Scots Grey, Book 6: Ponygirl on Safari

Scots Grey

--

Book VI

Wherein the Lady and her fair filly explore beyond the margin of their map, deep into the Dark Continent.

For a more 'vintage' reading experience, the author advises Font Face be set to 'Times'.

--

West of Lake Victoria, 1904.

About mid-morning on the following day, the expedition sets out overland. Its leaders will strive in the future for earlier starts, but on this first day of their trek time is needed to instruct the thirty villagers who've joined the company in the proper packing of tents and kit, and to distribute the baggage efficiently. Quatermain undertakes these preparations at first light.

He leaves the ladies' tent for last, as they are slow to emerge. Their performance at dressage the previous day had renewed the intimate bond between pony-girl and rider, while Miss Smith still brimmed with awe for her Lady's courageous battle with the leopard. Late into the evening, she had sought with special zeal to serve the pleasure of her mistress, in a manner nigh to worship.

When all at last is ready, Lady Gordon leads Anabelle by the reins to their place at the head of the column. Apprehensive of the wilderness ahead, the tall and strapping pony-girl clamps tight between her teeth the slender bit, steel wrapped in rubbery gutta-percha.

Being of a modest and retiring disposition, Ana would much prefer to follow at the rear of the company: behind the three dozen native porters, rather than in front, where all their eyes -- she foresees -- will be focused upon her thinly-draped posterior. Latching her own gaze upon Boudica's hand before her, and the reins held casually in its grasp as the two walk past the long file of bare-chested men; Anabelle attempts to draw a measure of her Lady's courage through their leathery connection.

The Kavirondo porters who look up as she passes display little more than casual interest; The spectacle that Miss Smith presents while in harness is by now growing familiar. Since the dressage performance the previous day, the Kavirondo evidently have come to view the Lady's practice of riding on her companion's back as just one more idiosyncrasy of these strange women from exotic lands: inexplicable, but in the end demanding of them no more than to be taken in good humour.

The cohort of villagers who have arrived to swell the porters' ranks are for the most part younger men, leaner too than the more seasoned Kavirondo. They appear eager to set out and explore a bit of the world in the company of their invincible monster-slayer. Seeing Anabelle in harness, they seem pleased to know that the remarkable Lady who they've chosen to follow will be carried along the trail, in a mode that's fitting for such a splendid heroine. The admiration writ on their faces makes one suspect that, if Ana were to tire, one or more of the village lads would step forward to take on her duty.

At the head of the column, Boudica places her foot in a dangling stirrup -- and then pauses, affording Ana an opportunity to collect herself in good posture and attend to balance. When her mount is ready, the svelte adventuress springs up lightly into the saddle. With a flick of the reins and click of her tongue -- 'tk tk' -- she sets her filly on a course to westwards, at a walking pace. Quatermain and Umbopa go beside them.

Behind the leading quartet, the long line of porters trails, carrying the rolled-up tents and all the rest of the company's assorted cases and bundles; which they bear by means of woven straps, or on their shoulders, or slung from poles carried between two men. Within a hundred yards of setting out, the high-spirited villagers commence to sing in rhythm with their steps.

The Lady has hung saddle-bags upon Ana's harness at either hip, loading them with a leathern water bottle, strips of dried meat for sustenance along the trail, and a few other items that she would keep close at hand. Upon Boudica's own belt, her Webley revolver rides in its holster, while over her shoulder she carries -- as one might sling a rifle, and despite the brightness of the morning -- what appears to be a cane-handled umbrella.

There are good paths that skirt the lakeshore, or that trace along the nearby stream. But the leaders have agreed to strike due west, taking a direct route toward where they guess the headwaters of Lake Rweru must lie; rather than follow the curving, branching, jungle-tangled river that flows down from the high country to the inland sea of Victoria, which they now leave behind them.

As the expedition moves into undiscovered country, Miss Smith is grateful for the reassuring snug of the Lady's thighs about her waist.

Not long after setting out, the column approaches a belt of tall grass that skirts the margin of the lakelands. Swaying in the breeze, the interleaved fountains of tawny green rise as high as Ana's bridle-band. Now Lady Gordon takes the lead, with subtle tension on the reins directing her mount toward a crease that she detects in the verdant cordon.

'This type of grass,' she advises Ana as they enter the dense brake. 'As I suspect you know, is unlike anything we have in Britain. The blades are rather abrasive. Hold your hands up in front, with elbows out, to force a way. Like the fender on a train... Yes, that's it! This is why I specified that your mittens should extend above the elbow.'

