Green City in the Sun Read online

"And a jolly good thing he came back, too," Briggs said as he ran his bread around his plate. "It's because of Sir James's knowledge of the bush and the natives that he was so invaluable in the campaign against the Germans."

  "Oh, no war stories, please!" said Valentine suddenly.

  But Briggs went on. "Any story about one man saving another man's life is worth telling," so that Grace recalled another of her brother's letters in which he had written: "I've decided to buy land near James's ranch. He's the bloke I met up with during the campaign."

  Grace knew nothing about her brother's involvement in the East African phase of the war. He had come down as an officer with General Smuts, had fallen in love with the country, and had decided to settle here. Grace realized now, sensing a moment of awkwardness at the table, that the friendship between Valentine and Sir James must have had its genesis in an episode of valor and sacrifice. Since neither man would speak of it, she was left to ponder her brother's inexplicable annoyance at the raising of the subject. Was it because he hated to be reminded of his monumental debt to Sir James?

  "So you're a doctor, Miss Treverton," Officer Briggs said. "You'll be kept plenty busy, I can tell you that. Your brother tells us you're planning to set up some sort of mission. Seems we have enough of that kind of thing in the district. Never could understand why everyone's so hot to educate the wogs."

  Grace smiled coolly and turned to Sir James. "I take it that you are very familiar with the natives in this area. Perhaps you will be able to illuminate me on how to win their trust."

  Valentine answered for his friend. "No one knows the Kikuyu the way James does. His father was made a blood brother of Chief Koinange's tribe. Got to witness some secret ceremonies. They called him Bwana Mkubwa, which means 'big boss.' They even have a nickname for James."

  "What is it?"

  "They call him Murungaru. It means 'straight.' No doubt for his looks and his character." Valentine signaled for a servant to clear the dishes away. "So the natives know him as well as he knows them!"

  "Are they friendly around here?"

  "We have no trouble with them," Sir James said. "The Kikuyu used to be a very warlike people, but we British have put a stop to that."

  "That spear over there," said Valentine, pointing to the wall, "was given to me by Mathenge, the chief in these parts. He's my headman now.

  "Are they truly pacified?"

  Sir James tilted his head. "I couldn't say. Outwardly they appear to be quite accepting of our rule over them. But one can never tell what an African is thinking. When men like my father came here, the indigenous tribes were like a Stone Age people. They had no alphabet, no wheel, only rudimentary farming, carrying on just the way their forebears had for centuries. Amazingly, these people had never even developed the lamp, not even the simplest kind used by the ancient Egyptians. Now the missionaries are trying to rush them into the twentieth century. The African is suddenly being taught to read and write, to wear shoes, to use a knife and fork. He is expected to act and think like the Briton who has two thousand years of development behind him. Who knows what will come of it? Perhaps fifty years down the line we will regret having pushed the African through such a compressed tuition. Maybe one day millions of educated Africans will suddenly resent the domination of a handful of whites and there will be terrible war with a lot of blood spilled."

  Sir James paused, slowly turning his wineglass on the lace tablecloth. Then he said more quietly, "Or perhaps it will happen sooner than that."

  Everyone stared at the revolving glass, its facets glinting in the candlelight, the pale yellow champagne undulating.

  Then Valentine said abruptly, "It'll never happen!" and waved his hand for dessert to be served.

  Plates of fruit and a block of cheese were brought. District Officer Briggs was the first to help himself, saying, "They're a strange lot, the wogs. Got different notions of pain and death from us. Nothing bothers them. They're taught from birth not to show weakness. And they're so bloody accepting of things. Sickness, death, famine—it's all shauri ya mungu, the will of God."

  "They believe in one god?" Grace asked, directing her question to Sir James.

  "The Kikuyu are a very religious people. They worship Ngai, creator of the world. He lives on Mount Kenya, and he's not too much different from some versions of Jehovah."

  "Blasphemy," murmured Valentine.

  Sir James smiled. "The Kikuyu aren't polytheistic. They don't have to give up much to become Christians, and they stand to gain a lot. Which is why the missionaries are so successful."

  "The Kikuyu sound like a simple people."

  "On the contrary, they are not. And that is where a lot of white men make their mistake. The Kikuyu are complex in their thinking, in the structure of their society. Just to tell you all their taboos would take hours."

