by Vered Ehsani
I knelt by Kam’s feet and gingerly grasped one calf and pushed and wiggled until his knee bent. I manoeuvred the leg into the bush but as soon as I shifted to the next leg, the first slid back out.
“How bloody inconsiderate,” I told the unconscious man. “You were the one who said not to breathe, and what did you do?”
Kam remained mute but a hunter shouted through the trees, “I think I see something.”
“Guns at the ready, men,” another ordered.
I wondered what story I could possibly tell the hunters to explain how I ended up in this small grove of trees in the middle of the grasslands with two drugged-up bodies, a shape-shifting girl and a pride of lions.
Any story I could imagine seemed improbable and likely to land me in more trouble than is acceptable for a young woman, even in a place so far removed from the gossip of London as Nairobi was.
So I did what any socially-attuned, gossip-adverse, paranormal investigator would do: I forcefully stuffed both of Kam’s legs back so far his knees nearly smacked into his chin; then I squeezed myself back into the bush, the bottom of his feet pressing against my spine; I pulled a few branches in front to screen us all; and prayed the hunters didn’t have dogs or a tracker with them.
And all of that in the nick of time, for a couple of hunters barrelled into the small clearing, huffing, puffing, sweating and swearing, guns swinging, and torches swaying precariously close to dry, flammable leaves.
“Miss Knight,” Nyambura whispered behind me, her warm cheek pressed close to my ear. “I can turn back and scare them away.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” I said sharply but quietly. “It’s a most brave offer to make, but scaring stupid men who are armed is a very dangerous business, especially for a lion.”
So we sat there with the cloying scent of chloroform, musk of lion and decaying leaves covering us as much as the darkness and bushes did. Kam began to snore, his legs shifting behind me.
“This way,” a voice shouted in the darkness. I recognised Mr. Timmons’s deep voice. Finally, he was doing something.
Only when the hunters had wandered off in the direction of the voice, their noise diluted by the night, did I dare ease out of the bushes and into the stillness.
Chapter 28
It was Nyambura who led me back to the place we’d left Nelly. Kam, staggering about like a giant drunkard, decided to wait for her on the path to their village, a well trussed-up Ooma still asleep by his side.
Only as I began to follow Nyambura away did he slur out an acknowledgement that might’ve been a thank you. “You hid us well.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, certain he wouldn’t want to be seeing me for a while after he sobered up. Regardless of cultural differences, men are men, and no man wants to admit he needed a woman to save him.
Talking of sleeping lion girls, Nelly was doing just that when I walked up to her. She was exactly where I had left her, her hooves sunk into the soil, her snoring disguising the buzz of insects. She was as unperturbed by my appearance as she was by my disappearance. Then again, the only thing that could ruffle her composure was a missed meal, the fat little horse.
Wearily, I clambered onto my half-asleep mount and waved at Nyambura. The girl seemed completely awake and chipper as usual. With a bright smile, she transformed effortlessly into a lion, and with a flick of her tail, she vanished into the grass. With considerably more effort, I kicked Nelly into action and hoped we met neither lions nor hunters.
I don’t recall much of the ride back apart from having to occasionally wake Nelly up, and it was with utmost relief that I collapsed into bed, after which I have no recollection of the rest of the night.
While nothing compares to a Shongololo or a ghost lion in terms of inconvenience, nonetheless a mosquito trapped in the sleeping net was frightfully annoying. While sheer exhaustion prevented the insect from keeping me awake, I did spend the last part of the early morning alternatively tossing, covering my ears with a weary arm, and trying to swat the little blood sucker with my pillow.
I only mentioned this to justify my foul temper the next morning, particularly when the first person I laid eyes on was the one and only Mr. Timmons.
I had finally succeeded in smashing the mosquito into insect oblivion and was planning on returning to my slumber when something thumped on the front door. And it thumped again, much as a fist would.
“Oh now what?” I muttered as I hastily pulled on a coat over my rumpled clothes and went to answer the door.
