The gossip was accepted by only a handful, but the kujur was among them—Quinette’s marriage got him off the hook, accounting not only for the failure of the rains but for his magic’s failure to cure it. He was an eminent and prestigious figure. With his advocacy, the notion that she was to blame could gain wider appeal. She made discreet inquiries, discovered that the rain-maker was not the source of the talk, and concluded that it could only have been started by the two people who had the most against her.
She confronted Yamila first, accosting her as she and several other women were filling calabashes at the town well. There she stood, all feline sinew, leverage in her braided muscles, but Quinette was sufficiently incensed not to feel intimidated.
“Here is something I know,” she said. “You’ve been talking against me, and it is going to stop. You are going to keep your mouth shut. Here is something else I know—you don’t understand my words, but you can see that I’m angry and you damned sure know why, don’t you? Sure you do.”
Taken by surprise, Yamila shrank back, uncertainty clouding her usual belligerent expression.
“You were put up to this, I know that, too. You’re not clever enough to have thought it up all by yourself. So I’ll give you some advice—it’s not going to do you any good.”
Quinette hadn’t the slightest idea how to enforce this ordinance; the important thing was that Yamila realize she was no one to trifle with.
Satisfied that she’d gotten her message across, she marched off to Kasli’s hut and lashed into him. How sly of him to take advantage of Yamila’s feelings and to use her to exploit the Nubans’ superstitions for his own purposes. Well, she was on to him, and he wasn’t going to get away with it.
Predictably, Kasli first professed not to have any idea what she was talking about. Then he accused her of being out of her head, and finally he all but admitted his guilt by expressing what she knew was his deepest wish: She should go back to Loki, or better still to America, where she belonged. She was a liability to Michael. She had made him the subject of much unfavorable comment throughout the SPLA; at the highest levels his judgment in marrying a foreigner was being criticized, and his fitness for further command was being questioned.
“And I’ll bet those unfavorable comments started with you,” Quinette shot back. “If anyone is going to leave here, it’s going to be you.”
After Kasli reported that remark to him, Michael took her by the shoulders—the first time he’d laid hands on her other than affectionately—and shook her. He was in command here, and Kasli was his adjutant, not hers to recklessly threaten.
“Is it his place to threaten me?” she asked. “To tell me that I ought to leave?”
“Of course not, and I gave him a good dressing-down about that. He came to his senses, and you must, must do the same.”
Her husband’s anger scared her into making an effort. She maintained her watch on Yamila and kept an ear out for further whispers, but she did try to cure the fever.
Kasli tried another ploy. Suleiman and the Muslim elders, still dissatisfied with the outcome of their discussions with Fancher and Handy, had brought their grievances to the adjutant and asked to meet with the commander. Michael was reluctant to get mixed up in religious affairs. Kasli persuaded him to see the delegation, arguing that the matter had bearing on the military situation: The SPLA needed the full support of the Nuba’s Muslims; therefore, he would be wise to address their concerns.
Wishing to hear both sides, Michael invited the missionaries to the meeting, and because she was their colleague, he insisted on Quinette’s presence as well. He didn’t need to insist. If he hadn’t, she would have.
It took place in the courtyard in the evening. Chairs were arranged in a circle, a kerosene lamp set on the ground in the middle. Suleiman presented the Muslims’ complaint. Yes, the foreigners had moderated their proselytizing, but in other places Nuban pastors whom they had trained and supplied with films and tape recordings had not. From this town had come a report of eight Muslims converted, from that town, five, from another, ten. In Suleiman’s home village, Kologi, four people had been led astray, and one of his sons had been among them.
Fancher objected to “led astray.” “On the contrary, we believe they’ve been