Ghosts of Tsavo

by Vered Ehsani

My meeting with Kam, however brief, had revived me. Lilly on the other hand threatened to faint away from the heat and dust (a threat I wished she would carry out) and Mrs. Steward lamented the loss of one of her hats (the porter having conveniently dropped it in front of a passing wagon with a wonderful precision of timing).

  Mr. Evans, the stationmaster—a nervous-looking English chap with thick glasses, thin hair and a very pink complexion—promised in a stuttering voice to arrange a second wagon to bring the remaining trunks to our new house.

  Outside the station was a motley collection of mule-carts and manually pulled rickshaws, the operators of which were all shouting in various languages to attract our attention. Mr. Evans directed us to a rickety, uncovered, wooden wagon. The driver didn’t so much as glance in our direction, nor did he attempt to assist us. He remained fixed on his narrow wooden seat, his black head bare to the hot sun, his back to us, and his shoulders stooped under a tattered, colorless shirt.

  Once we were loaded onto the wagon along with a few of our possessions, he snapped the reins. The fat ox connected to the two-wheeled wagon plodded along as if it had no desire to escape the heat spiking us from above.

  From below, the rough, dusty path that passed for a road was littered with pebbles, bumps, holes, and the occasional large bone. Every motion shuddered up through the wheels and let itself be felt by my spine and backside. I didn’t dare breathe in deeply as none of us had bathed or changed since at least the previous day.

  I slanted my sunhat to shade more of my face and checked to ensure it still covered my mangled, right ear. Lilly huddled under her parasol, sniffing a lavender-scented handkerchief. I avoided looking at Mrs. Steward, who had remained very, very quiet, a most dangerous state of affairs. Even Bobby kept as still and small as a twelve-year-old boy could.

  The road meandered past the outskirts of the camp, a ramshackle collection of bleached tents and a few mud or tin shacks, before winding up a long hill. Toward the top, the ox stumbled to a stop before a solidly built brick-and-stone, one-floor structure boasting a thick thatch roof.

  The house squatted with great determination along the flattened ridge of the hill and overlooked both the camp and the savannah stretching all the way to the horizon and beyond. A stand of forest, filled with invitingly cool shadows, rose up behind the dwelling.

  As Mr. Steward assisted his sullen wife and daughter off the wagon, I clambered after the driver. The driver turned to face us and gestured with his hands to the building as if formally introducing us.

  Mrs. Steward surveyed our new home with a cool eye, not a flicker of emotion betraying her inner landscape, which, I knew from experience, resembled a steaming volcano.

  “What’s wrong with that tree?” she demanded and pointed to the offending plant.

  We all looked in the direction of her stiff finger. The tree in question stood alone in the middle of our front lawn. It was of medium height and girth, but was devoid of all foliage. Strips of bark hung off it as if it had been flayed and left to rot.

  “Elephants, mama,” the driver promptly replied, his eyebrows lifting in astonishment at her ignorance. “Elephants, they like to scratch against that tree.”

  “So I have an elephant scratching post in front of my door,” she said, her icy gaze flicking to Mr. Steward. “Charming.”

  “Not charming,” our driver said. “When elephants come, you must stay inside. They can be very angry if you disturb them.”

  “So now it’s dangerous to walk about our garden.” Mrs. Steward let that statement sink in, before she demanded, “Where’s the rest of the staff?” She turned her glare to the small, stooped man who had driven us here. “Why aren’t they standing outside to greet us?”

  “Indeed,” Gideon snickered, ghosting to my side. He raised his voice an octave in a remarkable imitation of Mrs. Steward and demanded, “Where is our masseuse? Surely they provide that basic service.”

  Meanwhile, our one-man welcoming party rubbed his head, which was covered in tight, little black-and-gray curls. He frowned as if struggling to understand the question and his face wrinkled up like an expired apple. His hands, gnarled but strong, fell to his side and gripped the frayed hem of a dingy shirt too big for him.

  “Jus’ me, mama,” he finally said with a slight lisp. His front two upper teeth were missing. “Jus’ ol’ Jonas.”

  “Where’s the cook?” she asked, her emotionless mask cracking with exasperation.

  “I am,” Jonas promptly replied.

  “The gardener?”

  Jonas nodded his small head enthusiastically, smiling widely, his wrinkles deepening into crevices.

  I didn’t dare look to Mrs. Steward; I could feel her energy sizzling outward, but before I could remove myself from its path, she stomped into the house and slammed the door behind her. Not a moment passed before the door was flung open and the good lady stuck her head out.

  “There’s no breakfast parlor, Mr. Steward,” she said in a low voice that did not bode well for the poor man. “No parlor at all. What sort of a house lacks a parlor?” With that condemnation of the entire building, she retreated and smacked the door heartily into its frame.

  In the awkward moment that followed, in which we all stood quite still, I gazed about. It was then I noticed a herd of zebras munching the dry grass in what was a corner of our front lawn.

  One zebra defiantly stared back at me. I narrowed my eyes and could see the animal’s energy glowing brightly even in the sunlight. A second, snake-shaped energy coiled around the zebra and hissed at me.

  I stared at the serpent creature invisible to all save me, wondering if it was wise to be so blatantly observing the thing.

  “Oh look, darling,” Gideon remarked, his whispery words fluttering about me. “You’ve found yourself a pet.”

  “Bee,” Mr. Steward said in a weary voice. “Please arrange for our bags to be unloaded.” His fingers twitched at his side as he stared at the front door. Then with a resolute expression and an almost confident gait, he entered the house, followed by his children.

  The driver and I stared at each other. “I’m Mrs. Knight,” I said into the silent stare I was receiving.

  “Jonas, ma’am,” he said and scratched at his knobby hair. Frowning, he peered up at me, for although I wasn’t particularly tall, Jonas was even less so and his slouched shoulders shrunk him further. “Why the bwana ask you to take care of the bags, ma’am? Is this the job of the second wife in your tribe?”

  “Second wife?” Now I frowned, as confused as he looked, and then it dawned on me. I waved my hands energetically in front of me. “No, goodness, no, I’m not his wife, second or otherwise. But since we have no staff, I mean apart from you, and Mrs. Steward is ill disposed, I suppose it rests on me to settle us in.”

  Jonas’ eyes widened, the whites yellowed with age or smoke, and he looked me up and down, then scratched his head. The scratching seemed connected with thinking, for he said, “You really the bwana’s servant?”

  “No, I most certainly am not,” I snapped. “But someone has to look after this luggage.”

  “And you’re not the second wife?” he persisted.

  I nodded, relieved we’d cleared up that bit of confusion.

  Jonas shook his head and wagged a finger. “Jonas is old but not stupid. You must be the second wife. No such thing as a white servant, but a second wife, maybe.”

  “But…” I started to protest and noticed the strange zebra was much closer and still eyeing me. “Oh, forget it,” I muttered as I grabbed whatever bags I could and trotted into the house.

  After the long trip, meeting Kam, and suffering through the heat and Mrs. Steward’s volatile silence, the last thing I needed was to argue with the driver / cook / gardener. Especially when a possessed zebra was eating up the lawn. Even a member of the Society for Paranormals & Curious Animals needed to know when to quit.

  Chapter 10