would continue to rescue them when he was running his own safari park. Then she remembered that he was planning to exploit the white giraffe and was angry at him all over again. She was glad he’d saved Angel from the cruel zoo in Namibia, but nothing would make her like him.
She glanced again at her grandfather’s notes on Angel and a line naming the elephant’s place of birth caught her eye: Damaraland, Namibia.
For a moment Martine couldn’t think where she’d heard the name before, but then she remembered her grandmother’s call. There’d been nothing in the safety-deposit box, Gwyn Thomas had told her, except a map of Damaraland. It was an odd coincidence. And Grace always said that there was no such thing as a coincidence.
Martine went over to the bookcase and took down a guidebook on travel in Africa. She flicked through it to the Namibia section. Damaraland was in the north of the country. It was, the book explained, the home of Namibia’s highest mountain, the oldest San etchings in Africa, and the rare and elusive desert-adapted elephant. These were taller than regular African elephants, with long legs capable of carrying them forty-five miles a day. Ordinary elephants drink twenty-five to fifty gallons of water a day, but desert elephants could survive even if they only consumed this amount every three or four days.
Martine returned the book to the shelf and switched off the lamp. Restless, she went out into the garden to see if she could see Jemmy, taking the caracals with her for protection. She didn’t fancy being hit over the head by any burglars. The white giraffe was not at the water hole. Martine was debating whether to return to the house for the silent whistle she used to call him, when a different glimmer of white caught her eye: Reuben James’s plane.
At dinner, Ben had mentioned that he’d overheard the pilot saying he had orders to have the aircraft ready at five a.m. He and Reuben James were returning to Namibia, James’s home. They had no plans to return until Christmas Eve, when they officially took over Sawubona. It was the first good news Martine had heard in a week.
Switching on her flashlight, she went over to the plane. It was a Beechcraft B58. There were six seats and a section for cargo at the back. She walked around to the aircraft’s nose. Its name was on its side in bold red letters: Firebird . Beneath it, so small that you’d only notice it if you were standing right beside it was . . .
Martine got such a surprise that she dropped the flashlight. It rolled under the wheels and it took a minute for her to find it again. She shined it at the nose of the plane. Beneath the Firebird banner was a four-leaf clover.
“The four leaves will lead you to the circle,” Grace had told her.
Martine sat down on the rock near the gate. The caracals milled around her, wanting attention. Reuben James was flying to Namibia, a country that just happened to be northwest of Sawubona, the direction the elephant tusks had been pointing. The map in the safety-deposit box had been of Damaraland, and Damaraland just happened to be the birthplace of Angel.
A plan started to take shape in Martine’s head. What if she were to hitch a ride with Mr. James and take a look at whatever it was he was up to on his travels? Maybe she could find a bit of dirt on him—some proof that he was a corrupt businessman who’d tricked her grandfather into giving away the game reserve? At the same time, she could try to follow the clues in Grace’s prophecy.
Other, more sensible thoughts crowded into her mind. Thoughts such as: Are you nuts? You could be killed. You could be sent to jail or a youth offenders’ institute or wherever it is they send eleven-year-olds who stow away on planes to foreign countries. Oh, and if Reuben James doesn’t shoot you, your grandmother will when she discovers what you’ve done.
But it was no use. If Martine listened to the rational part of her brain, it would mean
She glanced again at her grandfather’s notes on Angel and a line naming the elephant’s place of birth caught her eye: Damaraland, Namibia.
For a moment Martine couldn’t think where she’d heard the name before, but then she remembered her grandmother’s call. There’d been nothing in the safety-deposit box, Gwyn Thomas had told her, except a map of Damaraland. It was an odd coincidence. And Grace always said that there was no such thing as a coincidence.
Martine went over to the bookcase and took down a guidebook on travel in Africa. She flicked through it to the Namibia section. Damaraland was in the north of the country. It was, the book explained, the home of Namibia’s highest mountain, the oldest San etchings in Africa, and the rare and elusive desert-adapted elephant. These were taller than regular African elephants, with long legs capable of carrying them forty-five miles a day. Ordinary elephants drink twenty-five to fifty gallons of water a day, but desert elephants could survive even if they only consumed this amount every three or four days.
Martine returned the book to the shelf and switched off the lamp. Restless, she went out into the garden to see if she could see Jemmy, taking the caracals with her for protection. She didn’t fancy being hit over the head by any burglars. The white giraffe was not at the water hole. Martine was debating whether to return to the house for the silent whistle she used to call him, when a different glimmer of white caught her eye: Reuben James’s plane.
At dinner, Ben had mentioned that he’d overheard the pilot saying he had orders to have the aircraft ready at five a.m. He and Reuben James were returning to Namibia, James’s home. They had no plans to return until Christmas Eve, when they officially took over Sawubona. It was the first good news Martine had heard in a week.
Switching on her flashlight, she went over to the plane. It was a Beechcraft B58. There were six seats and a section for cargo at the back. She walked around to the aircraft’s nose. Its name was on its side in bold red letters: Firebird . Beneath it, so small that you’d only notice it if you were standing right beside it was . . .
Martine got such a surprise that she dropped the flashlight. It rolled under the wheels and it took a minute for her to find it again. She shined it at the nose of the plane. Beneath the Firebird banner was a four-leaf clover.
“The four leaves will lead you to the circle,” Grace had told her.
Martine sat down on the rock near the gate. The caracals milled around her, wanting attention. Reuben James was flying to Namibia, a country that just happened to be northwest of Sawubona, the direction the elephant tusks had been pointing. The map in the safety-deposit box had been of Damaraland, and Damaraland just happened to be the birthplace of Angel.
A plan started to take shape in Martine’s head. What if she were to hitch a ride with Mr. James and take a look at whatever it was he was up to on his travels? Maybe she could find a bit of dirt on him—some proof that he was a corrupt businessman who’d tricked her grandfather into giving away the game reserve? At the same time, she could try to follow the clues in Grace’s prophecy.
Other, more sensible thoughts crowded into her mind. Thoughts such as: Are you nuts? You could be killed. You could be sent to jail or a youth offenders’ institute or wherever it is they send eleven-year-olds who stow away on planes to foreign countries. Oh, and if Reuben James doesn’t shoot you, your grandmother will when she discovers what you’ve done.
But it was no use. If Martine listened to the rational part of her brain, it would mean
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