by Vered Ehsani
“What is it now?” I snapped, as if my past was all her fault.
Crack.
My eyes opened fully and I stared in the direction of the snapping branch, or perhaps it had been a bone. All I saw was tall grass.
Nelly snorted, fully vindicated, and chewed at my hair. I pushed my head and torso up, leaning back on my elbows, and peered through the vegetation. A lion? A giant bat?
Rustle.
It was closer and not particularly stealthy, which eliminated the possibility of a lion. Dry ground crunched, grass swished, steam hissed and a door creaked open.
That can’t be right, I told myself as I pulled my walking stick loose and eased into a squat. But that was exactly what it sounded like: hinges in need of oil.
I glanced at Nelly, but there was no support from that corner. Having woken me and alerted me to the approaching whatever-it-was, she had resumed eating with great rapidity, as if in preparation for another flight across the land. I contemplated leaping onto the saddle and galloping away, but I’m not the leaping sort.
Instead I opted for the element of surprise. Preparing to swing the bronze fist at the head of whatever creature was unlucky to be standing nearby (Nelly excluded), I pushed myself upright and started to swirl the stick at…
“Liam?” I gasped and pulled my stick back before I could knock one of the pig-skinned ears off the automaton’s head.
The man of steel stared at me with glass eyes that were eerily real, as if there was in fact a real spark of intelligence behind them. But of course, I now knew that there was.
“Gideon,” I said, a smile easing the tension off my face. “Thank all that is holy, where have you been?”
Its dark, once elegant suit was torn, muddy and covered in bits of shrub and burrs. The pigskin that covered the metal frame wasn’t quite as rosy and clean as it had once been. The automaton raised an arm; its hand had been bitten and through the tear in the skin I could see the glint of a metal rod.
“Gideon, come out of that body at once, and tell me what happened,” I ordered, trying for a commanding pose but not feeling overly commanding.
Liam / Gideon took a squeaky step closer, and I took one back.
“Did you attack Mr. Adams?” I asked, clutching the stick close to my chest while stroking the fist. How hard would I have to swing it in order to dent Liam’s metal head? “You do realise he’s deceased, don’t you? They’re having a bother of a time finding a replacement. It would seem the post of Camp Superintendent isn’t so desirable anymore. Something about a high mortality rate and not enough hazard pay.”
There was still no response. This was understandable, given Dr. Cricket hadn’t had a chance to install a voice box into his creation before the metal man was stolen away. Still, Gideon could just pop out for a chat, rather than let me continue nattering to myself.
“Gideon?” I couldn’t decide if I should be cross or worried.
The automaton’s eyes glimmered – a reflection, I reassured myself – and it raised the other arm. The hands clenched and unclenched as it lumbered toward me. A puff of steam belched from its nose.
I narrowed my eyes and immediately saw Gideon hiding inside. “I see you in there,” I said. “Stop being so tedious and come out this instant.”
Gideon’s ghostly form wiggled inside the automaton, his lips forming a single word that he mouthed several times.
“Help?” I repeated. “Don’t be absurd. How can I help you? You’re the one who most likely caused Mr. Adams’ early demise, but I wouldn’t fuss overly. They can’t exactly hang a dead man for the crime, now can they? So you’re perfectly safe, even if perfectly horrid for doing it.”
Gideon shook his head so violently I thought it would fly off, which would have been more unfortunate than dying in the first place. There’s nothing quite so pathetic as a headless ghost.
As I pondered that miserable notion and mused over Gideon’s odd behaviour, I noticed another glowing form in the automaton.
“Goodness, what a crowded place that tin man is becoming,” I said as I dodged the outstretched arms and grasping hands.
The second, indistinct glow surrounded what Dr. Cricket had referred to as the heart of Liam: the engine that drove the machine into life-like animation. I couldn’t see further details, so I pressed a secret knob on the walking stick. A small drawer popped out and I fumbled for my multi-lensed spectacles. I shifted lenses up and down until the glow’s blurry edges clarified into the form of a woman, her back to me, her hands firmly fixed around Gideon’s neck.
