by Vered Ehsani
While I set about unpacking my few possessions and making my room as homey as I could, Mrs. Steward discovered her worst fears regarding her new home had, in fact, been well-founded: the shopping options were scant and included only a few kiosks and the newly built general store, Rossenrode MacJohn & Co on Victoria Street.
Lilly, not yet willing to accept defeat, resolutely questioned Jonas on the social options. That required even less time than unpacking, given the limited selection and Jonas’ general disinterest in the subject. She flounced into my room, where I was unpacking my clothes, and threw herself across the bed.
“Oh, Bee, I’m truly doomed,” she wailed.
I shoved a few dresses into the chest of drawers, trying to squeeze out any air pockets that would take up the space in which another dress could be stuffed. Fortunately, I hadn’t brought too many outfits, for the chest of drawers didn’t have much space.
“Come now, it’s not that bad,” I chided as I pushed the drawer closed with my hip; I felt bone connect with wood and lamented my lack of padding in the appropriate places. “I’ve heard from a reputable source that there is a number of dashing young men in the neighborhood.”
“Really?” Lilly sat up, breathless with anticipation.
“Absolutely,” I said as I began stuffing clothes in the next drawer. “Already, you’ve attracted a few eligible suitors. Warriors from miles around will soon be beating on the door or on their drums, demanding your father marry you off in exchange for a herd of goats.”
“Bee, you’re truly dreadful,” Lilly snapped but her small, cherubic mouth twitched with a suppressed smile.
“Yes, I am,” I said, wondering how many goats I’d be worth.
After lunch, Jonas took it upon himself to give me a grand tour of the estate. In addition to the main house, there was a round, mud-walled hut where Jonas stayed, and a small, run-down barn. Inside the barn was the wagon we had arrived on, the ox, and a horse.
“This horse, she is Nelly,” Jonas said as though announcing the Queen of England. He limped farther into the barn, his left foot dragging slightly. “The bwana, he is very, very lucky to be having both an ox and a horse, especially a horse that doesn’t die easily.”
I assumed that by “bwana” he meant Mr. Steward and I wasn’t sure how lucky the bwana was at all. That morning, he’d stomped back into the house after attempting to ride the nag. Flustered, he’d announced that he was purchasing two new horses forthwith, and that I could have the existing one. At the time, I’d been thrilled to receive a mount of my own. Now, I wasn’t as impressed by what had seemed a generous gesture.
The horse in question, clearly a source of pride for Jonas, was a small, reddish-brown animal that was chewing a clump of hay slowly and methodically, eyeing me through half-lowered lids, unimpressed by her visitors. She swallowed the masticated dry grass and belched heartily.
Aghast, I stepped back. The horse seemed unabashed by her lack of social etiquette and continued chewing. I could see why Mr. Steward had declined to ride such a creature, even if it did refuse to die.
Jonas chuckled and slapped the nag on her dusty neck. “Good one, Nelly.” He leaned toward me and whispered, “She makes a lot of noise on both ends, you know?”
“No, I didn’t,” I said, pulling my sunhat farther over my right ear while straightening my back. I couldn’t afford to slouch with my height. “It’s really not polite to be referring to such bodily functions in public, and certainly not to be encouraging them.”
Jonas eyed me with an expression remarkably like that of Nelly’s and I feared he might follow her uncouth example. Instead, he shrugged his slouched shoulders and shuffled out of the small barn. “Yes, Miss Knight.”
As we approached the house, Cilla came galloping up, or rather her horse did; she sat there bouncing about in the saddle, all flustered with news. “Oh, what a to-do, isn’t it, Bee?” she said when we met on the veranda.
The leather of my boots squeaked and I could smell whatever oil Jonas had used that morning on them. Behind me, I could hear Mrs. Steward’s shrill voice commanding, “Have you oiled my boots yet, Jonas?” She’d finally managed to remember his name.
“Yes, mama,” Jonas’ soft voice floated out of the house.
“And don’t call me mama. It’s Mrs. Steward, do you understand?”
“Yes, mama.”
I smiled, for I was certain Jonas understood very well how easy it was to antagonize that lady’s nerves. Still, I wish he hadn’t oiled my boots quite so vigorously. They were so shiny I could actually view a blurry reflection on their surface, and sunlight sparkled off them in a most distracting manner.
