Shamanka

by Jeanne Willis

  They walk back to the car. The capuchin monkeys are swinging in the trees. The dogs are barking with joy and cocking their legs against every tree they come across. The cats have curled up in the corn as if nothing has happened, because cats are not of this earth; they’re made from shadows and shimmers and some strange slinky liquid unknown to science – not even to Dr Pringle. One little rat remains on the bonnet of the Morris Minor. It washes its whiskers, announces that life is wonderful, then it shoots off into the corn to raise a new generation.

  Lola is sitting in the back of the car like an old relative looking forward to a Sunday drive. Sam is so happy, her eyes fill with tears. She isn’t one to cry, as you know, but as she pulls out her hanky, something falls onto her lap. It’s the cat charm Kitty gave to Ruth Abafey – she must have slipped it in Sam’s pocket.

  “Very pretty,” says Mr Fraye. “It looks like Bastet, the Egyptian cat goddess.”

  If it belongs to Kitty, and if Mrs Reafy is to be trusted, the charm might have absorbed Kitty’s emotions; maybe Sam could find her through psychometry. She will try later.

  They arrive back at Mr Fraye’s. In case you’re in any doubt about his character, let me tell you that as well as being the perfect gentleman, he’s the perfect host. He and his wife have no qualms about letting Sam share a bed in their spare room with an orang-utan, never mind that the sheets are from Harrods.

  It’s now a quarter to midnight. Snuggled up to Lola, Sam is having a quick look at the witch doctor’s list. She’s pretty sure Mr Fraye’s name must be near the top – and of course it is – but she can’t find Kitty Bastet anywhere.

  She holds the cat charm, closes her eyes tightly and concentrates.

  THREE LUCKY CHARMS

  THE WISHBONE

  This is the bone overlying a bird’s breastbone. It’s the custom to dry it for three days – three being a magic number. Two people then pull it apart. The one who gets the long half will have their wish come true.

  THE HORSE SHOE

  These protective amulets are often nailed onto houses, barns and stables. It’s said that no witch will pass under one. The crescent shape is linked to the pagan moon goddesses, the Irish Sheela-na-gig and the Blessed Virgin Mary.

  THE FOUR-LEAF CLOVER

  Clover usually has three leaves, so a four-leaf clover is considered a lucky find. It’s a genetic variation, like six-fingered human hands and multi-toed cats, and is believed to bring the finder health, wealth and happiness.

  THE ECCENTRICS CLUB

  “I had the strangest dream,” says Sam over breakfast, “about a place called Eel Pie Island. I don’t suppose a place with a name as silly as that can really exist though.”

  Mr Fraye passes the marmalade to Lola, who spreads it on her toast with her thumb.

  “Hmm … yes, it does. It’s on the River Thames, near Twickenham.”

  Eel Pie Island used to be a popular resort for boating parties that had come to sample the famous eel pies.

  “They don’t make pies there any more,” says Mr Fraye. “The hotel has gone. The eel population has declined dramatically. Pollution, I’m afraid.” He chews his cereal carefully. “There are only about fifty houses on the island, mostly inhabited by boat builders, craft workers and the like.”

  “Pop musicians,” adds Mrs Fraye, who rarely speaks, but serves and smiles.

  “Yes, and them. Ah, well, I suppose they have to live somewhere.”

  He knows a great deal about the place and Sam is curious to know if there’s a particular reason for this.

  Mr Fraye knocks his pipe out into a large glass ashtray. “There’s a bird sanctuary at its southern end. I do a bit of twitching on the quiet.”

  “I have to go there,” says Sam.

  “You enjoy bird watching? Let’s make a day of it. We might see a great crested grebe.”

  But Sam isn’t interested in going to Eel Pie Island to spot great crested grebes. She’s hoping to find Kitty. “She might know where my father is. Mr Fraye, did you ever meet my father?”

  No, but he’d heard of him. His sister had mentioned John Tabuh years ago when she thought he was a murderer and again recently, on the phone, when she realized to her shame that he wasn’t.

  “We can approach Eel Pie Island in the Morris,” offers Mr Fraye. “But … hmm … it can only be reached by footbridge or boat, I’m afraid.”

