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  “Oh, yes, Valerie is fine,” Mrs. Pritchard said. “I put her to bed early tonight. I don’t want her overtired and susceptible to this terrible illness. She leaves at the end of the week, you know, to go to her grandfather’s in England. I can’t think how we’ll manage without her.”

  “Have you heard about the missionary hospital?” Mr. Pritchard asked of the couple. “Wiped out, I’m afraid. I was there today to see they had a decent burial. The parents and the child, all dead.”

  Mrs. Pritchard said, “No need to stand here chattering. Come in and Aldon will make you one of his famous pink gins. It’s a great nuisance, but we’ve had to send all but our cook and one of our servants away until the scare is over. We don’t want to take the chance of bringing the disease into the house.” The voices faded.

  “All dead,” Mr. Pritchard had said. “The parents and the child, all dead.”

  I sank down onto the bed. What could it mean? Mrs. Pritchard had said quite clearly that Valerie was alive. I almost believed her, for here I was in Valerie’s room, sitting on her bed. Had the Pritchards given me some magic potion that had turned me into Valerie like Alice in Wonderland? In stories Mother had read to me of the missionaries in India there were tales of reincarnation, where dead people came back as someone else. I pinched myself. I was very real. I looked into the mirror over the wash-stand. It was my face, not Valerie’s.

  FOUR

  I was so afraid I would turn into the poor dead girl, I would not put on her nightdress. Njora, when he came in the morning with my hot water for washing, was startled, for I had slept all night on the floor rather than get into Valerie’s bed. I had not slept so much as I had tossed and turned and worried about what would happen to me.

  “Njora,” I asked in Swahili, “Valerie has really died, hasn’t she? It is not a dream.”

  “No, Msabu. I am to tell no one, but I tell you because you already know.”

  He would say no more but only told me that breakfast was waiting for me.

  With all my sorrows and worries I had not thought to eat a bite of breakfast, but when I saw the dishes filled with eggs and bacon and ham and little pots of jams and jellies and thick pats of butter, I could not help myself. The Pritchards seemed pleased at my appetite.

  In a hearty voice Mr. Pritchard said, “Well, well, nothing like a good night’s sleep. Now if you will excuse me, I have some things to attend to.”

  Mrs. Pritchard urged more food on me, but as he left the room I saw Mr. Pritchard and his wife exchange a knowing look, a look that took away my appetite. I remembered the puzzling things they had said to the visitors the night before. Suddenly it seemed important for me to escape. Gathering all my strength, I said, “I think I had better return home until someone comes for me and tells me where I must go.”

  Mrs. Pritchard pulled her chair closer to me and began to speak in what she must have thought was a kindly tone, but which sounded false in my ears. “Rachel, my dear, you have it in your power to do a great kindness to an elderly gentleman. More than a great kindness. It would not be an exaggeration to say you could save the dear man’s life.”

  Her words made no sense to me. I had helped out in the hospital, but I surely wouldn’t know how to save a life.

  Mrs. Pritchard leaned closer to me. I could smell the heavy fragrance of her perfume, so strong it almost smothered me. “I believe I told you that Valerie was to visit her grandfather in England.” At the mention of her daughter’s name, Mrs. Pritchard’s eyes became bleary with tears and she had to stop for a moment. After a bit she went on. “Our daughter was to leave here for England at the end of the week. Her grandfather has been very ill. It is only the expectation of Valerie’s visit that has kept the dear man alive. Valerie is everything to him, and news of her death would be the end of him. We want you to go in her place.”

  “He would not be pleased to see me. It’s your daughter he wants.”

  “You would be our daughter. You would be Valerie.”

  “I don’t look like her. He would know I wasn’t Valerie.”

  Mrs. Pritchard’s eyes narrowed. “My husband’s father has never seen Valerie, only pictures of her. We could say that you had been ill and had lost weight. You have the family’s red hair. Of course Valerie was a very graceful and accomplished child.” This time tears rolled down Mrs. Pritchard’s cheeks, and I could see they were real tears and once again I felt sorry for her.