“Gideon, well, I never…” I gasped, amazed that a dead man could be unfaithful. Not to mention that she was a rather peculiar choice for a mistress, given that she seemed intent on strangling him. Perhaps that was why he couldn’t speak. “Now listen up, you brazen hussy. Remove your hands from my husband this instant.”
The ghostly woman spun slowly about, not releasing Gideon who continued mouthing Help. Long tresses of hair obscured her face until, with a firm twitch of her head, she flung them back.
We stared at each other, this other woman and myself. After the initial shock of seeing my husband (albeit dead) with another woman (also deceased) had subsided, I realised through my dismay and disappointment that there was something familiar about her. This realisation of course only made the betrayal harder to bear.
“It’s not that I don’t want you to move on,” I said, trying to keep the vinegar out of my voice, “but at least you could have… And stop shaking your head at me, you miserable miscreant!”
Gideon kept up the shaking and the lady ghost smiled. Then it dawned on me. “Mrs. Cricket?”
The smile proceeded to widen until her mouth was a gaping slash connecting both dainty ears.
“How very unbecoming,” I pointed out. “Gids, could I have a word with you please? Preferably out here, since it’s far too cramped in there for my liking.”
Gideon seemed on the verge of asphyxiating, which wasn’t possible considering he didn’t need to breathe in the first place. He waved his hands at me and mouthed another word.
“What?” I asked, thoroughly vexed by the one-sided conversation, and removed the spectacles. Mrs. Cricket faded into an unsubstantial glow, which allowed me to see my deceitful husband with greater clarity.
Go, he mouthed. Run.
I was so distracted in deciphering Gideon’s silent speech that I failed to realise how close the automaton was. It lurched another step, and its outstretched hands skimmed across my arms. Even through the long sleeves of my blouse, I could feel the pigskin-tipped fingers grasping at me.
“Dear Mrs. Cricket, I believe I must bid you good day, for I’ve overstayed my visit,” I said as I stumbled backwards. I reached for Nelly, but the impossibly obstinate little beast had wandered off, munching contentedly and utterly unconcerned about my precarious situation.
I lifted my skirt and trotted toward her. Behind me came the creak, snort, hiss and clunk of the automaton formerly known as Liam and now possessed by two spirits (as if one were not already far too much). I didn’t believe the steel man could move with any speed, but when hot steam tickled the back of my neck, I cursed. Clearly I had underestimated the power of a possessed, steam-powered automaton.
“Why,” I grumbled as my trot shifted into a run, “am I constantly surrounded by possessed creatures?”
The other creature in question raised her muzzle from the clump of grass she was demolishing and nickered. I was certain it was her equestrian version of a laugh at the sight of me being chased across the savannah by an automaton.
“A pox on all of you,” I said as I tucked my walking stick under my arm, grabbed at the reins, stuffed a boot into a stirrup and pulled myself up. Something pulled at my dress and I began to slip back. I glanced into a set of glowing eyes and another hand reaching for my waist.
“Bugger off,” I yelled, pulled my stick free and thumped the doubly possessed Liam on the head with the bronze-coated steel fist.
The st
rike didn’t knock the thing into oblivion – as such a thump would surely have done to any lesser head – but it did give Liam reason to pause. That was more than enough for me to heave myself over the saddle, with a tearing of fabric, but not enough for me to sit upright. Instead I remained half slung over the horse. Nelly lurched forward and my stomach flopped onto the saddle.
Normally I place dignity above all else, but occasional exceptions must be made, as in the case of survival. So in that most undignified position and with no time to spare, I smacked Nelly with the stick along her ample rump and clung to the stirrup dangling below my nose.
Nelly bounded forward with that supernatural speed of hers, and it was all I could manage to cling on. Breathing was out of the question initially, but as it is required for the continuation of life, I did my best to do so. I had lost hold of the reins and could only hope that Nelly’s stomach would eventually overpower her legs, forcing a cessation of one of the worst rides ever.
