A Spider Comes Calling

by Vered Ehsani

  Despite the lack of clouds, the dampness of the rain lingered and the moist air caused me to shiver to such an extent that Mr. Timmons wrapped a blanket about our shoulders and held me to his side while I gripped the baby basket on my lap. Closer than comfort dictated, a lion coughed its guttural call, and a hyena responded with a cackle, while the howl of a pack of wild savannah dogs echoed from afar. The grazers of the grasslands remained quiet as if knowing that the oncoming night belonged to the predators.

  I was glad I had the foresight to pack my bow and quiver, for my walking stick was only of use in close quarters. I’d had enough close encounters with large felines to admit I was happier handling them at a distance. Mr. Timmons’ energy flexed around us, as if preoccupied by the same notions.

  A shiver in the air attracted my attention. I gestured with my chin.

  “White ants,” Mr. Timmons murmured. At my puzzled expression, he added, “Termites. During the rains, they fly out of their nests to mate. In the morning, we shall find the ground littered with their wings.”

  In the hazy light, it seemed as if the earth was exhaling its breath. As I studied the shivering air, I could see silvery wings fluttering frantically, four wings per termite, their tubular bodies squirming in anticipation of their brief but potent freedom from the ground. They swarmed forth in energetic columns from the clay chimneys jutting out of the ground. The chimneys were the only indication that there existed beneath us countless cavernous nests of the insects.

  “Oh my,” I whispered. “Surely we shall be inundated with termites at this rate.”

  Mr. Timmons chuckled softly. “Most of these will not be successful in tonight’s endeavor.”

  Even as he spoke, birds flung themselves at the swarms of insects, darting and dodging each other as they devoured the flying feast. The sun settled further beneath the horizon. There were a few brief moments during which day and night mingled, and bats and birds hunted together. Then the birds retreated, and the night was taken over by bats and termites, each species desperately seeking to succeed in its mission.

  Too soon, the spectacle of nature was replaced with the equally entertaining although perhaps slightly less intriguing spectacle of the Steward residence. Having heard the squeaking of one of our wagon wheels, my aunt had exited her home and was standing on the veranda, scowling at the termites that were attempting to enter the house, attracted by the light therein.

  “Blast these bugs,” she muttered before smiling broadly at us. “Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Timmons.” The thrill of having triumphantly married both her daughter and me off within the space of a few months was still upon her. She pointedly ignored Jonas and welcomed us in.

  Lilly and Tiberius Elkhart were already seated beside a cozy fire. Wearied somewhat by her pregnant condition, Lilly didn’t rise to greet me but merely waved a limp hand. Tiberius however came before me. Unable to acknowledge our blood relation in public (to do so would evoke disrepute upon my deceased mother and our mutual father), he remained outwardly formal even as his eyes communicated his deepest affection for me.

  “Mrs. Timmons, are you well?” he asked.

  “Even if I weren’t,” I replied, smiling at his warmth and geniality, “I still would answer in the affirmative, for you never fail to uplift my spirits.”

  “What’s that in the basket?” Bobby demanded as he dashed forward.

  My nearly thirteen year old cousin was as obnoxious as he was nosy. I felt a strange sensation overtake me, for I desired to hide the monkey from the boy’s reach. A quick reflection on the matter produced an alarming realization: I was feeling protective of Shelby.

  Seeing my hesitation, Mr. Timmons responded on my behalf. “It’s nothing with which to concern yourself, boy.”

  His expression and firmness were such to dissuade even the likes of Bobby, and the boy scowled and retreated to the window. There he occupied himself with catching the termites that managed to wiggle their way through cracks in the shutters. His features set in a determined frown, he pulled off their wings one by one. I would’ve protested but I knew the termites would soon shed the wings without assistance. Besides, my objections would not have deterred him in the least from his morbid occupation. Even as I watched, more potential victims squirmed inside. If I listened closely, I could hear the insects batting themselves against the shutters and door, eager to reach the light within.

  “It’s horrid how the rains bring out these wretched bugs,” Mrs. Steward lamented. “How it consumes my delicate nerves.”