The rest of the household remained in deep slumber and Jonas was nowhere around, which only increased my aggravation. I didn’t even have the energy or decency to blush as I appeared in public in a state of disarray. As is often the case, I seem to greet news or events of any significance immediately after tumbling out of bed.
“My apologies for the early disturbance,” Mr. Timmons said the moment I opened the door.
And he did look somewhat apologetic as far as a man of his uncivilised temperament can. But that didn’t ease my irritation, especially when the sun was nowhere to be seen. Only a slight shimmer kissed the horizon, leaving the rest of the landscape in night’s cool embrace.
“Well, I should hope so,” I snapped uncharitably. As the man actually had the decency to look shamed, I modified my tone. “Oh, do come in. I have no interest in being further bitten tonight.”
Frowning in confusion and glancing at me for signs of teeth marks, Mr. Timmons followed me into the silent house. As I was about to close the door, I noticed a large black and white mound on the ground near the house. I squinted at it.
Although one zebra looks pretty much like every other zebra to the untrained eye, I was fairly certain this had been the possessed one. Except now it was dead. The zebra, that is. I was quite certain the serpentine creature formerly possessing it was very much alive, in as much as a paranormal creature of that sort can be.
Well, it served the zebra right for devouring Mrs. Steward’s silk roses. But now I had a malevolent spirit on the loose. Sighing, I closed the door. The serpentine spirit would have to wait.
“We can sit in the kitchen,” I said as much to inform him as to distract myself from his looming presence. My shoulders twitched but I couldn’t say if it was from a sense of danger or anticipation. “I don’t know about you, but I certainly need a cup of tea.”
A storm lantern’s glow welcomed us into the kitchen, its flickering light casting pot-shaped shadows on the walls. Jonas was already there, his little lithe form bent over double as he stoked the fire in the oven. The heat of it had already warmed the small room. In a few hours, it would be intolerably hot. But at that cold, pre-dawn moment, it was almost as delightful as slipping into a bed warmed by a hot water bottle, which was something I longed to do but would be unable to until nightfall.
Without me asking, Jonas placed the large, blackened kettle on the stove, removed my teapot from its shelf, then cast a suspicious glance at Mr. Timmons. “It’s okay, Miss Knight?” he asked in a quiet voice, his back bowed slightly but his eyes sharp and calculating.
I smiled wearily at him. “Thank you, Jonas. I’ll call you if I need anything.”
We exchanged a knowing look. He would be nearby, I knew, with panga in hand if need be. He might be an uncivil fellow at times, but I was certain he wouldn’t let me down.
I shifted my chair closer to the wood burner and watched Jonas leave. Somehow I was reminded of his monologue regarding bravery and manhood. He had been so incensed with Mrs. Steward’s insistence on the superiority of the British soldier who’d killed the man eaters of Tsavo.
“Do you know what the steps to manhood are here, apart from killing a lion?” I said.
I didn’t realise I’d voiced my thought out loud until Mr. Timmons chuckled. With a smirk, he said in a soft voice, “It’s a rather delicate subject, not fit for a lady’s sensitive ears.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Given my profession, Mr. Timmons, I’m quite accustomed
to handling all manner of subjects, delicate and indelicate. I think my ears can handle it.”
He shrugged his broad shoulders, and said, “As you wish. In many tribes, for a boy to be viewed as a man, it’s critical that he’s circumcised. Of course.”
I was never one to blush, at least not easily, but I found the kettle to be an incredibly fascinating object just then. “Of course,” I said and had to clear my throat before I could hastily continue. “So what brings you here at such an ungodly hour?”
The smirk faded into shadows as Mr. Timmons fixed his gaze on the stove, his eyes narrowing as if he could sift words from the steam that was starting to form above the kettle.
“Do you consider your powers a gift or a curse?” he finally asked in way of an answer.
What a question. And how often had I asked myself that same one. “For sure, there are times I feel it a curse,” I admitted, “and there’ve been moments when I resented it. But I’m sure my life wouldn’t be nearly as interesting or meaningful without it. It’s a curse that’s enriched my existence beyond the frivolous activities deemed suitable for women.”
