A Spider Comes Calling

by Vered Ehsani

  I wanted nothing more than to read Cilla’s words, to know that she was well if not happy. I wondered what I could write her as little had occurred due to the excessive rain and mud. While I was tempted to savor her words, few as there might be, over a cup of tea and in privacy, I couldn’t restrain myself long enough to reach home. I stepped away from the counter and unfolded the telegram with shaking fingers.

  DEAREST B. HAVE ARRIVED SAFELY. FATHER HAS PLANS FOR ME. WILL WRITE DETAILS SOON. LOVE. CILLA.

  “What plans?” I muttered, although I could divine well enough. Cilla was nearly twenty and according to the norms of the day, it was high time she was married. Once wedded, she would never return to Nairobi, of that I was sure. An ache settled somewhere in my chest at the thought. With a tinge of melancholy, I slid the post into my bag, exited the post office and led Nelly down the street, my mind mulling over the possibilities the telegram implied.

  How would I respond? And more importantly, what news could I share? Cilla had left after all the excitement of the mutated Bubonic Plague and the invasion of the brain-eating Kerit.

  I smiled as I reflected on the many adventures we had shared: discovering the true identity of the ghost lions of Tsavo (twin shapeshifting girls); chasing after an escaped automaton possessed by a demented spirit (Mrs. Cricket, dead wife of our resident inventor, Dr. Cricket); battling the she-demon Koki who had a predilection for shifting into her giant Praying Mantis form and decapitating her enemies; dodging the machinations of a psychotic dwarf while trying to arrange my wedding with Cilla’s uncle; and attempting (and failing miserably) to encourage my brother Drew to abandon his werewolf inclinations long enough to marry his fiancee, who happened to be my best friend Cilla.

  Since her abrupt departure, all that had transpired was a deluge of Biblical proportions and a few leaks in my kitchen. This was hardly news worthy of a letter to my esteemed companion.

  A rumble of distant thunder paused my meditations. I glanced upward, hoping to catch a glimpse of the graceful, ephemeral storm spirits. Alas, they were absent.

  “Probably out cavorting with Kam,” I said, and Nelly snorted in agreement.

  The thought of the Lightning God made me wonder when he would follow up with me in regard to meeting the Spider. The evening Cilla had departed, Kam had relayed a seemingly urgent message from Anansi the Trickster God who had the misfortune of being an elephant-sized arachnid.

  “Perhaps he changed his mind,” I said although I didn’t hold out much hope for that. Time functioned differently for a creature as old as the Spider, so what were a few weeks in the span of millennia?

  So caught up was I in ruminating thus that I only realized we’d left Victoria Street when Nelly stopped me by yanking the reins from my hand. Belching cheerfully, she thrust her head into an open sack of carrots and began chomping with more enthusiasm than was her norm.

  I twirled about and saw that we had wandered off the main thoroughfare and were in a narrow lane between Rossenrode MacJohn & Co, one of Nairobi’s first general stores, and Mrs. Patel’s fabric store. Produce had recently been delivered and left unguarded near the side door of Rossenrode’s.

  “You glutton,” I scolded the horse. “Anyone would be forgiven for believing we never feed you.”

  I tugged at the reins to pull her around when a familiar and decidedly putrid smell drifted past my sensitive nostrils. It called to mind the one and only medical clinic in the colony, owned and run by Dr. Ribeiro, a delightful Goan gentleman with a penchant for riding zebras. I had visited the doctor’s clinic once which was once too many times. That was shortly before the derelict hut had been burned to cinders on the night the Medical Officer of Nairobi had panicked and ordered the Bazaar torched. (To be fair, it was the opinion of the esteemed Officer that only fire could rid the town of Bubonic Plague; it provided the added benefit of eliminating many other pests).

  The doctor’s clinic had housed a dying man who had produced this very same odor, through no fault of his own. Or at the least, it had nothing to do with his general level of hygiene and everything to do with a fatal mix of mutated diseases.

