A Kiss of Adventure (27 page)

“But he told me you were dead. And the turban, the veil—they’re men’s clothes.”

The dark eyes clouded. “Ahodu Ag Amastane,
amenoukal
of Tuareg people, is angry with me. I help you escape with black-haired man. He cast me away. I am dead to him. He puts me into men’s clothing to pretend I do not exist.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Never to worry, one day soon he takes me again. Of course, even now he needs me for talking to you.” She smiled slyly and whispered. “Among Tuareg people, inheritance passes through female line. Now, in my stomach, I carry child of Ahodu Ag Amastane. He will need me again. I am his beloved wife.”

“That’s wonderful, Khatty.” Tillie couldn’t hold back a hug. “I’m so thankful to see you again. When I heard your song in the night, I told Arthur it must be the
djenoun
.”

The young woman’s laugh tinkled across the afternoon like a wind chime, and Tillie felt her heart lift. “Not
djenoun!
Khatty make that song for you and your man. You sing black-haired man back into your heart. You love him always and never let him go.”

“Khatty, you don’t understand.”

“I understand you very sad. Khatty sees everything.” She leaned closer. “In Tuareg camp, you teach me something about how to be strong. Already I told you I believe Jesus Christ is son of God, born of virgin, died on cross, alive again.” A frown creased her forehead. “But I see Christ make you different. I not know how to be this kind of different. I want to know more. You will come back to Tuareg, Tree-Planting Woman? Come back to teach me one day?”

Tillie nodded. “If I survive this . . . and if your husband will let me, I’ll find you again, Khatty. I’ll teach you the path to a new life.”

“I am glad,” Khatty said, her eyes shining. “Even in Tuareg camp where everyone is Muslim, even now when husband cast me away and I live like man, I pray to this Jesus Christ and I find happy.” She touched her heart. “Happy is here, inside. Hope is here. Love is here. You know Jesus very well, Tree-Planting Woman. In him, you find happy. Yes?”

“You’re right, Khatty. You’re right.”

“Tree-Planting Woman, come.” The
amenoukal
’s summons stopped Tillie’s response in her throat. Khatty fell back and melted into the crowd.

A length of rope was coiled around the chieftain’s forearm. He thrust one end at Tillie and distributed the remainder to the row of men he had assembled. She looked skeptically at the series of knots, wondering if they could hold her as she descended into the well. The
amenoukal
tied her end of the rope into a loop and tested the knot. Seizing her arm, he led her toward the black hole.

She slipped the loop into position around her hips so she could sit on it as they lowered her. The heavy burnous would protect her from the rope’s friction, and she tucked the cotton fabric under her hips. The
amenoukal
handed her a lighted brass lamp that swung from a slender chain.

Arthur’s guard shoved him to his knees in front of the
amenoukal
. Then he drew a long knife and held it to the Englishman’s throat. Arthur let out a strangled cry. Tillie gasped and stepped forward, but a pair of Tuareg men clamped her arms. The
amenoukal
shouted a string of words at Khatty.

“Ahodu Ag Amastane,
amenoukal
of Tuareg people,” she translated, “tells Tree-Planting Woman to find treasure of Timbuktu and bring to him. In this way, she breaks curse of amulet and saves her life. If she does not bring treasure from Well of Waran and if she does not give treasure to
amenoukal
, he will cut throat of this pale English scorpion.”

Sudden anger sent a wash of adrenaline through Tillie’s veins. “Tree-Planting Woman has a message for Ahodu Ag Amastane, the
amenoukal
of the Tuareg people. He must not harm the Englishman. He must let the man go free at once. Tree-Planting Woman commands this by the power of the amulet.”

As Khatty translated the message, Tillie spread open her burnous and held up the silver locket. The words ended, and a ripple of fear ran through the crowd. A shadow of indecision crossed the
amenoukal
’s face. In one quick movement, he released Arthur and bellowed at his guards to stand back.

“Now,” she said quietly, “I’ll see if there’s anything in this well.”

Holding the rope in one hand and the lamp in the other, she walked to the edge of the gaping black hole. She sat on the barren rock and let her legs dangle over the abyss. With a glance into the sapphire sky, she slid over the ledge.

