The Shadow Conspiracy II

by Phyllis Irene Radford

Frau Rebmann was typical of her race. She had the thick and pious stance of good German breeding. Although only recently married, she seemed to be a settled wife: disillusioned but determined to serve her “mann.” I respected that. I suggest she doubted Rebmann, but accepted her fate as helpmeet to a fool. She had lost her innocence and would not be what I was looking for. Fraulein Hensel, my sweet Clara, was a more appropriate candidate for me.

  Frau Rebmann viewed me with a sceptical eye. I softened her, though, when I stated my purpose and position. She was impressed, as I knew she would be, with my goal of working with the natives to bring them to the light.

  “Our stores are low, but we have rusks and jam for breakfast,” she said upon hearing of my plans. “Please join us and tell us of your work.” She smiled then.

  My heart beat hard. They had need of my services just as I had need of theirs. An unspoken trade was in the offing.

  The servant made me nervous. He’d been standing in the doorflap of their tent during the exchange. He was clearly of savage stock but wearing the clothes of one of my fellow countrymen. He affected a pompous Eton air, his tongue flaunted it when we briefly spoke in English. Where the devil did he learn that? If he had been a white man, I would have hated him.

  “How long have you been here?” he asked.

  “Quite some time, I suggest,” I answered. “Ten years.”

  He looked then off toward the mudflats. “It is a wasteland,” he said. He appeared to be as disdainful of it as I was.

  I could not understand why so educated a servant would accept a position with the Germans. How could it pay what he would be used to? That made me nervous at first, but then I considered how lately many aristocratic families have had to accept less than their station required. He had obviously been usurped from a previous engagement by one of the fallen.

  My fears were eventually realised, but at the time I only laughed at myself and put them out of my mind. Good fortune was running with me and my work was more important than any heathen’s downfall. His dislike of the region eased my mind. He would give me no trouble and would probably be an ally when he understood the beauty of my work.

  Over the repast, I invited Frau Rebmann to dispatch the man to my compound for supplies. I also suggested Clara come for a day of rest from her toils in the Rebmann camp. I could see the determined wife detested the servant and didn’t trust him. She was very sure of me at that point. I’d won her over, saying the proper things: no “Hail Mary”s, just numerous “Praise God”s. My German is weak and that was to my advantage. She gave me the benefit of any doubt. I suggest my English manners, the like of which she had never seen before, charmed her. My heart was so light, I could have charmed even a French woman — the most difficult of the species — with my gaiety, my piety, my gallantry.

  We were off, Clara beside me, the servant behind. Upon arrival at my current base of operations, the local parrots in the river bushes clacked and screamed as if warning of our arrival. I despised the sounds of Africa and those birds most of all. I was nearing the end of my self-imposed exile now, though, and the birds sounded like music on this day.

  The servant disappeared almost immediately. He intimated that he had need to tend to bodily functions. I had to laugh at his Eton manners as he tried to convey his meaning in the presence of so fair and pure a young lady. He was in bad need of a smoking lounge. No euphemism for the call of nature came to his mind, though. He mumbled an excuse and was gone. I admit I smirked to myself. Regardless of where he’d learned English, he was a harmless, mindless twit. His humble beginnings could never be improved by a stint at Eton. Who has ever been improved by Eton? I suggest Shrewsbury would not even have allowed so crude a fellow an entry. We have our standards. At any rate, I was glad for his momentary personal discomfort as I wished to be alone with my darling Clara.

  My mechanicals frightened her at first. Her eyes glistened with tears of confusion, as if considering whether my self-pedaling bicycles and floating miniature air ship could hurt her. She looked at me with pinched eyebrows and open mouth.

  In a weak little voice she said, “You are a man of science?”

  I knew I had her then. My heart beat rapidly. She recognised my ability, my genius. She would be pliable and grateful and loving.

  “Of God, first,” I assured her, knowing the combination would be needed. I am quite familiar with the ways of the human heart. Although above its whims myself, I know how it beats in the breast of my fellow man.

