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  He pulled away. “No, Rachel, I’m not well. I should not have come, but it is only right that I tell the Pritchards myself. We have the sorrows of Job. Their child has died. She had no chance. She was very ill.”

  He went into the house. I could hear loud crying that was not unlike the wailing of the Kikuyu families. The suffering was surely the same. Father and I watched as the Pritchards drove away. After a moment Father said, “If anything should happen to me, Rachel, you must contact the mission board. They will care for you. You must urge them, Rachel, to find another doctor for Tumaini. I would never rest in my grave if something should happen to the hospital.” His face was pale. He looked down at me as if he would take me in his arms. “How can I leave you? It would be almost better if you were to join your mother and me.” He turned and made his way slowly back to the hospital.

  THREE

  I repeated Father’s words over and over. “It would be almost better if you were to join your mother and me.” The words were terrible, worse than any threat of doom in the Old Testament. I wouldn’t let myself believe in them. I stood at the window scratching at some bites on my leg from red pepper ticks and watching as the distant hills turned from lavender to purple and then darkened until I could barely make out their shape. I had not eaten since breakfast, and at last, feeling a little hungry, I roasted a sweet potato and had it with wild honey. There was nothing left then but to curl up on my bed. I shook out the covering to get rid of the last of Mrs. Pritchard. I had some idea that it was not right that I should sleep, but that I ought to keep awake and watchful. I heard the hooing and gurgle of a water-bottle bird. I listened for the lions, but they were silent on this night. The hyenas were howling. I thought of a horrible story I had heard from one of the Kikuyu. When injured, a hyena will tear at its own insides and begin to devour them. I closed my eyes tightly against the gruesome image. Afterward, because I fell asleep, I blamed myself for my father’s death, as if I ought to have kept watch that night.

  It was daylight and Kanoro was standing over me. In his despair he forgot his English. “Bwana mzimu,” he said. It was in Swahili that I learned Father had died. I am ashamed that my first thought was for myself. Like my parents before me, I was an orphan. My mind became muddled with visions of lumpy porridge and being locked into a room for misbehavior and having to wear cast-offs. I thought of David Copperfield working fourteen hours a day in a London factory. I thought of having to leave Africa. Each thought more miserable than the next. At last I came to the worst thing of all—Father was gone—and I began to sob.

  It was Kanoro who comforted me and who, when the crying had at last stopped, reminded me of my responsibility. “What of the hospital?” he asked. “There are many sick there.”

  The nearest house with a telephone was the Pritchards’ house. It was the last place I wanted to go, but I had to let the authorities in Nairobi know we had no doctor here. The mission board must be informed so that another doctor could be sent out. In the meantime, perhaps a doctor in Nairobi would come out once or twice a week to supervise the nurses and father’s assistant so that the hospital could remain open.

  In the oxcart it was a half-hour journey to the Pritchards’. Kanoro remained in the cart while I walked up to the Pritchards’ large home. I knocked on the door, and a servant in a white jacket opened the door. When he saw me, he put his hand over his mouth to stifle a cry. After a moment he said, “I am sorry, miss. I thought our young mistress had returned to us. Please to come in.”

  The Pritchards’ house was made of stone with a wooden roof. The servant led me to the sitting room. The draperies were drawn. In the gloom I could make out a large fireplace, a piano, overstuffed chairs and sofas, and a massive table on which stood tall silver candlesticks. Our house had hard-packed dirt floors covered with grass mats. Here the floors were of wood and covered with animal skins. As my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I saw that Mrs. Pritchard was seated in one of the chairs staring at me.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you, but my father died in the night,” I said. “I wonder if you would be kind enough to inform the officials in Nairobi. It may be that they could send a doctor to our hospital.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “And what of yourself? What will you do with no parents?” I was frightened, for her look was greedy and made me think of the hyenas that follow the pregnant zebras and antelope waiting until the moment their helpless calf is born and then devour it. I could not think what she wanted of me.

  “The mission board will have to be notified,” I said. “I suppose they’ll arrange to have me return to England.”

  “And then? Have you family? You said your parents were orphans.”

