by Vered Ehsani
I was about to retort that I was missing my hand when I observed in his grasp my walking stick. “Brilliant! I thought I’d left it back there with Koki.”
Jonas grinned as he handed the stick to Mr. Timmons. “You did. I saw you didn’t have it and knew you’d miss it more than your hand, so I asked Nelly to take me there.” He frowned a bit. “At first, she refused, but then…”
“Of course she refused,” I said in great agitation. “That was foolhardy of you to go. What if Koki had been there waiting?”
Jonas regarded me reproachfully. “And why would she be waiting? She knows you aren’t so senseless to go back a second time.”
Thus reprimanded, I could think of nothing more to say than to thank him profusely, for indeed I would’ve missed that stick greatly.
Satisfied that his retrieval of my prized possession was suitably acknowledged, Jonas said, “Miss Knight, James from the station told me. He’s on his way.”
“Who? James?” I asked, coughing through the dust and wondering why I should care if the stationmaster’s assistant was coming.
“No,” Jonas said, scowling at my stupidity. “Not James. The Professor, Miss Knight. Prof. Runal has arrived in Mombasa.”
Chapter 13
“Oh bother,” I said. I really should’ve known my recently acquired peace and pleasure wouldn’t last.
“Why are you so concerned?” Mr. Timmons inquired. “I’m sure the lot of us can handle one old werewolf.”
“He’s arrived?” Mr. Elkhart said as he stepped around Nelly. I was relieved that my aunt wasn’t accompanying him.
“In Mombasa,” Jonas clarified. “James saw a telegraph from the port.”
“I still say you’re all making a lot of fuss over this,” Mr. Timmons said, leaning back in his chair. It squeaked under his weight, the only sound apart from Nelly who was chewing on a lampshade.
I caught Mr. Elkhart’s eye. His expression grim, he nodded once. “It may only be one old werewolf,” he said, “but what he represents is far more than that.”
Mr. Timmons glanced between the two of us. “Surely we’re a long way from London for anyone to really care.”
“Skeletons to hide, Mr. Timmons?” Mr. Elkhart asked, his tone light, his words loaded with history I wasn’t initiated into.
“Don’t we all,” he replied without any trace of joviality.
Jonas coughed. “Me, I’m only the gardener, driver and cook. But Africa is a big, big place. People get lost out here all the time.”
Mr. Timmons leaned back in his chair and chuckled. Mr. Elkhart smirked and glanced at me, possibly recollecting his own attempt to lose me.
“Jonas,” I said, trying not to sound too reprimanding, “whatever Prof. Runal intends here, he’s still dear to me and I won’t have him waylaid or tossed to the lions.”
Jonas’ eyes widened in mock horror and he clutched his hands over his chest. “Oh, madam, I don’t mean him, of course. I would never suggest such a thing. I mean you. Go with Nelly and stay with Kam and the lion girls. We’ll tell Professor you were eaten by a crocodile. And he goes home.”
I considered the idea. Fake my own death? That wouldn’t be difficult to do. But would the old dog believe it? How would we persuade the Stewards to play along?
Just as I was conjuring up some story to tell them, Mr. Elkhart cleared his throat. “As appealing as the idea may be, it’s based on the assumption that his only purpose coming here is to meet with Mrs. Knight.”
That silenced us, apart from Nelly who had nearly finished mauling the lampshade.
After a suitable pause, Mr. Timmons asked the obvious question: “Why’s Nelly eating the lampshade?”
“It’s made of banana leaf,” Jonas explained with a disapproving glance at Mr. Timmons.
“And why else would the Professor come here?” I asked. “I’d assumed it was in response to my resignation.”
“I’m sure that’s the main motivation,” Mr. Elkhart said in a soothing way, which caused me to realize how petulant I’d sounded. “But the Society isn’t the only organization with a keen interest in the paranormal world. It could be Prof. Runal is here to claim territory before anyone else can.”
An image of one of the Professor’s pendulums came to mind, five bronze balls clicking against each other, creating a field around a conversation so no one could listen in. Prof. Runal had been obsessed with disguising his conversations, verbal and written, with secrecy and code. He’d never informed me why. Whom had he been hiding from?
