Green City in the Sun Read online

  Mathenge went away for six passings of the sun and returned with the child, saying, "Now his name is David, and he is a Christian. The white man will treat him as a brother."

  Then Mathenge had said, "God Jesu says that I commit a sin by owning more than one wife. You defied me, lady mine, by not moving to the other side of the river when I commanded. Therefore, you are no longer my wife. I shall live now as a Christian man with Gachiku, and with Njeri, my daughter whom Jesu restored to life. And when my time comes to die, I will be restored to life, as Jesu promises."

  Afterward Wachera had clasped Kabiru to her breast and lamented as if Mathenge had died. It was the worst calamity for a Kikuyu woman to be cast out by her husband, for then she was cast out by the clan and no longer had a family. Wachera wept not only for the loss of her beloved mate but for the emptiness of her womb in the years to come. She clung to Kabiru and wailed, she washed him with her tears as if to wash away the white man's baptism, but in the end, because it was the wish of the man she desperately loved, she called her son David. And when her hut was torn down a fifth time, she did not rebuild it but moved into the hut of her grandmother, where the three lived in love and mutual solace.

  The gourds were full; it was time to return. Because young Wachera had the additional burden of David, who rode on her hip, the grandmother carried more gourds, and so her load was heavier, what the white man would measure at ninety pounds. Bent in half and facing the ground with leather straps digging into their foreheads to hold the heavy calabashes in place, the two trudged in silence through the unfamiliar forest back to their hut beside Valentine's reservoir.

  THE LATE-AFTERNOON air was filled with smoke as the men burned what was left of the gigantic fig tree stump; the river quiet was jarred by the grinding of chains and tractor motor.

  Wachera and her grandmother came through the trees in time to see the ancient roots, like the gnarled fingers of a protesting hand, rise up out of the ground in a shower of dirt. The two women stopped and stared. A team of ten men was hauling away the stump and filling in the cavity left behind. All that remained of the massive trunk and great spreading branches of the sacred tree were bundles of freshly chopped logs.

  Elder Wachera slowly removed the calabashes from her back. "Daughter," she said, "take me into the forest now. It is time for me to die."

  Young Wachera stared at her. "Are you ill, Grandmother?"

  The medicine woman spoke calmly but with an echo of fatigue and age in her voice that the granddaughter had never heard before. "The home of the ancestors has been destroyed. The sacred ground is defiled. There is great thahu here. My time in this world is over. Take me now, Granddaughter."

  The arm she held out was steady. Wachera put her calabashes on the ground, shifted David to her other hip, and took her grandmother's hand. They turned their backs on the Kikuyu men in white man's clothes who were chopping and burning the sacred tree and returned to the forest.

  They walked in silence; only little David, fourteen months old and unaware of the catastrophe that had struck, gurgled and cooed. Although she did not want to accept it, young Wachera knew that her grandmother was indeed about to die. It was the Kikuyu way not to bury the dead but to leave the body to be devoured by hyenas. A person must not be allowed to die in a hut, for then the hut was made unclean and must be burned; a corpse could not be touched, for that was taboo. And so the sickly and dying, while yet alive, were either taken or went on their own to die alone and thus not bring thahu upon the homestead.

  They reached a place that was uninhabited by people. The grandmother sat on the dusty ground littered with twigs and dry leaves, and for the first time her movements were those of an old woman. Young Wachera marveled at how suddenly her grandmother had aged. The tired joints creaked; arms and legs moved stiffly when only a short while before, while carrying the calabashes, the medicine woman had been as spry and nimble as the granddaughter fifty years her junior.

  Elder Wachera sat on the earth and stretched her legs out before her. "Soon I will be taken by the Lord of Brightness," she said softly. "And I will return to live with our First Parents, Kikuyu and Mumbi."

  Placing David on the ground, young Wachera sat opposite her grandmother and waited. Something terrible had happened, something the young woman could conceive only vaguely, something beyond her grasp but which one day she believed she would understand.