  "Then don't bother," said Valentine as he reached for the third bottle of champagne. His eyes seemed to burn, and they settled often upon Lady Rose.

  "James, you told me this afternoon about the medicine woman in this area, Wachera. Is she a chief?" Grace asked.

  "Good Lord, no. Kikuyu women aren't leaders. They're barely regarded as people. They're possessions of men. Their fathers sell them, and their husbands buy them. In fact, the Kikuyu word for husband actually means 'owner.' And the word for man, murume, means 'mighty,' 'object of great prize,' 'lord and master,' while the Kikuyu word for woman is muka, which means 'person in subjection,' 'cry for nothing,' and 'given to panic.' Muka also means 'coward' and 'object of no value.'"

  "That's terrible!"

  "Look out," said Valentine. "Next, my sister will be trying to turn them all into suffragettes."

  "Kikuyu women don't see their lot as a terrible one," Sir James said. "They think it an honor to serve men."

  "A lesson, old girl," said Valentine, "you could do with learning." He placed his hands on the table. "Now then, I trust you ladies will forgive us if we have our coffee here? I'm afraid we haven't the room for the gentlemen to retire with cigars."

  "Oh, dear," said Lady Rose. "You're not going to smoke, are you?"

  He gave her hand a squeeze. "We're not savages, my love. In Africa one must be prepared to make sacrifices. We will forgo the cigars."

  From her place across the table Grace saw Rose respond to Valentine's touch. She saw the dilated pupils, the red cheeks. When Valentine started to lean away, Rose laid her hand over his, and there was desire in her eyes. "Darling," she said a little breathlessly from the effects of the champagne, "do you think we might go back to Nyeri town and stay at that quaint little hotel?"

  "The White Rhino? Not on your life, my love. The walls are so thin you can hear the bloke in the next room change his mind!"

  "But if you only knew how I'd much rather stay there until Bella Two is built."

  "Can't be done, my dear. These monkeys have to be watched every minute or else they won't work. The minute my back is turned they run off into the woods for a beer drink."

  The doubtful look evaporated from Lady Rose's face when the silver coffee samovar was brought out and the bone china cups were distributed. She smiled approvingly at the African servant who wore white gloves and called her memsaab. The table was kept immaculate, the correct spoons had been set out, and the gramophone played Debussy. The champagne had made Rose giddy. She had been warned about the altitude but had forgotten and taken too many glasses. But she didn't mind. Rose relished the warmth inside her, the delicious stirrings in her body. Impossible now to imagine her bedroom fears. She hoped Valentine would visit her tent tonight.

  Her husband was saying, "Did you know that the word coffee comes from the Arab word qahweh, which originally meant 'wine'?" While Sir James turned to Grace and said, "When can you come to the ranch? Lucille is anxious to meet you."

  "At your convenience, James. I shall be getting to work right away building my own house down by the river."

  "We'll see how the weather holds. Perhaps I'll call back for you next week."

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nbsp; "I would be glad to deliver the baby for you if you'll send someone 'round."

  "You can be certain of that!" He gave Grace a long, considering look, then said, "I wish I didn't have to rush off at first light in the morning. Meeting someone new is always such a treat here. But I've some cows I'm worried about, and I can't figure what's ailing them."

  "Is there no veterinarian?"

  "In Nairobi, but I haven't seen the man in weeks. He has a terribly large territory to cover. I shall have to send blood samples down to Nairobi for microscopic analysis."

  "I brought a microscope with me, if that would help."

  Sir James stared at her. "You have a microscope? My dear woman!" He took hold of her hand. "You are an absolute godsend! May I borrow it for a few days?"

  "Of course," she said, looking down at the strong, sunburned hand that held hers, covering Jeremy's ring.

  A howl tore through the night, making the forest explode in a cacophony of squeals and shrieks. "What the devil was that?" cried Valentine as he shot to his feet.

  Another unearthly howl suddenly sobered the company in the dining tent. Valentine flew out, with Briggs and James close behind. The two women remained at the table and listened to the dogs barking, the Africans shouting, and, thinly, a baby crying.

