Every Whispered Word (26 page)

“I remember.” She focused on straightening the hopelessly wrinkled mess of her skirts, grasping for some semblance of formality. “I was trying to describe South Africa to you.”

“That's right.” The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. Simon found himself arrogantly pleased by the effect the memory was having upon her. “You were telling me about the feel of the breeze against your skin, and the towering black mountains, and the brilliant pearl of the moon. I thought I could feel it then, just by the way you were describing it, but I was wrong.” He watched the coral flush of her cheeks and neck seep down to the pale skin covering her collarbone as he finished quietly, “This really is one of the most peaceful places on earth.”

A bullet sliced the air just above his head.

“Get down!”
he roared, throwing himself on top of her.

Another shot shattered the blackness around them, then another. Oscar shrieked and leapt down from Zareb's shoulder, then scooted beneath the canvas covering Simon's pump.

“Let me up, Simon!” Camelia ordered, struggling beneath him, “I need to get my rifle!”

“Here now, what's this about?” demanded Oliver crossly as he snatched his dirk from his boot. “Why in the name o' Saint Columba would someone be shootin' at us?”

“Stay down, all of you!” Elliott reined in his horse beside the wagon and aimed his rifle into the darkness.

“Do not fire, Lord Wickham.” Zareb had not stirred from his seat. “These bullets are not meant for us.”

“What the hell do you mean, they aren't meant for us? Who the hell do you think they're for?”

“They are not for us,” Zareb repeated, insistent. “But if you kill one of the men who fires them, then the bullets will be for us.”

“If you think I'm going to bloody well just sit here and be shot at—”

“Listen.” Oliver frowned and cocked his head to one side. “The shots have stopped.”

Zareb nodded. “Yes. They have warned us they are there. It is good.”

“You don't need to shield me anymore, Simon.” Camelia pushed against him, confounded by the way her body had eagerly molded to his muscular form. “Zareb says it's good.”

“Forgive me if I don't quite see what's so good about nearly being killed,” Simon muttered dryly, still shielding her. “How does Zareb know they aren't just moving closer so they have a better chance of hitting us?”

“Zareb knows. If Zareb says it is good, then it is good.”

“How can you possibly be sure?”

“Because Zareb always errs on the side of caution where I am concerned,” Camelia explained. “If he says we are safe, then I trust him.”

Simon regarded her skeptically and continued to cover her with his body.

“I am Zareb, son of Waitimu,” Zareb announced solemnly, standing. “I am returning to Pumulani with friends. Be assured we come in peace.”

There was a moment of utter silence.

“Welcome back, Zareb!” called an elated voice suddenly. “We have waited long for your return!”

Simon peered over the edge of the wagon to see two black tribesmen emerge from the darkness into the moonlight. They were draped only in a few leopard and antelope skins, with magnificent black crane and ostrich feathers fluttering from their shoulders and waists. Pale ivory cuffs glowed against their dark, muscular arms, and several heavy loops of beads made out of bone and shell gleamed against their chests. Each man had a formidable dagger sheathed against his calf, and an enormous rifle cradled against his chest.

“Badrani, Senwe, I am pleased to see you both again.” Zareb smiled as he climbed down from the wagon. “I have brought Lady Camelia back, as I promised I would.” He glanced at Camelia, who was still struggling to extract herself from Simon's protective hold. “You can let her go, Mr. Kent. There is no danger.”

“Thank you for protecting Pumulani so well, Badrani and Senwe,” Camelia said, standing up in the wagon. “I am pleased to see you.”

“Welcome home, Lady Camelia.” Badrani respectfully bowed his head. He was a handsome young man who appeared to be in his late twenties, tall and well muscled, with a strongly cut jaw that spoke of determination. “And to you, too, Lord Wickham,” he added, recognizing Elliott.

“We are pleased to have you with us again, Lady Camelia.” Senwe was younger and shorter than Badrani, but the muscled contours of his chest and arms indicated that he was no weaker. “We feared you might not return.”

“Nothing could keep me from returning to Pumulani,” Camelia assured them. “I have brought a mighty teacher with me—one who can help solve the many troubles we have suffered. I present to you Mr. Kent.” She indicated Simon as he rose from the wagon floor with Oscar clinging to his shoulder.

Badrani and Senwe stared at Simon, their eyes rounding with awe.

“It is a pleasure to meet you.” Simon wondered why they appeared to be so dumbfounded. He decided Camelia must have overwhelmed them with the term “mighty teacher.”

“He has hair like fire!” Badrani turned to Zareb in amazement. “Does he have special powers?”

