The ropes groaned, making a sawing and ripping sound, and then the bamboo began to snap. Pegasus dropped with a lurch. He cried out, falling, and for a moment I was sure I’d lost him, then the bridge shuddered as he stopped. His legs had punched right through the bamboo bracings. He was up to his chest, the slats holding him, just. Below us, the river roiled and sent up a terrible sound. I was probably in danger of crashing through myself, but I could only think of Pegasus and the mess I’d got him into.
Thoroughbreds are as skittish as they come, but Pegasus had always had a wonderful head on him. He was brave and cool even then, fixing his great eyes on me in the dark, trusting me to find a way. Because he believed I could do it, I believed I could, too, and started working on a plan. I had a rope tied to the saddle, which just might be long enough to pull him out if I could anchor it well.
I felt the bridge give and twist like bedsprings as I inched forward, too aware of adrenaline and my own ragged breath. Finally I reached the far bank and found a wattle tree wedged in well and angled into the side. It was a young tree, but it was all I had, and I hoped it would do. I worked my way back towards Pegasus, who waited with epic patience. I made a running knot across the bridge of his nose and another going round his head in a makeshift halter. The rope wouldn’t work if it slipped off. My thought was only to anchor him until morning. There was no way he could clamber out of the slats, not without leverage, and it would be too dangerous to try on my own in the blackness. I could lose him, and I would never chance that.
Just as I got the halter secured and the other end tied to the wattle tree, I leaned against his neck, resting. “This is going to make quite a story,” I told him in the dark, his velvety ears coming forward, listening. Tying a wool blanket over my shoulders into a cape, I settled along his side for warmth. But just as I thought I might be able to snatch a little sleep, I heard the smacking of brush and a rumbling crash. A herd of elephants had got our scent and come around. Now they wheeled and thundered on the bank, terrifying Pegasus. I didn’t know they wouldn’t rattle the bridge to pieces with us on it. By instinct, I stood. Pegasus struggled, lunging against the slats, shifting his weight in a rolling motion. I was full of pure fear, thinking he’d crash through, but somehow he got one leg out, then two. He stretched for the bit of the bank he could reach, pulling forward as the bridge gave and shifted around us. It was like trying to walk on a raft of shifting toothpicks, or crumbling burnt sugar, or nothing at all.
Somehow, like a hero, Pegasus gained his footing and pulled through the remaining slats. But we were at a terrible angle. His weight dropped down the bank behind him, steeply, and he was exhausted. The sandy loam gave like water, and I thought I might lose him anyway. The elephants weren’t far off. I could hear them groaning their warnings, and the unmistakable trumpeting of a bull.
Urging Pegasus on, I stood by the tree and grabbed the rope with both hands, wedging my full weight, bent in two, pulling with everything I had. Finally we were both on the ridge. I could see deep lines cut into Pegasus’s chest from the bamboo, and there were great strips of flesh torn from his legs. We were both lucky to be standing there, but we weren’t safe yet. The elephants were still nearby and heaven knew what else. Pegasus smelled like blood, and we were both tired. That made us an easy target for anything on the prowl. We would have to keep going.
—
When we finally made it to Solio it was nearly dawn. Berkeley’s loyal Somali servants still had run of the place until the family could find a buyer. They knew me, and though it was an ungodly hour they welcomed me in and readied a dry stall for Pegasus.
I carefully cleaned and bandaged his wounds and found they weren’t as awful as I had feared. The slats had gouged shallow trenches into the skin of his chest and legs, but there were no signs of infection and no fresh blood. He would heal well—thank God. In the meantime, where was Denys? Perhaps the rain had stalled him too? I had no idea what conditions were like and I hoped for the best as I settled down to sleep.
When I woke a few hours later, I had coffee and a light breakfast, all the time keeping one ear cocked for the sounds of Denys. He was coming in his noisy wagon. I would hear him half a mile away, and then we would be alone for six days. We’d never had anything near that much time, and I felt dizzy with the idea of his closeness, his smell, his hands, and his laughter. He would show me places and things he loved, and we would live right to the edges of every moment we had together. If only he would come.
Finally, after lunch I saw one of Denys’s Kikuyu boys come running up the road towards the house, loping steadily along as if he could run for ever. My stomach lurched watching him, for I knew what he meant.
“Bedar says he won’t be coming, msabu,” the boy said when he reached me. He had likely covered twenty steep miles that day. His bare feet were thickly padded with leathery calluses. He wasn’t winded.
“Not coming at all?”