  Nelly took advantage of my distraction and again plunged her nose into the sack. Ignoring her, I swiveled about to face Victoria Street. At the entrance of the lane stood a figure from whom the stink originated. A red-and-black checkered blanket was flung over the head and draped down to the knees. A grimy sarong was wrapped around the waist while the emaciated chest was bare to the elements.

  At a glance, the Indian man seemed at most intoxicated, his eyes glassy and unfocused, his shoulders hunched, his legs wobbly and uncertain. Only when he raised an arm toward me did I see that he was clearly a victim of the mutated Bubonic Plague. The Necrosis aspect of the new plague was visible on his arm which was rotting even as it remained attached to his body; strips of skin had peeled off, exposing festering, decomposing flesh. His shuffling movements and disoriented expression were evidence of the sleeping sickness.

  “Snack time is over, Nelly,” I informed my nag who was unperturbed by the presence of the zombie. I forced her around toward the back of the buildings, intending to exit the lane there, only to observe that our way was obstructed by a second zombie.

  Chapter 3

  “UPON MY WORD, this is terribly inconvenient,” I said as I hefted my walking stick and mulled over my options: smack one of the beasts upside the head with the metal fist atop my stick or slash its legs with the hidden saber at the other end? Decisions, decisions.

  While I was certain that both were viable in producing the desired result, I was loath to create more of a mess than was absolutely required to exit the alley uninfected. Although I no longer had to answer to my aunt, Mrs. Steward, in regard to the condition of my clothes, I certainly didn’t want decomposing zombie flesh splattered over my skirt. Salted water was an excellent solution for removing blood stains and cleaning handkerchiefs. However, the efficacy of salted water in removing infectious zombie bits had yet to be tested. As far as I knew, only fire was a certain disinfectant, and I was rather attached to my current attire.

  “Metal fist it is then,” I decided and was about to proceed with the plan when two shadows flitted over my head.

  Were there other zombies scuttling along the rooftop? More amazed than intimidated, I risked a glance up just as two dark and scantily dressed individuals fell from above and landed before me with all the grace and poise of a pair of felines.

  “Miss Knight,” the first purred in a silky voice.

  “Yao,” I nodded at the youthful and intoxicatingly attractive African man. Despite knowing that he was a vampire (an Adze, to be precise) with the power to Charm his victims and to transform into a firefly, I couldn’t prevent the slight swooning sensation he always inspired in me. Even the knowledge that his preferred diet included blood and raw heart didn’t perturb me in the least.

  His sister, Yawa, was less obliging in her greetings. Despite her scandalous attire that amounted to a couple scraps of ochre-stained leather decorated with beads, she held herself with haughty airs, her talons and elongated canines at the ready.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she sneered, her sultry voice less capable of casting a spell on me.

  “And to what do I owe this pleasure?” I inquired, determined to maintain appropriate decorum even as the two zombies shuffled closer.

  Their approach was not lost on the Adze siblings, both of whom eyed the zombies with what could only be described as hunger.

  “Oh, Miss Knight,” Yao said, his plaintive tone that of a child yearningly eyeing dessert. “Yao and Yawa have been very good. Yao hasn’t bitten any uninfected humans.”

  “Except the one by the river,” Yawa interrupted, gloating at the memory.

  “Yes, but that was a little nibble done by mistake,” Yao added. “Yao thought it was a zombie. It did taste good though.” He licked his dark lips and caused me to experience scintillating flutters in inappropriate places. “But Yao has been obeying Miss Knight, not
biting any humans inside of the Nairobi boundaries.”

  “And I truly appreciate the Herculean effort that must require,” I said, even as I was aware of how pitifully small those boundaries actually were. The residents of the town had no inkling of the fragility of their safety. While Kam the Lightning God had informed the Adze that Nairobi was my domain, in reality my kingdom was pitifully small.

  The stench of rot intensified.

  I cleared my throat and said, “As a reward for your noble intentions, I invite you to dine.” I waved toward the two infected men for zombies were the exception to Kam’s rule, an exception I had reluctantly granted. It was that or face the real possibility that the infection would spread throughout town and beyond.

