Free Logan's Search by William F Nolan

with Nyati translating, inside the chief’s hut, while Jessica waited. (“To him, I don’t exist!” she’d complained that morning. And Logan had said, “Wrong. He knows you tried to aid Swala. It’s just that his tribal pride dictates that he talk to me, the brave male warrior. But you wouldn’t be alive right now if Nyoka didn’t appreciate what you did for his grandson.”)
    A woven reed mat covered the floor of Nyoka’s hut. A gold-tipped ceremonial spear was mounted on the wall above the doorway, and a coiled snake, in ebony, formed the centerpiece on a low table of darkly polished wood. Also, among the hut’s sparse furnishings: cooking pots and painted hangings, including a lion’s head rendered in vivid earth dyes by Nyoka’s dead son.
    The three men sat down at the low table, and Nyoka spoke first, saying (in translation) “Your wound is healed. You have been fed and you are well rested. It is time for you and the woman to leave our village.”
    “But we’re condemned prisoners,” Logan replied, through Nyati. “Where can we go? Even if you allow us to live, even if your warriors no longer ride against us, we are trapped here on the Serengeti.”
    Slowly, his large eyes intense on Logan, the chief shook his head. “This need not be so. There is a way out. But you must go where I direct.”
    Logan was astonished. “A way out? …of Serengeti?”
    “Perhaps — out of Africa!” And Nyoka smiled for the first time since they’d met; his teeth were even and perfect in wide, pinkish gums.
    “Tell me the way!”
    The chief spoke in a soft, rhythmic flow, his tone hushed and reverential. Nyati translated as a priest might translate from the Bible.
    “You must journey east, to the high mountain of Kilimanjaro. A marabunta will take you. It is nearly a full day’s ride. There, upon the insect’s back, you will ascend the great mountain. To a ledge high above the plain. Here, at this place, dwells a white leopard, whose eye sees all. The leopard’s eye will guide you.”
    “But how…and to where? Guide us where?”
    “Seek your answer in the leopard’s eye.” With this, the chief stood up and put out his hand. “I wish you long life, white one!”
    Logan clasped the chiefs strong-fingered hand. He was about to speak again, but Nyati shook his head, nodding toward the doorway.
    The talk was over.

    Logan and Jessica left within the hour, in fresh clothing, with food and water strapped to the ant’s saddle, waving farewell to Nyati and to the happy, squealing children who trailed behind them.
    Nyoka was not there to see them off—but Swala stood alone beyond the village, at the far edge of the road leading onto the broad plain, watching them until they were out of his range of vision, lost to sight in the wide sea of rolling grass. Then, his face drawn with emotion, head down, he walked back into the village—hating them as he had hated no one else in the whole of his young life.
    For Logan and Jess, the ride to Kilimanjaro was one of revelation. They had been through much together, and Jessica felt guilt; she told herself that Logan should know the truth about her, about all   this.
    She began by saying, “I’m sorry.”
    “For what?”
    “For the fact that you’re here…that you’re going through all this because of me.” 
    “We’re going through it together ,” said Logan. “And because of Phedra, not you.”
    They rode in silence for several moments, Jessica directly behind him in the ant’s saddle. She hesitated, forming the proper words; the words were very important.
    “I want to tell you everything,” she said. “I want you to have the truth.”
    Logan turned his head to smile at her. “It’s a long ride. My belly’s full. My shoulder’s healed. My head is shaded. My thirst is satisfied.” Patting the canteen at his side. “So, if you want to talk, I’ve got nothing to do but listen.”
    “I’m serious, Logan. I’m not joking.”
    “Go on,” he