by Vered Ehsani
“Ah yes,” he sighed. “She is a marvellous creature. I suppose she doesn’t know about our world?”
“No,” I hissed, “and I’m sure she’d be horrified, appalled and flabbergasted as well.”
But he just chuckled at that. “I’m sure you’re mistaken. She’s a most forgiving, openhearted, congenial soul.”
“Are we still discussing about my cousin?” I asked. My head spun and I stared at the pitcher in my hand. Just one hearty smack. That might clear him of this delusion.
He smiled his radiant smile and removed the tray to the table and his head away from the dangerous water jug. I’d lost my opportunity and I was left facing the horrible truth: we’d soon have a bat in the family.
Chapter 18
By the time Pricilla and Mr. Timmons arrived, I was quite put out, what with the whole whir and commotion caused by the great announcement. I lost track of the number of times Mrs. Steward pinched me and demanded, “Isn’t this marvellous, the most delightful bit of news we could ever hope for?”
Tempted as I was to say no, I restrained myself and merely ate another biscuit. I polished off more than half the box on my own.
And then there was Mr. Tiberius Elkhart, the Popobawa.
Several times I caught him scrutinising me, concern flickering across his graceful, caramel-coloured features. If he feared I would reveal his secret, he needn’t have expended his energy on that.
What astounded me was how little concern there was on the part of the Stewards regarding his obvious (in my mind at least) connection to African ancestry. In England, this would’ve been a cause for great gossip and censure, although the Hardinge’s sponsored alibi of frequent beach vacations might have alleviated some suspicion.
But here, in the sparsely populated settlement of Nairobi, with its dearth of eligible bachelors, I suppose the Stewards were determined to believe his excuse and overlook the possible scandal for the sake of his connections and wealth.
And he was remarkably handsome.
Mrs. Steward had just launched into a soliloquy on the benefits of marriage. As I was contemplating how to extract myself from the recital of benefits I no longer enjoyed, nor apparently had any hope of doing so, Jonas appeared at the doorway leading from the kitchen. He nodded at me knowingly and rolled his eyes to the front door. I glanced out the window and saw two horses approaching.
“Oh my, all this excitement. I really must freshen up,” I gushed and darted out the door before anyone could wonder at my interruption.
Before Pricilla and Mr. Timmons could dismount, I grabbed the horses’ reins and led them around the side of the house, out of sight.
“Goodness, what a passion,” Cilla said, staring down at me in amazement.
“You don’t know the half of it,” I said, gesturing for them to sit on a roughly made, wood bench under the shade of a tree. I perched on a large root facing them.
I’d decided that they had to learn the truth about Mr. Elkhart, and so quickly caught them up on the news of the day, ending with, “What to do, Cilla? For now there shall be a paranormal in the family and I daren’t reveal the truth to the Stewards.”
Mr. Timmons scowled while Cilla pointed out (most unhelpfully), “But there already is one: you.”
“Well, hardly,” I spluttered. “I have some unusual abilities, it’s true, but… But he turns into a giant bat, for the sake of all that is unnatural!”
Mr. Timmons and Cilla exchanged a look that, even in my agitated state, I perceived. It was a silent communication of a secretive nature, a knowing of something else that bode no good.
“What?” I demanded.
Cilla began to speak, but hesitated. She glanced at her godfather and it was he who spoke instead, his voice unusually grave. “So you’re not in favour of nonhuman paranormals mingling amongst humans then?”
To be honest, that’s exactly what I meant, and I was about to expound on the point further when I glanced between the two of them. Cilla’s eyes were wet and her lips were quivering.
“Well, no, it’s not… I mean…” I wasn’t sure how to recover from an insult that I hadn’t intended to make. I wasn’t even sure what I’d done to offend them.
“Or perhaps you’re just against marriage with them?” he continued, his voice sharp, his eyes dark storm clouds preparing to strike bolts at me. “That’s rich, coming from a woman who’s married to a ghost.”