  Yao laughed with the sound of a burbling river, and I could barely repress a sigh of I dare not say what. “Oh, Miss Knight is being so generous. Yao thanks her greatly, for he is very famished.”

  Before any more could be said, the two African vampires came to a silent agreement, perhaps using the telepathic bond they shared, and each pounced on one of the zombies. While not by nature squeamish, I yanked Nelly’s nose out of the carrots and hurried back toward Victoria Street. Still, the sound of suckling followed me out and into my nightmares.

  Chapter 4

  I HAD LOST all interest in lingering in town after observing the Adze’s eager attack on the zombies. Even though they had saved me the hassle of knocking heads to escape and possibly soiling my skirt irrevocably in the process, and even knowing there had been no other option but to allow the Adze to hunt down the zombies, a part of me was still revolted by the notion. When I joined the Society for Paranormals, I swore an oath to protect the normal from the paranormal and the reverse; yet I had explicitly granted permission to vampires to hunt in my town.

  “What other option was there?” I asked, my teeth gritted, as Nelly trotted home. “None.”

  Indeed, despite Dr. Ribeiro’s concerted efforts, no cure had been devised. Regardless of the answer to my rhetorical question, I still shuddered at what I’d allowed. In such a disturbed frame of mind I arrived at our barn. Jonas was inside, oiling the ox harness. Mr. Timmons’ horse was absent, and I could only assume he’d left on some errand.

  “Jonas, why aren’t you wearing the clothes I gave you?” I snapped at him, for at that moment I found the sight of him in his ragged, voluminous shirt and tattered shorts irrationally irksome.

  Before I’d met Jonas and Kam, I’d been provided the impression by various colonists and newspaper articles that the African natives were a passive and obliging lot, more than delighted to receive the civilizing influence of the British Empire and to dwell within Her Majesty Queen Victoria’s beneficent reign.

  Both Kam and Jonas had quickly disabused me of that quaint notion.

  While Kam made no pretense of his position, Jonas had adopted the appearance of the subservient houseboy in public but with me he didn’t bother. Therefore, I wasn’t expecting him to leap to his feet, head downcast and shoulders slumped, while respectful apologies stumbled out of his mouth. In that, I wasn’t disappointed for he remained seated, not in the least bit perturbed by my foul mood, and responded only with a snort.

  Undeterred, I pressed on as I slid off Nelly’s back. “I’ve provided you a jolly good set of clothes, and yet you persist on wearing these rags.”

  “Whatever will the neighbors think?” he snickered.

  It was such a British expression and concept that my next volley of words died before I could utter them. I was yet again reminded that Jonas was more than what he presented to the world. Inside that small head covered in gray and black curls was a sharp and insightful mind.

  “It’s not that,” I spluttered. “I’d just prefer you dress in a more dignified manner.”

  At last, he deigned to turn his gaze upon me. “And me, I’d prefer to save those clothes for a more important occasion.”

  The comment silenced me, for well I knew what that occasion was. When he was reunited with his kidnapped daughter Wanjiru, then and only then would he dress in his new attire. It was yet another good reason to find the young woman or else I would spend the remainder of my days vexed by his tatty clothes.

  Defeated, I tossed Nelly’s reins to Jonas and stomped back to the cottage. With the sticky mud bogging me down, it was less a stomp and more a slurping shuffle which wasn’t nearly as satisfying. I was thoroughly fed up by the time I reached the veranda and slumped into one of the canvas-and-wood chairs. I was attempting to remove the boots without splattering myself with more mud than was already covering me when something metallic clattered loudly from within the dwelling. It sounded as if someone didn’t appreciate the manner in which my pots were hung on hooks.

  My muddy boots forgotten, I was upright and gripping my walking stick before I thought twice about it. “If Jonas is in the barn and Mr. Timmons is out and about, then who or what is clanging about my kitchen?” I mused aloud and didn’t bother to wonder with whom I was conversing.

  Instead, I slurped through the mud patch that was our garden and in short order I arrived at the back door that led into the kitchen. Easing the door open, I poked my head in just as an explosion of noise and a confusion of dark shapes erupted off my shelves and poured out an open window on the other side. I coughed at the musky smell that wafted around me.