  "There is sorrow in Kikuyuland," elder Wachera said at last, her breathing becoming labored. "The time has come for the old ways to pass. I know now that I was born to see the sunset of the Kikuyu. The Children of Mumbi will turn their backs on Ngai, on their ancestors, on the tribal laws. They will strive to become like the white man. The old ways will die and be forgotten.

  "Mathenge will never come back to you, Daughter. The white man has cast a spell on him. But the man who once owned you will not be happy in his new life, for there is the proverb that says the knife once sharpened cuts its owner. But he is not to blame, for there is another proverb that says a man's heart feeds on what it likes."

  She fell silent. The sun began to creep out of the forest, leaving behind long shadows like snakes reaching out for the two Kikuyu worsen.

  "You know, Daughter, that we live in our descendants. A man must own many wives and have many children so that our ancestors live eternally. But the white man is teaching us that this is wrong. Already Kikuyu men are forsaking their wives. There will not be enough children to receive the souls of departed grandparents, and so the spirits of our ancestors will wander the earth homeless. Soon there will be no more fig trees, and there will be no one left to communicate with our fathers and mothers of the past. They will be lost."

  With shaking hands the medicine woman removed a bracelet from her wrist—it was made of elephant eyelashes and therefore contained strong magic—and handed it to her granddaughter. When she spoke again, her voice was thinner, her breathing more irregular. It was as if her life were seeping out of her old bones, just as life was departing the roots of the dying fig tree. "You will eat an oath now, Granddaughter. And then you will leave me."

  The forest was growing dark and menacing. No Kikuyu ever went abroad at night because of the many dangers from animals and evil spirits. But the young woman wanted to remain with her grandmother until death had claimed her. "I will not let them take you while you live," she said in a tight voice, referring to the hyenas, which even now had come out and were prowling nearby.

  Elder Wachera shook her head. "It matters not to me that they feast on my flesh while I live. The hyenas are to be honored and respected, Daughter. I will not cry out. You must go, but first the oath."

  Wachera was terrified. Oath eating was the most powerful form of Kikuyu magic; it bound one's soul to one's word. To break such an oath meant instant and terrible death.

  "You will promise me now, Granddaughter, by the earth that is our Great Mother, that you will protect the old ways and keep them forever and ever." The old woman scooped some soil into her hand and held it out. Making mystical signs over the dirt, she closed her eyes and said, "Someday the Children of Mumbi will turn against the white man and cast him out of Kikuyuland. When that time comes, they will want to return to the ways of their fathers. But who will be here to teach them?"

  "I will," whispered young Wachera.

  The medicine woman placed the dirt in her granddaughter's hands. "Swear by the earth our Great Mother that you will keep the tribal ways and that you will communicate always with the ancestors."

  Wachera lifted her hands to her mouth and pressed her tongue to the dirt. Swallowing, she said, "I swear."

  "Swear also, Wachera, that you will be medicine woman to our people and will practice the rites and magic of our mothers."

  Again Wachera ate the soil and swore the oath.

  "And promise me, my soul daughter . . ." The old woman labored for breath. Her body seemed to grow small and shrink before her granddaughter's eyes. "Promise me that you will take revenge upon the white man o
n the hill."

  Wachera ate the oath, promised revenge against the mzungu, and watched her grandmother die.

  12

  S

  HE HAD WALKED THROUGH THE NIGHT FOREST WITH NO FEAR, for she knew the spirit of her grandmother walked at her side. Wachera marched with a purposeful step, eyes blind to the shad-owy shapes of heads and flanks around her, ears deaf to the sounds of hyenas feasting on human flesh. She pushed through tree and bush with David embraced to her strong young body, courage and determination filling her with every step as if the power of her grandmother were swelling in her veins. With each tree passed, Wachera's shyness and humility vanished; with each rock stepped over and each twig cracked, her youthful fears and uncertainties were broken and cast aside. Wachera grew as she walked, in spirit and in stature. She had memorized every word elder Wachera had spoken; she would remember them until the day she died.

