Listening for Lions
Gloria Whelan
To
Joe and Linda
Jenny and Mike
Contents
Book One:
Rachel Sheridan
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Book Two:
Valerie Pritchard
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Book Three:
Rachel Pritchard
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelev
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Glossary
Author’s Note
Bibliography
About the Author
Other Books by Gloria Whelan
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
BOOK ONE
Rachel Sheridan
ONE
It crept up on us like the hyenas I heard at night from my window, drawn to us, Kanoro said, by the smell of death. It was 1919, and because the Great War was over, we had thought all the deaths were at an end, but it wasn’t so. All over the world the cruel influenza had been taking lives. In America half a million people died; in India, many, many millions. In British East Africa, where I was living, the influenza began in the seaport of Mombasa, traveled three hundred miles to the city of Nairobi, and from there crept onto the farms and plantations and into the Kikuyu and Masai shambas. At last it reached Tumaini, the mission hospital where my father was a doctor and my mother a teacher. The influenza killed my parents.
My parents had been sent from England as missionaries to the Kikuyu and the Masai. There had been a minister at our mission, but he had left to serve in the war. Father had tried to carry on with the church work, but he was often too busy with the hospital. He said, “When a man lies with his leg sliced open and the bone sticking out, there is no time for preaching.” My parents had been in Africa for fourteen years. I was born the year after they arrived. Africa was the only home I knew. I could not imagine living anywhere else.
The beds in our hospital were filled with Africans and the wards and hallways crowded with their families. Father treated sleeping sickness, plague, smallpox, and leprosy. He helped mothers whose babies had a hard time being born. One miracle especially filled me with joy. I watched as blind people were led to the hospital. When Father removed their cataracts, they walked home on their own. I would close my eyes and imagine I could not see. After a minute of darkness I would open my eyes to the sun and all the bright colors that were Africa. Later, when I had to live in England’s bleak winters, I wished for my own miracle to give me back Africa’s brightness.
The families of the patients who came to our hospital camped out on the grounds of the hospital, for they would not leave the care of a family member to a stranger. All day long you could hear the Kikuyu chattering to one another and smell the smoke of their fires as they roasted a goat or cooked their maize porridge, posho. The men of the Masai wore togalike cloths draped over their shoulders and carried spears. The men of the Kikuyu wore blankets or sometimes nothing at all. The Kikuyu women were clothed in leather aprons or hundreds of strings of bright beads. When the Kikuyu came to work at the hospital as nurses and assistants, the men wore khaki shorts and shirts and the women plain white dresses and caps. They were like birds who had shed their rich plumage.
Father had begged the mission board in England for another doctor and a nurse, but the war had taken all the doctors and nurses, so Father trained the Kikuyu to assist him. One of the men, Ita, was already performing minor surgery, and one of the nurses, Wanja, was the anesthetist.
The Masai would not be trained and seldom came to our church. The Kikuyu first came out of respect for Father, but soon they were enjoying the singing and many eagerly took up the new faith. Mother had taught me to play hymns on the piano, and the Kikuyu would call out their favorites and I would turn the pages of the hymnal to their choices, until after a while I knew them all by heart and could play as loudly as they could sing.
We were only a small hospital. There was a large hospital in Nairobi for white people and another for the native Africans, but the city was a long drive over bad roads. When I went into Nairobi with my parents to McKinnon’s store, it was by oxcart. My favorite place in Nairobi was the Indian bazaar, with its wonderful smells and its counters heaped with spices. My parents didn’t mix with the wealthy English planters and would not have been welcome in their cricket and tennis clubs. “With their drinking and foolery,” my father said, “they are like the people of Sodom and Gomorrah. They are headed for destruction.”
On the very few occasions I had been allowed to accompany Mother and Father to Nairobi, the planters we saw going about on the streets appeared well behaved. I supposed the middle of the day was not the time for drinking and foolery.
One of the farmers I disliked, a Mr. Pritchard, had a sisal plantation near our hospital. Occasionally he sent over one of the natives on his plantation who had taken ill, but he would never inquire as to how the man was doing. Once a Kikuyu who worked for him had been brought to the hospital by the other workers because he had been beaten by Mr. Pritchard. He was covered with blood, and his ribs were broken. It was the only time I heard Father use a curse word. Mother and Father did not gossip, but on that evening Father spoke again of drinking and foolery. I heard him say, “Pritchard is sure to gamble away that farm in one of his drinking bouts.”
During the war many of the Kikuyu had been drafted by the British to serve as porters in the British army. British soldiers had fought the Germans in nearby German East Africa. After the war the Kikuyu came back with nothing but bits of their worn uniforms, but they had seen a world beyond the native reserves. They no longer wanted anything to do with men like Mr. Pritchard, but they had to pay hut taxes to the British government, and the only way the Kikuyu could get the money for the taxes was to work for the planters.