  The body odor eliminated the possibility of vampire, zombie, ghost, werewolf or African water spirit. My stick gripped in readiness to smack any lingering beast, I glanced about the room to see pots scattered over the stone floor. Something squelched underfoot, and I glanced down to see amongst the mess numerous banana peels. A chattering overhead drew my attention away from the fruit litter to a long, dark tail flicking before my eyes.

  I stepped fully into the kitchen and gazed up to face the remaining culprit: a small monkey. The creature could have easily sat within the palm of my hand. Its dark brown eyes glittered with curiosity and a boldness with which I didn’t feel at all comfortable. It was my experience that an animal that had no fear was a very dangerous one indeed. The diminutive size of the lithe beast didn’t comfort me at all.

  As if detecting my unease, the monkey peeled back its lips to reveal pink gums and child-sized teeth. It chittered at me with great enthusiasm.

  “Well, if that’s your idea of an apology, it’s not accepted,” I informed it.

  “And why ever not?” it rebuked me.

  “Goodness, not another talking ape,” I exclaimed, not at all pleased that I would now be expected to maintain a conversation with a simian.

  “Bee, did you lose your sense of humor in the mud?” the beast replied in a voice that sounded suspiciously familiar.

  “Gideon,” I said, both frowning and smiling simultaneously which really shouldn’t be possible.

  “At your service,” he said as he appeared before me and bowed, a lock of brown hair flopping over his light brown, twinkling eyes in a boyishly charming fashion.

  The monkey shrieked and flung a peel at Gideon’s head.

  “How many bananas do you have up there?” I demanded as I finished surveying the kitchen.

  From the look of the peels, pots and partially eaten fruit discarded onto the floor and counters, there had been a whole troop perpetrating havoc before I’d startled them and ended the party.

  “It’s just a wee, cute baby,” Gideon said as he floated up to the wooden beam where the beast was hiding above me. “It can see me! How marvelous. Oh, Beatrice, you scared the poor dear.”

  “I most certainly did not,” I fumed. “And as for babies, they can be very cunning in their cuteness.”

  Gideon clucked at me and shook his head. “Beatrice, you really need to work on your maternal skills.”

  I flung up my hands. “How superlatively stupid. It’s a monkey,” I protested. “A Vervet, if I’m not mistaken. And most likely infested with fleas and heavens knows what else. Ticks, perhaps? Shoo. Get out now.” I raised my stick and with the metal-tipped end prodded th
e fleabag toward the open window through which its entire family presumably had fled.

  The monkey yelped and mewed, its large eyes blinking at the offending item. It had remarkably human-like, hairless skin on its face and ears. I knew that as it grew older, the skin would darken considerably and become charcoal in color. For now, the dark eyes peering down at me were prominent against the pale pink skin and had within their depths an anxious glimmer. The ears jutted out from the sides of its tiny head, twitching at my every motion as if in anticipation of some terrible fate. The little face was surrounded by a white fringe of hair, while the overall hair color was mostly light gray.

  As we studied each other, one of its hands reached out, and delicate little fingers pawed the air as if pleading for mercy. I tried nudging it again, with no success. Gideon hissed at me as if I was engaged in scandalous behavior.

  “Upon my word, it certainly can’t stay here,” I defended myself against the silent accusations.

  “Why not?” Gideon asked as if it were a logical conclusion, or as if I was running an animal orphanage.

  I huffed. “For a start, I’m in no position to assist it. And I’m sure its mother will return for it once she realizes she’s forgotten her offspring. What sort of mother forgets her child?”

  Gideon crossed his arms over his chest, his entire countenance set in disapproving lines. “And what if she doesn’t?”

  “Then that would prove what a horrid mother she is,” I said and continued to prod the monkey.

  Instead of leaping toward the window and out to freedom as any half-intelligent primate would’ve done by now, the little hairy baby clung onto my stick as if reunited with its negligent dame. No matter how I shook the stick, the monkey was not the least bit deterred.

  “Beatrice, you’re going to hurt it!” Gideon shouted which amounted to a loud whisper.