At first, Anabelle treads tentatively, uncertain of the ground and wary of any creatures who might lurk in the grass, unseen. But the hobnailed horseshoes of her boots afford good footing, and she soon settles into a slow, methodical stride.

As her hoofs crunch through the grass, Anabelle observes at close range the toothy edges of its blades... But they slide harmlessly off the leather mittens, while her legs are protected by the hardened faces of her boots, and thighs by the supple kidskin leggings that her mistress had thoughtfully provided. Pressing forward, Ana begins to study the grass with more interest than concern, noting details of its structure as she considers where on the family tree of Poaceae this species must belong. The threat of hidden predators remains a cause of mild unease, but Anabelle trusts that the Lady, from her perch in the saddle, must be able to see farther ahead than she can herself.

Pushing through the grass, watching its menacing blades yield before her, Miss Smith feels a building exhilaration. The retiring young woman who -- just months before -- had preferred to limit her perambulations to a walled English garden would not have dared to imagine that she might someday blaze a new trail across wild Africa. The experience is exciting beyond words!

Traversing the belt of tall grass takes half an hour, with the company following in file along the narrow track created by Ana's steel-shod hoofs. Beyond the swaying barrier, vegetation turns sparse, as the terrain slopes upward for fifty yards or so. The Lady dismounts to lead her filly up this shallow incline by the reins.

Cresting the slope, pony-girl and mistress look out across a broad plain, flat as a billiard table and dotted here and there with trees. Miles ahead, a dark line at the horizon suggests a ridge, with cottony clouds floating above it. Some distance off to the left, and even farther to the right, billows of dust rise from the plain.

Lady Gordon knows what generates the dust.

'Herds of game!'

'On this side of the lake,' Quatermain, standing beside her, sounds younger than he'd been an hour before. 'Africa is still what it was.'

The day has begun to grow warm, and he calls a halt. The porters are glad to set down their burdens for a while.

While the company catches its breath, Lady Gordon unfastens a clip on her mount's bridle, allowing the bit to hang loose. She raises a canteen to Ana's lips; With her hands encased in hoof-mittens the pony-girl is unable to grasp it herself.

'You're doing so well, darling!' Boudica commends, as Anabelle sips gratefully. 'I'm very proud of you. Does the harness require adjustment? Is it chafing anywhere?'

The pony-girl shakes her head in mute reply. Though her tongue may be free for the moment of the bit's restraint, Miss Smith remains fully engaged in her role as the Lady's filly, in which she obtains relief from fear of dangers that may wait ahead. Boudica checks each strap on the harness anyway, making such adjustments as are needed, and Ana's boot-laces as well.

The company rests for a few minutes, until all realise that there's no shelter here from the mid-morning sun. The day promises only to grow warmer as it wears on. The porters take up their loads and, refitting Ana's bit, the Lady mounts again her willing steed. The expedition will proceed to the ridge in the distance, where its leaders hope to find a suitable place to camp.

The sun-baked plain is hard underfoot, its carpet of soft grass grazed down to ankle height. At an easy walking pace the expedition makes good headway.

When strolling outdoors on bright days, ladies often will unfurl a parasol. Seated in the saddle, with her feet braced taut against the stirrups and avoiding sudden movements that might upset Ana's balance; Boudica draws from behind her shoulder the cane-handled bumbershoot. Black as a Bedouin tent, and unburdened by girlish ruffles, the umbrella's canopy also is larger than a typical parasol: broad enough to shield the Lady's fair mount as well as herself from Sol's burning rays.

One square yard of mobile shade, though, does nothing to prevent the heat from animating voracious flies. Allowing Quatermain and Umbopa to lead the column for a while, Lady Gordon wraps the reins around her hand that holds the umbrella, and with the other draws out a slender wand that protrudes from one of Ana's saddle-bags. From the end of the wand, a lush horse-tail blooms; Its lively chestnut colour goes well with Miss Smith's ginger hair. Holding the wand in an underhanded grip, Boudica flicks the horse-tail behind the saddle, chasing away flies that would annoy her filly's haunches.

The soft sweep of the tail across her bottom takes Ana by surprise! The reins restrain her gaze to forward, and so she must deduce by means other than sight the cause of this new sensation. When she does, the pony-girl is unsure whether she should be embarrassed; A light blush rises on her cheeks. But the Lady has not signalled her to stop, and so she proceeds, focusing upon their destination of the ridge ahead.

