Quin yelled back, pushing her way through to the main salon and handing an infuriated first mate her ticket as she sloshed through the crowd of startled tourists in the dining area.
Petra wasn't there.
Quin stood on the front deck. She was exhausted, dirty, hungry, wet, and frantic with worry.
Petra got to her feet as she saw Quin make a mad dive for the stern of the ship. Leaning over the rail, heart in her mouth, she saw Quin clinging to the stern of the ship and being hauled up by angry crew members. She went rushing down the stairway, but was blocked from getting to Quin by the crush of crew in the small area. She could hear Quin's voice yelling over the angry voices in Chinese.
Petra backtracked, cutting across the top deck and going down the stairwell at the bow of the boat. There she found Quin, leaning on a bulkhead, wet and dirty, her face buried in her hands.
"Quin?"
Quin looked up. Tears flowed from her eyes. She wrapped Petra in her arms and shook. Petra held on to Quin, but said nothing.
At length, Quin pulled herself together. "You scared the hell out of me. I love you," she said between sniffs, her voice tight with stress.
"Quin, you spied on me. You spy on everyone."
Quin leaned against the bulkhead and looked at her feet. "I work and live on the other side of the earth from the parent company. To stay on top of things, I pay a lot of money for information."
"That's really despicable. It's one thing to gather information where you can; that's just good business sense. It's quite another to investigate people's backgrounds in depth."
"It's part of business at this level. Look, Petra, I'm not saying it's right, I'm just saying it's what I have to do to stay on top. I could have used the information over the years to do a lot of blackmailing to get what I want. I didn't."
"What do you use it for, then?"
"To stay one step ahead of everyone else. If the other regional managers need to know, they have to come to me. That puts them at a disadvantage." Quin scraped a bit of river weed off her one running shoe with the toe of the other.
"And did you tell them about my father to gain points?"
Quin looked up, her eyes blazing with anger. "Of course not. I told you that already. I don't play those sorts of games."
"But you were prepared to wine, dine, and bed me to improve your position with the company, weren't you?"
"At first, yes. I told you that, too. I haven't been lying to you. I was annoyed at first that I was going to have to take time from the site to show you around, and then I thought I could use the visit to my advantage. When I realized you were here to evaluate me, I tried to back off, but I couldn't. I'd fallen in love with you."
There was a long silence while Petra tried to come to terms with what Quin had told her. She thought her heart was going to burst with pain, but she knew she couldn't stop loving Quin. Petra stepped forward into Quin's arms, and Quin held her close.
"I'm sorry," Quin said.
Petra nodded, not trusting her voice to speak. They stood for a long time, just holding on to each other. They found a quiet spot to sit at the bow of the ship to watch the scenery of the Li valley together.
The mountains rose on each side like magical islands on the fertile plains. Along the way were small, quaint villages, children swimming, water buffalo soaking or grazing on the tender grass growing on river deltas, farmers working in the fields, and people fishing with small hand nets or diving for snails from narrow bamboo rafts.
One of the serving crew came by and offered them the local snake wine. Petra looked slightly pale as she looked into the big jug the waitress held up, filled with a golden liquid and with the dead remains of several snakes floating around in the bottom.
Quin declined on their behalf.
"Do people really drink that?" Petra asked.
"Some of the old still do, but mostly it's made for the tourists."
Quin pointed out an old man on the shore who had two cormorants sitting on each end of a pole he carried over his shoulders. "He's a fisherman. The birds have a band around their necks to stop them from swallowing fish. They catch the fish and bring them back to the fisherman. At the end of the day, the fisherman takes the band off and feeds the birds."
It was a picturesque world; one belonging to another era. Petra sat close to Quin as she experienced it. She and Quin still had a lot of issues they needed to work out, and that wasn't going to be easy. When she had seen the despair in Quin's face when she thought Petra was not on the ship, she knew that Quin did, indeed, love her. Somehow, they'd find a way to make this work.
