by Vered Ehsani
“I apologise on her behalf,” I said softly, not sure what the man might do to Mrs. Steward or why I felt compelled to apologise. “She doesn’t really know any better. Did Prof. Runal send you?”
Kam shifted again, and now I wished I hadn’t spoken, for this wasn’t a man you send for as you would for a carriage. I tried not to squirm under his scrutiny. For all I knew, he was the chief of his tribe, or perhaps the director of a society that studied unusual specimens of European species. The thought wasn’t appealing, and for the first time, I understood why some of the creatures I had documented had been less than thrilled with my attentions.
“When you are ready, we will meet again,” he said.
“And when will that be?” I asked.
Now that mouth really did form a smile, as slight as it was. “You tell me.”
And despite his towering height, powerful build, and unusual skin markings, within seconds of leaving my side, he had utterly vanished into the crowd.
Chapter 10
My meeting, however brief, with Kam had revived me. Even as Lilly 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), my entire being thrummed with energy as I gazed about the landscape in anticipation.
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 (and probably a third) wagon to bring the remaining trunks to our new house.
We were directed 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, colourless 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 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 bleached 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 changed since at least the day before.
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 took us past the outskirts of the camp, a ramshackle collection of bleached tents and a few mud or tin shacks, before meandering up a long hill. Toward the top, the ox stumbled to a stop before a solidly built brick-and-stone, one-floor structure with a thick thatch roof. It 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, covering the hills as they sloped up to the highlands.
Regardless of our various perspectives on the situation, we were all too wilted and dusty to either cheer or complain. 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 smoking volcano.
“What’s wrong with that tree?” she demanded and pointed to the offending tree.
We all followed 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 the trees.”
“So I have an elephant scratching post in front of my door,” she said, her cold gaze flicking to Mr. Steward. “Charming.”
“Not charming,” our driver said. “When elephants come, you must stay inside.”
“So 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 little black-and-grey curls. He frowned as if struggling to understand the question and his face wrinkled up like an expired apple. His hands, gnarled but strong, gripped the frayed hem of a 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 parlour, Mr. Steward,” she said in a low voice that didn’t bode well for the poor man. “No parlour at all. What sort of a house lacks a parlour?” With that condemnation of the entire building, she retreated and the door smacked 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 I assumed was a corner of our front lawn.
One zebra stared back at me. I narrowed my eyes and could see the animal’s energy glowing brightly even in the sunlight. A 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 knobbly 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 farther. “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’s 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, yes.”
“But…” I started to protest and noticed the strange zebra was much closer and still eyeing me. “Oh, forget it,” I muttered, grabbed whatever bag 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 needs to know when to quit.
Chapter 11
I slept through the first scream. Possibly the second and third, which was unusual as I’d normally been a light sleeper. But by the fourth blood-curdling, nerve-shattering, I’m-being-eaten-alive, God-help-me-please scream, I reluctantly woke up, groggy and grumpy and wishing the person would die faster and quieter. The nerve, to wake everyone up before sunrise just because one is under attack or being devoured.
Gideon always did say I wasn’t a morning person.
In addition to the screaming, I awoke to see the glimmering outline of a wolf’s energy, which reminded me of a past I sincerely wished to forget.
“Go away,” I whispered at the wolf, and it did.
“Bee, what’s making all that racket?” Mrs. Steward shouted from her bedroom.
“How the bloody hell do I know?” I grumbled into my pillow. But really, it was her way of saying, “Bee, find out what’s making all that racket, and then make it stop.”
I lit the lantern by my bed, tugged on my housecoat, and stumbled through the dark living room. Shadows of the furniture were distorted as they bounced around me. I could hear the lingering echo of a gunshot, shouts, and another scream. All of it was coming from below our forested hill, where the camp squatted at the edge of the grasslands.
I placed my hand on the door handle. Did I really need to find out? Clearly it was in the camp and therefore in the jurisdiction of the camp superintendent. As long as it all stayed down there, I saw no reason to disturb myself over it, at least not until after breakfast.
A board creaked behind me.
Why was I always in a housecoat when something was in my house?
Granted, that’s a story for another time. But the thought did strike me at that moment, as I stood barefoot and shivering in my worn-out housecoat, with one hand on the doorknob, one hand holding a flickering lantern and surrounded by dancing shadows and eerie sounds.
I twisted around, realising I had broken one of my own rules: never leave the bedroom unarmed, especially when investigating screams and other irritating noises.
I peered into the darkness, wishing I had my walking stick, for it was very possible that I might have to club away unwanted attention. And it was only my first day in my new home. This didn’t bode well for a peaceful future.
Well, that wasn’t much help to me now, so there was nothing for me to do but hold up my lantern (which could actually provide a fair wallop on the head if used correctly) and say, “Who’s there?”
“Bee,” Lilly called out from the relative safety of her room and warm bed. “What’s happening?”
I was about to retort with some suitably witty comment regarding stupid questions when a shadow detached itself from the wall.
Before I could shriek (my heart was wedged too tightly in my throat for any sound to come out), the shadow spoke, “Miss Knight, do not go out.”
“Jonas…” I wheezed. “It’s Mrs. Knight, and what…?”
“Good gracious,” Mrs. Steward bellowed as she marched into the living room with a large candle spluttering almost as much as she was. Lilly and Bobby followed right behind her.