After a hundred paces, with the tail caressing in regular rhythm through the gossamer drape of her chemise, Ana begins to appreciate the relief that it offers from the flies. Within a mile, the swishing horse-tail comes to feel almost natural.

--

It's past noon when they arrive at the foot of the long, low rise first glimpsed from across the plain. Perhaps two hundred feet in height, and mantled with a scattering of trees, the ridge runs across the expedition's route as straight and level as if it had been drawn upon the Earth with a ruler.

The day by now is turning hot, and the hillside that looms ahead is steep. But fair-looking paths of the sort made by game climb the slope at moderate grades, while the overhanging trees promise frequent shade. After a brief rest, the leaders agree to surmount the ridge and seek a site to camp on the other side. They have not yet located water.

Dismounting, with reins in hand Boudica leads her companion up the slope, along one of the narrow game-paths. Anabelle's steel horseshoes sometimes slip on the gravelly incline -- And then she stumbles, dropping a knee!

For a moment, she's alarmed. But even as Boudica turns to check on her, Ana realises that the shock of her fall has been absorbed by the padding sewn into the top of her boot, while its armour-like face of hardened leather has protected her from the sharp stones.

'Are you all right, dear?'

Nodding to assuage her Lady's concern, Ana accepts Boudica's aid in rising, and continues up the slope -- now with increased confidence, and learning better with each step how to find her footing on this sort of ground.

From atop the ridge Lady Gordon looks out across another stretch of plain. The view from this high point is remarkable! Perhaps two miles away, yet another herd of hoofed creatures stirs a cloud of dust. Their species can only be surmised, as individuals appear smaller than ants at such a distance. Much nearer, at the base of the rise upon which she stands, Boudica's eye is drawn to a patch of vegetation deeper green in colour than its surroundings, suggesting water near the surface.

'That's a happy sight!'

Their climb has left Anabelle too hot to enjoy the hilltop vista. The sun has by now been overhead for hours, and, despite the shade provided by the umbrella, with much of her body wrapped in leather the thickly-built young woman is perspiring freely in the afternoon heat.

While Quatermain and Umbopa debate the route of their descent Lady Gordon again waters her filly. Seeing the hot flush upon Ana's face, Boudica does not take time to fuss with the bridle but lifts the canteen directly to her companion's mouth.

The pony-girl drinks greedily. With the bit interfering, some of the water escapes her lips, trickling down from Ana's chin to moisten the front of her chemise. She welcomes the cooling sensation -- without immediately noticing how wetting causes the fine blend of silk and cotton that veils her bosom to become nearly transparent.

Though she will only learn of it later in the journey, Miss Smith has earned this day a nick-name in the Kavirondo tongue. When, a few days from now, she overhears the porters speaking it among themselves, and asks Umbopa of her nick-name's meaning, the tall-but-timid girl will cringe upon hearing his frank translation:

The Red Locomotive with Two Lights.

Umbopa leads the company down to the green place where they'll camp. As the porters set to work pitching tents, and Albert directs the organization of the camp kitchen; Beneath the broad canopy of a tree Lady Gordon spreads a handkerchief across a boulder for Anabelle to sit upon and rest in the shade. The pony-girl has traversed today a greater distance in harness than ever she has before, some of it over difficult ground.

Boudica loosens straps and corset-laces so that Miss Smith might sit comfortably, and unbuckles bit and bridle. As Ana stretches her jaw, Lady Gordon stands by, fanning the over-heated filly with her hat for a while. Then, leaving Anabelle to sit beneath the tree, tired but uncomplaining, Boudica brings her loyal steed fresh cool water from the spring.

As soon as their tent has been erected, and the folding tub assembled; In privacy Boudica assists her playmate in doffing corset, boots, and leggings, and sees to her bathing.

Within the tent a golden glow of sunlight filtering through canvas flows, honey-like, over the fair flesh that cloaks curvaceously Anabelle's sturdy frame. With a soft cloth and warm water from a kettle, Boudica carefully removes dust that has adhered to skin moistened by toil. The caress of warm streams, and her Lady's gentle touch, begin to ease the tension of fatigue in Ana's limbs and spine.

When cleanliness has been achieved, the Lady bids her companion to recline in the warm water, and lift her foot. Seating herself upon a chair beside the tub, Boudica sets Ana's heel in her lap, and examines the pale extremity for any sign of bruising or abrasion.