They shopped in Guilin for fresh clothes before heading back to their hotel. Then they took turns showering, Quin emerged from her hot shower stark naked as she dried her hair with a towel. Petra, sitting in a hotel robe, let her eyes drift over her figure with hunger. Quin saw the look and dropped the towel on the floor. She knelt before Petra. "I want you. More than that, I love you," she said in her serious way.
Petra wrapped her arms around Quin's neck. Quin scooped her up and carried her to their bed. With passion tempered by love, Quin moved her hands over Petra's breasts and teased them with her lips. She gave Petra as much pleasure as she could and then, as she felt Petra nearing the brink, she entered her and moved with her until the climax made them both moan with pleasure and seek each other's lips. It was a night of love, each trying to wash away the hurt and fear that they had felt at being separated from one another.
Chapter 19
Their talk the next morning was a hard and often emotionally charged, but in the end, they were able to find some common ground. Quin agreed to try to change her ways so that Petra would be able to respect and love her. Petra promised to respect the differences in their cultural upbringings.
They used the afternoon to see the Reed Flute Cave before flying back to Shanghai. Then, after a night of love, they flew by commercial airline to Hong Kong. Quin arranged for their baggage to be sent on to her house and then hailed a taxi for them. She took Petra to a shopping area near Repulse Bay. It was crammed with the most fabulous clothes and furniture, all packed into small stores along narrow streets. Soon poor Quin was weighed down with parcels as Petra moved from one store to another with a predatory gleam in her eye.
At noon, they took a water taxi around to see the sampans, the huge teak fishing boats that people lived on. They ate freshly grilled tuna aboard the famous Jumbo floating restaurant, and then they packed Petra's shopping treasures into a taxi and headed up to Victoria Peak. They got out at the viewing area; Quin sent the cab on to deliver the parcels at her house nearby.
Hong Kong's skyscrapers were spread out around the bay far below them and the bay water sparkled like diamonds. They stood against the stone wall and looked down on the old British colony, now a free trade zone of China. "I've always wanted to come to Hong Kong," Petra said from inside the circle of Quin's arms. "It's a city of legend."
"I remember my first trip here years ago, as a young girl. It was a booming city then, a centre of trade and commerce on the very hem of the bamboo curtain. Today, it's lost that edge. Shanghai is the centre of growth, now, but Hong Kong is still the port of entry to
China for most Europeans, and it's an area of great wealth, power, and deep history. I love it here."
Petra looked forlornly at Quin. "I have a good job at the university." She caught a tear before it fell. "What are we going to do about us, Quin?"
"I'll ask your father for a transfer back to Canada when a position becomes available. I hope that position will be as first vice president to the company until your father retires, but if that's not the case, then I'll look for another job in the area."
"But you love this place—" Petra protested, but she was stopped by Quin kissing her fingers and placing them on Petra's lips.
"Yes, I do love the East, but I'm not Chinese, I'm Canadian. Canada is my home. We can keep my home here and still live in Ontario. Huang Qui would like that. She misses her Chinese friends in Toronto."
"Are you sure?" Petra asked.
"I've never been more sure about anything in my life. I want to make a life with you. Is that what you want, Petra?"
"More than anything in this world."
Together, they walked hand in hand down to their eastern home, all of China a backdrop to their dreams.
KENYA
Chapter 1
Alex Aubin awoke, cramped and groggy from lack of rest. She blinked the sleep from her eyes and tried unsuccessfully to stretch the kinks from her back without having to get out from under the warm cocoon of blankets. She saw her breath forming little clouds in the early dawn light. With a sigh, she gritted her teeth against the inevitable and sat up, shivering, qn the edge of the camp cot.
She reached for her parka and pulled it on over her long Johns, stuck her woolly-socked feet into her mukluks, and went to stoke the small potbelly stove in the centre of the tiny cabin. The sap, released suddenly, hissed and spit as the dry wood caught the night's embers. Alex gave the fire one last fan to make sure the kindling was burning and closed the iron grate.