  I took Clara by the hand and led her to my work bench filled with the machined components, nail drivers, screw jacks, and various precision tools needed for my work. From the back section I withdrew the velvet box. I had sent to Heidelberg for it the moment I heard the Rebmann party included members of the fair sex.

  I had long ago come to the conclusion that the African nature was deficient. Though strong of frame, it held a weak soul, incomplete. I surmised only the soul of a white man could work my machines correctly. The black savage is lazy and incompetent. He lives in the shadow of Kilimanjaro and never attempts its peak.

  I plied my formula with the precision I had perfected on the locals. Since the time eleven years previously when I met with that pitiful Fletcher. The “faithful” servant of Lord Byron had found himself on a bender at the Hawk and Dove. I don’t visit that establishment often, but as fate would have it, I was there the night Fletcher felt the need of disclosing delicate information. I doubt he even remembers unburdening himself of the secrets of the Genevans and their conspiracy for ensouling inanimate matter.

  “Unburdening” is the right word. He’d coughed frequently into a bloody kerchief. Close to the end of his life, he needed to confess. As do all of his kind. An accomplished Mesmerist, I surmised the information he drunkenly exposed could easily lead to an ability to control soul transference. I wouldn’t even need the use of the “machine” he had described. I left for Africa a year later to test my procedures.

  Despite my competence, something was missing with my work with the natives. I’ve never comprehended the African rhythms. That may be part of the reason why their essence cannot be moved satisfactorily. Using the superior music of European composition, which I do understand, I could more completely control my subject. I watched Clara’s eyes as I retrieved the music box from its pampering enclosure. Nacht und Traume played for her.

  The Rebmann’s folly, their desire to transform the African peoples, brought them to this region. I came not to reach the natives, but to use them. They were a limitless supply of subjects on whom I could experiment without interference from authorities. I could never get away with such work in my native land. I doubted the African could even count let alone keep track of the many members of their extended clans. They would never notice their numbers dwindling.

  The Rebmanns, though, far from being a hindrance with their European presence, were now actually helping by providing me with one last subject. I fell into Fraulein Hensel’s eyes at the consummation of my ten years of work. Her body stilled as the music box began turning of its own accord.

  Blast! The blackguard, Baraba, returned at just that moment. Clara’s eyes remained open, dulled though they were. She appeared, I suggest, to be awake, but her body was nonetheless lifeless. There was no way for the servant to know this, and I used his ignorance to bide my time as I devised a plan.

  I placed Clara gently onto the stool by the workbench in a manner that would arouse no suspicion. Knowing the members of his race often possess great strength, I had no wish to engage the man in combat. I did not know his capabilities. Just how had he done at Eton? He had no doubt entered the system years after my time and so how would I have heard of any of his feats? I had only one course open to me: I must ensnare him. I retrieved the music box from Clara’s hand just as it was about to fall.

  “It is amazing,” he said in English, looking about the room. He didn’t seem to notice Clara or the box. Was he being cagey? I did not let my suspicions show.

  “Please
, come in. Mr. Baraba, is it?” I asked. I opened my arms wide to welcome him inside. “This is my church, my workshop,” I said.

  “It’s an odd sort of worship, isn’t it?” he said, stepping into the room.

  I took a chance then, needling him to see where his mind lay. “I should like to tell you about it. It’s a very freeing sort of spiritual philosophy,” I said.

  He walked gingerly among the mini dirigibles floating by and the bicycles powered by toy monkeys and the flipping mechanical acrobats. The room whirred with activity as he picked his way through. I wound the music box out of his sight. He took no notice of my activity as the other sounds in the room covered my own.

  Finally as he reached the midpoint of the room he stopped in front of my still empty human-sized tin soldier. It had remained empty since the day I had acquired it. There was no way I would ensoul such a lethal toy with that of a darkie. I smiled at the thought. My only mistake. In that instant of laxity he removed the soldier’s rapier and swung around at me.