  “I don’t mind walking.” Sam gets down from the table. She’s already dressed, but there’s the small – or rather large – matter of Lola. Naturally, Lola must go to Eel Pie Island too, but Sam is concerned that an orang-utan may attract the wrong sort of attention.

  “She could go in disguise,” suggests Mr Fraye. “Mrs Fraye could lend her an outfit. With a little ingenuity and a large hat she could pass for someone’s grandmother.”

  Giggling to herself, Mrs Fraye takes Lola by the hand and, together, they go through her wardrobe. Lola is used to dressing up. She takes great pleasure in trying on the vast selection of hats on offer. With the addition of a pair of glasses, she is transformed into a passable human being; but the illusion isn’t quite complete.

  “It’s the way she walks,” says Sam. “Old ladies just don’t walk like that.”

  Mr Fraye insists his Aunt Lillian did, especially after her operation; but Sam isn’t convinced. “I don’t suppose you’ve a wheelbarrow? That might solve the problem.”

  Mr Fraye won’t hear of it; it would never do to push your granny in a wheelbarrow. “We have a wheelchair,” he says. “A folding one. We bought it for Lillian but she refused to get in it.”

  Rather than bore you with the way Mr Fraye hit his head on a beam while trying to get the wheelchair down from the loft, and how he pinched his thumb as he forced it into the back of his car, let’s move on as swiftly as we can through the traffic and down to the Thames. Sam can see Eel Pie Island from the window. Mr Fraye parks near the footbridge and unfolds the wheelchair for Lola. He puts a rug over her knees to hide the red hair sticking out of her stockings.

  Mr Fraye is so kind, but the truth is that Sam wants to find Kitty by herself. It’s time for Sam to move on. She’s not sure where she’s going and it’s a scary thought, but she has her protective oil and witch’s cord, and she hopes the witch doctor’s notebook will guide her. She’ll never find her father if she stays put.

  “Mr Fraye, please don’t be offended, but I think this is something I have to do alone.”

  “Ah,” he replies, “I did wonder.”

  “Did you?”

  He nods sagely. “But will you be all right on your own? I could wait here, if you like.” He pauses. “Or … not,” he adds.

  “I’ll be fine, really. Lola will look after me.”

  Again, he nods. “Of course. But if ever you’re in trouble… Well, you only have to call and I’ll come and collect you both.” He slips a coin into her pocket. “For the telephone.”

  “Thanks for everything, Mr Fraye. I could never have rescued Lola without you.”

  “It was a pleasure. An absolute pleasure, and I hope you find who you’re looking for. If you believe you will, you will. Shoulders back, head held high, remember.”

  As Sam pushes Lola’s wheelchair across the footbridge, she realizes she’s forgotten to ask Mr Fraye the three questions. But sometimes there’s no need to ask directly – he’s given her the answers through his deeds: talking doves are just an illusion. The reality is, though, there’s no scientific explanation as to how he came into her life just when she needed him – was that magic?

  She turns to wave goodbye, but he’s gone. The coin is burning a hole in her pocket. She takes it out and a quick glance tells her this is no ordinary coin.

  When Sam held the cat charm last night in the hope of finding Kitty via psychometry, nothing happened at first. It was only in her half-asleep, half-awake state that the name Eel Pie Island sprang to mind. It was such a strong feeling, she sat up in bed and, unable to stop herself, shouted, “Eel Pie!”

&n
bsp; It woke Lola, who hooted anxiously, but when she realized that the outburst had been caused by her darling girl, she gathered Sam in her arms, and together they fell back to sleep.

  There was a dream about a painted barge covered in cats. There were so many cats, it looked as if the deck was lined with fur. It vibrated with the sheer volume of purring. It was dark and the barge was strung with green fairy lights; only they weren’t fairy lights; they were cats’ eyes.

  Sam pushes the wheelchair up a ramp and explains to Lola that they’re looking for a barge with cats. The orang-utan has taken Mrs Fraye’s hat off and is licking the cherries which decorate the brim. Sam puts it back on her head and ties it firmly under the chin.

  “You’re supposed to be in disguise, remember?”

  Lola hides her face in the rug, but she’s smiling. She likes it in the wheelchair. Orang-utans aren’t very keen on walking.

