Death in a Teacup

by Vered Ehsani

  Her full lips upturned in a soft, sympathetic smile, Wanjiru finished preparing a customer’s order for delivery.

  “Speaking of trouble,” I said, “where’s Yao? He’s been nagging me to begin negotiating with your father but every time I decide to do so, something interrupts.” Sighing, I placed my leather trench coat and satchel under the counter. “If one can refer to the God of Death as a something.”

  Wanjiru lowered her gaze as a deep blush bloomed across her brown skin. “I’m sorry for bothering you, Miss Knight,” she said, her voice low and almost inaudible.

  Clucking at her, I wiped a cloth across the spotless pink marble countertop. “Nonsense. It’s my pleasure to assist you. I just—”

  I paused my litany of complaints when the bell over the front door tinkled. Plastering on my isn’t-this-a-wonderful-day smile, I turned to face the customer. A half-naked man stumbled into the shop and collapsed onto a chair.

  Wanjiru coughed and discovered something fascinating about the marble countertop. I merely stared, wondering how I could prevail on Charlie the Nell to button up his shirt instead of exposing his hairy chest to the world.

  Nobody knew much about the man, aside from his predilection to stalk about town with his shirt flapping open. Chief Constable Dougal had threatened to arrest him for indecent exposure but in the end, Dougal had more pressing matters demanding his attention. Besides, Charlie was harmless enough, just inappropriately attired and in desperate need of a bath.

  “Sir, would you like to sit in a more comfortable location?” I enquired, raising my voice. “Our kitchen is delightfully toasty on this cool morning.”

  Charlie raised his squinting eyes, peering from under bushy eyebrows and a mop of dark, tangled hair. His face was obscured under a thick, full beard. As the man never seemed to wash, I preferred to stand upwind of him when at all possible. In the confines of the shop, his stench drifted around me.

  “Sir?”

  Grunting, he settled back in the chair and mumbled to himself.

  “If there are any gods listening,” I quietly implored, “please don’t let him use the fork.”

  The gods ignored me, possibly taking delight in my discomfort. Charlie tugged out a dented dinner fork from his pocket. Gazing about the shop, he proceeded to comb the dark hair on his chest with the fork prongs.

  Closing my eyes and sagging against the counter, I muttered, “Thank heavens there are no customers.”

  Just then, the bell tinkled.

  If I were to select two people who should never, ever be in the same room together, it would be Mrs. Mayence Bent, hotel owner and founding member of the East African Ladies League, and Charlie the Nell. The gods were surely punishing me for one of my many offenses: Mrs. Bent had decided to shop for tea at the precise moment Charlie opted to deposit his unsavory body in my premise.

  Mrs. Bent was an impressive woman, unintimidated by the wildness of the land and the people living on it. Indeed, she was a force of nature, as to be expected from anyone who had the vision and temerity to open a hotel in a colonial outpost. The Stanley Hotel was one of the original institutions of the small town of Nairobi. Normally, I experienced a thrill when selling my products to the hotel’s proprietor. That morning, I experienced the onset of a migraine.

  Glancing down her long nose at Charlie, Mrs. Bent sniffed, lifted her chin so she needn’t gaze upon such a disreputable individual and strolled through the shop to the counter. Wanjiru busied herself with tidying shelves and, I hoped, devising some way to escort Charlie out the door.

  “Mrs. Timmons,” Mrs. Bent said, her voice firm as if she had issued a command instead of pronouncing my name.

  “Mrs. Bent, always a pleasure,” I said, grateful to see Wanjiru speaking with Charlie while indicating the door. “I have your order prepared.”

  “That’s all well and good,” she said. “Have you given any further thought to joining the League? As an upstanding resident, I couldn’t imagine my life without it.”

  The implication that I might be less than upstanding didn’t disturb me in the least; if she only knew with whom I associated, Mrs. Bent wouldn’t dare to enter my shop. Charlie the Nell might be unpleasant to gaze upon but he was quite innocent of all malice; the same could not be said of some of my close acquaintances and family members.

  On the other hand, the thought of being a member of a league of ladies whose sole occupation was to distribute gossip—or so I perceived—disturbed me greatly. Cilla scolded me whenever I uttered such disparaging comments. To be fair, it was true the ladies raised funds for the less fortunate amongst us, although the less fortunate were often in that situation because of our empire’s predilection for invading foreign lands. Nonetheless, I had no interest to join, even though it would be a savvy business decision to do so.

  “Well, I have been considering it,” I said, stalling for time until a suitable excuse should appear. “I—”

  A piercing scream interrupted me. It was followed by wordless shouting. I didn’t appreciate being interrupted. Why people felt the need to display their fear or excitement so loudly was beyond my comprehension. On the other hand, it afforded me the very excuse I needed to avoid answering Mrs. Bent.