To my mortification, it was not food that stopped my horse, but something else entirely.
Chapter 21
Lying across a saddle with one’s stomach bouncing on leather, one’s head smacking against a metal stirrup buckle and one’s bottom the most visible portion of one’s body is hardly a fitting way to ride a horse.
To my everlasting humiliation, it was not a stomach but a man that halted Nelly’s energetic dash across the grasslands. And as the fates would dictate, it wasn’t any man but the one man I would never wish to meet under such circumstances.
“Mrs. Knight?” a polite enquiry followed the abrupt halt in motion.
Nelly didn’t waste any time and before I’d finished raising my head and pushing hair off my face, she was already engrossed in consuming all the grass in the area. The first item that I laid eyes on was another horse. While the paranormal community incorporates all sorts, I was fairly confident that a talking horse was not in its membership. I raised my head further to find a man.
“Mr. Timmons,” I said in weary acknowledgement, as calm and contained as one could sound while draped across a saddle. My cheeks flushed, although that could just as well have been a response to hanging head down for so long.
His severe expression was somewhat mollified by the twitch at the corner of his lips as he strove not to smile.
“That is a most novel mode of horse-riding, Mrs. Knight, if you don’t mind my saying,” he said as he dismounted and took up Nelly’s reins. “A new fashion from the old country?”
I pushed and pulled myself into an approximation of an upright pose and stared hard at him. “I very much mind you saying so, Mr. Timmons, but it doesn’t matter much what I mind, for you are bound to say what you please.”
I sniffed and realised to my horror that I was on the brink of a tearful moment which, while perfectly suitable for an Englishwoman given the situation, was not acceptable for an investigator of the Society for Paranorals & Curious Animals.
Mr. Timmons must have also noticed the dangerous levels of moisture in my eyes, for his countenance softened slightly and he reached a hand toward my quivering ones.
“I’d be most grateful if you could pass up those reins,” I blurted out, for surely his compassion would be almost as unbearable as his ridicule.
He did so, keeping one hand on the bridle in case Nelly took it into her head to race off (which was an unlikely possibility, given how industriously she was eating). As I took up the reins, our eyes met and I marvelled at the difficulty of looking elsewhere.
“How’s Cilla?” I asked to fill in the awkward moment, wishing he’d release the bridle and allow me to speedily depart.
“Fine.” The firm line of his mouth relaxed into a slight smile. “So how did you happen upon such an ingenious and unique riding style?”
It was remarkable in hindsight that I experienced relief, rather than exasperation or humiliation. Why I should be grateful that Mr. Timmons was conversing with me was a topic I dared not consider too closely. Lest we forget, the man was still a rascal and a thief to boot, with his power to manipulate and absorb the energy of another.
“The automaton…” I began.
“You found Gideon?” Mr. Timmons demanded, his eyes sharpening.
“Not really,” I said, fiddling with the reins. Oh why couldn’t he just let me go? And why was I reluctant to leave? “He found me. Or rather, his new friend did.”
I explained what I’d seen, glad to have a conversational partner after the last several days of seclusion from any intelligent dialogue. It had been an isolation imposed by wedding plans and, if I must admit it, my own callousness.
During my recital, Mr. Timmons had mounted his horse and started us moving at a sedate pace back to camp. He remained silent for some time after my recital, mulling over my story perhaps. His unkempt eyebrows scrunched together as they did when he was in deep thought.
“What,” he finally said, “is Mrs. Cricket doing in Liam?”
While I thought the more pertinent question was what she wanted with my dead husband, I had developed a partial theory that might answer his query.
“Dr. Cricket mentioned to me…” I paused, “It was in the strictest of confidence mind you, so please don’t share these details.”
I looked over at Mr. Timmons, who nodded his head, so I continued. “He told me that at the time she died, he’d been constructing the heart of the engine for Liam. It was a complex mechanism that would rely not only on the standard wind-up gears most automatons have to motorise them, but also a small steam component.”
