man. 'You need medicine, mzee ? Er—what's the word for it ...dawa? Dawa ?' she urged, concern replacing the fear in her freckled face.
With a nod of his proud head the old man grunted and pushed her towards the fire. For a moment Jenni had a horrible feeling she was going to end up in a native cooking pot, the traditional fate of the missionary. She almost lost her balance when he gave her another little shove of encouragement and she suddenly realised that the bundle of red clothing near the fire, which she had taken to be bedding, was in fact a body.
She dropped to her knees on the bare soil and feeling her way cautiously discovered the warmth of bone and flesh under her hands.
'Yoh!' encouraged her kidnapper, folding up his stick-like legs and squatting on his haunches beside her. At such close quarters the smell of cattle was more pungent than ever.
Jenni helped him to part the folds of red cloth, but it was too dark to see properly.
The old man reached into the fire and picked out a stick which he held aloft like a burning brand. Now Jenni could see pain-glazed eyes and a fore-head dewy with chill perspiration: the smooth-skinned features of a handsome young Masai doing his level best not to groan out loud as he lapsed in and out of consciousness.
For a fleeting moment it occurred to her that this was the most bizarre situation she had ever found herself in! She tucked her hair behind her ears and bent low over her patient, testing his breathing against her cheek and feeling expertly for the carotid pulse.
'Respiration shallow ... heartbeat surprisingly strong,' she muttered aloud, noting the clammy skin and the dilated pupils. 'Seems to be in shock, but I don't think —'
At that moment a beam of torchlight illuminated the trio. Jenni flung up an arm to shield her eyes and the old man was on his feet in a flash, spear menacingly poised.
Out of the bushes, her left espadrille in his hand, guided by the light of the wood fire, stepped Ross McDonnell.
Jenni grabbed at the father's robe. 'Daktari! she said urgently. 'Here is daktari —' she was going to add 'Don't shoot!’ like in the movies, but Ross had taken in the situation at a glance and his command of Swahili, though limited, was enough to reassure the Masai, who now abandoned his threatening stance.
The doctor crouched down at her side. 'Are you all right?' was the first thing he wanted to know, his mouth close to her ear, his voice urgent with concern but betraying none of the fear that had shaken him when he found and identified Jenni’s shoe.
'Perfectly,' she breathed a sigh of pure relief. 'I am SO glad to see you! Shine your torch down here. I can't see what's wrong, but I think he's got a pain in his stomach.'
Ross squatted down and shone his torch beam on the exposed abdomen. 'Holy smoke!'
Jenni's jaw dropped: in all her nursing days she'd never come across anything like it.
'How did this happen, mzee ?’ In his limited Swahili Ross began to question the dignified old Masai, translating as best he could for Jenni's benefit.
Two days ago while the two were hunting deep in the bush, the son had been gored by a rhino, his stomach ripped open so horrifically that the intestines had spilled out. The desperate father had carried out the most ingenious first aid. Fashioning a needle from a sliver of bone and drawing tough cotton threads from his red cloak, he had sewn the edges of the wound together with three crude red loops. Crude they might be, but they had kept the boy alive ... so far. Then across thirty kilometres of bush with his son's semi-conscious body tied to his back, he had struggled to the Mbusa Wa Bwini. Too proud and too shy to demand help at the hospital door, he had lain in wait until, driven by desperation, he had made his 'kidnap' attempt.
Ross rapped out instructions. 'Take my torch. Get Matt to back the Land Rover up as far as he can. Ask two of the orderlies to prepare theatre for immediate surgery. I'm going to need your
With a nod of his proud head the old man grunted and pushed her towards the fire. For a moment Jenni had a horrible feeling she was going to end up in a native cooking pot, the traditional fate of the missionary. She almost lost her balance when he gave her another little shove of encouragement and she suddenly realised that the bundle of red clothing near the fire, which she had taken to be bedding, was in fact a body.
She dropped to her knees on the bare soil and feeling her way cautiously discovered the warmth of bone and flesh under her hands.
'Yoh!' encouraged her kidnapper, folding up his stick-like legs and squatting on his haunches beside her. At such close quarters the smell of cattle was more pungent than ever.
Jenni helped him to part the folds of red cloth, but it was too dark to see properly.
The old man reached into the fire and picked out a stick which he held aloft like a burning brand. Now Jenni could see pain-glazed eyes and a fore-head dewy with chill perspiration: the smooth-skinned features of a handsome young Masai doing his level best not to groan out loud as he lapsed in and out of consciousness.
For a fleeting moment it occurred to her that this was the most bizarre situation she had ever found herself in! She tucked her hair behind her ears and bent low over her patient, testing his breathing against her cheek and feeling expertly for the carotid pulse.
'Respiration shallow ... heartbeat surprisingly strong,' she muttered aloud, noting the clammy skin and the dilated pupils. 'Seems to be in shock, but I don't think —'
At that moment a beam of torchlight illuminated the trio. Jenni flung up an arm to shield her eyes and the old man was on his feet in a flash, spear menacingly poised.
Out of the bushes, her left espadrille in his hand, guided by the light of the wood fire, stepped Ross McDonnell.
Jenni grabbed at the father's robe. 'Daktari! she said urgently. 'Here is daktari —' she was going to add 'Don't shoot!’ like in the movies, but Ross had taken in the situation at a glance and his command of Swahili, though limited, was enough to reassure the Masai, who now abandoned his threatening stance.
The doctor crouched down at her side. 'Are you all right?' was the first thing he wanted to know, his mouth close to her ear, his voice urgent with concern but betraying none of the fear that had shaken him when he found and identified Jenni’s shoe.
'Perfectly,' she breathed a sigh of pure relief. 'I am SO glad to see you! Shine your torch down here. I can't see what's wrong, but I think he's got a pain in his stomach.'
Ross squatted down and shone his torch beam on the exposed abdomen. 'Holy smoke!'
Jenni's jaw dropped: in all her nursing days she'd never come across anything like it.
'How did this happen, mzee ?’ In his limited Swahili Ross began to question the dignified old Masai, translating as best he could for Jenni's benefit.
Two days ago while the two were hunting deep in the bush, the son had been gored by a rhino, his stomach ripped open so horrifically that the intestines had spilled out. The desperate father had carried out the most ingenious first aid. Fashioning a needle from a sliver of bone and drawing tough cotton threads from his red cloak, he had sewn the edges of the wound together with three crude red loops. Crude they might be, but they had kept the boy alive ... so far. Then across thirty kilometres of bush with his son's semi-conscious body tied to his back, he had struggled to the Mbusa Wa Bwini. Too proud and too shy to demand help at the hospital door, he had lain in wait until, driven by desperation, he had made his 'kidnap' attempt.
Ross rapped out instructions. 'Take my torch. Get Matt to back the Land Rover up as far as he can. Ask two of the orderlies to prepare theatre for immediate surgery. I'm going to need your
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