Echoes From a Distant Land by Frank Coates

him, but his throat was swollen and all that came from his mouth was a strangled sob. But the hand of Mogai appeared from a hot mist and dripped honey water into his mouth. He slept then.
    When he awoke he was on the chilly peak of Kirinyaga, buried in whiteness. His father was at his side, bathing him with icy water. Sam was chilled to the bone, but dared not offend his father in his act of kindness. With so many children, his father was seldom able to afford him the attention he craved, so he said nothing until the cold became so intense he had to beg him to stop.
    â€˜No! No!’ he pleaded; and his father faded and was gone. Sam immediately regretted his pitiful weakness and called to him to return, but in vain.
    There were moments when Sam would find himself back in Ira’s tent. Most of these were mere flickering images, but on one occasion he lingered longer. There was a lamp sputtering indecisively on the table where Ira sat in his chair, an open book in his lap. He was staring at the blank tent wall, a picture of wretchedness. Sam tried to reach out, to touch him, to reassure him, but his arms were leaden. He slept.
    When he awoke some time later, Mothoni stood in the far corner of the tent, her face concealed in shadows. She had not been in his thoughts for a long time, and he wondered why she’d come to him, but when the lantern flared, throwing a light on her face, he realised it was not Mothoni, but a beautiful white woman.
    She held two babies. She walked forwards, offering the children to him. Sam couldn’t free his arms from the weight of the cottonsheet and, after a brief and pitiful effort, he became exhausted and fell into unconsciousness again.
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    Upon arriving in Nairobi, Ira wasted no time in getting Sam admitted to the small hospital. It was two more anxious days before the young man’s fever broke. Ira was unspeakably relieved; he hid his joy by fussing about Sam like a mother hen.
    The Indian doctor told Ira that although Sam said he felt fully recovered, he thought it prudent that he remain in bed for further rest.
    â€˜Your servant was lucky to survive, Mr Ketterman,’ he said. ‘He must have the constitution of a bull. But we shouldn’t take any chances.’
    That afternoon, when Ira came to visit, he told Sam about the doctor’s orders.
    â€˜But I am well.’
    â€˜I know you want to see your family again, but it’s only a day or two more.’
    Sam looked unhappy.
    â€˜And your time here has given me the chance to make some arrangements,’ Ira said.
    â€˜Arrangements?’
    Ira nodded. He hadn’t planned to tell Sam about his enquiries until he’d confirmed all the details, but he felt sufficiently confident of the outcome to use the news to lift Sam’s mood.
    â€˜Sam, you’re a bright young man,’ Ira began, ‘and you’ve made it patently clear to me that your most cherished wish would be to continue your education, but …’
    He paused. It was the wrong emphasis.
    He started again. ‘What I’m trying to say is: I have no family. No heirs. I suppose when I die I could leave my money to the dogs’ home, but I don’t like dogs.’
    â€˜Why are you talking about dogs and dying?’ Sam asked. ‘Was I not the one who was sick?’
    â€˜You were, and thank God you are well again, but that’s what got me thinking. Sam, you saved my life. I know you say it was only what anyone would do, but the fact is … it was you, and um … What I’m trying to say is, about your education … You know that here there are only limited opportunities for a native like yourself. Nobody gets any further than what your mission school has to offer. And no chance to use even that. But in New York you could receive a real education. I was admitted to New York University because, historically, entry there is based on merit, not birthright or social class. And now they’ve