I nudged Soldier away from the onlookers, and soon forgot everything else. Behind Berkeley’s paddock, a dirt lane led past a few tin-roofed farm buildings and down a slope to a small clearing with bits of scrub. I rode over and eased Soldier into an extended trot. His back was wide and his sides were as rounded and easy as a comfortable chintz-covered chair. It wasn’t clear that he could really run, but Berkeley had insisted on it, so I nudged him faster. Instantly, his hind and forelegs quickened. In a canter, his stride was fluid and powerful, and his neck relaxed. I’d forgotten how much fun it could be to ride a new animal—to feel power climbing up into my hands from the leather reins and into my legs through Soldier’s body. I urged him even faster and he stretched from his centre, his muscles in balance, beginning to fly.
Then, quick as a string breaking, he froze. Midstride, his forelegs plunged down stiffly, and I swung forward over his withers like a cracked whip. Before I could recover, he reared and twisted sideways, whinnying with a sharp cry. I was in the air. Thrown hard on my side, my teeth jarred against my tongue. I tasted blood as my hip exploded with pain. Beside me, Soldier squealed and reared again. I flinched, knowing he could crush me, but a moment later, he bolted cleanly away. Only then did I see the snake.
About fifteen feet from where I lay, it was coiled over itself like fat black ribbon, and it was locked on me. When I startled, the top part of its long body shot up elastically, with dizzying speed. Its pale-striped neck widened into a kind of cape. It was a cobra, I knew. We didn’t have them in Njoro, and I had never seen this type exactly, with zebra-like colouring and an arrow-shaped head, but my father had told me many types of cobra could stretch their body length in a single strike. Some could spit venom, too, but most snakes didn’t want a confrontation.
A twisted piece of mahogany lay only a few inches from my hand. I would try to reach for it and brandish the stick out in front of me to block a strike, if one came. I readied myself, watching the movement of its head. The hard, glassy eyes were like small black beads. Hovering, the snake trained on me, too, its pale tongue darting and tasting the air. I steadied my breathing and, as slowly as I could manage, sent my hand out towards the stick.
“Don’t move,” I heard suddenly from behind me. There’d been no footsteps, at least not that I could hear, but the cobra reared up even higher. Half its body flared from the ground, its belly glazed with yellowish slashes. Its hood breathed open. This was the only warning as it whipped forward. I pinched my eyes shut, my arms flying over my head as I scrabbled backwards. At the same moment, a shot rang out. The charge hit so close I felt it vibrate through my skull. My ears rang. Even before the explosive sound had cleared the air, Denys strode forward and shot again. Both shots landed, the second one catching the snake in the neck so that it jumped sideways. Bits of flesh spat into the dust with bright splashes of its blood. When it was still, he turned to me coolly. “Are you all right?”
“I think so.” When I stood, pain erupted through my side and along my hip. My knee was throbbing and didn’t want to take my weight.
“That type doesn’t shrink from trouble, you know. It’s good you didn’t do anything stupid.”
“How did you even find me?”
“I saw the horse come back alone and thought, ‘I’ll bet she doesn’t fall for no reason.’ After that, I just followed the dust.”
He was so calm, so matter-of-fact. “You sound as if you do this sort of thing every day.”
“Not every day.” He smiled crookedly. “Shall we go back?”
Though I probably could have managed on my own, Denys told me I should lean on him. Against the side of his body, I smelled his warm cotton shirt and his skin—and felt how solid and sound he was. And he’d been so clearheaded when he took aim. He hadn’t thought about anything else, only acted. It wasn’t often I’d seen that level of self-possession in a man.
We came to the house all too soon. Berkeley rushed out, mortified and alarmed, while D knitted his eyebrows together paternally. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, risking my best trainer?” he shot at Berkeley.
“I’m fine,” I told them both. “There was hardly anything to it at all.”
Denys downplayed the moment, too—almost as if we had agreed on it without speaking. He said nothing of his own bravery and behaved as if the whole ordeal were commonplace. That impressed me, and how for the rest of that day we didn’t mention what had happened again. But the memory lent a palpable charge to the hours, as if there were an invisible length of string or wire between us. We talked of other things, how much he still thought about his years at Eton, how he’d found Kenya by chance in 1910, meaning to settle in South Africa instead.
“What was it that drew you?” I asked him.
“About Kenya? Nearly everything. I think I’d always been looking for an escape route.”
“Escape from what?”
“I don’t know. Any tight-fitting definition of what a life should be, I suppose. Or what I should be in it.”
I smiled. “Should isn’t a word that suits you, is it?”
“Worked that one out already, did you?”
“It’s never been one of my favourite words either.” Our eyes met for a moment, and I felt a spark of perfect understanding. Then Berkeley sailed up, and the two friends started talking about the war. How they’d enlisted in a scouting party near the border of German East Africa and Kilimanjaro.