Thus far were the facts. I took a deep breath before launching into my theory. “Since she died while he was engrossed in that project, she might have directed her unhappiness at the heart and somehow remained there by force or otherwise. This would explain why the heart worked beyond the doctor’s expectations and beyond probability. Her energy helps animate it.”
I paused and waited for Mr. Timmons’ response.
“Hm,” he said. “An interesting theory and quite possible too.”
I beamed, thrilled he approved of the theory, and then I forced the foolish expression away. Really, Lilly’s ridiculous pre-wedding exuberance was exhibiting an unhealthy influence on me.
Nelly seemed content to plod along and in the silence she belched and burped. Fortunately Mr. Timmons was too engrossed in his thoughts to comment (or perhaps too polite, but that didn’t match his personality). He didn’t take the path to camp but instead continued up the road with me. I wondered what other topic I could raise to continue the conversation.
Too soon the opportunity passed as we neared the house. Mrs. Steward and Lilly were seated on the veranda, sipping tea and plotting no doubt on how best to match the table linen to the bridesmaids’ dresses or some such nonsense.
“Thank you, Mr. Timmons,” I said with more warmth than was needed for the occasion. “And please pass my greetings to Cilla, won’t you?”
He tipped his hat toward me, cordially waved to the ladies staring at us and turned back toward camp, leaving me wondering if Cilla would indeed hear the message and when I might next expect another conversation with her godfather.
Chapter 22
While Mrs. Cricket and Mr. Timmons had succeeded in momentarily distracting me from the impending marriage between my cousin and a bat man, the inevitable day was soon upon me. And by that, I mean the day I sat Mr. Elkhart down and explained why he couldn’t in good conscious marry a human girl. I was assuming of course that a Popobawa even had a conscience.
I had been watching for an opportunity for some time, fretting that his efforts to avoid me would be as successful as Cilla’s. One afternoon, Mrs. Steward invited her future son-in-law to dine with us. The obscenely happy couple sat at one end of the table, whispering whatever nonsense such people whisper about. Mr. Steward arrived late, followed by Jonas who was carrying a package almost as large as he was.
“Eh, bwana,” the little gardener grunted, making a show of how big the parcel was. “I put it
here, yes?”
Mr. Steward waved a hand, indicating acquiescence. “Well, here’s a special delivery, it seems,” he announced with little joy, for by ‘special’, he of course meant ‘expensive’.
Mrs. Steward and Lilly simultaneously jumped up, squealing with considerable delight and energy. “It’s arrived,” Lilly said. “Oh, let’s go try it on.”
She directed that comment to her mother, who was more than obliging. Without another word, the two ladies whisked the package away from Jonas and disappeared into Lilly’s room.
“Well, that’s them gone for a while,” Mr. Steward said with some relief. He collected a plate of food and retreated into his office.
Jonas for his part shook his head in disgust. “All this commotion and no goats being offered.” He left, muttering something about stupid European marriage customs.
All of that transpired with such rapidity that Mr. Elkhart had no opportunity to formulate an excuse, and before he could, I took up the chair previously occupied by his fiancée.
“When do you plan on telling her what you are?” I demanded, quite certain he hadn’t already, for surely she would have broken off the engagement.
My tone was purposefully provocative, for I hoped to irritate him. Perhaps he would in a moment of anger transform into his bat form. If he did, I’d scream, Lilly would come running into the scene, and the problem would resolve itself.
As if plucking that ludicrous and improbable image out of my mind, Mr. Elkhart laughed, lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and said, “My dear Mrs. Knight, you fuss far too much over this. Paranormals and humans have married in the past and successfully navigated the complexities of such a union. I may not even need to tell her.”
I clucked in irritation. “Please, you think she wouldn’t notice a giant bat flapping around the house? And what if,” and I shuddered at this thought, “what if you happen to have offspring? If one should inherit your ability – a very likely possibility – the mother would most certainly notice that.”
