Thirst

By Elizabeth Cain

A young, black Tanzanian, Askari, searches for the father hes never known. His mother, Iyeala, has kept the mans name from him. Her own father abandoned her on the rim of the Ngorongoro Crater when she was only a year old. Askaris wife, British teen Suzanna Farley, has recently learned the man who raised her is not her biological parent; the man who killed her father before she was born is the father of a childhood friend, Safina, with whom she has begun a dangerous affair. The absence of fathers has led these characters into an emotional tangle fueled by secrecy and madness. Ultimately, a gruesome murder forces them to grapple with inescapable truths. As they thirst for answers, the found journal of one deceased father offers wisdom; a revealed father goes against everything he believes in to smooth rough waters for his children; a reconciled father pleads ignorance in the case of shocking abuse perpetrated on his daughter; and a leopard father brings his son to the only safe place he knows, a compound where the troubled humans reside. Healing comes in slow and surprising steps for the hearts that need it most in this often lonely and unforgiving Africa.

This is a wonderful story. I appreciate the way its complexity unfolds and its core themes of the many aspects of love, forgiveness, compassion, and non-judgment play out. The characters are well-drawn and credible and the descriptions so rich, I feel like Ive watched it as a film. A great read.

C. Starkes

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491771143

Elizabeth Cain

Elizabeth Cain is a native Californian who has called Montana home for twenty-five years. She is an award-winning teacher, poet, and novelist whose love of animals, nature, and Africa illuminates her writing. She lives with her husband, Jerome, in the Blackfoot Valley where they rescue small animals, run sled-dogs, and ride their horses in two million acres of wilderness just outside their back door. This is her seventh novel.

Book preview

THIRST

SEQUEL TO ARK FOR THE BROKENHEARTED

—Elizabeth Cain—

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THIRST

SEQUEL TO ARK FOR THE BROKENHEARTED

Copyright © 2015 Elizabeth Cain.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-7113-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-7112-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-7114-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015913043

iUniverse rev. date: 10/08/2015

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One     In The Clearing

Chapter Two     2001, Dar Es Salaam

Chapter Three     Arusha

Chapter Four     On The Rim

Chapter Five     Iyeala

Chapter Six     Transitions

Chapter Seven     Shanga

Chapter Eight     The Coffee Plantation

Chapter Nine     Leopard

Chapter Ten     The Hand Of God

Chapter Eleven     Thirst

Chapter Twelve     Fire

Chapter Thirteen     Thomas

Chapter Fourteen     Truth

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

1999, Huzuni, East Africa

I am Askari—my mother, Iyeala, my father unknown, and I have seen the beginning and the ending of the world. It is easy to explain. Not far from here, on the endless plains of East Africa, the ancestors of all humans awoke and looked into the leopard’s eyes. The people wandered out among the zebras and the elephants, tasting palm nuts and the flesh of antelope, weaving huts of high grasses and acacia branches, and when the sun disappeared with the swiftness of fire quenched by rain, they looked up with wonder at the sparks in the night sky. They did not know then that everything, even their own hearts, had come from the dust of those stars eons before. That was the beginning.

There is a saying among our tribesmen that when you view a dead person, you are staring at your own potential. If the eyes are still open, they are mirrors in which you can see a glimmer of yourself. If you have killed that man or woman, you have killed yourself. I am sixteen and have never killed anyone. I am running from killing. I have fled the mission at Huzuni on a magnificent, brown horse that belongs to Major Fulsom Farley. He doesn’t know I have him, nor does he know his stepdaughter is waiting inside the mission church with the black fugitive he and his men have been pursuing for fourteen years.

The girl’s name is Suzanna. For most of her life she believed the major was her father, but she has known for a little while the black fugitive, Dakimu Reiman, killed her father before she was born. She has stayed with the killer, while the commander leads his troops through the woods with endings on their minds, because she loves Reiman’s daughter, Safina. I have quit my escape because I love Suzanna for her courage and her maiden vigor which has drawn me to her like a magnet. She has a deathlike birthmark on her face, which has caused her much grief in her young life, but it doesn’t matter to me.

