Read Online The Call of Zulina by Kay Marshall Strom - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kay Marshall Strom
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unhappy up there? People are unhappy everywhere.
“Such foolishness!” Grace scolded out loud.
Lingongo's words! Grace had to look around to make certain her mother wasn’t following her. She wasn’t, of course, but her words certainly were.
“You are a fool, Grace! Just like your father!” That's what Lingongo always said. “You and Joseph Winslow, two of a kind!”
Well, maybe Grace did do some foolish things. But she never could understand why her mother always added that last part. Grace and her father, two of a kind? They were nothing alike. Her skin was the color of rich cocoa cream with just the barest hint of fire in her black hair. Why, anyone could see she was much more like her African mother than her English father. But Lingongo never seemed to see anything of her own people in Grace. Certainly not even a touch of African royalty. She was too busy pointing out the weaknesses of Grace's inferior English half.
No! Grace told herself. I am not a fool. And I will not be one now! I can still turn around and go back to the baobab tree. I can wait for Yao, however long it takes.
But when Grace turned to retrace her steps, she froze. Far down the zig-zagging road, she could just make out a line of people trudging up behind her.
A search caravan! Grace decided. Mother must have sent them to catch me and force me back home!
Grace turned and bolted up the road. But in her haste, she lost her footing and slipped on the loose rocks, landing on her hands and knees. Quickly, she scrambled to her feet and sprang forward, only to stumble again.
Go! Grace ordered herself. Run!
She must focus on the road ahead. She knew that. Yet she couldn’t resist the temptation to grab a quick glance over her shoulder. When she did, she saw to her dismay that the line of people was closer.
Panic consumed Grace, muddling her thoughts and throwing her into confusion. Forward! Forward! Faster! Faster! It was all she could think as she plunged ahead. But dark blue embroidered kidskin slippers were never intended for such a road. Nor was a long day dress with a billowing skirt. Grace's feet slipped on the rocks and she stumbled on the uneven road, heavily pockmarked by footsteps dug into the thick mud during the rainy season.
Tears of frustration and despair flooded Grace's eyes. It was no use. She couldn’t outrun her pursuers. And even if she could … Grace wiped her sleeve across her face. For the first time she dared look up at the fortress that loomed ahead. An enormous structure it was, hostile and foreboding.
Hide! That's what she must do. But where? On her left was a barren incline that dropped precipitously over the side. On the right, a rock-strewn embankment rose up steeply with absolutely nothing to offer cover. Frantically, Grace ran to her left and peered over the edge. Nothing below but a clump of acacia bushes bristling with inch-long thorns.
“ Joam !”
A voice. And on the road just below her!
Slap, slap, slap.
Grace recognized that sound—bare feet on hard ground. She had no more time to think. Scrambling over the rocky side, she slid down the steep embankment. She braced herself against the pricks and gashes of the sharp thorns and stomped out a small nest for herself in the thornbushes, then she forced her bruised body into the refuge.
Everything fell silent. Even the wind stilled for a few moments, suspending the swirling cries in the air.
Cautiously, Grace inched forward and peered out from her hiding place. Far below, the Winslow compound that Lingongo so proudly claimed as her own stretched out across the vast grasslands. Grace scanned the landscape for her father's stone wall. Strange that as imposing as that wall was, it wasn’t the first thing she saw. No, the first thing she saw was a large stand of tamarind trees just like the ones that grew beside the slave quarters—the ones in which she and Yao used to
“Such foolishness!” Grace scolded out loud.
Lingongo's words! Grace had to look around to make certain her mother wasn’t following her. She wasn’t, of course, but her words certainly were.
“You are a fool, Grace! Just like your father!” That's what Lingongo always said. “You and Joseph Winslow, two of a kind!”
Well, maybe Grace did do some foolish things. But she never could understand why her mother always added that last part. Grace and her father, two of a kind? They were nothing alike. Her skin was the color of rich cocoa cream with just the barest hint of fire in her black hair. Why, anyone could see she was much more like her African mother than her English father. But Lingongo never seemed to see anything of her own people in Grace. Certainly not even a touch of African royalty. She was too busy pointing out the weaknesses of Grace's inferior English half.
No! Grace told herself. I am not a fool. And I will not be one now! I can still turn around and go back to the baobab tree. I can wait for Yao, however long it takes.
But when Grace turned to retrace her steps, she froze. Far down the zig-zagging road, she could just make out a line of people trudging up behind her.
A search caravan! Grace decided. Mother must have sent them to catch me and force me back home!
Grace turned and bolted up the road. But in her haste, she lost her footing and slipped on the loose rocks, landing on her hands and knees. Quickly, she scrambled to her feet and sprang forward, only to stumble again.
Go! Grace ordered herself. Run!
She must focus on the road ahead. She knew that. Yet she couldn’t resist the temptation to grab a quick glance over her shoulder. When she did, she saw to her dismay that the line of people was closer.
Panic consumed Grace, muddling her thoughts and throwing her into confusion. Forward! Forward! Faster! Faster! It was all she could think as she plunged ahead. But dark blue embroidered kidskin slippers were never intended for such a road. Nor was a long day dress with a billowing skirt. Grace's feet slipped on the rocks and she stumbled on the uneven road, heavily pockmarked by footsteps dug into the thick mud during the rainy season.
Tears of frustration and despair flooded Grace's eyes. It was no use. She couldn’t outrun her pursuers. And even if she could … Grace wiped her sleeve across her face. For the first time she dared look up at the fortress that loomed ahead. An enormous structure it was, hostile and foreboding.
Hide! That's what she must do. But where? On her left was a barren incline that dropped precipitously over the side. On the right, a rock-strewn embankment rose up steeply with absolutely nothing to offer cover. Frantically, Grace ran to her left and peered over the edge. Nothing below but a clump of acacia bushes bristling with inch-long thorns.
“ Joam !”
A voice. And on the road just below her!
Slap, slap, slap.
Grace recognized that sound—bare feet on hard ground. She had no more time to think. Scrambling over the rocky side, she slid down the steep embankment. She braced herself against the pricks and gashes of the sharp thorns and stomped out a small nest for herself in the thornbushes, then she forced her bruised body into the refuge.
Everything fell silent. Even the wind stilled for a few moments, suspending the swirling cries in the air.
Cautiously, Grace inched forward and peered out from her hiding place. Far below, the Winslow compound that Lingongo so proudly claimed as her own stretched out across the vast grasslands. Grace scanned the landscape for her father's stone wall. Strange that as imposing as that wall was, it wasn’t the first thing she saw. No, the first thing she saw was a large stand of tamarind trees just like the ones that grew beside the slave quarters—the ones in which she and Yao used to
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