Circling the Sun by Paula McLain Read Free Book Online Page B

half years I did my best at school—though my best was hardly up to scratch. I ran away half-a-dozen times, once hiding in a pig hole for three days. Another time I sparked a rebellion that had most of the school bolting onto the plains after me on their bicycles. That got me sacked, finally. My father met my train looking cross but also relieved, as if he understood that sending me away was never going to work.
    But the farm wasn’t at all the place I had left. The world wasn’t the same, actually, and the war had made certain of that. We had heard all the biggest bits of news at school, about the archduke’s assassination, about Kaiser Wilhelm and how nations we’d scarcely heard of had banded together to fight one another. For British East Africa, war meant stopping the land-greedy Germans from taking everything we believed was rightfully ours. Large portions of the protectorate had become battlefields, and men everywhere—Boers and Nandis and white settlers, Kavirondo and Kipsigis warriors—had left their ploughs and mills and
shambas
to join the King’s African Rifles. Even
arap
Maina had gone off to fight. During one of my school holidays, Kibii and I stood together at the top of our hill to watch him march off to join his regiment. He held his spear high in one hand and his buffalo-hide shield in the other, and carried himself straight and proud as he walked down the dirt track. He was sent hundreds of miles away, to the border of German East Africa, and handed a rifle in place of his spear. He didn’t know how to use a gun, but of course he would master it. He was the bravest and most self-assured warrior I knew, and I was sure he’d come home with stories, and perhaps enough gold to buy a new wife.
    But before the end of that summer holiday, a messenger came running onto our farm one afternoon, and he told us what had happened so far away.
Arap
Maina had fought as bravely as he could, but he had died in that distant place and was buried where he fell, without his tribe or family to honour him. Kibii’s face revealed nothing when we heard the news, but he stopped eating and grew thin and angry. I didn’t know how to comfort him or what to think.
Arap
Maina hadn’t even seemed
mortal,
and now he was gone.
    “We should find the man who killed your father and plunge a spear into his heart,” I told him.
    “It’s my duty to do this, the moment I become a
moran.
”
    “I’ll come with you,” I told him. I had loved
arap
Maina like my own father and was ready to go anywhere and do anything to avenge his death.
    “You are only a girl, Lakwet.”
    “I’m not afraid. I can throw a spear as far as you can.”
    “It’s not possible. Your father would never part with you.”
    “I won’t tell him then. I’ve run away before.”
    “Your words are selfish. Your father loves you, and he is alive.”
    My father meant the world to me. When I was away, I had longed for him every bit as much as I had for the farm, but the war had worked its changes on him, too. When he met my train, his face was so drawn and serious I barely knew how to say hello. We motored up the long hill, and he explained that nearby Nakuru was now a garrison town. The racecourse had become a remounting and transport depot for the troops. Our horses had been conscripted into service, leaving our stables and paddocks more than half empty, but it didn’t matter since all the race meetings were suspended for the duration.
    As soon as we reached the crest, I could see the difference for myself. Hundreds of our workers had gone off with only the clothes on their backs and any weapons they had—guns or spears or bush knives—and some confused idea of glory or honour. The empire had called, and so now they were soldiers of the Crown. It was possible they would be back soon, but for the moment, it was as if someone had turned Green Hills over like a box and shaken its contents out onto the hard ground where they’d blown away.
    In the main