  “I don’t suppose you can play the piano?”

  “Oh, yes. I can play hymns.”

  “Oh, well, perhaps there would be no need for piano playing.” She sighed. “It would not be difficult for you. Grandfather lives in a large mansion in the middle of a park with great trees that are centuries old. We used to live there before we were sent—that is, before we came to Africa. Surely, my dear, that would be a better place for you, with someone who loves you and would give you everything you wished. Much better than some cold and miserable orphanage where you would be trained for a job that would bring you a lifetime of unhappiness.”

  Mrs. Pritchard was watching me. “I have such a sad picture in my head,” she said, “of dear Grandfather ill and alone in that great house receiving a notice of Valerie’s death. I see him clasping the letter to his heart and, with a great sigh, taking his last breath.”

  Mrs. Pritchard studied my reaction to the unhappy story, which I thought, like everything about her, exaggerated and probably untrue. Yet suppose it was a little true. If it was something that was possible for me to do, why should I not do it? Why should I not make the grandfather happy? Certainly living in a great mansion if only for a few days was better than a cold, mean orphanage.

  My conscience began to be busy. “It would be a lie,” the conscience said, “and you know it. What would your parents say?” It is not hard to silence a conscience. Though I did not entirely believe Mrs. Pritchard’s words, still I could not put out of my mind the sad picture of the lonely old man clutching the letter that told him of his granddaughter’s death. I saw myself walking through the door of the room in which he was sitting and his face lighting up. He would put his arms around me. All the servants would be standing by saying they had never seen their master look so well and how it was a miracle. And at least for a short time I would not have to go to the orphanage.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I think it would be wrong.”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Pritchard said. “It is your Christian duty. If you could save the poor man and you chose not to, it would be as bad as murder.”

  Murder! To be accused of murdering someone was certainly worse than a lie. “How long would I stay there?”

  “Only as long as Grandfather lives. A short time.”

  In a last desperate effort I stammered, “But, Mrs. Pritchard, I don’t think I should go. I’m not Valerie.”

  “That has nothing to do with it.” She stood up. “Well, let us consider that it is all settled. You’ll be leaving in three days. Your railway and steamer tickets were purchased long ago by Mr. Pritchard’s father, but we have a great deal of work ahead of us. Your grandfather will have questions, and you must have answers. Now, while you finish your breakfast, I’ll begin the packing. Unfortunately just when we need them, our servants have been sent away.”

  It wasn’t settled in my head at all. It would be the end of me, the end of Rachel. I would disappear as surely as if I had been snapped up by a wild dog’s jaws. Yet what would that Rachel be who lived in an orphanage, was allowed no special friend, ate lumpy porridge, and spent the rest of her life scrubbing floors? Surely that would not be me either.

  So much had happened. Mother and Father gone. The hospital to close. I myself carried away from my home. For the moment I did not see how I could fight the Pritchards, but desperately I hung on to Rachel Sheridan.

  My lessons began at once and went on morning, afternoon, and night for three miserable days. Mrs. Pritchard had begun, “Your name is Valerie Agnes Pritchard. Mr. Pritchard’s father had two sons.
The elder son died in the war and left no family. Mr. Pritchard is his second son. If Mr. Pritchard’s father were a just man, Mr. Pritchard would be in England preparing to take over the estate. Unfortunately Mr. Pritchard’s father is prejudiced against him.”

  “Prejudiced?”

  “Mr. Pritchard had some difficulties as a young man, and his father has never forgiven him. It is very unjust. Mr. Pritchard should be in possession of the estate at this moment instead of having to rely on his father for every penny, selfish old man that he is.”

  When Mrs. Pritchard saw the shocked look on my face, she added, “Of course he will be generous to you—he has been already. And the day that he dies, a day that cannot be too far away, I am sure we will be remembered.” She looked off into the distance, as if she could see that pleasant day when the grandfather should be dead.