“That’s finished now,” Jonas said and we all regarded the shredded remnants of the lampshade.
If only the same could be said of Prof. Runal’s visit.
Chapter 14
When one is missing a hand, it does present a few challenges and imposes a certain dependence on others.
That was a different sort of pain, a daily mortification that instilled in me a renewed distaste for all things to do with giant insects.
Buttons, for example.
That day, after Jonas had announced the landing of Prof. Runal and Nelly had eaten the banana leaf lampshade, I decided my convalescence was over. I couldn’t very well confront the Professor from my sickbed.
The men and the horse having left the room, I looked about for something to dress into. Just then, Lilly walked in, carrying a set of clothes that would do.
“How considerate of you,” I said.
“One does one’s best,” she said, laying the garments out on the bed.
“I can manage,” I said, not very kindly, as she hovered nearby.
But I couldn’t. Defeated by the small buttons of my blouse, I conceded that I did in fact require assistance.
Seeing my expression, Lilly clucked and said, using that soothing, maternal tone she’d recently discovered, “Don’t fuss so. We’ll make some modifications on your clothes, and Dr. Cricket has a tool he’s designing for you, especially for such finicky tasks.”
“I never before appreciated what hands could do,” I said, and it sounded as if I were complaining about my lot.
I straightened up, for I really couldn’t afford to slouch at my height. “Of course, it could’ve been worse. She could’ve eaten my entire arm.”
“That’s the spirit,” Lilly said as she finished with the buttons. Her smile was overly cheerful, forced, in order to match my attempt at optimism.
I glanced at my left arm that ended where my wrist had been. “I’m amazed I didn’t bleed to death,” I said, glad I couldn’t remember too many details of the events after Koki attacked me.
“From what I gather, Nelly took you to Kam, who sealed the wound,” Lilly said, helping me with a jacket. “And then they brought you here, where Burr and Dr. Ribeiro battled with the venom and blood loss you’d incurred.”
“Hm,” I grunted, wondering how far in debt I was to the Lightning God, and when he would lay his claim.
“You don’t remember?” Lilly asked. She sounded apprehensive.
“No,” I said, shaking my left arm; the jacket sleeve cuff seemed empty and floppy.
“It’s probably better that way,” Lilly murmured, more to herself.
Before I could comment or ask if she’d shared my dream in the void, a clatter of wheels and frantic shouting interrupted us.
“Now what?” Lilly asked, too weary to be cross.
We went out to the veranda and saw a small wagon being pulled by an excited ox running pell-mell toward the cottage. There was only one ox I knew of that was motivated enough to be “excitable” and only one driver who couldn’t control his ox.
“Who…?” Lilly asked, folding her arms over her chest.
“That would be Dr. Cricket,” I replied.
“Is he going to crash into the cottage?” she asked, eyeing the wall as if more concerned about the potential damage there than any danger the doctor might be in.
“Probably,” I said, for it did seem highly likely. “Or close enough.”
Neither of us thought to
remove ourselves from the potential crash zone, which was a further indication of the depth of our exhaustion. Fortunately for all concerned, especially the wall, the ox had more sense than all of us, for it veered off its suicidal trajectory and halted before us, snorting, stamping and quivering with anticipation.
The tall, thin man sitting all askew in the wagon blinked about as if startled to still be alive or at least in one piece. Once he’d recovered from that shock, he turned his rapidly blinking eyes to us and bowed slightly.
“Mrs. Knight. Mrs. Elkhart,” he said when his labored breathing allowed. He righted himself and tried to appear dignified, which couldn’t have been an easy task with his gangly limbs all awry.
“Dr. Cricket,” I said.
Dr. Cricket was, amongst other things, a pale man: faded strawberry hair; eyes of such light blue as to be nearly colorless; pale skin that, as a result of the equatorial sun, was similar in coloring to his hair. His thin mustache quivered when he spoke, and his eyes blinked with such rapidity as to be unnerving to the observer.