“Yes.” Zareb nodded solemnly. “Good powers.”

“Not really.” Simon did not want the natives to think he had special powers just because his hair was red.

Senwe's expression instantly hardened. “Your powers are not good?” He pointed his rifle at Simon.

“No—I mean yes—that is, I'm here to help you, but I don't have any special powers,” Simon hastily explained. Oscar bounded nervously out of his arms and over to Zareb. “I'm an inventor.”

The two tribesmen regarded him blankly.

“Mr. Kent is here to fight the curse,” Zareb explained. “He will bring good fortune to Pumulani once more.”

“I will try,” qualified Simon, wanting to manage their expectations.

“If Zareb says it, then it must be so.” Senwe was still staring at Simon's hair incredulously.

“And this is Oliver,” Zareb continued. “He comes from a faraway land called Scotland, and is an honored friend.”

“A pleasure to meet ye, lads.” Satisfied that the two strange-looking natives were not going to shoot Simon after all, Oliver lowered his dirk. “Have either of ye ever heard o' Scotland?”

Senwe and Badrani shook their heads.

“'Tis a grand place—though not quite so warm as what ye have here in Africa. Ye'll have to come for a visit some time.”

“Thank you.” Badrani solemnly bowed his head to acknowledge the invitation. “We will take you now to Pumulani. The men will be very pleased to see that Lady Camelia has finally returned. They feared the dark wind had blown her away forever.”

“How far from Pumulani are we?” asked Simon.

“Pumulani lies just at the base of that mountain.” Badrani pointed to the jagged black peak they had been moving steadily toward since leaving Kimberley. “If you look carefully you will see the glow of the fires. The flames are keeping the evil spirits away.”

Camelia stared at the soft orange haze radiating at the base of the mountain. “We're nearly there.” Anticipation bloomed within her, making her feel better than she had in months.

She was almost home.

“We will lead you there now, Lady Camelia,” Senwe said. “But you must be careful. The spirits have been very angry since you left. Do you not have your rifle with you?”

“I do.” She bent down and retrieved her weapon from the bottom of the wagon. “But all will be well now, Senwe.” Nothing could dampen the elation she was feeling at finally returning to her site. “You will see.”

“Even so, you must take care,” Badrani insisted. “You all must.”

She nodded, acknowledging his concern. “Thank you. We will.”

She seated herself against her sack chair once more and focused on the pale ring of saffron light at the base of the mountain, feeling stronger and more whole as she slowly approached the brilliant fires of Pumulani.

L
ady Camelia is back!” announced Senwe happily as they approached the stillness of the camp.

Joyful shouting cut through the quiet of the night. Elated tribesmen began pouring out of the tents pitched around the campsite, smiling and waving their arms in welcome. Most of them were dressed in animal skins, feathers, and beads, but Simon noticed that a few of them also sported the odd pair of well-worn trousers, or a ragged coat or waistcoat. They crowded around the wagon yelling and chanting excitedly. Simon stood and extended his hand to Camelia, to help her disembark from the wagon.

A gasp of shock silenced the natives.

“This is Mr. Kent, a mighty teacher who has traveled all the way from England to come to you,” declared Camelia, gesturing to Simon. “He is going to help us battle the forces that have made excavating Pumulani so difficult.”

“Do you have to use the word mighty?” muttered Simon as he smiled stiffly at the wary tribesmen. “I'm not sure that's helping.”

“They need to trust you, and your hair is making them nervous.”

“He has hair of fire!” shrieked one native man, pointing fearfully at Simon.

“See what I mean?” Camelia smiled and took hold of Simon's hand, trying to demonstrate that he was not dangerous. “They've never seen anything like it.”

“Wonderful. Had you forewarned me, I would have done something about it.”

“Like what?”

“Like shaved it off.”

“I don't think you would have found being completely bald beneath the African sun very practical. Also, you would still have red hair on your arms, legs, and chest—”

“I'm flattered you remember.”

“—and I doubt you would have wanted to shave your entire body,” Camelia finished tautly, resisting the urge to wrench her hand away. “I understand when it grows back it can be rather itchy.”

“I'm touched by your concern.”

“Mr. Kent's hair is a sign of his great power,” Zareb announced solemnly, standing to face the crowd. “There is a fire within him that burns hot and pure, which will drive the evil spirits of Pumulani back where they came from!”

“Oh, for God's sake—it's just hair!” Elliott swung down from his disobedient horse, tired and irritated by all the attention Simon was commanding. “Where the devil is Trafford?”

“Right here, Lord Wickham!” A stocky, powerfully built man burst out from one of the tents, fumbling with the buttons of his badly stained coat as he cut through the crowd of workers.

