by Vered Ehsani
Before I let my breath out and faster than the time it took for me to process the situation, I pushed the index and middle fingernails of the metal fist atop my walking stick, all while swinging around, the blade flicking out of the bottom end of the stick with a wicked swish.
The Popobawa hissed at me.
“That’s uncalled for,” I snapped, the blade still pointed at the beast. “And you’re bloody fortunate to still retain your ugly head between your wings.”
The great black head in question waved back and forth.
“Well, it most certainly is rude,” I replied. “What sort of gentleman sneaks around and hisses at people.” I refrained from admitting that I secretly marvelled at the silence with which the bat man had snuck about.
A large, leathery wing gestured toward the table with the journal, while the eyes glittered at me knowingly.
“If you want to put it that way, I came here to find Dr. Cricket,” I said, determinedly ignoring a sound that was suspiciously close to a chuckle, if bats could indeed chuckle.
“Are you going to remain in that…” I waved at him. “That form all day? For I find this game of charades rather tiresome.”
The wings snapped against the furry body and a gush of musky air engulfed me. Bones snapped, crackled and popped. Fur blended into riding pants and a dark brown jacket, while the jagged teeth shrunk into the pleasant mouth of Mr. Elkhart.
“And is he here?” Mr. Elkhart asked.
“Who?” I asked, distracted by his charming features.
“Dr. Cricket,” he said, his eyes twinkling, for surely he knew better, else why would he have entered as a giant bat?
“Oh, him.” I shook my head to rid myself of foolish notions regarding winged men and white dresses. “No, it would appear not, as you already surmised.”
I paused, inviting him with silence to answer as well.
He obliged me. “Mr. Timmons mentioned to me your encounter with Mrs. Cricket.”
My eyebrows rose. “I wasn’t aware you were so closely acquainted with Mr. Timmons.”
Mr. Elkhart shrugged – only he could make such a mundane motion into an act of grace – and said with a casualness I didn’t lend credence to, “Our families share a history. Did you glean any titbits of interest?” He again nodded at the journal.
I frowned, my mind caught up in “shared history”. “Not much but that he appeared more moved by the flowers in his garden than by the death of his wife. Oh, and he had an interest in a serial killer. Or at least in the news about it.”
Mr. Elkhart’s expression darkened and I was reminded of one of the dismal truths of my existence: through the course of my profession, I had been overly exposed to some of the foulest behaviours that could be found amongst humans and paranormals alike; now, very little could perturb me much anymore.
While most readers of that particular news article would have, no doubt, shrunk back in horror at even the limited descriptions disclosed, I merely brushed them aside as if reading a gossip column. In fact, I’d probably find the gossip more abhorrent.
“Let me see,” he ordered and was by my side with a preternatural speed.
While he read, I glanced outside but still there was no sign of the suddenly mysterious Dr. Cricket.
“It’s as Mr. Timmons and I suspected,” Mr. Elkhart said finally, with a heavy sigh.
“What?” I couldn’t rein in the sharp edge to my words, for Mr. Timmons had not hinted at any theories to me.
“What do you note regarding the identity of the victims?” Mr. Elkhart asked, his gaze still fixed on the newspaper clipping.
I breathed out sharply, for I didn’t much appreciate the superior tone. He must’ve taken note of my irritation, for he turned to me and explained, “All the victims were young women.”
I shrugged, less gracefully than him for certain. “There is nothing unusual about that, Mr. Elkhart. Most murder victims are young women.”
“No, I suppose you’re correct.” He stared at me thoughtfully, no doubt marvelling at my cold-hearted response.
“And what did you and Mr. Timmons suspect?” I demanded.
He held up the newsprint. “These women’s deaths all have something else in common, a rather unique aspect.”
“The police couldn’t find any trace of the murderer at the scene,” I said. “But that too is hardly surprising really. An expert killer could take care to leave no evidence behind.”
“That’s quite true,” he admitted. “But it would take a magician to break into a family home, enter the victim’s room, mutilate and murder the girl, and exit without any other occupant being the wiser. No noise was made, no lock broken, no trace at all that any other human had been in the house.”