She broke the crust of ice that had formed on the bucket of water, poured some into a basin, and set it on the stove to warm for washing. She set the coffeepot on the stove to percolate. While they heated, she made a quick trip to the outhouse.
There was a good twenty centimetres of fresh snow on the ground. As she returned to the cabin, she could see little furry heads starting to rise from a cluster of snowy mounds. Her team dogs. "Breakfast soon, guys," she called, and was glad to step back into the cabin, which now seemed overly hot after her trip out back.
She pulled off her top and washed as best as she could in the lukewarm water, dried quickly, and dressed in layers of warm clothes. Out came the frying pan, and into it went some back bacon. While the salty meat cooked, she mixed up egg and milk power with water, and after forking the bacon out onto a plate, she poured the mixture into the greasy frying pan. She let the mess fry into a solid mass while she cut thick slices of bread and lathered them with strawberry jam.
Just as Alex was sitting down to eat, the door opened, letting a cold blast of arctic air in. It was Mike Jefferson, a Dene Indian, who was the local government agent.
"Hey." He put Alex's rifle that he had taken yesterday, without asking, by the door. Private ownership was a white man's luxury. In the traditional communities of the north, communal living was necessary for survival.
"Plenty of food in the pan," Alex said as she took a mouthful of greasy egg. Not so long ago, the thought of such a meal would have sent her into a fit. She had been a health food, fitness centre devotee. But the North set the rules, not the people who lived there. The cold made your body crave and need fat. The Dene and Inuit had evolved larger livers, over thousands of years, that helped them digest fat more easily. Alex had even been known to drop a slice of lard into her tea on the trail, as the old trappers did, to give her warmth.
"Mary says most of the pain has gone. Grandmother said she slept well last night," Mike said as he slopped egg and bacon onto his plate and poured a coffee. "I went hunting so Grandmother could make her a rabbit stew."
Mike would have had breakfast already. Grandmother would have seen to that but food, like everything else in the community, was shared. It would be rude for Alex not to offer, rude for her to comment on Mike walking into her cabin without knocking, rude to mention that she had noticed the gun missing, and rude, too, for Mike not to accept the food she had offered.
"I'll check her before I leave. Does Grandmother understand how and when to give the antibiotics?" Alex asked, mopping up the grease on her plate with a slice of jam-covered bread. Would she ever be able to fit into polite Toronto society again? She had certainly changed in a short time.
"She understands. Grandmother wants to know if she can take the medicine for her joints. They ache, she says."
"No, I'll leave her some Tylenol. The antibiotics are to prevent Mary's incision from becoming infected. It needs to be watched. I only just got her appendix out before it burst. She was lucky."
Mike smiled. "I told Grandmother this already, but she wanted that I asked you."
Alex nodded, carrying her dishes to the stove where another bowl of water was heating to wash the dishes in. A thought came unbidden to her mind: where would Sarah be now?
Chapter 2
Sarah had awoken that morning with a blinding headache. The smell of body odour, manure, and wood smoke was thick in the stale atmosphere. Outside, the mooing of hundreds of cows filled the air. She moved cautiously, trying not to disturb the other women who slept under the same blanket with her. Carefully she stepped over sleeping bodies and into the small area that served as a living and cooking space.
The home was a small wattle and daub construction. That is, the frame was made from thick branches and the walls were a woven mesh of twigs. Over this a thick layer of mud was smoothed, and cow dung was used as a plaster finish. One came through a low doorway into a small entrance hall. To one side was a pen for the goats and calves. Then the small hall opened into a tiny living area. On either side were alcoves, one for the women to sleep in and one for the young boys.
Five women shared the dirt floor covered with a few tatty grey wool blankets. Maria's mother, Maria, her two daughters, and Sarah. On the other side, Maria and Tolla's two young sons slept. Tolla had not slept there last night. He had either slept in his own house or with one of his other wives in her hut. Tolla was a very rich man, and the village chief. He had four wives. Maria was, however, his first wife, so she had power over the other women in the village.