I build a small fire, as I am bitterly chilled by events that occurred at the mission after I aided the white girl in reaching it on this very horse she has given me, demanding I race to safety. But I’ve tied the horse to a mahogany tree by a clear stream and watch the water to see if it will turn red. The silence haunts me, my own heartbeat too faint to hear, any cries from the mission too far away. The villagers abandoned the clearing where the church stands days ago, and there is no one left to defend my friends.

The gelding stamps his feet. His sudden restlessness alarms me. I envision the soldiers circling around the old mission to better aim their rifles on doors and windows or movements within. I know the smell of cordite and blood will not be pleasing to the horse, the memory of military campaigns of the past strong in his mind. My soft words to him may comfort us both, but what if they are too late? I don’t know how to pray. Suzanna is Catholic and knows things about god I cannot understand, but I am driven to return to curb what Farley does when he finds the fugitive and his stepdaughter in the same house.

I extinguish the fire with soil I have dampened with water from the stream, which is not red yet. I gather the reins of the steadfast horse and swing up on his back. I stay in the trees as much as I can on the edge of the long valley that leads to Huzuni, mission of much violence and healing, razing and re-building, beginnings and endings.

CHAPTER ONE

IN THE CLEARING

I barely made a sound in the thicket of fig and mahogany. I had wrapped pieces of my leather coat around Jester’s feet and removed the chain chin strap from the bridle so it wouldn’t clink against the shank of the bit. When I saw the white steeple of the church through the green shadows, I halted the horse. Not only was I not making any sound, there was no sound. How could that be? Then I saw men kneeling and balancing against boulders, their rifles pointed in one direction. Major Farley wheeled his white stallion and fought to gain control of him, his rifle still sheathed, his handgun not drawn.

The major raised one hand as best he could and broke the deathly silence. Hold your fire!

The stallion clawed the air with his front legs, and in the space that opened up, I saw the leopard that belonged to the fugitive. On either side of the nervous cat was a girl—one the fugitive’s black daughter, the enchanting Safina; the other the major’s white stepdaughter, my Suzanna. Elation caught in my throat. The two of them barred the force of a thousand men, their sweet hands clasped over the back of the leopard as if nothing in the world could part them.

Suzanna! What are you doing here? Farley cried in a shocked voice.

But before she could answer, he went on. Send the leopard away. I only want Dakimu for the murders he’s committed—your own father and grandfather, Suzanna!

I think you will have to arrest me too, she said. I have killed one of your men!

My scout?

That very horse thief, yes, she said.

He was only following my orders. The man had young children, Suzanna!

She let out a sob at that, as if realizing all at once the deplorability of her act.

The soldiers had lowered their guns at Farley’s first order. Now, he stared around at the men closing ranks in the clearing. When they shifted positions, the leopard snarled, his muscles bunched up, and the girls struggled to contain him. I held my breath and stroked Jester to keep him from nickering. The major backed his war horse into the advancing line of troops. I prepared myself for the worst, but he called out in a decisive tone, Columns … retreat!

No one moved. He cried again, Troops dismissed! To the Post!

The Post was one hundred miles away in Dar es Salaam. What was he doing? Would he pit himself alone against a confirmed killer and the loyal chui whose lips curled as Farley spoke? The stallion snorted and tried to back even farther away as the regiments in the forest and the edges of the clearing began to trail off, leaving their commander in the open with the fierce cat and the two teenage girls. I let out an uneasy breath.

Suzanna! Safina! I must take Dak in for trial! I’ll protect him. I have heard two of the killings were in self-defense. Another was a hated Briton murdered in America. I don’t care about that one. It’s not my business. Others were committed during a tribal skirmish almost forty years ago! One of those I surely regret …

The black appeared in the doorway of the church, startling the major. He was with his wife, Reena, Safina’s mother, and he was unarmed. The leopard did not take his eyes off Farley but relaxed in a low crouch, seeing his master at ease with the man with the gun.

I am at your mercy, Dakimu said to the decorated commander.

And I seem to be at yours, Farley said.