I straightened up, squaring my shoulders. “In my defence, I didn’t marry Gideon when he was a ghost. And I don’t quite like the tone you’re taking with me, Mr. Timmons.”
“And I don’t quite like your prejudice, Mrs. Knight,” he snapped, his chin jutting out as if to knock me off my seat with it.
“Enough,” Cilla said, her voice faint. “Bee, there’s something I’ve never told you.” She glanced at Mr. Timmons for support but he was too engrossed in glaring at me. “You see, I’m engaged. Or nearly so, once we sort a few details out.”
“Oh,” I said, smiling although somewhat confused by the dramatic change in topic. “Nearly engaged? How lovely…”
“To a werewolf,” she continued.
“Oh.” I stared at her. The implication of her announcement settled in. “Oh,” I repeated.
“It hasn’t been formalised yet, but that’s our intention,” she said, her eyes downcast.
In the ensuing silence, I could hear Mr. Timmons’ angry breath and Cilla’s sniffles. I thought back to the first meeting I’d had with Cilla and the distinct canine odour that had initially been strong but had faded over time. “Well, that explains the smell,” I mused.
“What?” she asked, looking up at me.
“On the ship,” I hurriedly explained before she misinterpreted my awkward statement. “I detected a doggy smell around you. It faded over time, and now I understand its source.”
I bit my lip, not daring to glance up at Mr. Timmons. The man leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clenched together. I could feel the angry sizzle in his energy.
“But at least you know,” I continued. “Lilly hasn’t a clue these things… people exist.”
“And how is that any concern of yours?” Mr. Timmons demanded, his ire still unspent.
It was a fair argument, but I had my own. “Because eventually she’ll find out. You can’t disguise something like that forever. And when she does, she’ll tell others and endanger all of us.”
Mr. Timmons’ glare shifted to include contempt. “Have you so little an opinion of your cousin and her betrothed as to believe them incapable of managing themselves? Surely Mr. Elkhart has thought this through.”
“And maybe she already knows,” Cilla interjected, her tone softer than usual, trying to mediate between us.
“He’s too infatuated to have thought anything at all. And she can’t possibly know,” I said in a huff.
“Because if she did, she wouldn’t have agreed to marry him?” Mr. Timmons asked, his voice so sharp, it sliced through the air in my lungs. “Really, Mrs. Knight, such prejudice, such a narrow view, coming from you strikes me as hypocritical or, worse, a form of self-hate.”
He rose and I felt the full force of his energy glowering at me, towering overhead as a dark wave preparing to crash about me. “I believe we’ve visited long enough,” he stated. “Let’s be off, Cilla.”
He spun sharply on a heeled boot and stalked toward his horse. Cilla smiled almost in apology – although in hindsight it was I who owed her one – and followed. I rose from my seat and raised a hand, but only Cilla returned the gesture. Mr. Timmons kept his broad, straight back to me.
As they rode away, despair trickled into my very core, for I doubted that Mr. Timmons would easily forgive me. And for some inexplicable reason, that disturbed me very much.
Chapter 19
I vow If I ever marry again – which is as unlikely as snow in Nairobi – I shall have the simplest wedding and save everyone a lot of bother.
I’m sure that sentiment would’ve met with g
reat approval from poor Mr. Steward who had only recently been relieved of bankruptcy. Sadly, his wife and daughter had other ideas on the size and elaborateness of a wedding.
Barely a week had passed since the great announcement and all I listened to, day in and day out, was the wedding preparations and flowery praise for the groom.
As for the groom: to his credit, Mr. Elkhart refrained from transforming into a bat and carrying me away to the departing ship. Or perhaps he was waiting for the right opportunity, not wishing to inconvenience the Stewards with my disappearance so soon before the nuptials.
Lilly and Mrs. Steward were unbearable. Mr. Steward escaped into his office while Bobby went to wherever twelve-year-olds disappear to in times like these. I was not so fortunate, by dint of my gender. Instead, I was pressed upon to render advice on gowns and hors d’oeuvres and all other manner of useless trivia.
