Mists of the Serengeti(27)

Jack smiled and regarded me over the steeple of his fingers.

“What?” I asked, digging into my plate.

“There is nothing ordinary about you. I thought we established that last night.”

I flushed as I recalled his words. Insanely beautiful. In spite of the haze of last night, that one moment still sparkled through. And the crazy thing, the thing that made it matter, was that he meant it about all of me—not just the way I looked.

“I have to admit,” he continued. “I’m kind of glad you had the living daylights scared out of you.”

“That’s awful. Why would you enjoy something like that?”

“Sometimes we need to be jarred out of our own reality. We base so much of ourselves on other people’s perceptions of us. We live for the compliments, the approval, the applause. But what we really need is a grand, spine-chilling encounter with ourselves to believe we’re freaking magical. And that’s the best kind of believing, because no one can unsay it or take it away from you.”

I nodded and sipped my tea. “And what about you, Jack? Do you believe in your own magic?”

“I stopped believing,” he said. “After Lily.” He stared out into the gray vastness of the crater. “All the Brocken Spectre means to me now is a dark projection of myself. Grotesque. Eerie. Contorted. It’s what the world does, you know? It distorts you until you can’t recognize yourself.”

My heart squeezed at the pain that flickered in his eyes. “You’re a good man, Jack,” I said. “You saved my life today. I might have ended up at the bottom of that crater if you hadn’t shown up when you did.”

His eyes came back to me, like he’d been far away and I had just pulled him back. “What were you doing so close to the edge?”

“I was looking down over the rim. It was beautiful. The animals, the lake, the forest. That was before the mist rolled in and blanketed everything.”

“You should see it up close before we leave. Do it now. You never know if we’ll be passing this way again.”

I nodded. A few weeks ago, I had no idea what this trip would bring. New faces, new places. A few weeks from now, they would all be left behind. A twinge of sadness hit me, but this time it had nothing to do with Mo.

“Have you heard from Goma?” I asked.

Jack had asked Bahati to stay with Goma and Scholastica while we were away. After what had happened to Juma, I understood why. I thought of the walled perimeter of Gabriel’s house in Rutema, the broken glass on top, the hastily abandoned swing.

They can’t promise her safety, Gabriel’s sister, Anna, had said, explaining why Scholastica didn’t go to school. I had chalked it up to kids being mean because she was different, but it was much bigger than that.

And now I was responsible for getting Scholastica to safety, and I had dragged Jack, and Goma, and Bahati, into it too.

“The mobile phone reception is sporadic out here,” said Jack. “I’ll have to use the landline at the reception. I’ll let Goma know not to expect Juma. You have anything in the room?”

I shook my head and patted my handbag.

“Okay. You stay, finish your breakfast. I’ll go check us out.”

When he returned, I was talking to Ken and Judy. The mist was lifting, and guests were slowly drifting into the dining room.

“If you want to see the crater, we need to get moving,” said Jack.

“Listen to the man. He knows what he’s talking about.” Ken poured tea for himself and Judy. “We had a late start yesterday, and it was filled with cars.”

“Here.” Judy handed me a business card. “If you’re ever in our corner of the world, and still ‘not together.’” She made hand gestures around not together.

“Thank you.” I laughed. “Enjoy the rest of your visit.”

We said goodbye and headed for the crater. Jack stopped at the gate to look after the permits and paperwork.

As we took the winding road that descended into the caldera, the clouds that covered the rim gave way to a sweeping, surreal landscape. The haziness dissipated and the world came into sharp focus again. The first animals I spotted were . . .

“Cows?” I turned to Jack in surprise.

Against the soft, pastel grasslands, a red cumulus of dust marked a line of cattle, inching down the steep, narrow track to the crater floor. A scrawny figure was guiding his herd into the mouth of the lion’s domain.

“The Maasai,” he explained. “They are free to roam the Ngorongoro Conservation Area, but they cannot live in the crater, so they bring their cattle to graze here. They have to enter and exit daily.”

“But what happens if he’s attacked? Or one of his cows?”

“Cattle are the Maasai’s greatest wealth. A Maasai man will do anything to sustain or defend his livestock. He is trained for it from the time he’s a little boy. When he passes the ultimate test of bravery, he earns his warrior name. Killing a lion used to be the final rite of passage to becoming a warrior, but things have changed. There are government rules and regulations to be followed now. Still, that there—” Jack motioned to the lone man, marching to the clang of cowbells, spear in hand “—is the ultimate warrior.”

“Is this what Bahati would be doing if he lived here? Is Bahati his warrior name?” I asked as we left the man behind.