For an instant Tillie believed the rope’s knots had pulled apart or the Tuareg men had dropped her. Free-falling through the black void like Alice in the white rabbit’s hole, she heard the air hiss from her lungs and saw the lamplight fade to nothing. Then the rope snapped tight around her hips, and she came to a jolting stop that yanked the brass lamp from her hand. She gripped the rope and listened for a clatter that would signal the lamp’s landing place. Nothing.

Her first impulse was to shout for help, to demand to be pulled up into the fresh air and light. The
amenoukal
would probably ignore her. As if to confirm that conclusion, she felt herself being lowered, this time more slowly. A distant echo sounded from below—the lamp clanging on the bottom of the well.

As Tillie continued her descent, she was forced to use her free hand to push away from the rough rock sides of the craggy hole. More than once her burnous caught and tore.

Above, she could see the jagged circle of light. She could also make out the dark shape of a man’s head as he peered down at her. Clenching her teeth, she closed her eyes and felt her way down the shaft. She would make it. She would get to the bottom of this pit, and she would find the treasure, and she would find the—

The journal. Graeme’s quest. All the Targui’s talk of treasure had numbed her mind to Graeme’s goal. His motives may not have been pure, but she knew he wanted the journal for the information it contained about Mungo Park. That had been his crusade. The thought that she somehow could fulfill it lightened her heart. A surge of resolve flowed back into her at the memory of the man with whom she had shared so much.

“Graeme,” she called up to the
amenoukal
. “This is for Graeme.”

As the words drifted up, echoing back and forth along the tunnel’s walls, a shower of pebbles and sand rained down on her head. She continued down, conscious of bruised elbows and scraped knuckles. When her feet met something solid, she let out a gasp, and another cascade of sand spilled onto her.

The darkness around her was total. Was this the bottom of the well? or a ledge? It was so dark she began to think she saw spots of light. She rubbed her eyes, released the rope with one hand, and knelt to let her fingers slide across the sandy surface. When they touched something hard and cold, she jerked her hand to her mouth.

“The lamp,” she whispered. “It’s the lamp.”

Again she ventured out, letting her fingers wander over the smooth, cold surface of the brass lantern. “Relax, Tillie,” she told herself. “Uncurl those legs.”

Her heart hammering in her temples, she took her other hand from the rope. Beads of sweat popped out on her forehead. The hair on the nape of her neck rose to attention.

Where was the treasure chest?

Her fingers roamed across every inch of the narrow floor. The sand was smooth and even. Her hands moved over the untouched ground, around the perimeter, up the craggy walls. Nothing. No sign of disturbance. Nothing lived here, no monitor lizards, no snakes, not even a scorpion. There was no trace of water, as if even the most essential element of life had been swept away by the desert.

Frustrated, she clamped her teeth shut. Where was it? She sat back on her heels. What would Graeme have done? How would he have reasoned it out? Unless she had been mistaken in her reading of Mungo Park’s note, the chest had to be here.

“Ahmadi Fatouma, where did you hide that chest?” Her question echoed upward and sent a trickle of sand drifting onto her head. A chill washed through her.

That was it. Sand. It had been two centuries since the chest had been placed at the bottom of this well. Two centuries, with more than a thousand sandstorms and more than a hundred rains. The chest was buried.

She sank her hands into the sand. Her fingers tore at grit and stones and shoved them away. How deep would it be? How far would she have to dig to find it?

After ten minutes of digging, her fingertips grazed something hard. She paused, heart racing; then she began to brush back the sand. A straight, hard edge emerged. Smooth wood studded with nails. Carvings. She scrabbled with her bare fingers until she had exposed one whole side of the box.

After a minute’s rest, she resumed digging. She found a clasp—the same kind of clasp Graeme had opened on the first chest. This was it. She had found the chest.

She clawed at the sand until she could slide her bleeding fingers under the wooden box. With a grunt, she lifted the chest onto her lap. Breathing hard, she sat alone in the darkness and realized her cheeks were wet. She’d been crying as she dug. Crying over Graeme. He should be the one holding Mungo Park’s final legacy.

Crying for herself, too. She had given herself into God’s hands the moment she had tumbled into Graeme’s Land Rover. She had pledged herself to trust God one moment at a time, but she had failed him in so many ways.