The house had no windows. The only light came from a small ventilation hole that let the smoke out. Sarah unwrapped a bundle of damp leaves and blew on the wad of dry straw within. It glowed red as the embers of wood that had been packed carefully in the centre last night caught. Sarah added kindling and got a tiny fire going to take the chill from the morning air. Maria's mother felt the cold now.
This done, she walked stooped through the low-roofed home and removed the strips of wood that blockaded the door. With relief,
she straightened up outside. Most of the village men were up and moving about in the herd of cattle that had been driven inside the bush palisade. It was a rich village, with over six hundred head of cattle. The beasts pushed and shoved as they mooed to escape the packed confines.
Tolla and two of his brothers singled out a cow. While the brothers held the terrified animal by its horns, Tolla shot an arrow into the vein of its neck. Then he quickly pulled it out and held a bowl against the wound to catch the blood that drained out. The blood would be mixed with cow's milk and eaten for breakfast by the village. The Masai ate only the meat, milk, and blood of their cattle. Once Tolla felt the cow had given enough blood, he sealed the wound with a handful of dung and passed the bowl of warm, steaming blood to one of his wives. She would mix it with the milk from one of the cows that had freshened and feed it to the children.
The small village was a simple circle. There were four exits, one for each of the males who lived here, Tolla and his three younger brothers. Maria's house was just to the right of one of these entrances, and her husband's to the left. A man's first wife always held this position. To the left of the man's house would be his second wife, to the right of the house of the first wife would be the house of his third wife, and so on.
One of the younger brothers was escorting a group of women outside to relieve themselves. Sarah joined the group. This early in the morning, there was the danger of predators: a hungry lioness, an old rogue wildebeest, or even an attack from a neighbouring village.
That was likely under the circumstance. Yesterday, Sarah had been allowed to go with the men on a raid of a neighbouring village. It had been a great success, and they had taken back eleven of their cows despite the strong resistance of the enemy warriors. A return attack was to be expected. Sarah squatted with the other women just outside the compound walls while the warrior stood some distance off, long spear in hand, his back discretely turned to the women.
Standing again, Sarah pulled back her shirt to look at her shoulder. The scratch she had gotten from a spear that had flown past her as she had run after the cows was now red and swollen. It had gotten infected during the night. Normally, Sarah would be staying at a bush camp where she could have attended to the minor injury easily, but the raid had gone on late, and it had been safer to stay at the Masai village. Tonight, back at the camp, she would give it a good cleaning and put on a disinfectant. She had not told Maria
of the injury. She would have wanted to sterilize it with cow urine and stop the bleeding with dung.
The women returned to the safety of the compound as the village gradually woke up and took on the slow easy pace of morning activities. People drank their milk and blood, and then the men herded the cows out to pasture. The women collected the fresh dung in their hands and used it to patch houses or dried it for fires. There were no teenage boys in the village at the moment. They were off participating in their initiation rites.
Sarah ate a power bar from her knapsack and watched the activities. She had been studying the Masai traditional culture for nearly three years now, and was comfortable with their ways. She even understood enough of their language to communicate to some degree. When the women were finished with their morning chores, she would go with them, walking boldly across the Serengeti plain. No other tribal group would dare to do so unarmed.
The Masai believed they were safe because the animals feared the red colour that they wore. The truth was more likely that the wild animals of the vast grassland sea had learned to have a healthy respect for the long spears, machetes, and clubs of the Masai.
Dressed in brightly coloured robes of yellow and red with elaborate beadwork earrings and necklaces, the knot of women started off, their tall, lean bodies dwarfing Sarah Meloche's petite figure. The women laughed and sang or gossiped about recent events as they walked. Sarah was unusually quiet. Her mind had turned back to the nine-year relationship that she'd had with Alex Aubin. Alex had been finishing her premed studies; Sarah was working towards a doctorate in anthropology. They had met by chance in a bar frequented by lesbians.
