Ghosts of Tsavo

by Vered Ehsani

An entire week passed following Cilla’s tea: no ghost lions raided the pantry, no Shongololo hung over my bed, Mr. Timmons didn’t stop by to instigate more inappropriate conversations, and the possessed zebra was content to glare and hiss at me from a distance.

  All in all, it was a most acceptable situation, and therefore one I knew wouldn’t last.

  I wasn’t surprised then when Mr. Steward burst into the house at midday, flustered and his jacket on awry. I glanced behind him, assuming that there was a man-eating lion on his trail, but saw only Jonas where I’d left him on the veranda.

  Jonas and I had just been discussing the merits of planting English Rose bushes in East Africa. Neither of us were convinced they’d survive. Thus far, the only stems that had managed to fully bloom were those made of silk that were tucked into a small vase placed on the middle of the coffee table. Mrs. Steward however insisted we persevere.

  The moment Mr. Steward arrived in such a noisy fashion, the Steward women were in the sitting area of the room, busily sewing delicate patterns on white handkerchiefs, a pastime I had little sympathy for, as one hardly needed pretty material to clear one’s nose. I was behind them in the portion of the room that had been reserved for the dining area, writing in my diary. Bobby was out back, chasing the chickens. We were therefore as assembled for the midday meal as we could be.

  “Mrs. Steward, you won’t guess what has occurred,” Mr. Steward said, barely able to converse from lack of breath. If he was so terribly winded, I wondered in what condition his horse was.

  “You know how poorly I abide guessing games, Mr. Steward,” his wife said, not so much as glancing up from her needlework.

  “I have the most marvelous news,” he said as he pulled a telegram from his pocket and waved it about like a flag. There was a glimmer of his old spark and confidence in his eyes.

  “A dress shop is to be set up here?” Lilly asked, placing her needle and fabric down as she gazed wistfully at the yellow piece of paper in her father’s grasp.

  “You’ve chased away that awful zebra who keeps eating my roses?” Mrs. Steward asked.

  “Well, uh, no, not…” Mr. Steward stuttered.

  “You’ll let me go on the next lion hunt?” Bobby shouted as he ran through the room, preceded by an agitated chicken.

  “Bobby, stop chasing the wildlife and go wash up for dinner,” Mrs. Steward said as her needle dipped and ducked assuredly.

  The chicken flew up onto the dish cabinet and squawked with great vigor and volume, while Bobby jumped up and down, shouting at it to come face its fate.

  Mr. Steward raised his voice and triumphantly declared, “Aunt Phyllis is dead.”

  We all turned to him, needle work, chickens, and roses forgotten. Indeed, we were utterly stupefied. For my part, I wondered if I would have another phantom to contend with or would the old lady move along politely or at least quickly.

  Mrs. Steward was the first to recover. “Bee, fetch Mr. Steward a stiff drink at once. According to Mrs. Beeton, it’s the best remedy for such strange and uncivil fits. For how could any sane creature celebrate the death of a beloved relative?”

  Mr. Steward straightened up sharply. “My dear wife, she was not a beloved relative, only a mere relative, and I most certainly am not celebrating her death, per se. But hers was a thoughtful death, for she has left to me and mine a tidy inheritance.”

  With his news delivered, he took the proffered drink and swallowed it in one gulp.

  Mrs. Steward’s eyes enlarged with the implications of this revelation and her husband’s newly discovered skill of consuming hard liquor in a single swallow. Lilly lost interest, since in her mind, all the inheritance would be useless, given the lack of shops in which to spend it. Bobby returned his attention to the chicken.

  “Oh, my dear man,” Mrs. Steward said, her voice all breathy with excitement. “How truly marvelous indeed.”

  I eyed the telegram suspiciously, half expecting the old lady’s apparition to float out of it.

  Puffed up with the result of his announcement, Mr. Steward strode across the room, sat on the sofa by his wife’s side, and took up her hand. “Yes, it is, indeed. And now I feel I must give you the opportunity to return home, if you so wish, while I continue my labors here, for we can well afford it. Indeed, she has left us a house and a decent sum to keep it all. I shall join you after my contract here is complete.”

  The children both looked over, for their fates were held within this interaction. In Lilly’s face, there was a great expectation of returning to the land where she had abandoned a sizable portion of her wardrobe and furniture. Bobby appeared less certain of the benefits, for here he was quite at liberty to run amuck like a wild thing and there was still the matter of a lion hunt to attend to.

  “Is it true?” Mrs. Steward asked, her voice barely a whisper. “Is this truly happening to us? There is inheritance enough?”

  Mr. Steward nodded but remained silent, so caught up in his moment of glory that he was rendered speechless.

  Mrs. Steward sighed with the relief of a condemned man set free. “It is grand news indeed.” She sighed again. “But I cannot in good conscience leave my husband’s side.”

  “Yes, you can,” Lilly said with a look of outrage.

  But her parents weren’t paying her the least bit attention, so absorbed were they in each other. It was such a tender transaction that I was mesmerized and stood with my diary and pen clutched to my chest.

  The trance was only broken when the possessed zebra galloped into the room and attacked the coffee table.

  Chapter 22