  “I have no doubt those Africans decaying in your storage closet are very free,” he said in an elevated, angry voice.

  Shocked that I had been discovered, for a second I lost my composure. Instantly I shouted “Careful!” I collected myself, then, as if taking my own advice. “If you destroy anything in this room, you destroy a soul.”

  He slowed at that, as if ruminating on the meaning of my words. He had found the Africans in the other hut but did not understand them until that moment. I knew then what I had to do. Quickly I stooped to pick up the small vulcanised ball the little dog was fond of playing with.

  “Every object here,” I said, holding the ball before me, “is a human being. A man, sensitive and virtuous such as yourself, would not care to murder, would you?”

  “Are you suggesting, sir, that these contraptions are alive?”

  “I don’t suggest it, at all,” I answered, calming myself with humor. “I know it. They are all free now, happier than before, in fact.”

  His eyes blazed and he raised the sword as if to slice through me. His eyes locked onto mine as I released the stop on the box. The strains of Nacht und Traume filled the silence of the impasse. I began humming the tune along with it.

  Heil’ge Nacht, du sinkest nieder

  I sang the words and smiled inwardly when he joined me. He sang in English, I in German. Our words were off, but our harmony was impeccable.

  Nieder wallen auch die Träume

  Perfect lieder with improvised second line. I suggest Schubert was never so beautiful.

  Wie dein Mondlicht durch die Räume

  This would be the easiest case I had ever encountered. Easier than Clara who was so willing. Here was a man, totally resistant, yet pliant. An advantage after all for having chosen this breed to experiment on.

  Durch der Menschen stille Brust

  We were in tune with each other, intertwining with the song, eyes staring.

  Die belauschen sie mit Lust

  I held the ball before me, putting my intention onto it. I could feel him being drawn in.

  Rufen, wenn der Tag erwacht

  I shifted my eyes for only a second to the ball, an overt suggestion for him to make the leap.

  Kehre wieder, heil’ge Nacht!

  Only a second. Not long, but surely long enough.

  Holde Träume, kehret wieder!

  The pieces of Lady Lovelace’s puzzle fell into place as I stood in the doorway of Bourne’s hut. His “church,” he had called it, no doubt to shield its true function.

  I was quite sure I had discovered his aim as soon as I set eyes upon his contraption, spitting and coughing its way towards our temporary domicile near Lake Eyasi. The only thing that remained was to determine the method.

  I have exquisite observation and investigative skills. My talents, discovered early on by my benefactor, Sir Roger L, were honed by the impeccable education I received at his behest. Lady Lovelace chose well when she selected me for this assignment.

  If this land did bear witness to the dis-ensoulment Lady Lovelace had alluded to, I did not know what form the perpetrator would take, but I suspected a man of science. In thousands of years religion has not been able to develop a method for soul quantification. Only science can devise proper methods for identifying and containing the unknowns in the universe.

  I concluded, before we left Zanzibar, my man of science was from Europe, the incubator of inductive reasoning. I began making inquiries of the natives upon our arrival at that city and continued along the way to our current location. All circumspect of course; the Rebmanns never suspected I was doing anything other than procuring provisions when I spoke to the various villagers we happened upon.

  “Is my friend, the white man, here?” I would ask. Most would answer that they did not know, but as I got closer to the Eyasi region the answers became more and more in the positive. Eventually the responses were accompanied by wide-eyed fear. At that point I knew I was getting close to Lady Lovelace’s answer. The day before Bourne showed up, a local woman of the Hadzabe reported several of her family members were missing. The Hadzabe family is as large as a continent and members often go missing, as they are nomadic in their ways. Apparently no one had been taking her seriously, but she insisted she had seen signs. Of what I don’t know, but I assumed it was only a matter of time before her fears were justified.