  By her tone and posture, I knew she was preparing to launch into a litany of complaints that would consume the next half hour at least.

  Perhaps having come to the same conclusion, Lilly rolled her sky-blue eyes and stood. She shook her head as if to show off her perfectly coiffed curls. “Where’s Father?” she asked and left the room before an answer could be provided, in search of the man who was presumably hiding in his office.

  “If it’s not the dust, it’s the rain and the roof!” Mrs. Steward said as she tossed up her arms, almost knocking a platter from the hands of Mary, her house help. “Every other night, there’s at least one leak from the roof if there isn’t three. Oh, Mr. Elkhart, you perhaps more than anyone can appreciate how I am tormented thus.”

  Her condemnation of the roof complete, she flounced to the sofa where my brother had remained. He shared a bemused and wordless exchange with Mr. Timmons who joined him there. I remained standing, wondering what I should do with the basket and how I could excuse myself from the room as neatly as Lilly had. Mary set the platter down on the zebra-damaged coffee table and poured us tea, before retreating to the kitchen.

  “It’s not so dreadful, Mrs. Steward,” Mr. Timmons said, a slyness in his tone as he picked up his cup. “After all, the wildebeests haven’t yet begun their migration.”

  Tiberius shook his head and covered his smile with a hand.

  “What do you mean by that, Mr. Timmons?” my aunt shrieked, preparing herself to fall into a fit of nerves from which she might not recover by dessert.

  “Only that great herds of the beasts, countless masses of them, will be pounding across this land, devouring all that is green, and churning whatever remains of grass and garden into mud. And the flies.” He nodded his head with a solemnity he didn’t feel. “One can barely breathe without ingesting them.”

  “Oh, what I must endure,” Mrs. Steward wailed as she waved a lavender-scented handkerchief before her face. “I am fraught with nerves, barely able to sustain myself, let alone a household that relies so utterly on me.”

  “Indeed, madam,” Mr. Timmons replied. “You are the epitome of martyrdom.”

  Mrs. Steward nodded her head in full agreement. “And that’s not the half of it, Mr. Timmons, not by a long shot. It is utterly horrendous what has happened as of late.”

  I wondered if she referred to the recent zombie disease, the Kerit attacks or the Nandi who were fighting the British troops. As she had little knowledge of, and even less interest in, such matters, I doubted she had much of consequence to relate to us.

  “And do sit down, Beatrice,” she snapped. “You lurking about is only aggravating my poor, spent nerves. I am utterly worn to the bone.”

  Tiberius lodged a cigarette in his mouth before he could laugh or suggest that her physical state was far from the one she described. Mr. Timmons’ broad shoulders shook with suppressed laughter, and I decided that the basket could be left near the door.

  “Don’t you wish to know what has befallen your aunt?” she continued, bestowing upon me an affronted and pained expression. “How terribly abused she is?”

  “Absolutely,” I said as I sat across from Mr. Timmons.

  “And spare no details,” my deplorable husband added.

  Requiring no further encouragement, Mrs. Steward inhaled deeply, her bosom heaving beneath her frilly purple dress, and began. “Well, can you not hazard a guess?”

  Already weary of the discourse, I said, “You found ant wings
in the stew?”

  She paled at the image. “I should hope not,” she blustered.

  “The bridge leading to the Athi Plains was washed away,” Tiberius said. “It’s the third time in as many weeks.”

  “Which bridge?” Mrs. Steward asked and then waved her hand. “The one leading to town is sturdy enough and still standing, so this Athi bridge is of no consequence.”

  “Your niece was standing upon that bridge when it collapsed,” Mr. Timmons said, his eyes narrowed at my aunt’s lack of concern about anything that didn’t directly relate to her limited reality.

  Tiberius straightened and, sharply exhaling a puff of smoke, glanced between Mr. Timmons and myself, as if to verify that this was in fact an accurate report. Lilly, who had re-entered the room, said, “Truly, Bee, you have a knack for such misadventures.”

  “She has at that,” my husband grumbled.

  “And she’s still here amongst us, so it couldn’t have been serious,” Mrs. Steward replied.

