by Vered Ehsani
“Don’t,” I implore him even as recognition dawns.
The dwarf’s lips twitch in a mockery of a smile, and I know we will die that night.
“Get out,” I yell, lunging for the door, my little fingers scratching at the leather interiors. I press my face against the window and see how the road curves toward the edge of a lake. A thin wooden rail separates land from water.
“Enough,” Mr. Anderson barks and yanks me onto his lap, then pushes me down into my seat with such force that my head bangs against the metal edging of the back window.
As my mother attempts to comfort me while reprimanding her husband, I discern among the croaking of frogs and the clattering of wheels another set of hooves galloping behind us and rapidly approaching.
Rubbing my head, I peer out the back window and see a large, hairy man atop a horse that breathes out fire. The wind buffeting the carriage carries his scent to me: wet dog and a hint of the wild.
Before I can decide if this is something only I can see or if I should alert my parents to the werewolf riding a fire-breathing horse, the carriage jerks to one side, veering off the road. Wooden rails splinter like kindling being broken up for the fireplace.
Screams fill the carriage. Outside, the horse squeals as it stumbles down the steep slope and collapses into the water. Staring ahead, I can only discern the lake swallowing us. The dwarf is gone.
“Confound it. The door’s jammed,” Mr. Anderson shouts, pummeling his fists against the door as cold water seeps into the carriage, splashing against our shoes.
No, I think. It’s not jammed. It’s locked from the outside.
Glass shatters behind me. As I swivel around, a large shadow thrusts its meaty hand through the narrow space of the broken back window, grabbing at my throat. Screaming, I feebly slap at it. Unfazed, the hand clutches at my jacket’s lapels and jerks my small frame out into the night. Mother shrieks and tries to pull me back inside.
“She can live, Penelope,” a deep voice booms over me as the wild, wet dog smell of the werewolf smothers my senses. A muscular, hairy arm loops around my waist.
Sobbing, Mother stares into my eyes, desperation warring with hope.
“Mama, no,” I shriek. “Don’t let it take me.”
“I love you, Beatrice,” she says, her face covered in tears as lake water churns around her. “It’s going to be all right.”
I know it won’t be. The lie smacks me into action. I begin to scream and kick, my hands reaching for her. But she pulls back, her beautiful eyes focused on me even as the carriage sinks below the surface.
My screams wake me.
“Beatrice,” Simon murmured as he struck a match to light the candle on his bedside table. As the flame flickered, and the scent of honey and wax drifted around us, he rolled over and pulled me into his embrace.
My body reacted, curling up so I could tuck myself under his arm and never leave.
“He was there, but not to kill me,” I mumbled as Simon stroked my hair. “He was… Prof. Runal was there.” I glanced up, distracted by the tumultuous fragments of memory that were finally swirling into a cohesive whole.
“He was there to murder your parents, if I recall,” Simon breathed against my forehead.
“No.” I shook my head hard enough for locks of hair to swish before my face. “Nameless the dwarf was there for that reason. But Prof. Runal came to rescue me. My mother understood his intention. She allowed him to take me.”
Pulling away, I stared into Simon’s eyes. “He was saving me from a death sentence that had been applied to my whole family. The Society wanted me dead as well, and he saved me. Prof. Runal saved me.”
The amazement produced from that revelation momentarily silenced us both. In the silence, I mulled over my response to this new truth. What would I say to Prof. Runal when next we met?
“But why didn’t he tell you this before?” Simon asked. “Why would he let you believe the worst of him?”
Lowering my cheek to his chest, I whispered, “Because he knew I would never believe him.”
Chapter Seventeen
UPON WAKING, I resolved to seek out Prof. Runal and confront him with my new knowledge. Still dazed from learning my former mentor and employer wasn’t actually guilty of attempting to murder me, I stumbled into the kitchen, hoping Simon was there. Instead, I beheld an old crone sitting at my kitchen table.
If she stood at full height, she wouldn’t have reached my shoulders. Hunched under a red shawl, she looked frail, as if a heavy gust of wind could sweep her off her feet. Every limb was bony, the wrinkled skin of her arms and neck sagging. Her white hair was so short as to be almost invisible. She scrunched up her brown face into a network of wrinkles. Yet her small, dark eyes twinkled with intelligent energy as she studied me with great interest.