The wind changed, and Jester caught the scent of the girls and the white stallion. He lurched forward into thorn bushes and thrashed about.

Who’s there? Farley shouted. I told you to leave me!

I had no choice then but to step out and show myself.

No! Askari! You should be far from here! Suzanna cried.

What the hell are you doing with my horse? the major said to me as I came up the path.

"Jester is his horse, Suzanna cried. I gave him the horse for helping me on the trail to Huzuni."

You rode here from Dar es Salaam on that horse?

I rode him with all the skills you taught me, as fast as I could away from your lies.

Into the arms of your father’s killer, he said in a strained voice.

I rode to be with Safina, she answered, but after I killed the soldier, I couldn’t hate Dakimu anymore. Now I might have to hate myself for penance!

The major glanced up at the clean sky as if wishing he were far from the clearing and the fiery eyes of his stepdaughter. He dismounted and dropped the reins, but the white horse wouldn’t stay and shied into the forest.

He looked at Suzanna once more and said, How did you kill my trooper?

With a knife, she said. He was going to run Jester to death. I had to.

He put his hands together and clapped them against his chest.

What will I tell your mother, Suzanna?

I don’t know, she said. "You could lie."

Major Farley seemed to collapse into himself then and sank to the ground. He muttered something about Reena’s love for Dakimu blinding her, something about his own wasted years chasing the black, something about time better spent where he was revered and trusted. He stared into the thick trees where his men had gone. Hah! Who am I to say that?

Was he talking to himself? Did any of us know for sure what he meant? I, for one, could not take my eyes from Safina and Suzanna. They were locked in each other’s arms now, standing beside the reclining chui, their vulnerable bodies shaped like a kind of armor for each other, preparing to fend off whatever barbs the dispirited major might yet throw. But Farley rallied suddenly and rose to his knees.

I shall lie one more time, he said. I’ll say I shot the leopard, and you, Dakimu, but for that to be believed, Suzanna will have to go back with me.

The girls glanced at each other and then down at the major as though he were mad. But I thought it was a good plan. In a few years, no one would remember the killer, and he would be free to pursue his own dreams. For the major’s sacrifice of letting his long-hounded enemy go, he would have his stepdaughter back in his life and be able to take her safely home.

I spoke up. I’ll help you make the journey and be a witness to this story. There is your white horse, Major Farley. The stallion had not abandoned his master, and I thought it a momentous sign. Suzanna can ride Jester. I can run for many miles at a time. I can take care of the horses and especially take care of Suzanna.

At last, she looked at me. That was why I had come back.

Is this possible for you to do, Fulsom? Reena asked. She left Dakimu’s side and moved toward him.

I think I must, Reena, he answered.

I was surprised they were first-name friends. They had known each other raising their daughters in Dar and going to confession in the same church, according to Suzanna. But was this an impasse they could not have imagined?

You are doing the right thing, she said. Then she turned and directed her cooks, who were huddled in the doorway, to fix provisions for the three of us who would return to Dar es Salaam.

Farley sagged again as if the last of his defenses had wafted into the montane wind. Dakimu hesitated only a moment and stepped over and helped the major to his feet. They gazed at each other, and I had to drop my eyes. Much had happened between them. I didn’t know half of it, but I hoped the sight of their daughters embracing in the churchyard had been what had spared them a bitter end.

Safina released Suzanna, but the leopard leapt up when the major reached for her. I’ll go home with you, but I don’t have to fall into your arms, she said to the bewildered man.

She fell into my arms instead, and I pressed her to me. It’s going to be all right, I told her. She wept against me.

It will never be all right, she said.

Reena and Dak went into the mission and brought out a flask of water for their enemy.

I’m sorry it’s not whiskey, the major said.

Water will better quench your thirst, Dak said, and their hands met on the container.

The leopard, seeing things quiet down, slipped off to a cool patch of shade under a fig tree. An ending and a beginning all at once.