  "Mona!" said Grace, rising and going to the tent flap. But when she looked out, she saw that the action was at the opposite end of the camp from where Mona and the nanny were quartered.

  She squinted through the mist. Men were running; lanterns were being lit. And the dogs—they yelped in a chilling frenzy. "What is it?" Rose asked behind her.

  "I don't know...." Then she saw Valentine striding toward his tent with a thunderous expression on his face. He went inside and emerged with a whip.

  "Valentine?" she called.

  He ignored her.

  Grace tried to see through the mist, tried to make out what was happening. The dogs were wild; sharp commands failed to calm them. Beneath it all, Lord Treverton's voice was low and strong, giving orders.

  Grace stepped out of the tent. The men's voices died down until all that was left was the whining of the dogs. She moved forward, shivering in the mist, her breath a steam jet before her. Then she heard a crack in the air, like a gunshot, and she realized it was the sound of the whip.

  Now she hurried, unaware that Lady Rose followed. When Grace rounded the supply tent, she stopped.

  The men—Africans in khaki shorts, servants in kanzus, and the three white men—were in a circle and in the center, tied to a tree, was a Kikuyu boy, his back exposed to the descending lash. He didn't flinch, didn't make a sound as the whip laid a red stripe across his flesh.

  Grace stared in horror.

  Valentine's face was stony as he raised the whip again. She saw the muscles of his shoulders strain the fabric of his dress shirt. He had removed his jacket; his back was damp with mist and perspiration. The whip fell with force. The boy embraced the tree, as unmoving as if he were carved from its black wood. Valentine widened his stance, raised his arm, and briefly his dark eyes were illuminated in lantern glow. There was a strange passion in the look, Grace saw, a power that frightened her.

  As the whip came down, she cried out.

  He didn't acknowledge her.

  Up went the kiboko, and down it whistled, laying another red slice.

  She bolted forward. "Valentine! Stop this!" When she seized his arm, he shook her off. Sir James caught her, and she turned on him. "How can you stand for this?"

  Briggs answered: "It was the boy's duty to watch the dog compound. But he got drunk and fell asleep. A leopard got in and snatched one of the hounds."

  "But ... it's only a dog!"

  "That's not the point. His duty could have been to guard you or the nanny and the baby. What then? A lesson has to be taught. Without discipline one might as well pack up and go back to England."

  The last stripe cracked the air, and Valentine coiled his whip. Retrieving his jacket from Sir James, he said to his sister, "It's what has to be done, Grace. We'll all perish in this godforsaken country if we don't have law and order. And if you can't accept that, then you've no business being in Africa."

  As he walked away, a servant rushed to the boy with a washbowl and cloths, and the circle broke up. Grace said, "Brutality and cruelty aren't necessary.

  Sir James said, "It's the only language they understand. These people think kindness a weakness, and they despise weakness. Your brother did a strong thing, a manly thing, and because of it, they will respect him."

  Angry, Grace turned away and was startled to see a figure standing in the mist by the supply tent. Lady Rose stood as if frozen, her eyes two smudges on her pale face. "Go back inside, Rose," Grace said, taking her arm. "You're shivering."

  The champagne warmth was gone. The face had returned to cold ivory. "Remember your promise, Grace," Rose whispered. "He mustn't touch me. Valentine mustn't come near me...."

  6

  W

  HAT HAD THE CHILDREN OF MUMBI DONE TO MAKE NGAI angry? The Lord of Brightness had withheld the rains so that there was drought in Kikuyuland, and soon there would be famine, which would bring the evil spirits of sickness.

  Because the day was unseasonably hot, young Wachera sweated as she toiled in the forest. She was not alone in her work. A spear throw from her, elder Wachera was also bent over, collecting medicinal herbs and roots, her body creating music with its hundreds of bead necklaces, copper bracelets, and anklets.

  The two women were collecting lantana leaves and thorn tree bark. The former was used to stop bleeding; the latter, for stomach ailments. Elder Wachera had taught her granddaughter how to recognize these magic plants, how to collect and prepare them, and how to administer them. The process was exactly the same as it had been in their ancestors' time, when medicine women had gone into the forests and searched and collected, as these two were doing today. The grandmother had taught young Wachera that the earth was the Great Mother and that from her sprang all that was good: food, water, medicines, even the copper that adorned their bodies. The Mother was to be revered, and that was why, as they worked, the two Wacheras chanted holy spells over the earth.