Their early years together had been magical, but thing had changed slowly. Alex had changed. She had graduated at the top of her class and had an outstanding clinical record. She could take her pick of positions. She was a child from the wrong side of the tracks who had been driven to succeed, and she had found the power and money that came from her success heady stuff. There were meetings, parties to meet the right people to further her career, and a sudden interest in cultivating the power image, where before, she'd been happy in blue jeans and a T-shirt.
Sarah's parents had both been successful lawyers, and it had not been pleasant when she had shown up at home with an awkward and moody lesbian lover from the wrong side of the tracks. But with
the exception of their alternative life style, Alex Aubin had become everything her parents would have wanted in a partner for Sarah. She was wealthy, ambitious, an important member of several business clubs, and a supporter of the arts. Everything that Sarah couldn't give a damn about.
Sarah's degree in social science had led her to a more compassionate and deeper understanding of social structure. She had never had to do without, so she was not impressed by the trappings of success or wealth. Small philosophical disagreements had become raging battles between her and Alex. In the end, Sarah had packed her bags and left for Africa while Alex was away giving a talk on her first book, Living Healthy, Wealthy, and Wise. That had been three years ago. In a few days, she would meet Alex again in Nairobi.
The letter had come last month. The postmark had been from Yellowknife on Great Slave Lake in the Northwest Territories. It was short and to the point, which was very much Alex's style. It read: "I have obtained your current address through your parents. I would very much like to fly out to Kenya and talk to you, if you 're willing. I want to try to rekindle our relationship." Had the letter ended there the answer would have been a resounding no, but in a hesitant hand Alex had added, "You see, I still love you, and I'm hoping that you might come to love me again."
Sarah had written back, agreeing to the visit. Now, with the reunion just a few days off, she wasn't sure that had been wise. The problem wasn't that she had fallen out of love with Alex; she just couldn't live the life that Alex wanted her to. Had she stayed, she would have been the woman behind the great Doctor Alex Aubin. Alex's lover, social secretary, and hostess, no more than a politically-correct token for conservative power brokers to display to show what progressive thinkers they were. It was a shallow life, and one she wanted no part of.
Her work in social anthropology helped to promote an understanding of cultural worldviews. Her material, when used properly, gave the business community tools to make successful ventures into a culturally-diverse world. It provided governments and sociologists with the raw material for constructing models and policies that were user-friendly, it helped the Masai to be better understood in an effort to protect their rights, and it recorded the depth and richness of traditional roots for future generations.
Scientists such as Alex looked down on the so-called "soft" sciences as being frivolous and unimportant. This, as far as Sarah could see, was one of the biggest misconceptions in the modern world. Perhaps in the old Industrial Age, a glut of math and science people would have been handy, but this was a new era, the Age of Information, where globalization demanded flexibility, multitasking, creative problem solving, and cultural and social awareness—all of which were skills of the arts and social science programs. Could she and Alex find some mutual respect and understanding? She very much doubted it, and that made her sad.
The Masai Mara, "the bead language intestine," as it literally translated, was a vast ocean of tall, matted grasses that stretched as far as the eye could see. Masai meant "bead language," and Mara was added because the Mara River wound back and forth across the endless plains like a twisting intestine. It was the north end of the massive savannah area that stretched down into the Serengeti, where great migrating herds of wild African animals still roamed as they had for thousands of years.
The sun beat down on the little party of women. The great plain had little shade. Sarah pulled her Tilley hat on and smeared sunblock on her fair skin. Being a strawberry blonde was not a favourable characteristic for living a life under the African sun. The Masai women with her laughed. Their dark skin was far more resistant to sun damage. The Masai were beautiful people, extremely tall, with wonderful posture and graceful movements. They pierced the lobes of their ears and stretched them into long loops as a sign of beauty. They were a proud people who had probably migrated thousands of years ago down the Nile Valley. Their cultural roots were strong, and they had steadfastly maintained their traditional ways against the Europeanization of Africa.