CHAPTER TWO

2001, DAR ES SALAAM

T he baby woke us at two a.m. Suzanna had not been sleeping well and still struggled with the aftermath of a traumatic childbirth. She moaned, and I told her to say her prayers, I would check on our daughter. I handed her the sea glass rosary that had a history of its own, and she closed one hand over it. For a moment, I pictured the day Safina had given the chain of cobalt and azure and jade-colored glass to Suzanna as they said good-bye in the clearing at Huzuni. After that, I guided the distraught major and his stepdaughter out of the tangled woods where his hunt for Dakimu Reiman had ended. When Suzanna and I married, we moved into Reena’s apartment on Soko Street, but we hadn’t seen her or anyone from that time since.

My wife showed me the cache under the floorboards where Safina and her mother kept certain treasures—a ragged stuffed leopard, green ribbons, a bracelet with some beads and tinsel missing, and a worn red book called Memoirs on an African Morning by Jim Stone. The meaning of these treasures was insignificant to me, but Suzanna said most of them were gifts from Safina’s half brother, Kiiku, who’d been wanted by the police back then for various petty crimes. Even her stepfather had a run-in with him.

Where is the boy now? I’d asked.

Not so much a boy, she answered. He’s the son of Dak’s first wife from the 60s, but Safina loves him very much.

A drinking glass with a ridge of green like mountain peaks around it caught my eye.

Dak gave that to Safina one day when we were on a field trip to the art center in Arusha where he lived. She was eight years old and had never met her father. They pretended they didn’t know each other because my father was hot to arrest him.

Art center?

Yes. Shanga.

Suzanna! Don’t you remember I grew up near Shanga? The women who raised me worked there, but I didn’t know Dak, I’d said with surprise.

No, you wouldn’t have. He was hiding from everyone, she said.

Suzanna knew, but I didn’t bring it up then, that one of those women was my sister who was killed at Shanga by one of her stepfather’s soldiers.

I stepped into the baby’s room. Suzanna had wanted to name our child after my sister, and I loved saying the little girl’s name and kissing her adorable face, her coffee with milk—maybe a lot of milk—skin and chubby, curled fingers. I picked her up, and she sighed with contentment, not that a three-month old even knows what that means on an emotional level like those of us who had searched for contentment most of our lives.

I sat in Suzanna’s rocker and contemplated my journey to this place.

Everyone said Suzanna and I married too young, even Father Amani at St. Joseph’s Cathedral, where Suzanna had been determined for us to say our vows. I didn’t mind my devout bride following her Catholic traditions; I would keep my own. It was one god, after all. What were we to do? We didn’t want to be with anyone but each other. Suzanna’s mother, Felicia, who suffered from some undetermined mental illness, could barely comprehend where her daughter had been when we came into the Farley’s bungalow on the Post, weary from our trek from Huzuni to Dar es Salaam. But she jarred me with her questions, and I realized she knew more than anyone suspected.

Did you get him? Is he dead? Mrs. Farley cried out when she saw us entering her room.

He’ll never hurt you again, Farley told her, referring openly to the reported deceased Dakimu Reiman.

Suzanna said, I forgave him anyway, Mother.

Felicia stared at her daughter as if she didn’t know who she was. Then she noticed me.

Who is that black man? she asked. She twisted her hands in her dingy sheets.

We had gone closer to her bed, and Major Farley was offering her a glass of water.

This is Askari, my best friend, Suzanna said, surprising me. I had always expected her to say Safina was her best friend. They had shared so much, loved each other since they were seven years old, and had a bond that I was certain I could never compete with.

"Where is Safina? Where’s my black girl?" the distressed woman demanded.

She’s not coming back. She’s with her father, Suzanna answered, which was not a lie.

Oh, what’ll I do? What’ll I do? her mother whined.

Suzanna had told me how Safina could calm her mother and ease her pain from blinding headaches, so I was not offended at Mrs. Farley’s outburst. But I also knew how much Felicia’s devotion to Safina had hurt Suzanna at a time when she needed her mother’s affection the most. Felicia had, after all, never admitted that Fulsom was not Suzanna’s father, except the one time that drove Suzanna to race Jester one hundred miles to Huzuni to be with Safina and learn more of the truth. Her daughter’s