be plaited before she got into bed - the only way to tame that riot of curls so it would be easy to style in the early morning. 'My hairbrush!' exclaimed Jenni in annoyance. 'I've left it in the bathroom. Oh, flip!'
She tightened her kimono belt and crept stealthily along the passage. There was no one about. The early-to-beds had been snoring their heads off for hours; the late-birds were still playing Uno in the common-room.
The deckchair was empty and the candle had gone out. And Ross was gone.
'Well! How strange.' Jenni folded her arms and shivered. Something wasn't right, something was ... different. She peered shortsightedly into the dimness as if a clue might lie in the deserted deckchair or the dribble of candlewax.
Her ears proved sharper than her eyes. The music had been replaced by a new and frightening sound, the unmistakable throb of African war-drums, beating in ominous rhythm. And seeming to come from the village down by the river. What could it mean? Should she wake someone? Had Ross gone to investigate, alone, a white man in the mysterious spirit-haunted African night?
Jenni forgot all about her hairbrush. Swiftly she pulled on jeans and a light sweater and went back into the compound. Not another soul was in sight. It seemed as if she and Ross were the only ones who had noticed the drumbeats.
Following the string of naked lightbulbs, she came to the generator and turned left along the path along which early each morning young boys led the village's herd of cattle and goats to the higher pastures beyond the Mission. Now there was no illumination other than the stars, and the thorn bushes scratched her arms and legs if she veered from the track. 'Ross!' called Jenni. 'Ross, are you there? Ross, come back!' She plunged on, too anxious to be frightened for herself—then stopped abruptly at the sight of native huts silhouetted against the light of flickering wood fires not a couple of hundred yards distant.
'Ross!' she called again uncertainly, and this time there was an answering call from somewhere ahead. 'Who's that? Who is it?'
At that moment, just when her heart was gladdened by the sound, from behind a black thicket stepped the tallest, most terrifying figure Jenni had ever seen. Her arms were grabbed and a calloused hand smelling of earth and animals pressed cruelly over her open mouth ready to scream.
Too late. As if she were featherlight, Jenni was plucked from the path. And when the doctor himself came strolling out of the village, a puzzled frown on his face, throwing his searching torch-beam in all directions, there was no sign of anyone at all. Just a size four espadrille lying abandoned on the dusty track.
Chapter Six
'D AKTARI!' demanded the fearsome stranger, dropping Jenni right way up but still gripping her wrist as if he suspected she'd run for her life if he released her.
'Daktari? I'm not the doctor. Do I look like daktari ?' In her indignation Jenni sounded a good deal braver than she was actually feeling. 'Ouch, let go of me! OK.' She repeated the one word that many Africans recognised, 'OK, I won't run. What's your problem? Why you need daktari?'
The flickering light of a makeshift campfire showed her captor to be a very tall, skeletally-thin man, the red shuka of the Masai wrapped around his bony haunches. In spite of his height and erect carriage the Masai's hair was grey, his features strained and hollow with fatigue.
Though her heart was thumping and her knees quaked, Jenni made an effort to keep her wits about her. The Masai, she knew, were a proud but reserved people. They roamed the bush, wearing these distinctive red robes and armed with spears, driving their herds of Boran cattle on long treks to the waterholes. One of the most difficult tasks was to get them to visit the hospital or the outreach clinics and accept medical care for themselves and their children. 'You are ill, mzee ?' she questioned, addressing him politely and using the term of respect for an old
She tightened her kimono belt and crept stealthily along the passage. There was no one about. The early-to-beds had been snoring their heads off for hours; the late-birds were still playing Uno in the common-room.
The deckchair was empty and the candle had gone out. And Ross was gone.
'Well! How strange.' Jenni folded her arms and shivered. Something wasn't right, something was ... different. She peered shortsightedly into the dimness as if a clue might lie in the deserted deckchair or the dribble of candlewax.
Her ears proved sharper than her eyes. The music had been replaced by a new and frightening sound, the unmistakable throb of African war-drums, beating in ominous rhythm. And seeming to come from the village down by the river. What could it mean? Should she wake someone? Had Ross gone to investigate, alone, a white man in the mysterious spirit-haunted African night?
Jenni forgot all about her hairbrush. Swiftly she pulled on jeans and a light sweater and went back into the compound. Not another soul was in sight. It seemed as if she and Ross were the only ones who had noticed the drumbeats.
Following the string of naked lightbulbs, she came to the generator and turned left along the path along which early each morning young boys led the village's herd of cattle and goats to the higher pastures beyond the Mission. Now there was no illumination other than the stars, and the thorn bushes scratched her arms and legs if she veered from the track. 'Ross!' called Jenni. 'Ross, are you there? Ross, come back!' She plunged on, too anxious to be frightened for herself—then stopped abruptly at the sight of native huts silhouetted against the light of flickering wood fires not a couple of hundred yards distant.
'Ross!' she called again uncertainly, and this time there was an answering call from somewhere ahead. 'Who's that? Who is it?'
At that moment, just when her heart was gladdened by the sound, from behind a black thicket stepped the tallest, most terrifying figure Jenni had ever seen. Her arms were grabbed and a calloused hand smelling of earth and animals pressed cruelly over her open mouth ready to scream.
Too late. As if she were featherlight, Jenni was plucked from the path. And when the doctor himself came strolling out of the village, a puzzled frown on his face, throwing his searching torch-beam in all directions, there was no sign of anyone at all. Just a size four espadrille lying abandoned on the dusty track.
Chapter Six
'D AKTARI!' demanded the fearsome stranger, dropping Jenni right way up but still gripping her wrist as if he suspected she'd run for her life if he released her.
'Daktari? I'm not the doctor. Do I look like daktari ?' In her indignation Jenni sounded a good deal braver than she was actually feeling. 'Ouch, let go of me! OK.' She repeated the one word that many Africans recognised, 'OK, I won't run. What's your problem? Why you need daktari?'
The flickering light of a makeshift campfire showed her captor to be a very tall, skeletally-thin man, the red shuka of the Masai wrapped around his bony haunches. In spite of his height and erect carriage the Masai's hair was grey, his features strained and hollow with fatigue.
Though her heart was thumping and her knees quaked, Jenni made an effort to keep her wits about her. The Masai, she knew, were a proud but reserved people. They roamed the bush, wearing these distinctive red robes and armed with spears, driving their herds of Boran cattle on long treks to the waterholes. One of the most difficult tasks was to get them to visit the hospital or the outreach clinics and accept medical care for themselves and their children. 'You are ill, mzee ?' she questioned, addressing him politely and using the term of respect for an old
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