I wondered if the rapid blinking was a nervous twitch caused by his deceased wife. She had been an evil creature who had the appalling habit of inhabiting the minds of young women, with the ultimate purpose of possessing the bodies completely. Having had her in my own for a short while, I had a personal disinclination toward her.
Dr. Cricket was blithely ignorant of all the drama created by his wife, nor did he realize his automaton Liam had been possessed by her spirit.
“Mrs. Knight, I do hope you are somewhat recovered from that attack,” Dr. Cricket spluttered as he tumbled out the wagon. “Lions. Nasty business.”
He bowed again while I thanked him for his concern and reassured him as to my recovery. As I stood there attempting to engage in the conversation, I felt myself wilt as a heavy fatigue took hold.
This won’t do, I thought and shook my head to clear it.
“You still don’t think we should eliminate the vermin?” Dr. Cricket asked, surprised at my forgiving nature, perhaps. “Mrs. Knight, this only demonstrates your tender sensibilities.”
I suppressed a derisive snort, for he clearly didn’t know me and would be stunned if he had an inkling of what I’d like to do with the rest of Koki’s limbs. It certainly wouldn’t be tender, at any rate.
“Well, I suppose I shouldn’t take you away from your recuperation for too long, Mrs. Knight,” he continued. “The moment I heard of your dilemma, I set to work.” He smiled, his pale lips barely visible, and stopped his rapid blinking. “I do believe I’ve made my finest product yet, a stunning success in fact.”
He pulled a small box from off the wagon’s bench and lifted the lid. Lilly gasped and I nearly did too, for in the box was a human hand.
“It looks so real,” Lilly said in a faint voice.
I agreed and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, mind you.
“This is the dress-up hand,” he announced.
“Dress-up?” I asked, not wanting to touch it in case it was real.
“Yes,” Dr. Cricket said, gazing upon his creation with the adoration a mother would bestow upon her newborn baby. “You’ll use this version when you’re required to present yourself to society. I envision in such an instance that you’d wish to dress up the arm, so as not to draw attention to the lack of a hand.”
“Oh,” I said, wondering what society he was referring to, for I couldn’t imagine any in Nairobi that would actually require my presence or care about my hand. Still, I couldn’t fault the man, for he was demonstrating a great deal of magnanimity, creating a hand for a woman who had spurned him.
He sighed deeply. “This one unfortunately is pretty but useless. Still, a masterpiece of imitation, don’t you think? Sadly though, I couldn’t manage to put all the mechanisms required within the skin covering without making the hand look far too big for you. Also the skin kept interfering with some of the gears. So this one is just an empty thing, designed only to look and feel like your original.”
“Whatever do you mean, doctor?” Lilly demanded, expressing my own exasperation at the incomprehensible monologue.
“Oh, didn’t I mention?” Dr. Cricket said with more blinking. “I produced not one, but two hands, each for a different purpose. This is the dress-up version, as I explained, beautiful but that’s it. This however…”
With that, he produced another box. He flipped the lid off with a flourish and held it out to us. Inside was the metal skeleton of a hand, with gears for joints and a series of small keys and buttons at the wrist. The wrist was connected to a leather cuff.
“This however,” he repeated, “is my technological magnum opus, my tour de force. It’s more complex than Liam’s entire arm, or dare I say, his entire body. And so very useful.”
“It’s brilliant,” I gushed, deciding that I preferred the metal hand to the dress-up one.
“You like it then?” Dr. Cricket queried, both flustered and pleased with my praise. “Well, who wouldn’t? Inside the wrist is a drum that is programmed by the keys and buttons. This marvel can imitate many of the movements and actions of your real hand, and I dare say it can perform some of them even better.”
“That’s encouraging,” I said. “Perhaps I should replace both my hands then.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t advise that, Mrs. Knight,” Dr. Cricket said with some consternation. Perhaps he envisioned me chopping off my other hand. “You see, it was very difficult to procure all these intricate parts and pieces.”
“I’ll try to restrain myself then,” I quipped, studying the metal hand. It was a perfect replica of structure and I could imagine it coming to life on its own to tap out a tune on a piano, if we had one.