  “Now what,” I huffed as I strode through the quiet shop and stood before the display window. Across the unpaved street and in front of the Colonial Store, Mr. Turner’s hunting companions had displayed the elephant’s tusk. Bits of dried blood splattered both ends. My hands fisted at the reminder of my elephant friend’s useless death.

  Her interest aroused, Mrs. Bent exited the shop, followed by Charlie. Together, they stood outside on the narrow balcony at the top of the three wooden steps leading to the dirt road. The pitter-patter of Wanjiru’s slippers approached me. She stopped immediately behind me and gazed out at the view of Victoria Street.

  On both sides of the unpaved street, people were exiting the various shops and offices to peer in the direction of the scream. An older Indian man sporting a dusty white turban dropped a basket in the middle of the dirt road and gestured toward something I couldn’t see as yet. Near him, an African driver tugged at the bridle of his ox, urging the beast to pull the overloaded wagon off the road.

  The plodding of heavy feet reverberated around us. The shouting came closer and clarified itself into a word: “Elephant. Elephant!”

  Rolling my eyes and placing my hands on my hips, I said, “You’d think the humans in this town would be accustomed to the wildlife. Good grief, all this noise for an elephant.”

  Nonetheless, I remained by the window, wondering what could have induced the creature to enter into town during the day. As people scurried into the relative protection of the surrounding buildings, a shadow fell across my view, followed by its source.

  “It’s the matriarch,” I said, gazing at the two empty sockets on either side of her swinging trunk.

  Wanjiru glanced at me, her brown eyes wide. While she normally kept her thoughts to herself, she observed more than she admitted. Somehow, she understood to what I referred. “The one they killed?” she asked.

  “The very one.” Tugging on my mangled right ear, I added, “I do hope no one recognizes her. After all, she’s supposed to be dead.”

  The matriarch paused, her tattered ears flapping against her neck, the thumping and her occasional trumpet the only sounds in the waiting town. Raising her trunk, she reached for the tusk and lifted it off its display. Balancing the thick end on her back, she turned around, her large backside knocking over a pile of crates left on the side of the road. Then she clomped along the street, returning whence she came.

  Chapter Fifteen

  WITH THE IMAGES of the dead elephant and deceased hunter clinging to my thoughts like the moist heat of the early evening, I settled into bed and opened a book. My agitation caused the werewolf energy in my metal hand to twitch; the fingers tapped against the book’s leather cover.

  “Breathe,” I reminded myself, closing my eyes and recalling Koki’s word
s. “Focus on the breath. Let the thoughts float overhead like drifting clouds.”

  I inhaled deeply and sunk into a quiet that I relished. For once, the absence of active mental chatter was reassuring rather than disturbing. With each exhale, I retreated further from the perturbation that the walking dead had created. As I tottered between alertness and sleep, I wondered when Koki would teach me how to talk with the birds. And then I fell into the past.

  I wake up right before my parents are murdered.

  Of course, I can’t possibly know at that moment what is about to happen, in that carriage during the last ride they will ever have. And yet, as is the ways of dreams, I know.

  “Mother,” I whisper as I huddle between them, marveling at their aliveness. I inhale deeply, savoring Mother’s rose-scented perfume and her husband’s cologne. “Father?”

  Mr. Anderson, the man I used to call Father, says nothing, as if he can’t see or hear me. Or perhaps he is too involved in his thoughts as he stares out the small window of the carriage, lost in the blur of the dark countryside. The only light is from a nearly full moon and the smattering of stars bright enough to compete in the night sky.

  The swaying movement of the carriage jostles us from side to side as wooden wheels rattle over a rough road. The horse snorts, its metal shoes clattering against small stones and hard-packed earth. An ice-tinged wind whistles sharply alongside us, its tendrils sneaking around the loosely fitted, rattling door. The croaking of frogs from the lake fill up the remaining silent spaces.

  Mother glances down at me and wraps an arm around my shivering shoulders. “Go to sleep, Beatrice. We’ll be home soon.”

  “But I’m not tired,” I protest, my voice that of a child.

  “We shouldn’t have brought her along, Penelope,” Mr. Anderson mutters without looking at either of us. “She should be at home and asleep, not gallivanting about.”

  Mother chuckles, a soft and sad sound. “I’m sure she’ll survive one late night, dear.”

  He harrumphs but doesn’t reply.

  “I’m not really here,” I say, clutching my small hands together, both of them solid and human.

  Another scent drifts into the small carriage, that of a wet dog. My nose wrinkles against the assault even as my eyes widen and my heart speeds up. “Turn around,” I whine, my voice constricted with the fear of inevitability. “We need to go back.”

  The wet dog stench intensifies.

  “You need to go straight to bed,” the man beside me grumbles, unimpressed by my emotional turmoil.

  I lean toward the narrow opening in the carriage wall through which I can see the driver sitting on the bench, reins held loosely in one hand. Ignoring Mother’s gentle warning to sit down, I reach my arm through the window and tug at the driver’s heavy wool trench coat. “Please stop. I… I feel sick.”