  “No. I have no family. The church has an orphanage.”

  “And do you wish to go there?”

  I shook my head.

  “Make yourself comfortable while Mr. Pritchard calls Nairobi. I’ll have Njora bring you tea.” She gave me one more greedy look and disappeared. A moment later the Kikuyu servant arrived with a silver tray. There was lemonade with bits of real ice floating in it and little sandwiches and chocolate biscuits all arranged neatly on a china plate as thin as eggshell. My face burned as I thought of the clumsy chipped cups in which I had served the Pritchards their tea. Though I had had nothing to eat that morning, I was too unhappy to do more than sip the lemonade and nibble at a sandwich. I was puzzled at Mrs. Pritchard’s sudden kindness. It did not fit with the way she had looked at me.

  I could hear the Pritchards’ conversation like the murmur of whydah birds and then, more loudly, Mr. Pritchard speaking into a telephone. A few minutes later he appeared. “We are very sorry for your loss,” he said. “I’ve notified the hospital in Nairobi to see about a doctor keeping an eye on your hospital. They said they can do nothing. They are overworked with their own influenza cases.”

  I had written down the name and address of the president of the missionary board. Reluctantly I handed it to him. “Is there someone in Nairobi who could contact the board?” I tried to keep my voice steady. “To let them know what happened—and that I am here.”

  “Yes, yes. I’ll see that a cable goes off. Just leave it to me. I have sent your servant back. Our car will take you and Mrs. Pritchard to your home. She will help you to pack, and then you must come and stay with us until some plan is made for you. I know you have a sad duty. I’ll send some boys along to help with the burial of your father.”

  I was taken aback. I had felt very much alone, so their care was welcome, yet I had a feeling of being taken over, which frightened me. However friendless I was, I was not sure the Pritchards were the friends I needed or wanted. Their sudden concern puzzled me.

  I drove back with Mrs. Pritchard. It was the first time I had been in an automobile, and for a moment the strangeness of it swept away my suspicions of the Pritchards until I overheard the Kikuyu driver and the man, Njora, who had come with him to help in the burial. They spoke in Swahili, which Mrs. Pritchard must not have learned. Perhaps they believed I did not understand it as well, or perhaps they were kind and wished to warn me without the Pritchards knowing. The driver said, “Bwana and Memsahib will devour the small one like the wild dogs swallow a little antelope.”

  A moment later we pulled up to my house, and there was Kanoro. He stared at me as I got out of the car with Mrs. Pritchard. Instead of hurrying to greet me as he normally would have, he stood there as if he were unsure of what to do.

  Mrs. Pritchard said, “No doubt you will want your father buried next to your mother. You must tell my man where the coffin is to go. I suppose your fellow can put a coffin together? Now let’s go inside and pack your things.”

  It was just at this moment that I should have said, “I won’t pack my things. I won’t go back with you. I’ll stay here and wait for the mission board to tell me what to do.” I didn’t say it. My parents had brought me up to obey my elders. How could my parents know that one day I might be obeying the Pritchards?

  I
went into the house, which had never seemed so deserted. I found an old suitcase and began to pack my few belongings, conscious all the while of Mrs. Pritchard standing over me, a distasteful look on her face as she saw how worn and shabby my clothes were.

  “Perhaps you had best leave all of that,” she said.

  I could not follow her. “What will I wear?”

  I saw her face tighten. “We have suitable things at the house.”

  I was puzzled until I realized she was speaking of her daughter’s clothes. “Oh, I couldn’t,” I said.

  “We’ll decide that later. I believe your man is at the door.”

  I bristled at the way she called Kanoro “your fellow” and “your man,” as if he belonged to us. Kanoro must have felt her distain, for he had always come into our house as a member of the family. Now he stood uncertainly at the entrance. “We are ready,” he said, not calling me by name as was usual.

  When we went outside, I was startled to see hundreds of Kikuyu gathered in the churchyard. There were many familiar faces. There was the man who had recovered from a bad case of blackwater and the woman who had been cured of a snakebite and the little boy who had come to the hospital with a badly shattered arm. “Kanoro,” I said, “I thought the families had all gone away because of the sickness.”