With Khatty, she had tried to set an example. She had encouraged the Targui woman in her simple, childlike quest. Yet it was Khatty—forced to live in a Muslim world, the wife of a man who had rejected, abandoned, and humiliated her—who had been compelled to admonish Tillie in the end. “You find happy,” Khatty had said.

Happy? How could she be happy when she had failed so miserably with Graeme?

God had allowed him into her life, a man she could care about, perhaps even lead toward the Lord. Instead—against all she knew was right—she had fallen in love with him. Even though she had told Graeme they could have no future, she had never stopped loving him. And now he was dead, without God. For eternity. Sharp grief washed over her, and she wondered if life would ever be the same.

Find happy?
It seemed impossible.

She brushed the heel of her palm over her damp cheek. It was time to bring this to an end.

Fumbling with the clasp, she felt it give. The lid swung open. Sightless, she peered into the blackness. A dry, musky smell rose from the chest, the odor of an attic closed up too long. Her fingers trailed over two items inside the chest. Under her left hand lay a small, thin book. She slid her hand around it and held it to her nose, breathing the rich leather scent. The journal of Mungo Park. Graeme’s Holy Grail.

Under her right hand lay a large pouch made of dry, crusty fabric. She could feel small round lumps inside it. Gold nuggets, she supposed, or coins. The treasure of Timbuktu.

She could close the box, jerk the rope, and carry the treasure up to Ahodu Ag Amastane. It might help his people. Or it might set up a tradition of greed. She imagined it sending the Tuareg into Timbuktu to trade, to start selling their trinkets and broadswords to fat, pink tourists. They had been desert nomads for centuries. Long before Mungo Park’s time and long after. Did they really need his treasure to survive?

What about Arthur? His instructions sifted down like the sand that trickled into her hair. Hidden in blackness, she could open the pouch. No one would see. She could take out some of the gold and hide it under her burnous. The gold would help give Arthur the life he thought he wanted.

A prayer formed on Tillie’s lips. She curled on her knees and touched her forehead to the sand. “Father, I love you. I see you working all around me. In Khatty’s life. Through Robert and Mary McHugh. Through Hannah. Maybe you were working in Graeme’s life, too. I want to join you in your work. Work through me, Father. Amen.”

She lifted her head and took a deep breath. Now what? The gold. The journal. The
amenoukal
. Arthur. Who should have what?

“Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.
”

The answer was easy after all.

She took the journal out of the chest, snapped the lid shut, and fastened the clasp. The small book slipped easily under her burnous and inside Graeme’s shirt. Robert McHugh would know what to do with it.

Tillie shifted the chest into the crook of her arm and adjusted the rope around her hips. With a tug, she signaled her readiness to leave the well. Immediately the rope tightened.

Ascending was harder than going down had been, but she hardly felt the bumps and scrapes. Her heart was light, and a song played at her lips.

“Come, oh, desert lion.” Tillie whispered the lilting tune as she rose through the darkness. “Son of the waran, man of strength and mighty wisdom. Come, oh, desert lion. . . . Come, oh, desert lion. . . .”

Hands reached down to pull her from the well. When her head lifted into the fresh air, she saw the last rays of the sun sliding beneath the horizon. Pale stars were scattered like random cross-stitch on a blue-gray cloth. A full moon smiled overhead.

Tillie climbed over the lip of the well and stood on solid rock. “Ahodu Ag Amastane, the tree-planting woman has returned from the Well of Waran.” She handed him the chest. “Take this. It is the treasure of Timbuktu.”

She walked past him down the rock. As she brushed by Arthur, he grabbed her arm. “Did you do what I told you?” he hissed. “Did you get the treasure? the journal?”

“The
amenoukal
has the gold, Arthur. You and I don’t need earthly treasure, remember? Our wealth is in heaven.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Matilda! You gave it all to him? What about the journal? On the black market it’ll fetch a small fortune.”

She turned back slowly. “The black market, Arthur?”

Suddenly Hannah’s cryptic message on the telephone made sense. Like a mango growing on a banana stalk, things were not as they ought to be. Arthur was the thing in Tillie’s clothing that would sting her. Hannah had seen into his heart, and she knew.