  At last she came out of the forest to the clearing where the sacred tree had once stood and where there was now a lone hut in the moonlight. Holding her baby, the only one she knew she would ever have, young Wachera, now the medicine woman of the clan, turned her eyes to the big stone house on the hill.

  "I SAY, RATHER like a coronation, isn't it?"

  This was said by His Excellency the Governor, who, because of his exalted rank in the protectorate, stood closest to the front steps of the house. The excitement was palpable in the night air. Torches blazed along the curved drive down to the dirt road where latecomers were still arriving. The assembled guests murmured in anticipation, thrilled with the spectacle Treverton had orchestrated. Wineglasses sparkled in the moonlight; pink gins sloshed around in tall tumblers. Everyone eagerly awaited the arrival of the earl and his countess, after which they'd all get a good look inside the magnificent new house and then be fed a proper feast.

  "They tell me it's all lit with light bulbs. Treverton's installed some sort of generator, the first electricity in the province."

  "I understand there's to be polo tomorrow," someone else said. This was Hardy Acres, the manager of Nairobi's biggest bank, to whom almost everyone present was in debt.

  "If the weather holds," added the man next to him. Faces turned to the night sky, where moon and stars shone. Still, a few wondered, didn't the air feel unusually damp tonight? And wasn't there the barest hint of a breeze? All it would take was one good wind and the clouds would tumble down off Mount Kenya and bring ... rain.

  "I say," came another voice. "Here they are!"

  Valentine Treverton understood that in British East Africa one could substitute showiness for taste and get away with it because that was part of the magic of living in the protectorate. Like others, Treverton was affected by the equatorial sun; style became ostentation, and his sense of pomp verged on parody. Everyone accepted it and loved it. So when the wagon came down the drive, drawn by ponies decked in Arab tassels and bells, the cart festooned with ribbons and flowers, the driver an African in full Treverton livery down to the crest on his jacket and green velvet top hat, the guests had to applaud. East Africa settlers loved a good show.

  It was understood that the rules were different here and were often made up on the spot. Weekends of hunts and drinking and target shooting helped one forget that the crops were withering in the fields, that the Africans were dying of starvation and disease, and that a very real threat lingered near that one might have to pack off to England, a failure.

  Bless Valentine Treverton, everyone thought. He was as good as his word and was certainly delivering tonight. His guests adored him for it.

  Lady Rose looked stunning as she stepped down from the cart, holding, of all things, a bouquet of madonna lilies. Where had Treverton managed to get those, in this drought? And the countess's hair! Already the women were making a note to cut off their own old-fashioned Gibson style for the free, new-woman marcel wave that was scandalous in Europe but that Lady Rose had suddenly made acceptable. Her long, beaded gown trailed behind her. She smiled and nodded as she mounted the steps, her hair gleaming like polished platinum in the torchlight. Valentine, proud and dignified, walked at her side; he was decidedly the most handsome man at the affair. Dr. Grace Treverton followed, more conservatively dressed than her sister-in-law; Mrs. Pembroke was with her, carrying ten-month-old Mona; and last came Sir James and Lady Donald, the Trevertons' best friends and most honored guests.

  The doors were opened by two smiling servants, and Valentine led his wife into her new home for the first time.

  It was every bit as fabulous as she had imagined it would be—even more! Valentine had planted little surprises everywhere: an antique highboy displaying her Spode china, which had nested in a crate for nearly a year, the wonderful grandfather clock in the parlor that swung with time, and a portrait of her parents which he had secretly sent for and which now hung in the formal dining room. And the biggest, best surprise of all: a Christmas tree in the center of the living room, cut down from the Aberdare forest and laden with lighted candles, tinsel, gingerbread ornaments. At its base lay drifts of artificial snow.

  Rose was overcome. She turned to him, said, "Valentine, dearest," and went into his arms. When they kissed, everyone cheered, except for the Kikuyu servants, who, being members of a tribe that did not kiss, wondered why the memsaab and bwana would put their mouths together.