“I had noted that oddity,” I said, “but how does this relate to Dr. Cricket?”
“Mrs. Cricket took possession of a mechanical item within a short duration after death,” Mr. Elkhart said, his body relaxed but his eyes sharp with tension. “Assuming of course that we’re correct in our notion that it is her spirit animating Dr. Cricket’s famous engine.”
I nodded, for I could ascertain the direction of his thoughts. “That would require quite a bit of psychic power.”
“Or practice.” Mr. Elkhart nodded toward the news article and then glanced at me.
We stared at each other, and I almost experienced horror but didn’t; a morbid fascination prevented that more primal emotion from taking ascendency. “So while alive, she was able to leave her body, take over those women and cause them to murder themselves?”
“Yes,” Mr. Elkhart stated. “Or at least, I presume so. I believe she was developing her power to exert full control over a host.”
“Dr. Cricket mentioned to me that his wife had a degenerative muscle disease,” I mused. “I could well imagine her interest in moving to a healthier body.”
“Exactly,” Mr. Elkhart concurred. “Now that she’s dead, her interest in such matters has naturally increased.”
On a professional level, I admitted I was impressed with the lady’s abilities. “So what is she doing with Liam then? And my husband?”
“She’s not interested in either one of them,” he responded. “She’s been waiting.”
Now a tinge of horror wormed its way through my professional veneer. “For a young woman she can invade,” I concluded.
“Yes,” and his eyes had lost their spark, his countenance as grim as if he was pronouncing a death sentence. “And assuming she would want another European body, she now has not just one but three to chose from. Mr. Timmons’ niece, your cousin, and you, Mrs. Knight.”
Chapter 24
If Mr. Elkhart was correct – and I could think of no reason to suppose otherwise – then Lilly, Cilla and I were faced with certain danger from a psychotic spirit.
For my part, I had few concerns. Having survived sufficient encounters with all sorts of near-death situations and the nasty beasties that accompanied them, I was well accustomed to being under threat. I was likewise confident of my ability to successfully extract myself from such peril.
Mr. Elkhart and I were unanimous in our desire to inform Cilla of the current affair. With Mr. Timmons on hand, I was fairly comfortable that she too would have a reasonable chance at escaping possession. After all, Mr. Timmons wasn’t lacking in psychic power and could well take care of his niece.
“But we can’t let Lilly know,” I said as we hurried back to my abode. “She’s wholly unaware of these matters and would believe we were teasing her. Besides, she’s out with Mrs. Steward at the store, hoping there will be something worthy of purchase.”
“First thing’s first,” Mr. Elkhart said, leading his horse at a ground-eating pace over the dry clay soil, through the bushes and shrubs. Overhead, branches of nearby flame trees overlapped in places, forming a canopy that did little to block the noonday sun or the film of dust that floated up from our boots. “Once we acquire your mount, we’ll go at once to Mr. Timmons and discuss the matter further.”<
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While I was reluctant to attempt a ride on Nelly, I was loathe to walk in this heat all the way into camp. To top it all off, this was a matter of urgency. As the horse was the lesser evil by far, I quickly saddled her, Jonas having absconded from the workplace the moment he spied us climbing the hill toward the house.
While Nelly bounced and pranced about in between bodily eruptions, she managed to restrain herself from plunging pell-mell down to camp. At a reasonably tolerable canter, we entered town and made for Mr. Timmons’ cabin at the edge of the construction camp. He was sitting outside on his small patio, and stood upon our arrival. Mr. Elkhart wasted no time in apprising him of the latest development.
“So it is as we feared,” Mr. Timmons mused, not seeming overly concerned. Then again, Mrs. Cricket wasn’t interested in taking over the body of a man, particularly one so unfashionably attired. She was a woman of taste, or so I’d gathered from her photo.
“It seems so,” Mr. Elkhart said, his forehead crunched up in concern.
