It was a sunny morning spreading across London. The light filtered in through the lace curtains in Vanessa's room to make floral patterns against the wallpaper. Sir Malcolm dozed sitting upright next to Vanessa's bed. He awakened to the smell of coffee with cardamom. He remembered coffee was called kahawa in Swahili. It was redolent of memories of Africa. Sembene rarely made it; so Malcolm wondered why he had today.

Sembene was arranging the coffee tray on a small table. He poured two cups and offered one to Sir Malcolm. He then sat and sipped his coffee.

Sir Malcolm lifted an eyebrow and regarding Sembeme over the rim of his cup as he sipped. "Did you brew the kahawa for yourself and decide to offer me some, as well?"

"I need to speak with you about Miss Ives. We share much Malcolm. We share deep memories of Africa and Miss Ives is affected by old and great magic from Africa. Ancient and powerful, and possibly channeled by someone who does not grasp how great this magic is."

"You speak in riddles, but I know you Sembene, and I know you glimpse these things more than most men. I won't say you understand them because you, yourself, respect this magic too much to claim understanding."

"Is Vanessa lost, Sembene? Do you know?"

"I know she is on a journey, Malcolm; but I do not know it she will return, nor in what condition. I do not even know if it will be she who returns if she ever awakes."

"Vanessa cannot be lost, Sembene. I believe she will survive, She has survived much and she will return. She has the strength."

"Perhaps, but what of the other within her?" Sembene refilled Sir Malcolm's cup.

Malcolm closed his eyes and sipped his kahawa. The scent of cardamom and coffee enveloped him. He pondered how powerful smell could be to prompt memories. He remembered the sound and smell of the sea, the orange and jackfruit trees, clove trees with trunks covered in thorns, and vines bearing vanilla orchids and pods.

He remembered Zanzibar.

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It was years ago, the Zanzibar dawn was gaudy, like violet fingers grasping from the horizon.
Malcolm remembered the ring of a small bell echoing up the street, growing louder as a coffee vendor wended his way up the street, his voluminous white djellaba fluttering in the breeze off the sea. He carried a basket full of cups and conical metal pot. He heard the stirrings of his neighbors rushing to the front of their houses to purchase the day's first cup of kahawa. There were greetings of salutations. The morning gave the fresh promise of a good day.

Some days were better than others. It was still a good time in Sir Malcolm's life. It was a time when he felt most alive and the promise of his attaining his dream of finding the ultimate source of the Nile was almost palpable.

He had only recently attained a good price in purchasing supplies during a coffee ceremony. His host had underestimated Malcolm, thinking that the Englishman, although he was fluent in Arabic, had no understanding of Swahili. Malcolm bided his time listening carefully to the snatches of conversation in Swahili in which the other men occasionally engaged. No derisive remarks were made concerning him. His host was and observant Muslim and a guest would never be treated with dishonor in any way. Malcolm chose his moment well to reveal his facility with Swahili — and attained a very good value for his money indeed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Vanessa stirred to the feeling of tropical warmth and the mixed smells of cloves, cardamom, and black pepper. Everything was underscored by the smell and sound of the sea. She was formless but flashed and floated through a stream of sensations. Only her senses existed, she a had no body, indeed, no form at all. She was in Sir Malcolm's memories.

She knew she was in Zanzibar, and she knew that off in England the child Vanessa toddled after her nanny. She was in the past — nebulous and floating in the sun.

She saw a room in which there were carefully packed scientific instruments and maps and a large bed draped in mosquito netting. Sir Malcolm was sleeping late into the morning. His expedition wouldn't be leaving until the next day so he was free to spend this one as he chose. A young woman had herself twined around him like a liana on a tree. Malcolm stirred and she stretched along him like a cat.

He kissed her nose and said, "Mariam, sometimes I think I can almost hear you purr. You are most definitely a woman but there is a hint of the feline about you."

"How is that Malcolm?"

"In the night, I swear, your eyes glow, beautiful glowing dark amber eyes."

"And only cats have amber eyes?" she teased.

"No, most people don't have eyes that glow in the dark."

"I'm Egyptian, we have a long history of being under the influence of cats."

Malcolm laughed, "I think you mean 'a long history of being influenced by cats."

"Perhaps, Malcolm. English sometimes confuses me."

"You very often mystify me; but I enjoy that in a woman."

Malcolm enjoyed a great deal about Mariam. She was of a type he preferred. She looked almost white, but there was that hint of duskiness which delighted him. She was exquisitely graceful, an armful of slender curves, and she was, he supposed, inscrutable was a word that could well describe her. Although it was a word rarely applied to women. As for Mariam, he found her an unusual woman.

She was dozing, like a cat, it amused Malcolm to think. The sun played across the mass of her crimped hair, picking out subtle hues of deep gold and red which reminded him of the shades found in a sandstone cliff. He buried his face in her gloriously unruly hair and inhaled the scents of orange and clove. She was fragrant like Zanzibar itself, she smelt of cinnamon, vanilla, and cardamom. She smelt of other earthly things. She smelt of sex.

Malcolm drifted into the edge of consciousness, poised on the edge of sleep, ready to embark on his expedition, on the threshold of a vast continent to carry his own darkness into what was called "the dark continent".

Vanessa felt herself slipping away, back through time, back into her body. She also heard a woman's voice, her own voice reciting:

"Are you afraid of the dark?"
She asks wrapping her hair around his arm.
Tropically scented, dangerously dark hair
Constricting against fish-belly pale.
She sucks out his breath, murmuring,
"The mark of darkness is on me
And now it's on you too."

Does he know about his far-born son?
Who is very like him -
Yet is hidden, unseen.
Although the deed was done, -
And he has his father's eyes of agate green.

Are there are those who remember the time
Before the strange, northern people came
Bringing their religion and refinements?
They bring disease and degradation as well.
Such a small price though for all which they offer.

Does he know about his far-born son?
Who is very like him -
Yet is hidden, unseen.
The boy will be just like him -
And he has his father's eyes of agate green.

"Don't be afraid of the dark,"
She breathes into his ear.
He should be. The mark of darkness is in him
As it will never be in her.
It's his own deep guilt festering
In the darkness no one sees,
Because he will not see it in himself.

Sir Malcolm's heard what Vanessa was saying in a sing-song voice . He had been lost in memory but she had startled him back to the present. His porcelain coffee cup fell and shattered.

Sembene bent to collect the shards into a napkin.