  She turned back to me. “We have heard rumors about his money and the estate going to some organization for birds, but no one in his right mind would do such a thing. If you endear yourself to the old man, things may come right.”

  We went through the family album. “You must learn who everyone is. Of course Valerie was born in Africa, as you were, so she never actually met any of her relations, but Valerie knew who they were. They are all gone now, so there is no possibility of your seeing them. Valerie hated Africa and like Mr. Pritchard and me couldn’t wait to go to England. There is no elegance here in Africa, no decent society. It was no place to raise a sensitive child.”

  Talking of Valerie had made Mrs. Pritchard very unhappy. Tears slid down her cheeks. I reached to take her hand, but she drew it away.

  “I’m quite all right,” she said. “We must get on with our lesson.”

  My head was being stuffed with bits of information about the Pritchard family and life on the Pritchard plantation. But I could not forget something Mrs. Pritchard had said earlier. I asked, “If you and Mr. Pritchard are so anxious to return to England, why weren’t you going back with Valerie?”

  Mrs. Pritchard stared at me for a moment. “That is not possible,” she said, and quickly went on to make me memorize Valerie’s birth date and the birthdays of Mr. Pritchard and herself. “It may be that you can remind your grandfather to remember us on those dates. He has a great deal of money and could be more forthcoming than he is.”

  I had believed that once I left for England, I need not have anything else to do with the Pritchards, but now I saw my mistake. The Pritchards were two great spiders in the middle of a web, and the threads of the web would reach all the way to England and hold me fast. They would send letters to their daughter, and it would appear odd if I did not answer the letters. I would be expected to coax presents from the grandfather. I, who loved Africa, was to be Valerie who hated Africa. I couldn’t do it. I said nothing, but on the third day I resolved on another plan.

  That afternoon I complained of being tired and asked if I might lie down for a bit.

  “Good heavens!” Mrs. Pritchard said, a frightened look on her face. She drew away from me. “You’re not coming down with influenza?”

  “No. I’m only a little confused by all there is to learn.”

  “Yes, I understand. You’ve had terrible losses, and now this. It’s all happening too quickly. After this is over, you and I will both have time to do our grieving. Lie down until dinner.”

  For a moment I almost felt kindly toward Mrs. Pritchard, but then she said, “You will need to be strong, for Grandfather is a forceful man.”

  It sounded as if she were sending me to war. I was determined to run away. The moment I was in my room, I changed into my khaki pants and bush shirt and climbed out the window. Looking first to be sure I wasn’t seen, I hurried along the road that would take me to Tumaini. I knew the dangers. I had been warned a hundred times about being alone in the bush, but I believed the Pritchards were more deadly, more dangerous than anything that might leap out at me.

  First I had to travel through a swampy patch where papyrus and reeds crept up to the road. A weaverbird was busy with its nest in a banana tree. A lizard was sunning itself. I knew it was a place for snakes, and I hurried along. Overhead I heard the keewee, keewee of an eagle, but when I looked up it was only a dot in the sky. When I saw a black-headed heron stalking frogs, its sharp beak impaling them, I thought at once of Mrs. Pritchard as the heron and myself as the frog. The road as it climbed out of the swamp and onto the plain was so narrow that I brushed against the thornbushes, getting prickers in my legs. The desert rose was blooming. I had been warned against picking the blooms, for the sap was poison. When they go out to hunt, the Kikuyu dip their arrows into the sap. I thought the desert rose was like the life the Pritchards were offering me. There would be the handsome house and the riches, and at their center the poison of the Pritchards’ greed.

  The grasses alongside the road were taller than I was, so there was no knowing what might be hidden there. I saw the snaky neck and bald head of an ostrich move along and then disappear. A duiker, a male, sporting a short horn, was nibbling at the grass. The wind was against me and the duiker had not yet picked up my scent. There was a movement in the tall grasses ahead of me. I froze. I saw the grasses bend and then spring up again as some invisible creature slithered along close to the ground. A flash of gold shot out of the grass and sprang at the duiker. The duiker collapsed onto the ground, the leopard clinging to its back. A moment later the leopard was tearing at the little antelope’s flesh.