Sarah laughed and joked with the women as they walked, carrying the tall spears of the Masai. The life of the women was hard. Most of the work done in the traditional Masai villages was done by the women. Girls were circumcised at puberty and would be married to a man in a nearby tribe who could afford the bride price of nine cows. Although discouraged by the government, Masai men who could afford to do so had more than one wife.
She looked out over the rolling sea of grass. It was early July, and the huge herds of migrating animals were just starting to arrive in the area, making their way up from the now-dry and overgrazed
lands in Tanzania. To the south, a herd of wildebeest and zebra moved in a line that stretched nearly to the horizon.
"Lions' dinner comes," said one of the women with a laugh. "They will not want skinny, tough Masai woman when they can have a shiny-coated wildebeest."
Chapter 3
The dogs were making a hell of a racket now, eager to be off. They had popped out from under their individual mounds of snow as if hatching from eggs when Alex, who had finished checking on Maria, had brought her knapsack out to the sled. Alex fed each dog a frozen slice of caribou meat, part of last fall's hunt. Just enough to give them energy, but not enough to make them lazy. They would get a much bigger feed tonight. One by one, she untied them from the line and attached them to the dog sled, making sure that she had first taken out the hook and line that was used as a brake on the sled and embedded it deeply into the snow.
The eager sled dogs would take off without the brake in place, and a sled minus a driver could run over or into a ravine and drag the valuable dogs attached to it. The dogs were small and mismatched. They were true Indian sled dogs. The Huskies typically associated with sledding were really bred as pets. They were, compared to the Indian sled dogs, slow and lazy animals, and not used on any serious dog team. Alex had only two dogs that were one-quarter Huskies. They were bigger, heavier-set dogs, and she kept them at the back of the team for extra strength and traction on hills.
Cleo, the smartest and most experienced animal, was the lead dog. She set the pace and made sure the other dogs followed her. She would listen closely to Alex's encouragements and orders and see that they were obeyed. A good lead dog was invaluable, and Cleo was one of the best. She was paired with Anthony, who showed great promise but was still young and a little too enthusiastic to be a lead dog. Behind them were Butch, Jasper, Sweetie, and Nugget, all Indian sled dogs, and then behind them, Nip and Tuck, the two Husky-mixes.
Alex reviewed Maria's medication and care with Mike and then held on tight to the sled as she pulled the hook from the ground and placed it on the sled. "Hike-up!" Alex yelled. She ran, pushing
the sled ahead of her, until her dogs had established a good momentum. Then she stepped onto the long runners and let the team pull her.
Sliding between the two runners was a rubber mat. If Alex needed to slow the sled going down a hill so as not to overrun her dogs, she would step on the mat, creating drag. If there was a fork in the trail she would yell to Cleo "On by," or "Gee," to go right and "Haw" to go left, much as one did with a team of horses. To stop she'd yell "Whoa" and step hard on the rubber mat between the runners.
Alex could have had a snowmobile. It would have been faster and far more convenient, but she loved shouting encouragement to her team and the sound of the whoosh of the blades across the snow. It was the greatest feeling of freedom and excitement. She had a good team, well-trained and in good shape. They ran full-out, barking with delight. On the hills, Alex would step off the runners and run behind the sled to help lessen the load for the dogs. In the turns, she would lean way out in the opposite direction to keep the sled from tipping over. It was a wild ride, and it made Alex laugh with sheer exhilaration.
It was two days by dog team back to her place on the outskirts of Yellowknife. Then a commuter flight to Peace River and another to Edmonton. Her bags were already packed and ready to go. There would be only a couple of days to rest and see to the last-minute details with Doctor Lang, who was coming out of retirement to handle Alex's clinic and mind her house and dogs until she got back, and then she was off. An Air Canada flight first to Toronto, then British Airways to Britain and on to Nairobi, Kenya. In all, about twenty-four hours of flying time alone, not counting the layovers in between.
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