A Spear of Summer Grass - By Deanna Raybourn Page 0,38
you.”
“I probably ought to learn a few words of Kikuyu,” I mused.
“She wasn’t speaking Kikuyu, and I guarantee you wouldn’t be able to learn it even if she were,” he returned. “But most of them speak Swahili and the up-country version is easy enough to pick up.”
“Up-country version?”
“It’s a coastal language,” he explained. “The Swahili spoken down near Mombasa is more formal. Everybody who speaks Swahili up-country uses it as a second language and knows just enough to get by. It’s crude, but effective.”
Rather like the man himself, I thought sourly. “Tell me again what she said. Slowly.”
He sounded out the words for me and I repeated them. “What response do I give her?”
“Just tell her karibu.”
I turned to the woman. “Karibu.”
She smiled again and shuffled off with the child who was sending me venomous looks. I didn’t much blame her.
My eyes fell on the bags of flour that Dora had cleared out of the kitchen to throw away. Suddenly it seemed like an obscenity to get rid of anything that might be useful to these people. I summoned Pierre and addressed him in rapid French.
“Sieve that flour to get rid of any weevils and then make flatbreads. That will be quick and filling. And if there’s any fat that isn’t rancid, make certain to work some of that into the dough. They need feeding up. See if there’s any powdered milk for them, too.”
Dora went with him and I turned to Ryder.
“There ought to be vitamin drops in the milk and a teaspoon of castor oil to build them up,” I said to Ryder. “Could I find such things in Nairobi?”
“Yes. And at my duka if you don’t want to wait for a trip to town.”
“Good. Consider this an order. And I suppose I ought to get a milk cow.”
“One of the natives might sell you one or you could try Rex Farraday’s herd.”
“Thank you—” I broke off. Ryder was staring hard at me again, and it was unsettling. “What?”
He shook his head. “People don’t surprise me. You do.”
“You obviously don’t have much experience with Southern women. My great-grandmother held her plantation against the Union navy when it sailed up the Mississippi from New Orleans, shelling every Rebel house along the way. I come from hearty stock.”
He took an appraising look at my slender body and snorted. “Where did you learn to bandage like that?”
“War hospital in London. I worked as a nurse for four years.”
He was silent a moment, then said in a calm, flat voice, “Three years in the Royal Flying Corps, Squadron 26.”
“Yes, well, if you think we’re going to trade war stories and become fast friends, you’re quite mistaken. I don’t need a battle buddy.”
“No, but you do need a guide. You don’t know this country yet. I’ll be back this afternoon to take you into the bush and teach you some more Swahili.”
Before I could reply, he shouldered his rifle and beckoned his friend, the tall warrior with the spear.
“This is Gideon. He’s a Masai. He will stay with you to finish up.” Before I could reply, he shouldered his rifle and disappeared.
“Like a bloody ghost,” I muttered. I turned to the warrior. “Do you speak English?”
He smiled, a dazzling smile, and I noticed his teeth were missing on the bottom as well.
“Of course, memsahib. I learned at the mission school.”
“I thought the nuns only taught French.”
“The nuns left and the English came. I learned to speak English there and to know the stories of your Bible.” He stepped forward, shifting his weight as gracefully as a dancer. “Ryder has gone. I will help you now. I speak Maa—my own language, your English, Swahili and a few of the other dialects. I am a learned man.”
His slender chest swelled with pride and I smiled at him. “Very well, Gideon. Let’s get started.”
Dora was moving quietly through the group, dispensing cups of powdered milk and pieces of flatbread still steaming from the pan. They ate and drank and waited to be seen.
I summoned the next patient, and for an hour straight I worked, treating blisters and burns and stitching up the occasional slash wound.
“What is that from?” I asked Gideon softly.
“It is a wound from a panga, memsahib.”
“A panga? What is that? Some sort of animal with tusks?”
Gideon threw back his head and laughed. “No. A panga is a knife.” He reached into his toga and pulled out a long, wicked-looking blade that was slightly curved. It reminded me of a machete, and as I