  I watched the progress of Bourne’s contraption from the flap of the main tent and knew instinctively all our concerns were soon to be realized. I had been dispatched to prepare the breakfast, but the noise of Bourne’s approach gave me pause. I engaged no emotion, concentrating all my effort on remaining the passive and ignorant servant I had created for my false identity. All the while I waited for my chance to interrogate Bourne at length. By luck he was English and spoke a language with which my German employers had no experience. His speech indicated an undistinguished school. Shrewsbury, I believe.

  “How long have you been here?” I asked in our native language.

  “Ten long years,” he answered.

  “Yes, this is dreadful country, isn’t it?” I said.

  That unsettled him. He was not expecting an opinion from a servant, much less one as I, who upon first appearance would seem to be of African stock. I am actually that, but it has been so long, I have thankfully forgotten how to live in the manner of these naked and painted peoples. My Highland Bantu is the only vestige of my former life and even that is limited to the vocabulary of a child. I was only eight when abducted all those years ago. I am not bitter about that; it afforded me an introduction to a higher plane. Mine is an educated and privileged life. If I had remained in Africa, I would have lived as the other Chagga — dirty, ignorant, and afraid of the world around me.

  As I am now, I make my way with the elite of the English-speaking world. I speak their language so they do not fear me. In truth, though, I am not one of them either, so they do not touch me with their petty alliances and competitive natures. I am truly free without entanglement of love or devotion. I respect my compatriots, but do not have to share my life with them. I am my own man. One would think me lonely. I am not, as the mysteries of life never allow for rest. There is always a question to answer, a venture to follow.

  Rebmann’s wife naturally did not trust me to go with Bourne alone so she sent Clara, the ill-fated young thing. My gentleman’s proclivities urged me to protest, but that would have only brought more suspicion upon me. I was not ready to expose my identity.

  Not overly bright, Clara Hensel is likable simply because her purity is unquestionable. My German is excellent. I easily ascertained where her heart lay. She is a typical disciple and she loves and respects her cousin and his wife. These are the virtues one expects in someone of her age and sex and she fulfils her duties admirably.

  In judgment, she proved impetuous on this fateful day, however. It became her downfall. I could see she had shifted her youthful love of her cousins to a more natural seventeen-year-old’s infatua
tion of this stranger. I could see why. She was at an age when desires are incubated in young girls. It was time for her to begin her life as a wife and mother, but who could she find out here in the bush as a life’s partner? A bone-wearing African? One of these clicking Hadzabean hunters? As unsuitable as he was, Bourne was the only prospect for her. In Heidelberg, there were undoubtedly hundreds of golden-haired youths for Clara, but here, only the dark-minded Bourne.

  Clara’s attendance at our foray was her misfortune, but my good luck. Upon entering Bourne’s compound, I invented a need for private matters. I did not enjoy such coarse allusion to requirements of nature in a young lady’s presence, but it was a perfect ruse. No one would question me or follow me on such a distasteful mission.

  I quickly explored the buildings in the yard. They were constructed of a sort of native mud brick with thatched roofing. Clara and Bourne entered the largest hut and I set off for the other two. In the first, Bourne’s sleeping quarters, a cot sat in the centre; next to it a duffle kit lay open and in disarray. I rifled his personal effects, searching for papers or hints of his purpose and activities. I found nothing, no letters or documents.

  The second building stood behind the “church” and was set off in the midst of scrub bushes in which a flock of colourful Agapornis had set up quite a discourse. I could hear Clara and Bourne softly conversing inside although I could not understand what they were saying. The birds and a low murmur of sound from inside the hut prevented me from distinguishing their words. I stole along under an opening that served as a window of the main building on bended knee to ensure the two would not see me. As I passed by the opening I heard Clara’s delicate voice ask “How does it work?” I did not hear the response as I quickly passed on and around to the smaller hut. Upon entering it I found myself in front of a rude curtain of woven palm leaves. Behind that covering was the answer to Lady Lovelace’s question.

  Slowly I pushed back the curtain. I did not immediately ascertain what I was looking at and I admit here that my heart almost stopped beating from fright.