At least, I consoled myself, he didn’t have a chance to oil my riding gloves. I held them in one hand as if I were about to charge off across the landscape on a fine stallion. Never mind that the closest we had to a steed was Nelly, and she certainly wasn’t about to charge off anywhere, except to the feeding trough.
“Isn’t this ghost lion business so thrilling?” Cilla gushed, distracting my attention from boots, gloves, and racing stallions.
“I’m not sure the men the lions eat find it so thrilling,” I said. Down the hill, I could see the camp was as busy as a disturbed anthill.
Cilla glanced about and leaned close. “For a start, they haven’t eaten any men here, only the goats. And for that, the locals complain bitterly about it to the camp superintendent, Mr. Adams.” She sucked in a deep breath and lowered her voice. “And isn’t this just the very sort of mystery that Professor Runal would want you to investigate?”
As if I needed a reminder. “Yes, I’m planning to go with Kam later on.”
My fatigue-induced lack of enthusiasm penetrated even my friend’s over-exuberance, for she said, “Well, I should hope so, for I’m sure the Society will be delighted to receive a full report of your findings.”
I stifled a groan. I had rather hoped to forget about the good professor’s request for regular reports. Report writing was terribly tedious.
Even so, Cilla’s energy prodded me and I said with a little more vigor, “I wonder why ghost lions need to eat at all?”
“That’s the spirit!” Cilla patted my hand that was resting on the railing. “We need to find out.”
“We?” I queried.
“Yes,” she said firmly.
“Who’s that?” I asked, pointing to the horseman approaching our section of the hill, hoping to distract her. The last thing I needed was to babysit an inexperienced investigator. It was bad enough looking after Lilly, Bobby, and Mrs. Steward in the house.
“Oh, he came,” Cilla trilled.
“He?” The morning was rapidly deteriorating.
“My uncle, who’s also my godfather,” she said, her smile widening. “Didn’t I tell you I stay with him? My parents are posted in West Africa, but I much prefer to be here.”
I shuddered. West Africa. That name covered a large region, but in my mind, it meant only terror and death. Cilla didn’t notice, and we watched her godfather / uncle approach.
Even from a distance, I could see he was a strongly built man. While not particularly tall, he still managed to give the impression of having an imposing stature. His hair was unfashionably shaggy — there’s no other word I can use to describe it — with wavy, dark locks bouncing on his broad shoulders. And the sideburns… I never could tolerate an abundance of facial hair on a man.
To top it all off, the man was barely dressed for visiting civilized folk. Surely, it wasn’t so hot that an Englishman would forgo a cravat? Tsk, tsk, I thought to myself but avoided voicing my first and rather negative impression of my friend’s godfather in her presence.
When he was as close as he could come with a horse, I studied his eyes. They were gray and fierce, almost angry, although I couldn’t imagine what he had any cause to be angry about. After all, a lion hadn’t mauled him the night before as far as I could tell.
As he dismounted, Cilla ran to the man and hugged him. His face softened until he saw me, a
t which point his eyes hardened and shut me out.
“Uncle, it’s my pleasure to introduce Beatrice Knight,” Cilla gushed. “Bee, this is Mr. Simon Timmons, my godfather and my uncle.”
Mr. Timmons. Perhaps if I had the gift of clairvoyance, I might have, upon glimpsing the future this man brought, spun on my newly oiled boots and left that instant, refusing to be introduced to that strangest of men. Perhaps.
Or perhaps not.
For so much of what transpired in my life from that moment on was entangled with the man and his machinations. I can’t imagine how events would have transpired without his involvement, nor am I decided if it would’ve been best without him.
At any rate, my level of clairvoyance being limited to whatever was immediately in front of me, all I felt was a rather mysterious tingle as Mr. Timmons clasped my hand in his calloused fingers, raised it to his lips and said, “My pleasure.”
“Oh, and guess what, Uncle?” Cilla gushed. “Bee is going to chase after those ghost lions. Thrilling, isn’t it?”