  “The word went out, and they have come back for your father,” he said.

  I threw my arms around him and wept. I felt Mrs. Pritchard pulling me away. In a harsh voice she said to Kanoro, “Tell those people to go away.”

  When I was the one she ordered about, I obeyed her, but I would not let her order Kanoro about. “The Kikuyu who are here are patients of my father’s. They have come to honor him and must stay for his funeral.”

  I did not know how I had done it, but I had put into my voice something that kept Mrs. Pritchard from saying more. We walked to the churchyard, where the grave had been prepared. It was next to the grave of my mother, where my flowers were still fresh in their jar.

  Kanoro handed me Father’s Bible, and in a choked voice I read Father’s favorite words, for he loved Tumaini: “Yea, the sparrow hath found an house, and the swallow a nest for herself.” As I read the verse, I thought the sparrows and swallows were lucky with their nests, for even a bit of woven straw in a tree was better than the house of the Pritchards, where I would nest that night.

  Kanoro whispered to me, “Our chief, Mabui, wishes to make a last ngoma for your father.” A ngoma was a ceremonial dance, which Father had always enjoyed. My parents and I had often attended ngomas. Once a visiting missionary had come and a ngoma was given in his honor. He was shocked. “How can you allow such a pagan celebration?” he asked. Father only smiled and said, “Surely such exultation comes from God?”

  I said to Kanoro, “My father would be honored.”

  A circle was formed and the drums and the dancing began. The women were splendid in their beads and wire bracelets and painted faces, the men imposing with ostrich plumes, leopard-skin capes, and necklaces of lions’ teeth. Just outside the circle the small children imitated their elders. Around and around the dancers went, chanting, flinging their arms about to the rhythm of the drums, the stamping sending clouds of dust into the air. Sometimes the dance was formal and stately, sometimes fiery and boisterous.

  Mrs. Pritchard was horrified. “Tell them to stop at once,” she hissed. “This is a disgrace.”

  “No,” I said. “We would hurt their feelings. Father would have been very pleased. He loved their ngomas.”

  At last she could stand it no more and, reaching for my arm, began to pull me away toward the car. I only had time to break away and run to Kanoro and say my good-byes. “Please thank the Kikuyu for me,” I said. A moment later the car door closed on me and I was driven away, the chanting still in my ears.

  My last sight of Tumaini was of the hospital. All my life I had heard stories of how the hospital had been built with sun-dried bricks that Father had helped make. Supplies had been slow in coming from England, and Father had had to improvise or do without. The medicine men of the tribe had been jealous of him and spread rumors that kept away patients who desperately needed Father’s help. His first clinic had been held under the trees. Mother had had to deal with rats and cockroaches and scorpions that climbed into our shoes at night. Until the well had been dug, water had come from the river or from the rainwater barrel, and every ounce had to be boiled. Father and Mother had never given up.

  When we reached the Pritchards’ house, Mr. Pritchard asked his wife, “Did you manage the funeral all right? I suppose it was a sad affair.” He had a glass in his hand and his words were slurred.

  “It was not quite what I would have chosen,” Mrs. Pritchard said. I could see that she was anxious to tell her husband of the scandalous ngoma, for she hurried me and my things into a bedroom. “You will have Valerie’s room,” she said. “You must be tired after your ordeal. Perhaps you should rest for a bit.” With that she left me.

  My first thought was of the girl whose room it had been. I felt that Valerie was looking down at me, angry at my trespassing. Though I wanted to, I was afraid to stretch out on the bed, for it was spread with a silk counterpane. Instead I settled into a chair and looked about me. It was a girl’s room such as you might read of in a book about a princess. It was all silk and ruffles, with pretty pictures of scenes of what I guessed must be the English countryside. The only thing in all the room that was the least out of place was a picture on Valerie’s dresser of an elderly man. He had white hair and an old-fashioned mutton-chop beard. He was frowning as if he were furious at having his picture taken. I wondered at so stern a picture in this pretty and graceful room.