The Pritchards had a daughter, who, like me, had ginger hair. Because they had not often seen red hair, the Kikuyu were sure it was a kind of sickness and did not understand why my parents could not cure me. The Pritchards’ daughter was my age but better fed, like a plump wood pigeon. Her dresses were silk and her hair was tied with a matching silk ribbon. I stared at her when our oxcart took us past her plantation, but she never noticed me.
Although I looked forward to the excitement of a visit to Nairobi, there was more than enough to amuse me in the African countryside. When I was little, Kanoro kept track of me because my parents were occupied. He warned me of the anthills and snatched me away from the mambas and puff adders and the little African garter snakes that looked so pretty and were deadly. When I came indoors, he made me hunt for ticks on my legs and showed me how to squash them with my fingernails. He was so clever with a needle that he could dig a chigger from under my toenail without my feeling it. He warned me about falling into the holes made by antbears. He would not let me run about in the evenings when the leopards were rumored to be in the nearby bush. Leopards, Kanoro said, were the only animal that killed not for food, but for the pleasure of killing.
Kanoro showed me how to find wild honey and taught me the difference between the various kinds of weaverbird nests: the long nests that hung like bells, the neat nests and the messy ones, and the nests with many entrance holes where several weaverbirds lived sociably together.
Kanoro always said just what he thought. This was a great relief to me, for before they turned their scolding into words, my parents took a long time to think over something foolish or di
sobedient I had done. All the time I was waiting for their words, I was worrying about what they were going to say. Kanoro just said that I was a stupid girl or a bad one. I learned to go to him if I was worried about something. His broad forehead would pleat into wrinkles, and pronouncing the Swahili word for difficulties, wasiwasi, he would find a way out of my troubles.
As I grew older, Kanoro trusted me with my freedom, and after the morning lessons Mother had set me the night before, I did as I liked. I chased the little dassies, the smallest of the antelopes, and fed the monkeys until they became such a nuisance that the feeding was forbidden. I played among the Kikuyu herds of goats, choosing one of the long-legged kids to carry about with me. I sat by our small pond and winced as the wood stork speared a frog with its sharp bill. I lay in the hammock watching the hawks overhead and breathed in the fragrance of the cedar and the sharp smell of eucalyptus. Sometimes in the distance I saw vultures circling, and I wondered if a lion had caught a zebra or cut an impala from the herd. Though I loved the lions, and thrilled when I heard their roars in the night, I would be sorry for the zebra or the impala. On hot days I would look at Mount Kenya lording it over the plains and imagine the coolness of the snow that lay on the mountain. I wondered what it would feel like to have snow fall from the heavens upon me, for my parents had told me that in England such a thing happened. It never occurred to me that one day it would happen to me.
I was welcome in the shambas, the small farms, of the Kikuyu, who sometimes begged for locks of my hair, which I believe they used as a charm against evil. In return they would cut a length of sugarcane for me with their sharp pangas. Their huts were made of straw and looked like half-opened parasols. There was not much to see inside the huts, only a pot or two and a few drinking gourds and perhaps a wooden bench. Outside the huts the women with their long wooden pestles pounded maize for posho. All hours of the day I heard the pounding as regular as my breathing. When I went home, the smoke from their cooking fires clung to my clothes.
The Kikuyu were great storytellers. I had grown up with the Kikuyu and spoke Swahili, and I sat quietly and listened while they told one another stories of their achievements in war or in the trading of goats. In that way their children learned of past times. This telling of tales always seemed to me a much more interesting way of keeping stories alive than the history books that I had to study. I forgot what was in the books, but I remembered the stories.
The Sunday after I turned twelve, Father told me to listen closely to his sermon. He chose as his text the verses in Ephesians in which St. Paul admonishes us to follow the Lord in good works. Father said that now each day after my lessons were over, I could no longer do just as I liked. I was to spend time in the hospital being useful. I didn’t like the hospital, with its smell of disinfectant and all its misery, and asked why Father had not chosen as his text the part in Ephesians where St. Paul says by grace are ye saved and not by works. Father said I was being pert.
The Kikuyu nurse Jata taught me how to take temperatures and pulses. She showed me how to coax the patients into taking their medicine, which they often refused, and how to give them goat broth with a lot of salt to treat the dehydration that came with cholera. It was especially difficult to watch over the Masai patients, who were so tall and regal herding their cattle but who collapsed when they had to be hospitalized. They would not let you do anything for them, hating to be dependent. They could not even stand to be inside a building, and it was said that if they were put into prison, they died.
I scrubbed the operating room, which I hated to do because there was blood and because I never got it clean enough for Jata, who was a hard taskmaster and accepted no excuses. I saw that the relatives had maize for their porridge and that their fires did not burn out of control. I reported arguments that got out of hand, for the Kikuyu and the Masai were not always friendly to one another. I watched over patients to be sure they ate nothing before their surgery, for the families wanted to feed them up so that they would be strong for “the cutting.” I washed the flies from the corners of the eyes of the mtotos, the little children who hung about the hospital.