  “There’s been an assassination attempt in Belgium on the Prince of Wales.”

  We all swiveled about to see Mr. Steward standing in the doorway between the living area and the bedrooms, a telegram in his hand.

  “That’s not it either,” Mrs. Steward huffed, clearly displeased with our inability to surmise the source of her distress. “To what are you referring, Mr. Steward?”

  The man didn’t so much as glance at his wife, for his gaze was fixed upon the slip of yellow paper which carried the fearsome message. “The future King of Great Britain, Prince Edward of Wales, was shot at by a certain despicable creature who goes by the name of Jean-Baptiste Sipido.”

  In the ensuing silence, I could hear the tapping of the termites flinging themselves against the window shutters. “Why ever would he commit such a travesty?” I asked.

  “It was in protest over the Boer war,” Mr. Steward explained, his face strained and weary as he sat at the dining table, as if too debilitated by the report to reach the sofa set.

  Mrs. Steward scoffed at the news. “There will always be those who don’t appreciate all that the British are doing for them. They would prefer savagery over civilization.”

  “I’m sure the Afrikaans have a different opinion of the situation,” I said and wished I could speak as mildly as Tiberius who remained unflustered by the turn of conversation. Perhaps his mixed ancestry, a scandalous blend of African and European, provided him a sanguine and reflective nature.

  “You say such things only to vex me,” Mrs. Steward said, thus dismissing my controversial remark. “At any rate, the assassination was thwarted, as is to be expected, so there’s no need to dwell on the matter any further. Do you realize that these people know nothing of making the bed?”

  We all stared at her in astonishment, wondering to whom she was referring. “The staff here,” she explained upon seeing our uncomprehending expressions. “They don’t appreciate how one must pull the stuffing from the mattresses periodically and let it dry out for hygiene. I had to spend the entire morning explaining and demonstrating how to make the beds. They would have been quite content to merely leave the mattresses as they were. We’d have been inundated with bugs and filth in no time.”

  She wagged a finger at me. “This is only one example of how we must attempt to enlighten these savage lands, Bee. You clearly have been far too sheltered from reality to appreciate all that must be done. Of course,” and she paused as she narrowed her eyes at me, “this is understandable given your lack of experience in such matters. It is a credit to both myself and your husband that we have so thoroughly protected you from the dangers of the world.”

  Mr. Timmons snorted, tea jetting from his nose, while Tiberius nearly bit his cigarette in half as he attempted to manage his mirth. Lilly pointed to the basket that was now shaking.

  “What’s that?” she demanded.

  Shelby took it upon herself to chatter softly and push at the blanket that was covering her.

  “What’s what?” Mrs. Steward demanded, her head swiveling on her plump neck until she too noticed the odd movements of the basket.

  “Nothing,” I hastily replied even as Mr. Timmons said, “A baby.”

  Mrs. Steward’s eyes lit up with hope of another grandchild even as she peered at me with a touch of confusion. Her terrible bed-related news quite forgotten, she asked, “Really? Whose baby?”

  “Ours.” Mr. Timmons grinned as he wiped tea from his face. “Would you like to see her?”

  The baby in question popped her head out of the basket and squealed, just a breath before Mrs. Steward shrieked.

  “Beatrice Timmons, what is that?” she cried out just as a heavy hand pounded against the front door. “Oh, my nerves cannot endure any more! Put it away. Put. It. Away!”

  The pounding continued.

  Whatever the state of her nerves, she rose to the occasion with remarkable determination and gestured to the door. “Mr. Steward, please enquire as to the reason any respectable person would be disturbing us at this time of day.”

  The door shook as someone banged on it again while Shelby wisely retreated under her blanket.

  Mr. Steward seemed to have no inclination to remove himself from his position at the table, and it could be the glass of pale liquid in his hands that encouraged him to remain thus. As the host was disinclined to answer the insistent knocking, Mr. Timmons took it upon himself. Gripping the door handle and directing a meaningful glance at Tiberius and myself to be prepared for any eventuality, he jerked the door open and stood back, preparing to attack if necessary.