“Where’s Cilla?” I asked. I peered past Mr. Timmons’ broad shoulders into the house.
“At the village,” Mr. Timmons answered, still not fussed.
The village referred to a collection of mud and thatch huts housing several native families, about twenty minutes fast ride from camp.
“Well then, we’d best fetch her from there at once,” I said. “And Mr. Elkhart can go to the general store and accompany Lilly and her mother home.”
“Do you feel it necessary?” Mr. Timmons said. “Surely Mrs. Cricket wouldn’t attack amidst a populated area and in daylight.”
I reflected back to the news article and to the sight of Mrs. Cricket’s terrible, face-splitting grin. I nodded my head firmly and noted Mr. Elkhart’s similar motion.
“Better to be paranoid than dead or otherwise inconvenienced,” I advised.
With that, there was little more to be discussed. Mr. Elkhart at once departed, no doubt relieved he would soon be by the side of his betrothed. While I waited for Mr. Timmons to fetch his horse, I gazed around the tented camp.
Most people were away, working on the railway line, but a few people meandered amongst the dusty canvas, going about their business in a leisurely fashion, the dry heat not encouraging speedy action.
The occupants of the tents were Indian men, brought by the British to build the railway, the Africans having far better things to do than work for the strange white men. At least, that’s how Jonas described the situation. Mr. Steward had another theory: the Indians were experienced workers, and over 320,000 had been employed to lay the rails; Africans were hired when necessary to clear the path of bush, wildlife and other obstructions.
Above the tented town, a pair of African kites lazily glided on the breeze. As I watched, one of the kites swept down to snatch at a little weaver bird. The bit of dried grass the weaver had been carrying back to its nest floated forlornly downward.
I looked away and checked that the lock of hair was covering my tattered right ear, for a breeze had teased a few tendrils of hair out of my bun. I breathed it in (the breeze, not the hair): golden grass, burning wood, earth, horse, dung, sweat, ozone.
Frowning, I glanced up at the sky, blue and unblemished, an intensity of pure colour that was near impossible to envision back home in London. I sniffed again, my highly perceptive olfactory senses quivering. There was no mistaking the scent of rain: cool, clear, clean and sharp, it lingered with a tantalising promise of relief from dust and heat.
I swivelled about and gazed past tents toward the horizon far across the plains, its grandeur shrinking a herd of elephants into an insignificant smudge against a land and sky that was far superior in size and might.
At that distant, sharp edge, where land collided with sky, a giant, dark, nebulous fist gripped the terrain, shaped like a coal-coloured heart. More clouds bloomed around it, oozing out of the depths of the earth. Barely discernable slates of water connected earth to cloud, solid sheets of liquid.
“That’s quite the storm,” Mr. Timmons murmured nearby.
“I thought this was the dry season,” I said. “Not that I’m complaining. A little moisture wouldn’t go amiss.”
Mr. Timmons chuckled. “You’ll have more than a little moisture,” he promised. “Even in the dry season, we occasionally receive a taste of the rains and you might just have cause to complain. Come, we don’t have much time.”
With that, he swung up onto his saddle and set off at a fair clip, not slowing down for the camp residents but expecting them to remove themselves from his path. Nelly happily kept pace.
“Your nag is somewhat altered,” he noted as we cleared the last tent.
“She devoured a serpent spirit,” I said in way of explanation, positioning my sunhat more firmly over my bitten ear.
Mr. Timmons glanced quizzically at Nelly, who cheerfully belched back.
“I see her manners remain unimproved.” With that, he spurred his mount forward. Although taller and longer legged, it was no match for my paranormally enhanced nag who effortlessly cantered alongside.
As fortune would have it, the village lay in the direction of the oncoming storm, hidden behind a distant rise topped with a cluster of thorn trees. The fist had morphed into a colossal bruise, painful purple at its centre and grey along the edges.
As we neared the trees, a wind rich with the scent of ozone and earth snatched at my hair, smacked my face and tugged at my overcoat. A moist film cooled my cheeks but not half as much as the abrupt obliteration of the sun by a steel grey cloud that hung too low to the ground. Darkness lay heavy on the land, silencing all but the clip of the horses’ hooves against the hard ground.