'Are your feet tender, dear? You endured today's march so stoically!'

'No road could seem over-long, Milady,' Miss Smith offers in quiet voice, as the heat of the bath seeps into her bones. 'If travelled in your company.'

Uncapping a tin flask, Boudica applies an aromatic oil to her fingers, and commences to massage her companion's foot. Patiently, with practised method, the Lady presses up between the little bones, kneading fleshy pads and sinews, coaxing blood to flow.

Reclining in the bath, Anabelle sighs, and then with eyelids drooping low she moans in contentment.

Miss Smith was raised as a gentlewoman, but never has forgotten that she is a child of servants. In any other circumstance, the humble girl could not countenance being so indulged by any titled person -- let alone one she holds in such high esteem as her dear mistress. Only in her role as the Lady's filly is Ana able to accept, even to relish, this sort of pampering.

Since Boudica, as a young girl, had first been gifted a four-legged pony to train, she's enjoyed grooming and attending to her mounts. Spoiling Anabelle after a ride warms Lady Gordon with a gladness that, at first, recalls to mind those happy afternoons of youth spent in the stables.

As her hands glide over Miss Smith's strong and shapely limbs, moving beyond the young woman's sole to massage the tendon behind her ankle, and then her sleek, well-turned calf... The nature of the Lady's pleasure evolves toward delectation of a different kind.

--

The following morning they set out earlier, crossing the next stretch of plain before the hottest hours of afternoon arrive. Pausing atop another crest, the explorers see similar terrain ahead. The land they need to cross is generally flat, crossed at varying intervals by these long, low ridges.

As they progress westward, day-by-day, a pattern develops: Rising early, the expedition travels purposefully, without pressing so hard as to exhaust either porters or pony-girl. Quatermain and his African colleague seek to find by noon a shady spot where the company might pass the warmest hours of the day at ease. In the more moderate heat of evening, while Albert prepares the ladies' supper and the porters rest their backs, the leaders may proceed ahead to pioneer the next day's route.

After each few days of travel they'll remain for two nights in one location, without moving camp. On the day between, Lady Gordon, joined by Quatermain or Umbopa, often sets out before sunrise to seek game to roast for dinner, and to replenish the company's portable store of salted meat.

When she rises at first light to hunt, Boudica quietly leaves Miss Smith behind, intending that she rest. The dutiful young woman finds it difficult to sit idle, though, preferring to spend these days at work about the camp. Excusing Albert from housekeeping duties, Ana does the ladies' washing, and oils her pony harness; and then she cleans the tent, polishing its brass and silver furnishings. The Persian rug she drags outside, and with strong arms hangs in a tree to beat loose the dust. It pleases Miss Smith to 'do' for the Lady in this way, so that when her mistress returns from a hot and tiring hunt she might have as home-like an abode to rest in as may be.

One afternoon in camp, Ana snips off one of the spare buttons stitched to her jacket, and employs it to replace the fastener that had been missing from Albert's vest. By this small act, undertaken without thought to recompense, she wins an ally for life. No longer content to watch the young woman take on his duties, the steward works beside her, and in the days that follow he invites Ana to learn his methods of camp-cooking too.

Sometimes steward and young lady will go foraging a short distance from the tents, seeking tender greens or roots with which to supplement the evening meal. Anabelle -- a budding amateur botanist who's not above touching her hand to the soil -- is happy to assist with the harvest, glad for the opportunity to glean a small share of the native's knowledge.

Back in England, while Boudica reviewed maps and reports in preparation for their journey; Miss Smith had studied, by means of illustrated books and visits to the botanical gardens, all that's known to European science of the East African flora. And so she knows the Latin names of many of the plants that Albert shows her, or at least the families to which they belong. But books do not always teach which root or leaf makes good eating, nor how they are best located, or prepared, nor all their lore.

'Albert,' she asks one morning from beneath the broad brim of her straw hat, ribboned with green; while holding a basket that the steward has been filling with wild berries. 'When the Lady and I return to England, will you resume your old position at Nairobi?'

'Maybe, maybe no. By now they have a new man, sure. Ah! Here are some fat ones.'

Depositing another handful of berries into Ana's basket, Albert flashes a bright grin.

'But there are many houses. Only one Lady Tai. Eh?'