  A flurry of winged termites distracted me momentarily. When I’d flicked a few of them off my hair and shoulders, I beheld a dismal sight. Leaning against the doorframe was a tattered figure of a man, naked apart from a red checkered fabric wrapped about his waist. His ribs protruded out of his side, and several bloody gashes covered his broad chest and arms. Straggly blonde hair hung about his strained face, and his feet and legs were grimy with mud. Before any of us could react, the specter staggered forward and collapsed at Mr. Timmons’ feet.

  I stood up, my quivering knees betraying the sentiments that consumed me. Only one word could I utter: “Drew.”

  Chapter 9

  IT WAS AGAIN Mr. Timmons, that most resourceful of men, who responded with the greatest rapidity. Bending down, he retrieved the comatose form before him and pulled Drew toward the sofa on which I sat.

  “Lilly, fetch a blanket,” I ordered her as I stood to make space.

  “What is that?” Mrs. Steward shrieked. “Oh, Mr. Steward, we are in an uproar and yet you sit there, inconsiderate of what has befallen us. There’s a vagabond loose in the house!”

  “I hardly think so,” Tiberius murmured as he raised his eyes and fixed them on her face with a calm unconcern for her theatrics.

  I however was not so unaffected and found my temper greatly altered by her communication. “He is not a vagabond, madam.” I raised my voice to overcome her lamentations. “It’s Drew, my brother.”

  Lilly rushed forward holding a blanket that, with Mr. Timmons’ assistance, I promptly wrapped around Drew’s shivering body. Mrs. Steward however wasn’t finished. “I am all astonishment,” she gasped, even as she hastened to fetch clean rags and hot water from the kitchen. When she returned, she placed the items on the coffee table and demanded, “What sort of brother is this who runs about in a deplorable state of undress and covered in filth? My nerves, my precious nerves, can barely cope and now this. You should not be in the least bit surprised if I faint away.”

  “I really rather you would,” I muttered, even as I accepted the rags and began to clean Drew’s face.

  Before she could utter more condemnations, Mr. Steward appeared by her side and placed a restraining hand on her shoulder. “Perhaps, my dear, we should allow them space in order to assess what’s best to be done.”

  Mrs. Steward narrowed her eyes. “What’s best is for that young man to return whence he came. I realize my cond
emnatory words are ill suited to the occasion, and I am truly sorry for Beatrice as she had no hand in all that transpired during his upbringing. However, I fear for her happiness and wellbeing. He brings nothing but trouble. Mark my words.”

  Mr. Steward provided her with a pale and fatigued smile. “Consider them marked. Come along, Mrs. Steward, let us retreat, for it seems they are managing well enough without our interference.” So saying, he began to lead her away.

  “You should take him home,” Tiberius suggested, his voice soft, his eyes sharing my concern. “Call for my father. He’ll be able to assist you.”

  Mrs. Steward spun about at the doorway leading to the bedrooms. “Your father is here, Mr. Elkhart? Why did you not invite him to join us?”

  Tiberius and I exchanged a glance that communicated a sad but certain truth: Mrs. Steward hadn’t been, and should never be, informed of my familial relationship with Mr. Elkhart Senior, or else my mother’s name and therefore my own would be shamed within wider society. And of course there was the awkwardness that could arise if she should ever suspect him of being anything other than human.

  “He is not so inclined to social engagements,” Tiberius responded.

  Mrs. Steward nodded approvingly. “Social reservation is a sign of intellect and introspection. I should very much enjoy meeting your father on another occasion.” With that, she followed her husband away.

  I breathed out, grateful that we had the space to ourselves. Grasping at Mr. Timmons’ hand, I said, “Please, fetch Jonas, for we can’t tend to Drew here.” As he left to carry out my bidding, I gazed up at Lilly. “Please apologize to your mother for the interruption of her supper plans. I know how such abrupt alterations vex her so.”

  Lilly handed me another cloth to bind a deep slash on Drew’s arm. “Don’t concern yourself with that. She’ll recover her equanimity and if not, Tiberius has a remarkably agreeable way with her. She’ll calm down and may even regret her harsh words.”