  I could hardly understand all that had happened to me, one terrible thing after the other. First Mother and then Father. Now I was with strangers I disliked and did not trust. My future as an orphan could only mean I must make a long, lonely journey back to a land I had never seen and be shut up in some institution where I would be one child among many. I would be dependent upon charity for every bite I ate.

  After a bit Njora, with a pitying look on his face, brought me a jug of hot water, and I washed my face and hands in a flowered bowl and put on a dress that in these grand surroundings appeared more worn and shabby than ever. I had forgotten my comb and brush, and a glance in the mirror showed me how untidy my hair was. Without thinking I reached for the comb on the dresser and began to run it through my hair. It was like a live snake in my hands and I dropped it at once. It was not my comb; it was Valerie’s.

  Mrs. Pritchard came into the room without knocking. She was wearing a green dress of some sheer material. There was a frill of lace at her throat and on her sleeves. I thought it odd she was not in some dark color, some color more suitable for mourning. She looked at my worn dress and gave a little shrug, as if I were beyond help. “Dinner is ready, my dear. Perhaps you would like to put on one of Valerie’s frocks. We dress for dinner here.”

  I shook my head.

  When she hesitated, I was afraid she would force one of the dead girl’s dresses over my head. “Well, perhaps we’ll let it go for this first night,” she said.

  As we entered the dining room, Mr. Pritchard stood, a little unsteadily, napkin in hand, until we were seated. He had a glass in front of him, which he drained and refilled from a glass bottle at his place. There was no such glass bottle at Mrs. Pritchard’s place or at my place.

  Njora carried in a large covered bowl of soup, which Mrs. Pritchard ladled into bowls. The bowls had a gold edging. I looked to see what spoon, from among the many, Mrs. Pritchard picked up and I did the same. Though the soup was tasty, I could not force more than a spoonful or two down my throat.

  Mr. Pritchard said, “I have cabled the mission board that your parents have succumbed to the influenza epidemic.”

  I took a deep breath. “And you told them of me?”

  Mr. Pritchard’s glance slid away. “Oh, yes,” he said. “And I have received an answering cable.
I am afraid it is not encouraging. Because of the recent war, there’s a shortage of missionary doctors at the moment. Many went to the front and many did not return. They have no one to send. It appears the hospital must close.”

  Father and Mother’s hard work would be for nothing. I thought of Kanoro and Ita and Wanja and Jata and all the men and women whom Father and Mother had trained. Where would they go? Perhaps to the native hospital in Nairobi, but their families would not be able to accompany them. Only Africans who had jobs in the city were allowed to live there. I didn’t think they would be happy in the city of Nairobi without their families. I did not know how, but I promised myself that there would be a hospital again at Tumaini. Then I realized there had been no mention of me. “When will I be sent for?” I asked.

  “We need not worry about that for the moment. You are quite safe here.”

  With my worry over the hospital and the strangeness all around me, I didn’t realize that Mr. Pritchard had not answered my question.

  There was the sound of a motorcar on the road. Mr. and Mrs. Pritchard looked at each other. Quickly Mrs. Pritchard got up from the table. “Rachel, come along to your room. This has been a sad day for you—you must get some rest.” Though her words were full of concern for me, I saw that she was flustered and anxious to get me out of the way. The moment I was safely in the room, she closed the door and hurriedly left me.

  Unseen hands had turned down the bed and laid out a nightdress of fine muslin trimmed in lace with narrow blue ribbons drawn though the neck and sleeves. It was a nightdress I might have dreamed of if I had had a notion such things existed, but I could not put on the gown of the poor, dead Valerie.

  Car doors opened and slammed shut. Wondering if some official were coming to inquire about the hospital, I went to the window and looked out. The window of my room was near the entrance. I saw a couple I did not recognize. The woman wore an elegant long linen coat and a large straw hat trimmed with flowers that jounced about as she walked up to the entrance. The man had on a white linen suit and wore a panama hat. The Pritchards were at the door to greet them. The woman said, “We’re so relieved to find you up and about. I can’t tell you how many in Nairobi are ill. I don’t see Valerie. I hope she’s all right.”