  The man’s head angles slightly to one side so that I can see his face in profile. His features are handsome yet the expression disturbs me. A long ponytail flicks across his shoulders.

  “Don’t,” I implore him even as recognition dawns.

  The dwarf smiles, 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 in amongst 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.

  I wake up.

  Clutching my blanket to my heaving chest, I stared around the dark bedroom, searching for my parents’ killer.

  “Of course he’s not here,” I said, cringing at the wobble in my whisper.

  Shuddering at the nightmare that was a memory, I swiveled my legs out of bed, letting the coolness of the floor reassure me I was safe. Yet the sourness of the memory lingered. Prof. Runal, my former mentor and father figure, had my parents murdered. How I had survived remained a mystery to me.

  Knowing I wouldn’t fall asleep easily, I stood and wrapped my housecoat around my shivering frame. Pretending the quake in my limbs was from the cold night air, I padded through the cottage to the kitchen. There was no fire in the stove’s belly, and the kitchen was chilly; my toes curled against the stone slabs. As I considered lighting a fire, another more pressing need imposed itself upon me.

  “Again?” I moaned, staring down at my stomach. “I hope you’re worth it.”

  Slipping on shoes, I exited through the back door and walked to the wooden outhouse tucked behind a cluster of angel’s trumpet bushes. The heavy night perfume of the white, trumpet-shaped flowers surrounded me. Apart from the rustle of the wind in the long grass, the night was silent; cold shadows lurked everywhere.

  I glanced back at the cottage. Inside lurked the newly mortal God of Death and the reanimated corpse of a dead hunter. Not far away, I could see the hulking form of the deceased elephant; I wasn’t in the least surprised it had found its way to my home to be near its killer.

  Death had reassured me this was only the beginning. With each night, his power would diminish. Who or what would return to life next? What would they do? More importantly, what would the humans do? While I was new to business, I was certain a population of zombie-type creatures wouldn’t be a boon for the economy.

  Hoping none of the shadows contained newly awakened dead things, I entered the outhouse. Without the thick clusters of stars to provide light, I found myself in the darkest shadow of all. Wishing I had brought a candle, I ignored the gaping hole that plunged into the earth and hastily used the facilities.

  Just as I was about to exit, a heavier rustling moved toward the outhouse. In the silence, the placement of stealthy steps through the grass was clearly audible. Pausing my breath, I waited for the creature to continue its journey. Instead, it stopped right in front of the outhouse door.

  Scowling at my negligence—for I’d failed to carry my fully loaded walking stick—I summoned the only weapon available to me: my wolf energy. The silver outline of a large wolf formed by my side, leaving my metal left hand limp and lifeless.

  ‘On the count of three. One…’ I thought.

  The creature made a snuffling noise, perhaps sniffing at what it thought was its dinner.

  ‘Two…’

  My glowing wolf energy silently sniffed at the door and bared its teeth at whatever waited on the other side. Taking in a slow, deep breath, I prepared to order my wolf into battle.

  “Three,” I shouted as I flung open the door.
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br />   Wagging its tail, a werewolf barked at me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  RECOGNIZING A KINDRED spirit, my wolf energy bounded around Drew, wagging its tail and behaving like a puppy. If anyone else had witnessed the scene, I would have been mortified.

  Holding my breath so as not to inhale the stench of wet dog, I hugged my brother.

  “Drew, what are you doing around here?” I asked, holding his shaggy head in my hands and staring into his yellow eyes. “And is this how you prepare for your wedding? By running amuck? You’re filthy.”

  Whining, Drew nuzzled his snout under my chin before loping away. My wolf energy trotted after him. Both creatures paused in unison to stare back at me, their eyes issuing a challenge.

  Flinging up my arms, I said, “Why not? I wasn’t planning on actually sleeping tonight.” Standing up, I brushed off a few crumbles of dirt from my house coat and trudged after the canines.

  “How I get into these situations is beyond me,” I grumbled as I pushed past overgrown bushes, their thorns snagging at my coat. “No weapon. Atrocious walking shoes. And no tea in sight. What a predicament.”

  Fortunately for my feet, we didn’t have too far to go. Just outside the Hardinge Estate, a river flowed from the forest toward the savannah. A section of the river had created a pool which was used by humans and animals alike. For that reason, it was also a favorite hunting area for lions and other carnivores.

  As I stumbled out of the brush and into the clearing near the pool, several pairs of eyes glittered at me before turning away. Drew and my wolf energy sat on either side of me, watchful but not nearly as alarmed as I was.

  “Really?” I hissed, tugging at one of Drew’s ears. “You could have warned me, suggested I bring a weapon or, better yet, not come here at all.”

  Drew yawned, licked his snout and flopped down onto the well-trodden, hardened earth. Crouching by his side, I studied the scene. A full moon illuminated the clearing and glittered off the sluggishly moving water which formed the river’s pool. Colors were muted to silver, blue and charcoal black.