, Jade wasn’t sure where she could go next. A bit of butter popped and Jade turned her attention to her dinner. After she flipped it over to cook on the other side, she carefully decanted a mug of tea. She took a tentative sip, followed by a second and a third. The brew ran hot and flavorful down her throat. She still missed her coffee, especially the aroma, but this would do for now.