Sometimes, while Albert is busy in his portable kitchen or with other duties, Miss Smith may explore on her own -- though never farther than shouting distance from camp. Of the plants that she collects on these forays, Ana preserves specimens, pressing their leaves and blossoms between the pages of a journal where she makes notes on her finds as well. In this she continues a habit that she'd first practised as a schoolgirl, when her bravest expeditions had been to the far corner of the walled garden behind Gordon House. Most of the tiny, wild blooms that Ana collects here in Africa would pale next to the cultivated varieties that adorn her memories of Britain -- yet each, she feels, holds its own unique captivation.

The land might be described as dry; Even the places where they camp are not lush but more often barely moistened by subterranean springs or rivulets. Still, at most sites, with a bit of searching Anabelle is able to locate flowers that she feels worthy to decorate the improvised table upon which her mistress dines. If not, in lieu of blooms she creates appealing arrangements of tufted grass and leaves.

One day Miss Smith comes upon some clumps of knee-high grass with golden seed-heads that attract the eye. Upon closer inspection, she observes that the seeds are arranged in mirrored rows, and that the little sword-shaped leaves that radiate from the heads -- which Ana recognizes to be the petals of the plant's unassuming, colorless flower -- are curled along their edges.

Despite the study that she'd invested prior to the journey, this grass is unfamiliar. Guarding her suspicion, Anabelle collects a few samples of the plant, and includes it in that evening's table arrangement.

At supper Boudica comments, as she often does, on the artistry displayed in Miss Smith's bouquet. Anabelle, still hesitant to make too bold a claim, takes this opportunity to mention that the seedy grass she's interspersed among the blooms is of a type not illustrated in her books.

'Really?' Boudica senses in her companion a restrained excitement. 'But you were so thorough, poring over those great tomes for such long hours.'

With her interest piqued, Lady Gordon leans forward to inspect the plant more closely. Its neat rows of golden-tufted seeds hold some appeal, but overall the grass appears quite plain.

'Different from the others how, exactly?'

Anabelle explains the unique elements of the plant's structure, and then pauses; When she continues, her speech is hedged with humble uncertainty.

'I believe that, perhaps -- and I may be mistaken -- that this species, or even its genus, has yet to be described in the literature.'

'Well, that is exciting!' Boudica's grin is wide and genuine. 'Congratulations, darling! Be sure to preserve a few specimens. I know a don at Oxford, an old beau of mine -- quite a devoted lad in those days. Upon our return I'll have him guide you in the publishing of a monograph to announce your discovery.'

Albert approaches at this moment with the evening's grilled entrée. Setting the tin plates on the table, he glances at the subject of the ladies' interest.

'Ah! Yes. This one is bitter in the mouth, Miss, but still good to know. The seeds, ground to paste, are good for... how do you say... warts.'

'Is that so?' Boudica's enthusiasm for Ana's find is undimmed. 'What do you call this grass, Albert?'

The African's multisyllabic reply in his tribal language would challenge even the most acrobatic of European tongues.

'Well, that is a mouthful!' Boudica must admit. She turns to her companion.

'I'll leave you to work out with our steward the spelling of the plant's common name, for your monograph. But every species added to the catalogues must have a Latin appellation, too. "Poaceae Smithii Albertensis" sounds well in my ear!'

It certainly does to Anabelle, who blushes at the thought of botanical immortality. She's most pleased to know that her careful study and attentiveness have earned the recognition of her mistress.

--

On some days that pass with camp stationary -- and sometimes in the mild evenings of travel days, if that morning's trek was not too vigorous -- the Lady fits her companion's pony-tack and rides out to explore the camp's environs. The pair may scout a short distance ahead, or, with the chestnut horse-tail swishing behind Ana's haunches, canter back along the trail to investigate more thoroughly a place that their column had earlier passed by. They take along Miss Smith's plant journal and, when the pony-girl paws with her hoof at an interesting specimen, her mistress will dismount and carefully collect it.

Together they admire vistas of the broad plain, and of a dark irregularity at the western horizon that suggests rugged mountains, barely visible behind the next low ridge but growing nearer with each day of travel. Among the clouds that fly above the distant range, sometimes they glimpse what might be snowy peaks.

Often they seek out watering holes, where various species of game are wont to gather amidst this dry country. As they draw near, Boudica will dismount, to lead Ana by the reins on silent stalks that bring the pair at times within a stone's throw of wild antelope, buck, and beest.