“Welcome back, Lady Camelia.” He hastily raked his fingers through the curly bush of his graying hair. He appeared to Simon to be about forty-five years of age, with leathery sun-browned skin and a deeply grooved face that spoke of a life full of adventure and challenge. “I'm pleased to see you have finally returned. You have been sorely missed by all the men here, myself included.”

“Thank you, Mr. Trafford.” Camelia smiled at him warmly as she stepped down from the wagon. “Simon, this is Mr. Lloyd Trafford, the foreman of my site. Mr. Trafford, this is Mr. Simon Kent, the renowned inventor, and his trusted friend and associate, Oliver. Mr. Kent has built a steam pump for us which we will use to finally clear the site of water, and Oliver has come along to help.”

“A pleasure to meet you both.” Lloyd shook hands with Simon and Oliver. “We have all been anxiously awaiting your arrival.”

“Have ye now? Well then, we'll have to make sure we dinna disappoint ye with our work.” It was clear Oliver was enjoying immensely the attention they were commanding.

“You must be tired after your long journey,” Lloyd continued. “Let me show you to your tents—they're not fancy, but they're relatively clean. If you're hungry, I'm sure we could quickly make something for you to eat—although I'm afraid we're down to mostly antelope and zebra meat.”

“We have brought grains and fresh vegetables with us,” Camelia told him. “I'm sure the men will find that a welcome addition to their diet.”

“Then let's get the wagon unloaded.” Lloyd signaled to the natives, who immediately began to unload the heavy sacks, baskets, and boxes filled with precious food and supplies.

“Badrani and Senwe, would you please take Harriet's cage and that basket there to my tent?” Camelia asked. “Rupert is in the basket.”

“Be careful with that!”
Simon shouted as a few men clumsily hoisted up his canvas-wrapped pump.

The men gasped and froze, nearly dropping the pump in the process.

“I dinna think ye should shout at them, lad,” Oliver reflected. “What with yer red hair an' all—ye seem to have given them a wee bit o' a fleg.”

“I mean, please be careful,” Simon amended tautly, trying to sound reassuring. “It's nothing dangerous—you just need to be careful with it as you carry it.”

The men eyed him nervously and nodded. Tentatively adjusting their grip, they gingerly began to move the pump again.

“You should take the pump to Mr. Kent's tent,” Camelia directed.

“It can just stay outside,” Simon told her. “I doubt I'll be doing much of anything tonight except sleeping.”

“Even so, the pump is safer with you,” Camelia insisted. Why don't we all go to the dining tent and have some refreshments, and you can tell me what is happening, Mr. Trafford? I'm anxious to have a full report.”

“That would be fine, Lady Camelia,” Lloyd said.

He led the little party through the maze of heavy canvas tents until finally they came to the dining tent. Inside there was a relatively good table and chairs for working and dining, sheltered from the African elements.

“I'm afraid we have made little progress since you left for England,” Lloyd reported soberly as Senwe and Badrani laid out a simple meal of dried antelope meat, hard corn biscuits, steamed bananas, and water. “We have tried to clear the water by hand, but unfortunately, such a method just isn't practical for such a large area. So much rain fell during the rainy season, it basically turned the dig site into a small lake. Then the accidents began and men started leaving, which meant fewer hands to tackle a task that could barely be accomplished with the work force we already had.”

“How many men do we have left?” asked Camelia.

“Thirty-eight, at last count, which was at suppertime,” Lloyd answered. “But every morning I find another one or two have packed up and left.”

“And how many do ye need?” wondered Oliver.

“When Lord Stamford first began work on the site, we had well over two hundred,” Lloyd told him. “That was just enough to keep the dig progressing at a steady rate, given the size of the area. At thirty-eight, we are extremely short-handed.”

Elliott scowled. “Those natives were under contract. How could you let them just get up and leave, Trafford?”

“How could I stop them, your lordship?” Lloyd countered. “This is an archaeological site, not a prison. If the men choose to leave, they forfeit their pay. That is the only hold we have over them. Unfortunately, with all the accidents that have occurred, the natives believe the site is cursed. For many, their pay is no longer enough to keep them here. They even believe the rains were sent by the spirits to flood the site and keep us from digging.”

“That's ridiculous,” protested Camelia. “It rains a huge amount here every year during the rainy season—surely they must know that.”

“It doesn't matter, Tisha,” Zareb quietly argued. “Men who are afraid see things differently. To them, the rain is part of the curse. No amount of money can convince those who are truly afraid to stay.”