The wind strengthened, heavy with rain and warning. I clutched at the reins, about to ask Mr. Timmons why he was veering into the cluster of trees when the entire sky before us shattered into a sheet of blinding white light that vanished just as abruptly, leaving me momentarily blind save for spots. Nelly squealed and Mr. Timmons grabbed at her bridle, holding firm just as a set of ginormous, invisible cymbals crashed overhead.
Before I could yank at the reins to steer me away from Mr. Timmons’ grasp, we reached the trees. He pulled both horses to a nervous standstill.
“Why are we stopping?” I demanded as he slid off and led the horses to the centre of the small grove. The eerie false night laid heavy about, but with no stars to brighten the gloom.
“The rain’s about to commence,” he said, unperturbed by the sharpness of my tone, and gestured to me to dismount, although he didn’t offer me assistance to that end.
Likely as he knows I may not accept it, I thought, although I was grateful when he laid down his jacket on a log and invited me to join him there.
“What’s a bit of rain?” I challenged him. “Surely we’re not going to melt with it.”
He smiled at that. “No, but we could well drown.”
I glanced at him, but there was no teasing twinkle in his expression.
“It’s been a long dry season and this is a heavy rain coming,” he explained. “Ideal conditions for flash floods. Besides, our horses won’t like it out there.”
As if to confirm that, Mr. Timmons’ horse reared slightly, its eyes rolling about. Nelly burped and began chomping on a clump of weedy flowers. Ever since her encounter with the serpent spirit, she’d developed a predilection for consuming all flowers within reach.
I glanced skyward to view what manner of shelter the trees would provide. The thorn trees’ branches were interwoven, criss-crossing overhead with scant leaves but enough branches to keep the worst of it off, although I couldn’t imagine it would help overly much.
“Here, this should keep us a bit drier,” Mr. Timmons continued, pulling a wool blanket out of his saddle bag.
He sat next to me and flung it over our shoulders, sidling closer in the process. He attempted to pull the blanket over my head but I shrugged it off, not wishing to crumple my hat that had barely stayed on my head during the ride.
“You, my dear, are a wild woman hampered by the constraints of modern, Victorian prudery,” he remarked.
“And you are a man,” I pointed out crossly, “and therefore need not concern yourself with said prudery. Unless of course you decide to search for a wife, at which point you conveniently expect her to have abided by the very set of rules you so casually dismiss.”
He chuckled and nodded in agreement but said no more.
The dark, boulder-like clouds sank further downward, bulging with their load, oppressive in their proximity and implacable in their purpose.
The world held its breath. The only motion was the tall grass swishing under the whipping wind. For a moment, even that ceased and there was a moment or two of such stillness that I felt it would crush us.
And then the water exploded into existence.
A sheet of white energy sheered the horizon, the sky boulders crashed against one another and the air transformed to liquid.
Having grown up in London, I thought I knew about rain and storms. But this… I gasped to breathe as my crumpled hat fell about my face in a soggy mess. Heavy drops splatted against any exposed part of me with a vengeful force I hadn’t thought possible in rain.
When Mr. Timmons again attempted to pull the blanket over our heads, I didn’t protest. While the wool couldn’t keep us entirely dry, it did entrap our warmth and protect us from the full deluge of a land turned to water.
Outside our circle of trees, the sheets of steely rain obscured all sight. I was terribly grateful we weren’t plodding along out there, for we would’ve been blinded by the force of the rain and indeed been close to drowning.
The ground, so parched from a prolonged dry season, was still unable to absorb the mass of water gushing over it; a thin layer of mud resulted, along with a spider web of shallow streams rushing across the grasslands.
There was no possibility to converse, even if we had been so inclined, for the sheer weight and volume of water obliterated all other sound. Attempting to stand against it was likewise inadvisable, for the only dry spot was the one underneath us, where we were sitting.