  There are several houseboats moored at the water’s edge. Some have dogs and Sam tries to steer clear of these. While it’s easy enough to fool people that she’s taking her granny for a stroll, she can’t fool the dogs; they have an excellent sense of smell, and grandmothers smell nothing like orang-utans.

  Sure enough, as they turn the corner, a burly hound with little red eyes gets a whiff of ape and barks loudly. Sam breaks into a trot. “Next time I take you out, remind me to rub you with Ruth’s oil, Lola!”

  Once the dog is far behind them, Sam stops to catch her breath and is greeted by gales of laughter coming from a blue barge. Attached to its mast is a huge inflatable bird held together with patches from a puncture kit; it swoops in the breeze, trying to escape from its tether. Sam guesses it’s an albatross. She once read a poem – The Rime of the Ancient Mariner – in which a sailor shot an albatross and was cursed forever, because seafarers believe the birds are the spirits of drowned mariners.

  She’s just wondering how such superstitions come about when several men dressed as pirates rush onto deck armed with bows and arrows which they fire at the inflatable bird. Most of the arrows miss, but suddenly, there’s a loud pop followed by a chorus of hurrahs as the air escapes from the albatross, causing it to fold like a pancake.

  “That was lucky, my hearties!” cries the captain.

  “That was very lucky, Captain!” agree the rest. They all perform the Sailor’s Hornpipe, kicking each others’ buttocks with gusto as if to celebrate a great victory.

  Suddenly, they realize they’re being watched.

  “Ah,” says the captain to Sam, “you mustn’t worry, you know.”

  “Mustn’t I?” says Sam.

  There’s a chorus of mumbling from the crew. Oh, no, she shouldn’t worry. That was the whole point of shooting the albatross; they did it to prove that no bad luck would befall the sailors, and to make a mockery of the ancient belief.

  “How can you be sure?” asks Sam. “You’ve only just shot it! Isn’t it too early to tell?”

  Not at all, they reply. We shoot the same albatross every year and nothing’s happened so far. True, the captain has corns, but that’s not bad luck; it’s because he wears pointy boots.

  The captain and his crew are all members of the Eccentrics Club of Great Britain, a group that gathers on the blue barge every Friday the thirteenth to deliberately flout superstition.

  “Come aboard!” says the bo’sun, “There’re only eleven of us, so if you two ladies would join us for lunch, we can smash the theory that thirteen diners is an unlucky number.”

  “I’d love to,” says Sam, “but my granny’s rather shy. I think she’d prefer to sit by herself on the deck if you don’t mind.”

  Nobody minds. They carry the wheelchair onto the barge, park Lola in the sunshine and take Sam down below. The entrance to the galley is blocked by a ladder propped up at such a shallow angle, she has to limbo under it. The pirates encourage her with handclapping and chanting: “Under the ladder! Under the ladder!”

  “Isn’t it unlucky to walk under a ladder?” she asks.

  “Nonsense!” cries the captain.

  “Rubbish!” roars the bo’sun. “People only assume it’s unlucky because a ladder bears a resemblance to the gallows. But it’s not the gallows, is it? I bear a resemblance to a pirate, but I’m not a pirate, am I?”

  “No, you work for the Council,” snorts the captain. “There are no pirates in the council.”

  The bo’sun stops clapping and half closes his eyes.

  “There are no pirates … but there are sharks!”

  Sam is about to ask the bo’sun to explain himself when she sees a black cat being chased by an old man in baggy shorts. He’s leading a conga of ladies who are yelling instructions at him.

  “Faster, Albert! Puss is getting away!”

  “You catch him, we’ll stroke him!”

  “Almost got him… Dang! He’s gone under the seat.”

  Sam kneels down and peers at the cat. It peers back and she strokes its head.

  “You didn’t ought to do that!” wheezes Albert sarcastically. “Stroking a black cat? That’s dicing with death, that is!”

  Sam scoops the cat up and rocks it like a furry baby. “Superstitious nonsense,” she says.

  “Of course it is!” agree the ladies. “We stroke that cat on a regular basis and no harm has come to any one of us, has it, girls?”

  “No, no harm … although Gladys did slip over outside the butchers.”

  “Yes, and Sylvia Pugh was struck by lightning.”