  Miranda West, having arrived from Nairobi the day before and at work in the kitchen since before dawn, saw to the orderly serving of her masterpieces. Because two hundred guests could not all sit down together, the banquet was served buffet style, the guests being attended upon by Africans wearing scarlet Zanzibar waistcoats embroidered in gold over long white kanzus and white gloves. Miranda's fried potato cakes accompanied roast gazelle, rainbow trout from Valentine's dwindling reservoir, spur fowl baked in honey, and ham from the Rift Valley. Drop scones were eaten with butter and jam; Miranda's potted salmon was spread onto cottage loaf; and even the punches were her own creations; from cut glass bowls with dippers and matching glasses were offered the famous badminton and claret cups. The food brought sighs of ecstasy and melancholy from the homesick crowd as everyone tasted England and suddenly remembered what they had forsaken for this uncertain new life. There were even musicians with violins and an accordion who played Christmas carols. Bellatu glowed in the night, on its lonely hilltop, like a kingdom that came to life once every hundred years. For miles around, natives in their dark, smoky huts huddled together with their children and goats, afraid of the dark, listening to the baffling sounds of laughter and music of the wazungu. A solitary elephant trumpeted on a nearby mountain slope, as if to remind the revelers of where they really were.

  The guests spilled out onto the veranda, on the lawns, and a few had even found their way secretly up to peek at the bedrooms. Valentine never left Rose's side. They were a charmed couple, sprinkling magic and blessings on everyone they touched. Treverton's luck in the protectorate had become legend in this past year; while everyone else's crops perished from lack of water, his seedlings were strong and green. He even had a mystifying way with the Africans who were loyal to him and seemed never to run away or sit down on their jobs. People crowded around the earl and his beautiful wife, hoping that some of the enchantment would rub off.

  Grace escaped to the terrace, where she stood at a clipped hedge and looked down at the Chania River.

  "I think your brother's outdone himself," Sir James said as he joined her. "This night will be the topic of gossip for years to come."

  She laughed and sipped her champagne.

  "How on earth can Valentine afford all this?" James asked.

  Grace did not reply. She knew her brother was drawing heavily upon the income from his Bella Hill rents, and she prayed his good judgment would tell him when to stop. The Suffolk estate was not a bottomless money well.

  Three men walked by, their white dinner jackets ghostly in the moonlight. "When I'm on safari," one of them said, "I prefer sleeping in the open. The sky makes a good roof, provided it do
esn't leak!"

  James lifted his brandy glass and smiled at Grace. She was caught in that smile, in the creases around his eyes.

  One of the trio, as they vanished around the hedge, said with slightly slurred words, "I hear there's a monstrous big tusker out Lake Rudolf way." And the conversation, fading, swung around to elephant hunting.

  James grew thoughtful. An absent look stole across his face; the glass remained at his lips, untouched.

  "Is there something wrong?" Grace asked.

  "I was just remembering . . ." He set the glass on the edge of a marble birdbath. "My father hunted for ivory. When I was old enough, he took me on safaris with him. I recall that I had just turned sixteen when we went to Lake Rudolf."

  James didn't look at her as he spoke; his voice grew distant. "That was back in 1904. We were tracking an old bull that my father had wounded with his first shot. I was in camp while he went on ahead, and he found it. The elephant charged my father, and before he could get off a second shot, his gun jammed. He turned and ran, with the gigantic tusker thundering after him. According to the gun bearer who fetched me, my father flung himself to one side just as the elephant was upon him. It spun around, came back, and tried to gore him with its tusks. By the time I got there, my father had managed to crawl behind the elephant's chin so the tusks couldn't reach him, but the beast was pounding him with its knees. I shot off several rounds and dropped the animal, but by then my father was dead. It was a long trek back, several hundred miles with just me and the native porters. The whole time I was beside myself with worry about how I was to break the news to my mother. But when I reached Mombasa, I learned she had died of blackwater fever."

  He looked at Grace, his expression gentle. "That was when I went to England to live with relatives. When I returned to British East Africa, I was twenty-two and married. I bought the land at Kilima Simba and imported Ayrshire cows to crossbreed with the native Boran bulls. Since then I have had no stomach for hunting."