“She died three days ago ... of the fever. Murchison would have sent her away if she hadn’t been sick. She abused missionaries. She said we were spoiling her country.”
“Yes ... she thought it belonged to her.”
The shadows grew thicker and thicker all about them. They walked in silence, save for the occasional chatter of a monkey.
“It was the third time she’d been back,” said Swanson.
“She must have been quite old.”
“About sixty, maybe. She told Murchison to stop praying over her. ‘Stop slobbering over me,’ is what she said.”
“Yes ... she would say that. Where did you bury her?”
“Down the lake ... by the lagoon.”
By the lagoon ... the spot where Philip had come upon the black women carrying water from the lake. It was a beautiful spot, a quiet place to rest.
“She asked to be buried there. She liked the place.”