  “And Mavis Meredith’s boarding house slid down the cliff into the sea.”

  But none of these tragic events were in any way brought about by stroking black cats; and as if to prove it, they line up and take it in turns to caress the captured cat until the bell rings for lunch.

  There are thirteen chairs, but as Lola isn’t joining them, the cat is placed on the spare seat next to Sam to make up the numbers. By each chair is an umbrella. The captain sits at the head of the table and as soon as Sam is seated, he bellows, “Brollies up!” There’s a whooshing sound as eleven umbrellas are opened and the odd scream as someone is poked in the eye.

  The bo’sun nudges Sam with his elbow. “Put your umbrella up. And the cat’s while you’re at it.”

  “Why? Does the roof leak? There don’t appear to be any holes.”

  “The opening of an umbrella indoors is dreadfully unlucky!” mocks the captain.

  “Ludicrous!” shouts the bo’sun.

  “Folly!” wheezes Albert. “I always open my umbrella indoors and I’ve never had an accident because of – arghhhhhh!”

  As he speaks, the leg of his chair falls off and he’s deposited on the floor, grabbing the tablecloth as he falls, causing the crockery to slide off and smash.

  Sam rushes to help him up. “No broken bones, touch wood!” she says, tapping the table, which outrages the seated members of the Eccentrics Club.

  “Don’t touch wood! We don’t do anything that’s supposed to be lucky.”

  “We don’t believe in it,” agrees Albert, who now has nowhere to sit and is trying to share a small-bottomed chair with the large-bottomed lady next to him.

  Sam says that surely Albert was lucky not to be hurt, but he insists luck didn’t come into it. The fact that he fell has nothing to do with the umbrellas; the leg of his chair had woodworm.

  It’s not easy eating a meal while holding an umbrella, and the pie tastes odd to Sam.

  “That’s because it’s Mag-Pie,” says the bo’sun.

  “Magpie Pie?”

  “Yes, that’s why it’s mostly gravy and not much meat. There isn’t much meat on one magpie.”

  “Why not make it with more magpies?”

  The bo’sun rolls his eyes. “Don’t you know the rhyme about magpies?” He starts to sing:

  One for sorrow, two for joy,

  Three for a girl and four for a boy.

  Five for silver, six for gold

  Seven for a secret never to be told.

  There’s a round of applause,
and the captain leans across the table and explains that to see a single magpie is about the unluckiest thing that can happen, so imagine how unlucky it is to eat one. Sam puts her fork down. “It tastes awful.”

  “Have some wine,” says the bo’sun, slapping her on the back and pouring the pale green liquid into her glass.

  “Is it unlucky wine?” she asks.

  “It made from four-leaf clovers,” he whispers, “which would be lucky, only we pulled a leaf off each one, so then they were three-leaf clovers.”

  “How unlucky can a wine be? Cheers!” hoots Albert, deliberately spilling the salt.

  “You have gravy round your face,” says Sam.

  “Do I? Does anyone have a mirror?”

  The big-bottomed lady produces one from her handbag. Albert looks at his reflection and, having taken care to wipe off every trace of magpie gravy with the corner of the tablecloth, he smashes the mirror to pieces with a ladle. “Seven years bad luck, my friends?” He grins.

  “Not on your Nelly!” holler the guests in unison. “Well done!” “Bravo!”

  The black cat climbs onto Sam’s lap, lured by a scrap of magpie meat, and sits there purring.

  “This is such a sweet cat, Captain. Does it live on this barge?” asks Sam.

  The captain shrugs his shoulders.

  “I don’t know. We only hire the barge. It might do and it might not.”

  “Not!” shouts Albert, who’s had too much clover wine. “That cat doesn’t live here, it lives on the Cat Barge.”

  “The Cat Barge?”

  Yes. There’s a barge full of cats of all shapes and sizes moored somewhere round about. Albert can’t remember where exactly, but he remembers seeing it once.

  “When he was drunk!” says the big-bottomed lady, upon whose lap he is now sitting.

  “That cat,” continues Albert, “lives with the Cat Woman. But I can’t tell you what she looks like, because … because…”

  The lady snatches his glass away. “Because you’re drunk, that’s why!”