“If you're insistent upon continuing with this excavation, Camelia, you simply cannot afford to lose any more men.” Elliott's expression was grim. “You have to implement a better system for controlling the workers.”

“My father did not believe in compounding the natives, Elliott, and neither do I,” Camelia returned adamantly. “The men who choose to work for me are employees, not prisoners.”

Simon regarded her in confusion. “What is compounding?”

“It is a system developed by the mining companies a few years ago to counter the problems of stealing and desertion,” Elliott explained. “It simply requires that the natives live in a walled compound for the duration of their contracts, which is generally a period of three months. There are huts within the compound in which they sleep and eat, and an entrance from the compound into the mine. That way no natives can steal any of the diamonds they find and run off with them, or leave before their contract is finished.”

Oliver frowned. “Why canna they just hide the diamonds 'til their contract is over, an' then walk out with them?”

“They are searched.”

“In the most degrading way you could imagine.” Camelia's voice was taut.

Elliott sighed. “In a way that is, unfortunately, necessary.”

“'Tis a terrible thing, to strip a man of his freedom,” Oliver reflected soberly. “I know. But 'tis far worse to take away his freedom when he's nae done anythin' wrong.”

“The men who are still here are loyal to Lady Camelia,” Zareb insisted. “They do not need to be penned like animals and treated like slaves.”

“Once they see Simon's pump working, they will realize the water is not part of some curse,” Camelia added. “The pump will do the work of fifty men or more, which means we can make good progress even though we have so few workers left.” She regarded Simon hopefully.

“How well the pump works remains to be seen.” Although he appreciated her faith in his abilities, Simon did not want to raise Camelia's hopes too high. “I can't make any promises until I've had a chance to get it running and see what sort of adjustments it's going to need.”

“We should all get to bed, then,” Camelia suggested, rising from her chair. “We will need to begin work early tomorrow.”

Oliver stifled a groan and stretched. “A wee rest, an' I'll be as swack as ever an' ready to work.”

“I'm afraid you may not find your bed quite as comfortable as what you are used to, Oliver. I hope it won't keep you from being able to sleep.”

“I can sleep almost anywhere, lass, an' so can the lad here,” Oliver assured her. “Once ye've lived on the streets an' been in prison, ye learn to make do with whatever comes along.”

Badrani's eyes widened. “You've been in prison?”

Oliver shrugged. “A time or two.”

“For what crime?” Senwe was also regarding Oliver with new interest.

“For fleecin'.”

The two men regarded him blankly.

“Stealin',” Oliver clarified. “I was one o' the best thieves in Argyll county, an' still could be, too, if I wanted to. These old hands can nick a watch as quick as a whip, an' I'd wager there's nae a lock in London I canna get past.”

“Really?” Badrani was clearly impressed. He raised the tent flap for Oliver to get out as he continued, “How do you get through a lock, Mr. Oliver?”

“Well, now, there's different ways o' goin' about it,” Oliver began, pleased to have found such a fascinated audience. “With most locks all ye need is a couple o' pieces o' good, straight iron an' a wee bit o' patience . . .”

“I will show you to your tent, Simon,” Camelia said. “It's just at the other side of the campsite.”

“I can show Kent his tent,” Elliott quickly offered.

Simon smiled. “That's very kind of you, Wickham, but I'd hate to impose upon you after such a long journey—especially after all the trouble you had with that horse you bought.”

“Have a good sleep, Elliott,” Camelia added. “I'll see you in the morning.”

Elliott smiled stiffly, frustrated that Kent somehow managed to find time alone with Camelia when he could not. “Very well then. Good night.”

The air was sweet and cool as Camelia stepped out of the tent. It was laden with the scent of rich African earth and tender young plants, laced with the unmistakably musky smell of the wild animals existing just beyond the perimeter of the camp. Despite Mr. Trafford's bleak report about all the men who had deserted her, she felt happier than she had in months. She was back at Pumulani, and she had brought Simon and his steam pump with her. A renewed optimism pulsed through her veins as she walked along with Simon, making her feel excited and eager to get to work.

If not for the fact that it was the middle of the night and everyone else was exhausted, she would have asked Simon to unwrap his pump and get it working immediately.

“This is your tent,” she said, raising the heavy canvas flap of a tent pitched near the edge of the camp. “I'm afraid it isn't much, but I hope you'll find it adequate.”

She stepped inside and frowned at the narrow wooden cot, the small table on which a battered metal washbasin, jug, and oil lamp had been placed, and the single rickety chair. The canvas-wrapped steam engine took up nearly half of the available space, leaving only a narrow path for Simon to practically climb over his trunks to get to his bed.