Mists of the Serengeti(61)

A figure appeared through the fog, shrouded in veils of phantom gray. He planted his spear in the soft, sodden soil and stood before us like a velvet-black shadow. A checkered sheet hung around his shoulders and loops of silver jangled from his earlobes.

“Olonana.” Jack stepped forward as the chief came into focus.

“Kasserian ingera.” He lifted his spear in greeting. How are the children?

Jack was about to reply when the ribbons of mist around Olonana shifted. Moon white faces appeared soundlessly, one by one, around the chief’s dark figure. I watched breathlessly, as they materialized, like silent notes summoned by a conjurer’s symphony. One, two, three, four . . . they kept stepping out of the mist, until they were all standing, like a line of vapor-cloaked wraiths on either side of Olonana.

Thirteen albino kids, flanked by a pair of red-garbed Maasai warriors.

My hair stood on end. Against the backdrop of distant, blurry mountains, the group stood before us with an air of expectation. Behind them, cows sniffed the wet, barren ground, searching for whispers of grass.

“Jack Warden,” Olonana prompted him for a response. “I have come a long way to bring you these children.”

“What . . . ?” Jack paused. “How . . . ?”

“The last time we met, you told me you would be in Magesa, end of the month. I am glad I caught up with you. I cannot go any farther with the cattle, so I leave them with you.” He gestured toward the children that were huddled around him. “Where are the other kids, the ones you were transporting to Wanza?”

“It didn’t work out, but you . . .” Jack scanned the faces before us. “How did you end up with all these children?”

“We found them in the back of a cargo van, not far from the town of Bunda. The car was parked outside a restaurant. We heard thudding from the inside, so we stopped to check it out. Salaton here—” he pointed to one of the morans with him “—he jiggled the lock with his spear. We found them bound and gagged inside. Some of them have been abducted from their homes, others traded. They tell me there were more kids, but . . .” Olonana shook his head. “The men who had them are dangerous people. They trade in black magic. They are delivering these kids, one by one, for sacrificial rites. It won’t be long before they track us down. We made the children walk between the cattle to hide them and distort the footprints. The rain hasn’t helped though. We’ve left a trail in the mud. A good tracker will be able to find us. And they will. These kids are worth a lot of money to them. You must get them to Wanza as soon as you can.”

Jack did not respond. His face was like a blank slate—emotionless and expressionless. Silence loomed, gray and heavy as the mist. The gravity of the situation was not lost on me. Neither was Jack’s predicament. We weren’t prepared for this. We had no car, no supplies, and no way of safeguarding thirteen kids against whoever was chasing them down.

“The van you found the kids in—” I said to Olonana. “What did it look like?”

“It was white,” he replied. “And yellow.”

My heart hammered in my chest. “With an air-conditioning logo?”

“I think so. Yes.” Olonana’s brows drew together. “You saw it too?”

“We did. On the way to Magesa. They must have been searching for the kids. They almost ran Jack over.” I turned to him, waiting for a response, but he looked like the Jack I had seen on the porch the first day, the one who had closed himself off to everyone and everything. Something was very wrong.

“Can you give us a minute?” I asked the chief.

He nodded, and I pulled Jack aside. The mist shrouded us from the rest of the group.

“Jack?”

He stared at me with the kind of detachment that made me flounder.

“Jack! Snap out of it.” My panic seemed to get through to him. His eyes changed and then darkened with unreadable emotion.

“I can’t,” he said. It came out choked, like his breath was being cut off. “I can’t. Dear God, not again.” He hunched over, holding his sides as if he was in excruciating pain. “It comes at you from nowhere. One minute you’re buying balloons for your daughter, and the next . . . she’s gone, and you can’t even get up. Because something’s pinned you down in the parking lot. The weight of it. I can feel it all over again. Right here.” He held his hand to his chest and took long, staggering breaths. “I wish I could do this, but I can’t, Rodel. I’m not the person everyone thinks I am. I’m not the strong, selfless hero. I’m just a guy trying to get over his daughter’s loss. I came prepared—in my head—for three kids. I would lay down my life for them and for you. But this . . . escorting thirteen easy targets with a bunch of bloodthirsty maniacs on our trail . . . it’s got disaster written all over it. I have no way of protecting them. And I can’t stand to have any more blood on my hands, Rodel. I can’t.”

I reached for his hand, because I was breaking with him, for him, and holding hands with Jack always made me feel like I was reaching for solid ground. Something became unstuck from my palm and fell to the ground. It was the small square of milk chocolate that I had been holding when we’d left the tent.

“Here.” I picked it up and gave it to Jack. “Chocolate makes everything better.” They were Goma’s words, and for a second she was there, standing over us, strong and stalwart, like the gnarled, guardian tree that watched over the graves behind the manor.