“Well,” I spluttered, glancing at Jonas who stood by the stove, watching the kettle and ignoring the woman. “Good morning.”
“Bah,” she spat out and grinned, exposing gums that held more empty space than teeth.
Nodding and smiling at her, I sidled over to Jonas.
“Mr. Timmons, he’s gone into town,” Jonas said before I could ask.
“So I gathered by his absence,” I said. The kettle began to whistle.
“And him, he said to wait for him, and not to go out in this weather,” Jonas continued, glancing meaningfully at the bulge pushing against my skirt.
“Oh, did he, now?” I grumbled. Before Jonas could insist on Simon’s message, I asked in a quiet voice, “Are you going to introduce me to our guest?”
The whistle increased in pitch and urgency. Ignoring it, Jonas rubbed a gnarled hand over his scalp and scowled. “Mama Jonas.”
“Mama Jonas,” I repeated, returning the old woman’s gaze. “Oh, this is your mother?”
Grunting, Jonas brought down my teapot from a shelf. The kettle’s whistle was now bordering an angry screech.
Assuming his grunt was an answer in the affirmative, my smile widened as I nodded again at Mama Jonas. She smacked her gums in return. “How wonderful she’s here to visit you,” I said, scooping tea leaves into my engraved metal teapot. Glancing out the window, I noticed a dark storm cloud on the horizon and hoped Simon would remain in town. “I’m sure you’re happy to see her after so long.”
“Bah,” Jonas replied, his face wrinkling up like an old apple as his scowl deepened. “Me, I wish she stayed at home.”
Clucking in admonition at him, I asked, “Now who wouldn’t want to see his mother again?”
“Me,” Jonas promptly replied, finally meeting my gaze. “Me, I wouldn’t. She’s a witch.”
“That’s being a tad harsh, isn’t it?” I suggested, hoping Mama Jonas couldn’t understand English.
“No,” Jonas said. “She is a witch. Really.”
“Oh.” My eyebrows rose of their own accord. “Well, that is interesting. Have you offered her anything to eat?”
Staring at me as if I had a third eye growing on my forehead, Jonas asked, “Why would I? Me, I don’t want her to stay.”
“Jonas,” I huffed. “She’s probably traveled a long way to see you. The least you can do is offer her some refreshments. After all, she is your mother, and we should always be delighted to receive a visit from our parents.”
Ignoring his shaking head and wide eyes, I picked a piece of bread from the bread box, put it on a plate along with a dollop of jam, and set it on the table in front of the old woman. “Here you go, Mama Jonas.”
Leaning over the plate, she sniffed deeply and loudly, her nostrils flaring. A heavily veined and knobby hand hovered over the bread, fingers twitching. Snorting, she tore a small piece and set it on her tongue. She chewed a couple of times, then spat the mushed morsel onto the floor.
Wiping a hand across her mouth, she said, “Bah. Horrid. This no food.”
Beside me, Jonas chuckled. Shrugging, he said, “Delightful, isn’t she?”
Swallowing hard, I ignored the glob of disgusting s
ubstance staining the stone floor. Instead, I continued my study of the old woman. I knew many colonialists would make the mistake of assuming her limited grasp of the English language and her rough, native attire were somehow connected to her intelligence. How these things were related was beyond me but the attitude was prevalent among European humans. Yet the eyes staring back at me were brimming with keen understanding.
Glancing at Jonas, I asked, “Will your father also be joining us?”
Jonas shook his head.
“Bah. Men. They just want my body,” Mama Jonas cackled.
“Oh, my,” I said, hoping my tea was ready. It would have to be, I decided, and poured a cup. The mere scent of the divine brew calmed my nerves. Unsure if I could handle a conversation with his mother, I turned my attention to Jonas. “So… Is that her name? Mama Jonas? She doesn’t have another name?”
Shrugging, Jonas picked at his tattered shirt. It was my conviction he purposely wore his oldest, most disheveled clothes to annoy me, despite having several new shirts and pants. “Everyone calls her Mama Jonas. But her given name is Mzito.”