At first, like the Masai, I could not stand being shut up all afternoon inside the hospital. I would sneak out whenever I could, though I knew that Father would scold me and Mother would look very sad at my sins. After a while the hospital was not so bad. By the end of my first year I could wrap a bandage around an injury and calm the fears of relatives who were sure the hospital meant certain death. When Kanoro’s son, Ngigi, stepped on broken glass and his foot became infected and might have to be taken off, I spent all my time cleansing and bandaging the foot. I tried to cheer the restless mtoto by bringing him bits of the outdoors: a rare purple butterfly in a jar, an abandoned bird’s nest cleverly woven, a new lamb from his father’s flock to hold in his arms. When there was no taking off his foot and the bandages were removed and he walked again, I began to think my hours in the hospital were not wasted.
There were things I avoided. I hurried away when the lepers came for treatment, with their fingerless hands and their faces without noses. Yet when Father sent me to one of the Kikuyu shambas to remind an old woman to come for her treatment, I marveled at how cleverly she was weaving a basket with only a few fingers. When she offered to teach me, I crept closer to her, and in no time I had forgotten she was a leper.
I was proud that Father allowed me to help him, but it was from Mother that I learned softness and understanding. When she was finished with her teaching, Mother helped out at the hospital. Father would not break a rule, but Mother cared nothing for a rule when someone at the hospital suffered under that rule. Mother and Father disagreed over the enforcement or the breaking of such rules. They were both stubborn, and there would be a day of uncomfortable silence when the hospital staff would roll their eyes at one another and keep out of Father’s path, but Mother usually got her way. Father might turn away from our church services a man who had two wives. Mother would point out that it took one wife to pound maize all day for the family’s porridge and another one to tend to the crops and the children. The man would be allowed to join the congregation, but Father insisted there must be no third wife. I came to understand that though there were arguments, Father depended on Mother’s tender heart and Mother relied on Father’s rules.
When Mother came home tired from the teaching and the hospital, I would rub her back and bring her a cup of tea. Then she might tell me stories of how she and Father had met in England in the church orphanage where they had both grown up. The orphanage had been very strict. The girls lived in one building and the boys in another, and they saw one another only at morning and evening Sunday church services. They were given lumpy porridge to eat and bread without butter. The orphans had to listen to someone reading from the Bible or some other edifying book during meals and could not talk with one another. If they disobeyed, the boys were beaten and the girls were shut into their room and fed on bread and water. They were not allowed to have a special friend and were given cast-offs from parishioners to wear. Mother said she would see a dress on a parish girl many times before it was given to her. Once, Mother said, she had worn such a dress and had to endure the girl’s giggles when she recognized her dress on Mother.
The boys and girls were taught their lessons in separate schools. Father did very well and thanks to a kind benefactor was sent to university to study to become a doctor for the missions. When Father was ready to leave for the missions, he was told it would be better if he had a wife to help him. A meeting was arranged with Mother, who had stayed on in the orphanage to teach little children at the orphanage school. On a Sunday afternoon they were invited to take tea together at the vicar’s home.
“It was a small miracle,” Mother said. “In five minutes I knew I liked your father, but I thought it immodest to appear eager, so I insisted on two more teas at the vicar’s.”
“I had to sit there in a stiff collar,” Father said, “talking nonsense. I have heard how in the ti
mes of chivalry men had to joust with sharp lances for their women, but I don’t believe they ever had to eat so many of the vicar’s wife’s biscuits. Like rocks they were.”
Because the church had seen to Father’s training, he was expected to serve the church in the mission field, but that was no hardship for Mother and Father. “We had no family in England,” Mother said, “and it’s a cold country. Here the sun shines and all the Kikuyu are our family. Someday, I suppose, we must all return to England, but I hope the day will not come soon.”
For Mother and Father the day never came.
TWO
It was a hot afternoon in January. I was sitting on the hospital steps ripping a width of cloth into bandages and longing for the cool of the evening. A Kikuyu man was brought to the hospital by his family. I could see the small party coming across the dry plain from a long way away. There had been a drought, and a train of little puffs of red dust followed along behind them and settled like a powdery rain on the leaves of the acacia trees. After depositing the homemade stretcher and its burden in the hospital, the family stood about peering into the hospital windows, waiting for some word about the patient.
After Father examined the man, there was an unusual bustle of activity in the hospital. Father sent me to get Mother. Quickly a contagious ward was created by stringing a curtain across a doorway. I recognized the curtain, for it had hung between rooms in our house and I had helped Mother in the hemming of it.
Father and Mother whispered together and then told me that I must go home and stay away from the hospital.
When I asked why, Father said, “It’s influenza, Rachel, and it’s extremely contagious.”
“But what about you and Mother?”