I wrote a few times to Cilla, imploring her to visit and save my sanity, or at least provide me an excuse to escape the constant nuisance of wedding details. Each time, a polite excuse arrived, written in her tidy script. After the third such response, I ceased my efforts at reviving our friendship and gave up all hope in socialising with her and her cantankerous godfather.
With all this, it’s a wonder I didn’t grow listless and despondent, as many might’ve done in my circumstance. Fortunately, my robust constitution doesn’t allow for such drama.
Nonetheless, it was providential that at this juncture, Gideon Knight – my dead husband and resident of a stolen automaton – made his re-entry into my story.
Chapter 20
“How’s the demonic possession treating you?” I asked.
Nelly snorted and belched, which was her horsey way of displaying affection, or so Jonas had informed me. That could be true in his case, but I was less than convinced that Nelly held me in as high regard. After all, I made her work, an activity she was loathe to do unless by ‘work’ was meant eating and sleeping. Galloping across the savannah in search of renegade lions was not appreciated.
I patted her nose and offered her a carrot. Her eyes lit up – literally, for they glowed phosphorescent – and she chomped down the treat, nearly devouring my fingers in the process.
Apart from the glowing eyes, the nag looked remarkably fit for one in her precarious condition. In fact, she was more energetic than ever.
“Alright, Bright Eyes, let’s see what’s really happening.” I narrowed my eyes and observed a most peculiar phenomenon: Nelly’s energy was shimmering pink (I’m not sure what that means for a horse, but it looked healthy), while the serpentine spirit had shrivelled up greatly. Its angry hiss was considerably weakened.
If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say that Nelly was draining the energy of her possessor.
“Which of course isn’t possible,” I informed the horse who, unconcerned with my expert opinion, produced another gaseous release and resumed eating.
“Charming,” I muttered.
“You want to ride, Miss?”
I didn’t spin around or gasp. I’m certain that was Jonas’ intent, for he seemed to derive some enjoyment from sneaking up on me.
I yawned. “Yes, Jonas, I believe I shall.”
With a scowl – Jonas and Nelly were a pair, for sure – he limped to the stall and prepared the horse. I wandered over to the ox, which hadn’t been named and still seemed apprehensive around his possessed neighbour. I patted his soft nose.
“Jonas, have you ever noticed something odd about Nelly’s eyes?” I asked, lightly swinging my walking stick. I couldn’t assume everyone else would be able to see the glow, and Jonas was the safest person to ask, as he had a fair idea about reality in all its diversity.
He glanced at me as he stuffed the bit into Nelly’s mouth; she snapped at his fingers in return.
“Yes, Miss Knight,” he said with some reluctance. “Sometimes, it looks like there’s a lantern inside her empty head.”
Well, that complicated things. I’d prefer if the Stewards didn’t see our horse’s newfound talent for lighting up her head. The bronze metal fist atop my stick glittered with the reflected light.
The moment I sat on Nelly’s back, I felt it. This was not the weary little horse who would literally fall asleep while walking if not constantly prodded, who could plod within a few dozen yards of a pride of lions without flinching and instead start snoozing before I was out of the saddle.
No indeed. This possessed Nelly was very much awake. Her head bobbed up, her ears twitched. She stomped at the straw and chomped at the bit.
“Miss Knight, there’s something else,” Jonas said, his tone as cautious as if he was approaching a snake. “Nelly, she’s…”
I didn’t hear the rest of that sentence, for with a flick of her tail, Nelly sprung into an all-out gallop. My hat flew off and my head almost joined it. With some effort, I pulled myself upright and grasped at the reins, yanking at them, but Nelly had the bit firmly locked between her teeth. It was obvious who was in charge of this ride.
Once we cleared the barn and what we jokingly referred to as our garden, the flatulent little horse flattened her ears, stretched out her neck and put forth a burst of speed I didn’t think possible in a horse, especially this one. My eyes filled with tears, while strands of hair pulled free of my bun. On either side of me, colours blurred and streaked but I was too focused on breathing through the torrent of air rushing over me to care for the view.