At that moment, I firmly believed there was something mentally wrong with the girl, as dear as she was to me. How tramping across the wild lands in the dark could be anything but a nightmare to avoid was beyond me. But everything was “thrilling” to her.
And hadn’t I told her not to raise such subjects in public?
Mr. Timmons cleared his throat. “I believe Mr. Adams is organizing a hunting party over the weekend. Perhaps it would be best if you wait for that.”
I bristled at the implied reasoning. “I assure you, Mr. Timmons, I’m quite capable of handling myself, and a rifle if need be.”
The man smiled, but it was more a smirk. I didn’t like the look of it at all, and it strengthened my initial and unfavorable assessment of him. “I meant no slight against your abilities,” he said in a tone that indicated he had. “Although I’m not sure what use a rifle is against ghosts.”
“Ghosts don’t eat men or goats,” I said, raising my eyebrows in what I hoped was a haughty manner, “so whatever is attacking the camp will be very much affected by a bullet or two. As for ghosts, I don’t fear them at all.”
“Indeed not.” Now Mr. Timmons really was grinning.
I reddened. He didn’t seem to be taking me seriously at all, but instead of removing myself from his infuriating presence, I pressed on with my argument. “All a hunting party will achieve is to trample all the evidence into oblivion and shoot a few gazelles. If they’re really lucky, they may just avoid shooting each other in the confusion.”
Mr. Timmons flung back his head, dark locks flying around him, and laughed. I had to admit it was a rather engaging laugh, the sort that invited one and all to join in the party. I declined.
“All the same, Miss Knight,” he said once he had recovered from his irrational laughing fit.
“It’s Mrs. Knight,” I interrupted, too irate to maintain civility.
“Well done. I don’t very much like this unfashionable fellow,” Gideon hissed as he materialized beside me.
I clenched at the railing of the veranda to avoid jumping, for that would only add to Mr. Timmons’ dim view of my abilities.
The “unfashionable fellow” dipped his head slightly. “Very well, Mrs. Knight. I just thought it might amuse you to have a few days out in the countryside. Although…” He paused, and his black eyebrows rose slightly as he observed my overly polished boots and my gloves. “I would understand if you didn’t join. The insects out there can be overwhelming for an Englishwoman.”
The man was too much. He had no business talking down to me as if I were a typical female with delicate sensibilities. He clearly was uninformed, and I was determined to educate him.
“I’m sure I can handle a few insects,” I said, my hands twitching at the absence of my stout walking stick, to which I would’ve been happy to introduce him.
He winked at me—yes, winked, how outrageous!—and said, “Oh, I’m sure you can around here. But out there.” He gestured to the savannah stretching away from us to the horizon. “Out there are all manners of strange beasties. The giant Shongololo, for example. Nasty thing.”
“He’s the only nasty thing around here,” Gideon whispered into my ear.
I rubbed at my uncovered left ear. “Shonga-what?” I asked before I could decipher if he was being serious or not. His eyes didn’t reveal much more than a sharp sense of humor and a biting intelligence, and they had darkened to a blue-gray. I was so intrigued by this color change that I almost didn’t hear his explanation.
“Shongololo,” he repeated. “Imagine a giant millipede at least as long as your arm, with poisonous fangs.”
“I’d rather not,” I murmured.
“Do stop teasing her, Uncle,” Cilla said. My head jerked in her direction, for I had entirely forgotten she was there, watching her godfather and me verbally tussle. “I think we should go with Mr. Adams, Bee. Shall we? It would be thrilling to join the hunt.”
That word again: thrilling.
And while I couldn’t imagine a less thrilling sight than a mob of pompous men waving their rifles around in precarious fashion, I couldn’t resist Cilla’s pleading or Mr. Timmons’ unspoken challenge. And I had my own agenda: to make sure those idiots didn’t shoot the lions before I’d had a chance to investigate and discover if they were indeed ghosts or some new breed of creature.
“Yes, why not,” I declared.
Cilla hugged me as if I’d just announced I’d been knighted by the Queen instead of agreeing to a possibly dangerous and definitely uncomfortable hunt. For his part, Mr. Timmons smiled, and I thought I could detect a secret somewhere in there. He was, I decided then and there, far more dangerous than a pair of mangy lions.
Chapter 12