I coughed up tea, setting the cup down hard enough to chip the bottom of it. “Mzito?” I repeated, gasping around the lingering tea in my lungs.
Frowning at me, Jonas patted my back. “Miss Knight, you need to take better care. What will Mr. Timmons say if you died in the kitchen? Him, he’d blame me.”
“I’m grateful for your concern, Jonas,” I muttered as I studied the old woman more carefully. I had brought the mystery parcel home with me but hadn’t opened it. Now, I wished I’d done so when I had the chance. Faced with the owner, I couldn’t open it, much less keep it. Well, I could, but it wouldn’t be appropriate.
“A pox on appropriate,” I said. Ignoring Jonas’ raised eyebrows and his mother’s cackle, I hastened out of the kitchen and entered Simon’s office.
“You’re not really going to give it back to her, are you?” a voice whispered in my ear.
“Gideon,” I chided, automatically slapping my hand up to my ear. “In my delicate condition, you should take better care not to startle me. So don’t float through walls and materialize before me.”
Playfully pouting, Gideon sunk into Simon’s leather chair. “I wish I could materialize. That would imply I have a body.”
“Perish the thought,” I grumbled.
Kneeling, I pulled the parcel from under the desk. The brown wrapping was rough against my hands. I clutched the parcel to my chest, wondering at its contents. Although not big, it was a hefty weight. Something rustled as I set it down on the desk.
“Don’t open,” a raspy voice ordered behind me. “Not good.”
I swung about in time to see Mzito toss aside the red shawl as she entered the office. She was attired in a leather halter top and skirt, both stained ochre and decorated with beads and small bones.
“Really?” I pondered my options: to squint or not to squint.
Squinting allows me to perceive a living creature’s energy field. Much can be deduced from a perusal of that energy. Normally, I refrain from squinting at people, especially normal ones—if there is such a thing; I feel it to be an invasion of privacy. Besides, I don’t really want to know everything about everyone I meet. Most people are not particularly interesting, and the rest are too interesting, sometimes disturbingly so.
However, this was a different matter, as it was connected to a murder of sorts. Squinting at the crone, I detected a force in her energy that was more than what a normal human possessed. She wasn’t a shapeshifter or demon but she was powerful.
“Is this yours?” I asked.
Her answer was a wide grin showing a gap where her top and bottom front teeth should have been.
“Mine,” she said, waving a gnarled hand toward the box from which the rustling sound repeated.
“What is it?” Gideon asked, eyeing the box as it began to bounce around the table.
“Customs no can see,” Mzito replied, shaking a crooked finger at us, her smile unwavering. “They take no chai.”
Frowning at the diminutive witch—for surely she was a witch and a powerful one at that—I said, “I’m certain they drink tea, and plenty of it.”
She laughed, a jolly sound that caused me to chuckle even though there was nothing humorous in my statement. “Chai mean pay something so no see.”
“I think she means a bribe,” Gideon said as he pretended to read Simon’s ledger.
Mzito’s smile widened. “Yes,” she said, nodding at Gideon. “Ghost correct. Bribe. Chai. Same, same. No take bribe.”
“Mr. Bilco refused a bribe to leave your boxes unopened,” I said, “so you killed him.”
“Dead, yes, but not now,” she said, her demeanor cheerful as she hobbled toward us. “Better now. He no argue with Mzito.”
She extended her hands, the nails long and jagged, her fingers curled. “My needfuls help me work,” she said and smacked her lips.
As if divining my thoughts, Gideon muttered, “Anyone who can kill a man one day and revive him the next should be given their box without argument.”
“Agreed,” I said and handed the rattling parcel to Mzito.
She hugged it close to her chest as if embracing a child. Her twinkling eyes peered over the box at me. “We meet again,” she said and shuffled out of the office with impressive speed for a person so bent with age.
“Was that a threat or a promise?” I asked.
“Both,” Gideon said, grinning at the prospect.
I huffed. “Whatever it is, there’s a pot of tea waiting for me in the kitchen.”