  I ran until my throat burned and I had no more breath. If the duiker, a fatter meal than I would have been, had not been there, the leopard would have made do with me. I had never been so alone. I felt like the only person on the whole continent of Africa. Sweat poured onto my face so that I had to blink my eyes to see. My heels were blistered, and every step hurt. Flies nibbled at the back of my neck. The thorns in my legs stung, but I didn’t dare stop to remove them.

  When I came at last to Tumaini, I saw our home was deserted and only a few families were camped about the hospital. In the three days I had been gone, the grass had sprung up, nearly hiding the path from our house to the hospital. The rains, the hot sun, and the insects would soon claim Tumaini. I slipped into the house without being seen and came face to face with Kanoro, who cried out as if he had seen a ghost. Slowly he reached out a hand and touched me.

  I threw my arms around him and we clung to each other. He held me, patting my head as he had done when I was a child. “Oh, can it be you, Rachel? We all believed you were dead. We saw them bury you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Yesterday Mr. Pritchard and his man came with a coffin and buried it in the churchyard beside the grave of your parents. When we saw that, all our hope left us. There will be a great rejoicing when it is known that you are well and alive.”

  I dried my eyes and looked around. “Kanoro, where is everyone?”

  “There are only a few people remaining in the hospital. An official from the government in Nairobi came and said the hospital would be closed and everyone must leave.”

  “Where will everyone go?” I asked.

  “We go back to our shambas. I only stay here to watch over your parents’ things.”

  “Kanoro, I don’t trust the Pritchards.”

  “No one trusts them. They sent away all their servants, only keeping in their home two men who would do their bidding. It was those men who came here with the coffin saying it was you.”

  “Kanoro, show me the grave.”

  “Who would want to look upon her own grave?”

  “Show me, Kanoro.”

  There next to my parents’ grave was a cross with my name: Rachel Sheridan 1906–1919.

  “Kanoro,” I said, “I want to go away with you and your people.”

  “Oh, child, that can’t be.” The wrinkles appeared on his forehead. “The government men in Nairobi would say we took you away. They would come after us and shut us up in their jail. We would be like animals in a cage.”

  Kanoro was right.
My plan had been a foolish one with no thought for anyone but myself. There was something else as well. I saw that I had become unlucky. Everyone around me had died. I was thought to have died myself. Like my red hair, I would be seen as dangerous. Much as I wanted to escape the Pritchards, I knew it was impossible. I would go to England, and if the truth were discovered there, even a jail in England would be better than another day with the Pritchards.

  “There is no one coming from the mission board, Kanoro. Divide everything among the hospital staff. The pots and pans will be useful, and Father’s tools. But Kanoro, I promise I’ll come back one day and the hospital will be just as it was. One thing. You must not tell anyone that you saw me. They must think me dead. Now I have to go back to the Pritchards.”

  Kanoro said, “You should not have made the trip alone through the bush. I will go back with you.” When he had pulled the thorns from my legs and bandaged my blistered heels, he took up Father’s rifle, holding it proudly, and together we retraced my steps with no adventure except for a porcupine that sent up its quills at the sight of us and then waddled away. When the Pritchard house came into view, Kanoro stopped abruptly, as if the house might cast an evil spell on him.

  “Rachel, you are like my own child. How can I let you go into that place? The people in there are like buzzards. They will peck at you until nothing is left.”

  I tried to comfort him. “Tomorrow I leave for England and I’ll never have to see the Pritchards again.” I threw my arms around him.

  Kanoro held me for a long moment and then said to me, “However far you go from here, you must carry me with you in your heart. If you are lonely, you must know that every hour I will be thinking of you. If you are among evil people, you must be like the lion, gathering your strength and awaiting your time. That time will come, and when it comes, you will come back to us.”