I tugged and yanked at the reins, screamed at the horse, threatened her with all sorts of dire consequences (most of which involved hungry lions) and cursed Jonas for offering to saddle her. Had he known? Was this a prank he’d tell the entire camp about, gloating as he described my futile efforts to control my mount?
I decided he would join Nelly in her fate, whatever that might be and particularly if it involved feeding large carnivores.
The ridiculous fact was that I couldn’t quite remember why I’d wanted to ride in the first place. Was cross-stitching with the Steward ladies really such a terrible pastime?
We were almost upon the ravine where we’d trapped Kam’s renegade, shape-shifting niece when Nelly slowed to a sedate walk. I yanked at the reins and she halted.
“It’s about time, wretched beast,” I grumbled as I slid off.
Nelly snorted and tore at a clump of grass. Her appetite certainly hadn’t been diminished by the serpent. I flopped down and allowed the tall, dry grass to hide me. All manner of life buzzed, chirped, whistled and tweeted about me, but nothing more hostile than a bee dodged amongst the wild flowers. Amidst this peacefulness, I could for a moment forget I was friendless in a foreign land.
A drowsy haze settled over me along with the dust, pollen and heat. As I had nothing else to preoccupy my time just then, and I didn’t relish returning to the wedding frenzy at home, I succumbed to the invitation to sink back into the warm embrace of grass and earth. My eyes folded shut.
When they opened again, it was in a memory-induced dream. Even though I recognised it for what it was, my heart thumped spastically in dreaded anticipation, my lungs clenched around a mouthful of cold air.
“Wake up,” I ordered myself but my stubborn mind remained trapped in my parents’ winter-frosted garden, a lead-coloured sky capping a damp silence over the land. I had my back to their house and stood facing the forest, a forbidden place where even darker memories lurked, eager to drag me into the same fate as Drew.
“Beatrice?”
I turned to one side. A small boy stood there, his face dominated by a pair of large eyes.
“Andrew? Is it really you, Drew?” I said, relieved to see my brother again, but how was he here? He was supposed to be dead but the hand that took hold of mine was solid and warm. He was smaller and younger than the last time I’d seen him alive.
“Don’t you remember when this is?” he asked, as if reading my confusion.
My heart sped up – such a foolish response, for it was just a dream of a very old memory – and my lungs shrunk
and tightened until I could barely gasp at the icy air.
“We were playing by the fish pond,” Drew continued. “It was almost cold enough for ice to form.”
As he spoke the words, the scene shifted slightly, and we were kneeling beside a small, rock-lined pond my father had designed. Large fish floated amongst a few plants that had survived the cold snap. A weeping willow’s graceful branches hovered over us, as if to protect us from any disturbance from above.
But the forest lurked nearby.
“Make it stop, Drew,” I whispered. “I want to wake up. Now.”
Drew peered into the pond, dropping bits of bread onto the surface. Fish swarmed beneath his fingers, gulping at the offerings.
“Look, a puppy,” he said, as if he didn’t know what was about to happen.
I followed his pointing finger until my gaze settled on the golden glare of a large dog. I marvelled at that colour, so similar to my own.
What a strange observation, I thought just as I said, “No.”
“What’s wrong, Beatrice?” Drew asked, his voice deeper than was possible.
I turned to face him, but he was gone. The dog stood there in his place, teeth bared. I hoped Drew had run away.
The dog pounced, its nuzzle smacking the side of my head, its teeth ripping at my ear. I screamed as blood splattered on my cheek, wondering how painful death would be. The dog however seemed more intent on knocking my head around.
I woke up as Nelly licked the side of my face.
I pushed her head away and felt for my right ear. The puncture marks created by the stray dog years ago were all the reminder I needed of those strange times. So why should I dream about it now?
“Or maybe there’s no reason,” I scolded myself as I patted my hair. “It’s just part of the randomness of life, just like the dog biting my ear.”
Carefully I covered the mangled ear with a lock of hair, as I was accustomed to do. Nelly pushed her moist nose against my shoulder and whinnied.