Mr. Steward peered around the doorway of his bedroom, his eyes blurred with sleep. “What’s going on out there, Jonas?”
By now, the night (or early morning) had resumed its normal tranquillity. But Jonas knew what he was referring to. “Oh, is nothing, bwana,” he said cheerfully, bowing slightly from the waist. “Nothing but the twin ghost lions.”
Lilly squeaked, Bobby jumped up and down happily and Mr. Steward frowned. “Twin ghost lions? What nonsense.”
Jonas shrugged his thin shoulders, completely unfazed by his employer’s reaction. “Maybe ghost. Maybe not. But the ghost lions, they still eat men. You’ve not heard of the man-eaters of Tsavo?”
“Yes,” I said doubtfully. “But I thought that British Officer, Patterson someone or other, shot those lions a year ago.”
“Yes, that is why these are their ghosts,” Jonas explained as if talking to a very stupid child.
“Man-eating lions?” Mrs. Steward gasped as she pretended to faint away. It was a fairly convincing act, especially the part where her skull smacked heavily against the heavy wood of the coffee table.
I smiled serenely at Lilly, remembering her declaration back in London, the one in which she stated she would prefer to be eaten by a lion than remain unmarried. “Why, Lilly, perhaps your wish to be eaten by a lion will be granted, after all.”
“You are too terrible for words, Bee,” she snapped as she helped her mother get up from the floor.
“And yet you still manage to find some.” I sighed.
There was a sharp rap at the front door.
“Oh now what? I don’t think my nerves can handle more,” Mrs. Steward grumbled.
I wondered if she was referring to the mystery visitor, the man-eating lions, or her fainting spell, which I might add she’d recovered remarkably well from. I’d even say too well and too fast for a decent Englishwoman: most women wisely remain comatose for at least several minutes in the hopes that whatever had induced the faint would have by that point vacated the area.
In Africa, though, such an approach might jolly well lead to the fainted woman being devoured by a large carnivore, so perhaps Mrs. Steward’s ability for rapid recovery was more appropriate for our new environs.
As for me, I couldn’t handle standing there barefooted on the cold floor much longer, while a warm, empty bed beckoned me back.
“Bee, please,” Mr. Steward said, waving a hand limply in my direction, since Jonas clearly had no intention of responding to the knocking. A rumble of thunder reinforced his request.
I left the family to their fears, ignored Jonas’s protests and warnings, patted my right ear to ensure it was sufficiently covered by a thick lock of hair, and opened the door. Perhaps I should’ve been more surprised to encounter the towering hulk of Kam waiting there. But given that it wasn’t a lion knocking at the door, anything else seemed rather mundane.
“Good morning, Kam,” I said.
He didn’t return the greeting but nodded to me.
I gave up on chitchat and asked, “What’s all this nonsense about twin ghost lions?”
He tilted his shaved head slightly to the side as if better to study this new sub-species of human being. He had a quiver of arrows made of animal hide (fur and tail still attached) strapped to his back, a bow almost as tall as I am in one hand, and a machete in the other. Given the circumstances, I just assumed he was there to see how we were doing and protect us from whatever had rampaged through the camp. Any other option wasn’t one I wanted to contemplate.
“It’s that rude porter, is it?” Mrs. Steward said as Lilly led her away to the bedrooms. Her nerves, I noted, had achieved a full recovery, so much so that she didn’t bother fainting again, despite the sight of a large native with unclear intentions standing at the door.
I sighed and wished for once that she was as frail and helpless as she pretended to be. “Yes,” I answered.
“What does he want?” I could hear her shuffling back to her bedroom and a warm bed. “Our trunks are already u
nloaded and we don’t need another gardener. Once you’re done there, Bee, teach that boy John… No. Joe…” She fumbled for the name.
“Jonas.” I filled it in for her, restraining myself from adding that “that boy” was probably older than she was.
“Yes, that one,” she said. “Teach him how to make a proper pot of English tea. Not that swill he prepared yesterday evening.” With that, she left the living room, along with Lilly and a protesting Bobby.
“I’m most dreadfully sorry,” I whispered apologetically to both Jonas and Kam. It seemed I was apologising constantly for Mrs. Steward. “She’s like that with all her staff. I’ve been dealing with it for years.”
Jonas stared at me, doubt etched around his eyes, and he left without a word, disappearing into the dark kitchen to light a fire.
On the other side of the living room, down the narrow corridor, heavy iron beds creaked as the family settled back under warm duvets (which, as Mrs. Steward was quick to point out, were only filled with wool, not feathers), except for Bobby, who was pretending to shoot lions until his mother shouted at him to get into bed and stop making noise.
I leaned against the doorway and into the ensuing silence. There was no repeat of the thunder, nor any sign that a storm was approaching. The cool glow of dawn’s light cast a golden sheen on everything, transforming the landscape into a surreal painting.
I had never seen that quality of light before and certainly not in the watery grey of London with its belching chimneys and yellow clouds. Twitters, chirps, and rustles quietly slipped into the space vacated by the noisy humans, the savannah waking up, unconcerned with the news of the killer lions.
“They are real,” Kam said in his rumbling voice.
I glanced sharply up at his handsomely sombre face, the features cast in shadow. “Truly?” I pulled my worn housecoat tighter around me, but still the cool air crept through the thin fabric. “So these are the ghosts of those lions Patterson shot? What were they called, the man eaters of Tsavo?”