On one occasion, a family of towering giraffes approaches so close to the ladies' hiding place that Anabelle can distinguish the blinking lashes of their eyes, and hear their puffed breath. She and Boudica watch for a blessed hour as the animals move about on legs like stilts, and stretch their long necks: up to pluck leaves from highest branches, and down to bring their dextrous lips to the water.

Miss Smith recalls the comparison that she'd made while in England -- a lifetime ago, it seems, though in fact it's been only a few months -- between giraffes and her large self. At the time, she'd hoped that it was witty. Now in the living presence of these wondrous creatures, taller even than the London buses with which she'd been impressed, Ana realises how absurd she'd been.

Since she first outstripped her peers in height, the timid girl had despised her stature, for the unwanted attention that it draws. Here in the open vastness of Africa, where the Creator seems to have wrought His work at a larger scale, at a stout six-feet-and-one Anabelle feels... if not small, then more comfortably human-sized.

Thrice, the women espy regal lions; These the Lady watches from a respectful distance. While away from camp, Boudica always carries a rifle slung over her shoulder, but when accompanied by Anabelle this is only for defence. Respecting Miss Smith's tender regard for all creatures great and small, Boudica does not shoot while in her company. Rather, on these occasions the Lady finds satisfaction in a new challenge: collecting 'trophies' with her folding Kodak.

There are birds too, of course, of every type and in every shade of plumage. If the flowers of this semi-arid land are generally more subdued in hue than well-watered British varieties, the birds in their splendour put northern rivals to shame. Weaver-finches, who build the most ingenious nests, and Whydah birds; and Bee-eaters clad in a vibrant palette of crimson, gold, and blue. Especially dazzling are the Honey-suckers, wearing feathery jackets of malachite green gleaming with metallic lustre.

And many of these exotic aeronauts are as tame as the brown sparrows of Hyde Park. Tiny, long-tailed Sunbirds allow the ladies to approach within arm's distance, and watch them drink with needle bills from cupped blossoms the size of finger-nails. A proud finch perched on a twig performs a courtship ritual, clapping russet wings to accompany his love-song -- so close by that Ana is tempted to reach out her mittened hand and see if the charming fellow might hop to it.

Such scenes move the young woman at times near to ecstasy. And for all of this, she owes her Lady: Without Boudica's protection, encouragement, and guidance -- the latter ever-gentle, but with bit and bridle brooking no dispute -- never in a lifetime could Miss Smith have found within herself the courage to travel so far from safe English rooms.

--

In the evenings, the company often gathers about a fire, sharing conversation and homespun entertainment. The spirited young men from the village are wont at these times to sing, and to make pantomimes and merry jests for each other, which all enjoy.

Watching Boudica laugh, her face aglow with firelight, Miss Smith is glad. Her mistress contains a great spirit, indeed: one that must feel hemmed in by the conventions of so-called Society, and clearly so much more at home out here on the wild plain. Anabelle has found this journey at times to be trying, but her petty privations are as nothing next to her Lady's joy.

A minute later, while Miss Smith's attention is upon the show, Boudica looks toward her companion. There is a touch of the sun on Ana's cheek, and a cheerful spark in her eye. The young woman's mood is quite different from the nervy awkwardness that she'd displayed at fireside a few short weeks ago.

To see Ana happy and at ease warms the Lady's heart. She's pleased to have encouraged the girl's flowering; Boudica has begun to appreciate, too, how Miss Smith, in the way she looks to her mistress so trustfully, has spurred her own advance toward a greater maturity.

Of such a different temperament, if complementary, the Lady still does not quite comprehend how Ana's felicity depends so entirely upon her own presence, wherever the two may be.

This evening, the contingent of Kavirondo porters are inspired to make a contest of song. As one of the teenaged villagers finishes his silly little ditty, a burly member of the Kavirondo stands and bursts forth with a bold baritone response. When he concludes with a few quick, booming notes, his compatriots proudly cheer him.

Another villager next rises, to present what sounds to Anabelle like a story-song, with melody more refined. Though uncomprehending of his language, Miss Smith -- a talented soprano herself, though too shy ever to consider public performance -- admires the rich tenor in which he croons the ballad.

After a long series of verses, the villager's final note is overlaid by the applause of his countrymen. A second contender from the Kavirondo stands... And so they go, back-and-forth for a while. After several of the villagers have performed, and been answered, the two groups turn to arguing good-naturedly across the fire over which tribe might claim victory.