  Outwardly the grandmother appeared to be at peace. She was a graceful, elderly African woman modestly clad in soft goat hides, her head shaved and gleaming in the hot sun, her nimble brown fingers moving quickly through leaves and twigs, sorting, rejecting, plucking, her wise old eyes instantly recognizing good medicine from bad. Her sacred chants sounded like a song, a mindless hum that would make the casual observer think her a woman with not a care in the world, not a thing on her mind.

  But the truth was, elder Wachera's thoughts were running a complex course, examining and rooting out problems in the same way her fingers traveled through the plants: how to cure Gachiku's barrenness, which recipe to use for Wanjoro's love potion, preparations for the upcoming initiation rites, organizing the ceremony to call down the rain. In good times the God of Brightness was thanked and praised, but in bad, a path was beaten to the medicine woman's hut.

  Only that morning Lady Nyagudhii, the clan's pottery mistress, had come to complain that her pots were breaking, inexplicably. Wachera had produced her Bag of Questions and had thrown the divining sticks at the woman's feet. She had read in them that a taboo had been broken, that a man had visited Nyagudhii's molding place. Pottery making was strictly women's work because the First Woman was called Mumbi, which means "She Who Makes Pots." From start to finish the digging of the clay, the molding and drying, the burning of the pots, and lastly their marketing were solely in the hands of women. For a man to touch any material associated with this work, or for him to be present during any stage of its progress, was forbidden by Kikuyu law. The mysterious breakage of Nyagudhii's new pots could only mean that a man, either intentionally or unwittingly, had trespassed upon the taboo ground. Now a goat would have to be sacrificed at the sacred fig tree and the pottery work area be ritualistically cleansed.

  Bu
t the heaviest thought weighing upon Wachera's mind was the drought. What had caused it? How to propitiate Ngai and bring the rain?

  She looked at the meager collection in her basket: a few brittle leaves; grass as dry as straw. Their medicine would be weak, and sickness would again strike Kikuyuland. The soil beneath her bare feet was parched and dusty. The Great Mother seemed to gasp for water. Back in the village the maize plots had withered and dried, stored grain turned to powder, branches shed their leaves and drooped in sorrow. She thought again of the ceaseless work being done on the ridge overlooking the river. Great metal monsters pushed down trees and uprooted stumps; oxen drew giant metal claws which wounded the earth; the white man on his horse showed his whip to the sons of Mumbi as they toiled beneath the rainless sky like women! Wachera could hear the ancestors weeping.

  It had occurred to her that there might be a thahu upon her people.

  Thahu meant "badness" or "sinful thing." It was a curse that befouled the ground and the air; thahu could make a man sicken and die; it could destroy crops, render cows and ewes barren, make women dream bad dreams. The forest was populous with spirits and ghosts; the Children of Mumbi knew to watch their steps lest they offend a tree imp or the spirit in the river. They knew that devils clung to the black cloak of night and that the good manifestations of Ngai rode the wings of morning. There was magic everywhere, in every leaf and branch, in the cry of the weaverbird, in the mists that hid the God of Brightness. And because there was this second Unseen World with its own laws and punishments, the Children of Mumbi were careful to honor it. One never harvested the last tuber from the earth, or drained the well dry, or maliciously broke wood, or overturned a rock. If one transgressed against the spirit realm, one apologized or placated with an offering. But if someone were careless and gave offense without the proper apology, then thahu would result, and its scourge would fall upon the Children of Mumbi.

  But what had brought on the "bad thing"?

  Thahu was the most powerful force on earth, the Kikuyu knew, and to call down a curse on a clan member was worse than committing murder. People who perpetrated thahu were burnt alive on a woodpile, and those who were the victims of thahu had little hope of relief. Elder Wachera had seen a member of her own family run mad with insanity after a man, jealous of her uncle's large goat herd, had put a thahu on him. Wachera had been a little girl and had witnessed the complex ritual of the witch doctor as he had tried to lift the curse. But to no avail. The thahu was stronger than human medicine; once invoked, a curse was rarely broken; that was why the Children of Mumbi did not take curses lightly.