“And Mr. Bilco?” Gideon asked, following me. Just as I sat down at the table, the storm swept over Nairobi. Thick sheets of rain pounded against the clay tile roof. Large drops splattered against the windows. I could imagine the chaos in town: carts and wagons abandoned as their passengers scurried for shelter while Victoria Street turned into the world’s longest mud puddle.
Shrugging, I said, “Maybe Jonas’ mother is right. Death seems to have had a positive influence on the man.”
On that note, I poured a cup of tea and waited out the storm.
Chapter Eighteen
THE MOMENT THE downpour ceased, I snuck out of the cottage and hurried to the barn. I would’ve succeeded if Simon hadn’t arrived just when I was stooped over, tying my boot laces.
“What a delightful pose, Mrs. Timmons,” he drawled.
My face flushed, I straightened up just as he strolled into the barn, his horse clopping behind him. Both were soaked, rivulets of water coursing down their backs and faces.
“Really, Mr. Timmons,” I said, frowning at the inconvenience of his timing. “You are a scoundrel.”
“Indeed,” he replied as he led his horse into its stall and left it to enjoy a handful of oats. He leaned against a wooden post, his hands tucked into his pockets, his dark hair flung about his face and shoulders in wild disarray. Water dripped off the ends of his long, damp trench coat. While his pose was casual, his eyes were as stormy as the sky. To the uninformed observer, he appeared to be a pirate searching for a ship to plunder or a woman to ravage.
“I’m going to find Prof. Runal,” I explained as I tugged on Nelly’s bridle, half-hoping he would argue with me. It wouldn’t take much to dissuade me from going: a short lecture on the dangers of riding through the mud while pregnant would do it; why, just the offer of a cup of tea and a foot massage would more than suffice.
Instead, Simon nodded and said, “Yes, it’s about time you had it out with that dog.”
“Drat,” I muttered and glanced at him when he chuckled. “You are impossible. Why did you arrive just now if not to stop me from racing after the storm?”
Simon bent at the waist and peered toward the doorway. Squinting, he studied the sky. Satisfied, he straightened and shrugged. “I think it’s safe enough out there. At most, you’ll receive a mild misting and a few bugs splatted across your face.”
Glaring at him, I said, “Charmi
ng as ever.”
Unfazed by my irritation, Simon pushed away from the post and pulled me into his arms. Kissing my forehead, he said, “It’s time. And I prefer a damp wife to one plagued by nightmares.”
Sighing, I patted his chest and pushed away. “I suppose you’re right.”
His bushy eyebrows rose. “Now, those are words I never thought to hear.”
Snorting a laugh, I wagged a finger at him and said, “Don’t get too comfortable as I doubt you’ll hear them again for some time.”
“I’m sure I won’t,” he said, smiling as he turned to look after his horse. “Do be careful, won’t you? Or rather, be home for afternoon tea.”
“I wouldn’t dream of missing it,” I assured him.
As it turned out, I arrived in Nairobi with no bugs crushed against my face or crumpled in my mouth. The storm had cleaned the air and swept all such nuisances away. After such an easy flight, Nelly took it into her head to land in a deep puddle, thus splattering red mud across the lower half of my skirt.
“Wretched beast,” I scolded her. She merely nickered cheerfully before slowing to a drowsy, plodding gait, her eyes half-closed.
The approach to town was deserted as people huddled inside until the last of the storm clouds drifted away. A lonely two-wheeled wagon creaked by us, heading out of Nairobi toward the forest in the hills nearby. A pair of sodden oxen lumbered along, their eyes partially shut as they chewed their cud and dreamed of better days. The wheels were almost as tall as I and squelched along the muddy trail; the wood was bleached by sun into a light yellow. Thin metal rods stuck out from the back end from under a tattered tarp.
“There’s only one destination for such an odd cargo,” I told Nelly. “It must be for Dr. Cricket’s new automaton project.”
Nelly snorted, unimpressed by the news.
It was only then, as Nelly’s hooves sloshed through the thick mud of Victoria Street, that I realized a flaw in my plan: I hadn’t the faintest idea where Prof. Runal lived. Determined to avoid him, I had never bothered to ask for his place of residence.