Then, in a quiet moment, another voice is heard: a sonorous bass, descanting long, mournful notes in deeper register than any dirge Miss Smith has heard. It is Umbopa singing, with his gaze fixed in the campfire's flames.

In a language that none other there can parse, the exile conveys a grievous sense of loss and loneliness, such as all people sometimes share. When he concludes, many are inspired to look up into the starry sky, and cold infinity. Boudica feels Anabelle reach to clasp her hand.

From high up in some distant, frozen constellation, the Lady is called back to Earth by a new voice, far unlike any other that has yet been heard. This one is soft and quiet, with a sweetness that almost transcends mortal tones.

The porters stare in wonder as Miss Smith begins to sing. Even when she does not wear her bridle-bit, the young woman is of such a retiring disposition that, after weeks in her company, some of the men have yet to hear her speak a word; while the dulcet, dainty sounds that pass now from her lips seem incompatible with Anabelle's large and sturdy form.

Her song emerges threadlike in its delicacy, like a tender shoot rising from the soil: so fragile, and yet so full of life and hope that one must pray it does not fail. Slowly, it grows, bending in the breeze of Fortune but from this buffeting taking strength, adding girth as it winds upwards, building in complexity.

As her aria ascends, Miss Smith rises from her chair. Her gaze is fixed upon some point high and far off in the night... Clearly, the Muse is upon her, and Ana stands as one who is compelled by her art to summon all the technique at her command. While minutes slip by uncounted, her song ripens and burgeons into bud, pregnant with joy and beauty, until it seems to loom over the campfire and an audience that sits spell-bound, like the greatest and most spectacular blossom one might imagine had graced Eden.

Yet still unopen. Will Ana's music dare to bloom, into a world of cruelty and fear? Once, twice, she teases a crescendo, only to retreat into uncertain rumination.

Her third attempt, it seems, must also fail, and Ana's song be doomed to wither into what-might-have-beens. But then, a subtle change in key, and... Yes! Anabelle's bravura aria explodes at last into parti-coloured glory. In breathtaking runs of bell-clear notes, flying up and down a range that sounds at times superhuman, Miss Smith proclaims the all-conquering Power of Love -- with such irrefutable force that the stars above can be seen quivering in their firmament!

As her melodious dénouement lingers, and fades, Ana feels the Lady squeeze her hand.

Three dozen African porters sit back on their heels in slack-jawed amazement. Then they all leap as one toward the singer, talking over one another to make an excited noise. Miss Smith is at first afrighted by their sudden rush -- but the Kavirondo all want to clasp her hands, while the villagers press forward to rub her shoulders vigorously in their tribe's customary congratulation.

There is no more thought for competition: All present have been united by music in a shared humanity.

--

About noon on the following day, the expedition crests the last of the low ridges that run north-south across their course, and looks down upon a new country. On the far side of one more stretch of plain, this with a silver-threadlike river winding through it, rounded hills huddle at the foot of mountains that only had been glimpsed before, but now can be seen rising from their green roots to cloud-wreathed peaks.

There, somewhere amidst the crags, must lie the headwaters of Lake Rweru: the True Source of the Nile.

--

Crossing the river proves a minor adventure in itself, but soon enough the company is comfortably encamped at the entrance to a valley that extends up into the mountains.

The next morning Quatermain and Umbopa set out early, taking with them three of the doughtiest porters and supplies sufficient for a few days' travel. They plan to explore ahead, up the valley, to determine whether it offers a route into the mountains that will be passable for the full expedition.

Boudica elects to spend these days with Anabelle. The lands west of the river are better-watered than the dry plain, and host to species of trees and flowers different from those they've so far encountered. There is much to discover within a short pony-ride of camp.

The ladies' morning excursion proves so rewarding that, after an early tea, they set out again. A few furlongs from camp, Boudica steers her filly around a rocky point and into a neighbouring vale. This one is more aptly described as a ravine, with steep sides cloaked in jungle, and seems at first to offer less promise of a westward route.

But, what's this?

In the dense jungle at the head of the valley, Boudica sees a dark gap in the green, recalling the mouth of a tunnel.

With the reins Lady Gordon guides her mount beneath the eaves of the looming rainforest. When their eyes adjust to the dim light... Yes, a tunnel-like passage below the trees extends deep into what had appeared, from a distance, to be impassable country.

'Tk tk.'

--

To be continued...