Something about that image made me shudder, for it reminded me of Liam the automaton with his pigskin covering and his possessed engine.
I squinted at the hand, just in case, but no energy field popped up. Still I was reluctant to touch it.
“It’s the right size,” Lilly said and poked at it. “Why don’t you try it, Bee?”
“Let me have the honor,” Dr. Cricket said, his enthusiasm more than making up for my lack.
“The keys and buttons operate different fingers and functions,” he explained as he fitted the leather cuff over my stub, and tightened it. A couple straps connected the cuff to a small, leather belt he strapped on above my elbow. “Just to ensure the hand doesn’t slip off your arm.”
“We wouldn’t want that,” I murmured. I sounded ungrateful, so I cleared my throat and added a hasty, “Thank you, doctor. That was very thoughtful of you.”
Once I pulled my blouse sleeve down, all that could be seen were the gleaming, metal fingers and some of the keys. While slightly heavier than my real hand, it wasn’t too much so and was comfortable enough, as far as fake limbs went.
“Let’s have a demonstration, shall we?” Dr. Cricket asked and not waiting for any response from me (a wise decision), he twisted a key and pressed a button. The thumb and index finger closed about a pen he offered me.
I stared at the movement, so disconnected from me as to be alien, for there was no sensation of touch.
I fought the urge to rip the hand off. Instead I focused on the sophisticated device. “It really is a marvel of engineering,” I admitted, still unwilling to play with the keys. I was too weary to be open and curious.
That fact alone concerned me more than the loss of a hand. A paranormal investigator’s primary tools are curiosity, an open mind and a vivid imagination. I forced myself to pay attention to the lesson, determined to regain my two lost tools.
Still, it was with relief that I bade Dr. Cricket good day, with assurances I would call on him for any reason at all. Once he and his energetic ox left, I collapsed in a seat and removed the hand. My stub ached where the cuff had rubbed it.
“It’s the best we could do, which is considerably better than a hook or wooden version,” Lilly gently reprimanded me, upon viewing my disconsolate features. “And you’re fortunate M
r. Timmons still holds to his offer of marriage, you know.”
Trust Lilly to focus on the critical issue of matrimony, I thought. Yet I had to admit my cousin’s pragmatic perspective held some value and it snapped me out of my self-pity.
“I suppose if I want bubbly optimism and a pep talk, I should go to Cilla,” I mused.
Lilly said nothing but fixed her gaze out into the garden, her hands covering her stomach.
“What are you going to do about the Professor?” she asked. “He arrives here tomorrow. Unless the railway gets flooded.”
“We should only be so lucky,” I said and sighed, my eyelids quivering with the weight of gravity. “I suppose that depends on what he wants. In the worst case, I’m sure Kam can find a few hungry lions to oblige us.”
“Oh, Bee, you are dreadful,” Lilly said with a giggle.
I didn’t respond, for I’d left the world of coherent conversation behind and had entered a land of lions with metal paws and pigskin hides.
Chapter 15
“Perhaps we can convince him to stay on the train,” Cilla spoke into the silence.
I didn’t entertain any hope in such a happy outcome, but like the others in our group, I refrained from comment and simply watched the tracks that connected Nairobi’s rustic train station to Mombasa and the world.
That I was standing there at all was, I decided, an accomplishment in itself. I’d awoken that morning feeling better than I had since before my flight to West Africa, yet already the mid-morning heat left me yearning to return to Lilly’s cottage.
Mr. Timmons stood beside me, as equally silent and stoic, but with a dangerous gleam in his eyes that left me uneasy. Before we’d arrived at the station to meet the Professor, I’d warned my willful fiancé:
“Mr. Timmons,” I said with some warmth, “I don’t wish to be a witness to any murders in public, if you don’t mind.”
“Then avert your eyes,” he said.
“I mean it, Mr. Timmons,” I rebuked him. “I will not tolerate murder today.”
He shrugged his broad shoulders, his gaze averted from mine. “Self-defense is never murder,” he retorted, which did little to reassure me.