He nodded, as if he faced a similarly confining existence. “Yes, I can appreciate the dilemma.” He sighed and peered over at me. The dim light from the lantern and from the glow seeping out of the stove’s belly softened his features somewhat. “I too have such a gift. Or a curse. I feel mine is more the latter, for at least you can find gainful employment with yours and provide some benefit to society.”
I frowned, wondering if he had any idea what it was like to constantly see two layers of reality and not being able to admit it in public. “Yes, so I gathered. It has to do with energy manipulation of some sort or other.”
The unspoken question in my last statement lingered between us along with a silence that, when mixed with the flickering light and the rising steam, deepened into a dream. We sat in this way for a few moments.
And then… “Mine is another kind of curse, the greatest of curses,” Mr. Timmons murmured as he scratched at his chin. “It’s a wonder that I have any friends left at all.”
“Cilla said you were the best friend a person could have, or something to that effect,” I said, maintaining a calm I didn’t feel.
Truth be told, I was alarmed with this aspect of the man’s character. It was a thoughtful, tender side that, I feared, was perhaps all the more dangerous because of its sweetness. I found myself preferring the less likeable aspects of his character at that moment.
Mr. Timmons smiled but sadly. “Ah, Cilla. How I became her godfather is still a mystery to me. She’s a dear child, but she doesn’t appreciate the monster I am. Few do, and even fewer live once they know.”
Now my calm slipped into a mild anxiety. “I really must insist that we end this conversation, Mr. Timmons,” I said as I stood, determined to put as much space as possible between myself and whatever he was about to reveal.
I pulled my coat tighter around my waist as if to lock out his dark secrets. There is such a thing as too much information and this, I was certain, would be one of those instances. I picked up my teapot, my mother’s last gift to me, and enjoyed the sensation of its embossed markings under my fingertips.
“But, Mrs. Knight, we’ve only just begun,” he said, “and I insist that you hear me out.”
Even if I hadn’t seen the dark shimmer forming above his skin, I would’ve heard the threat in his voice. Some of my anxiety must have traced its lines on my face, for he quickly added in a mollifying tone, “You are quite safe with me, I assure you. You’re one of the few who really are.”
That wasn’t in the least bit reassuring or so I thought at the time. I licked my lips, feeling cracked skin, and made a mental note to follow Lilly’s advice and be more consistent in applying oil to them. Yes, there I was in possible mortal, or at least moral, danger and I was preoccupied by the dryness of my lips. But really, there’s no excuse for letting one’s appearance deteriorate, especially near death. No one wants to see an ugly corpse at the funeral.
“Well, then, what is it, Mr. Timmons?” burst out of my dehydrated lips as I poured hot water into my teapot and inhaled the scent of the leaves inside. “What manner of beast are you? What do you turn into?”
“That’s just it,” he said, flinty grey eyes fixed on me. I hoped I was imaging the hungry spark twinkling there. I glanced at his teeth in search of long canines; there were none. “I don’t turn into anything at all. And that, I think you’ll agree, makes me particularly fearsome. One moment, we’re sitting over tea, chatting about this and that. The next moment…” He reached out his arm and tapped a finger on my hand. “Your energy, your memories, your very image drain away and become mine.”
A morbid fascination took hold even as I struggled with the concept he was revealing. “You’re a vampire?” I asked, even while knowing that wasn’t possible. Vampires weren’t much interested in your memories and they had their own image to uphold, so why would they bother with yours? What was this man talking about? I resumed my seat and waited for his response.
“No, not exactly,” he said as his mouth quirked into a smile.
Clearly, he thought it amusing to be accused of being a vampire. I knew I would be particularly concerned if such an accusation were directed at me, since it’s no laughing matter; anyone who found it so humorous must be more dangerous than a hungry vampire at dusk.
“I am what can only be described as an identity thief,” he explained with a long sigh at the end. “There’s no other word for it. I absorb my victim’s identity, to the extent that I can become that person.”
“I must confess my ignorance…” I broke off. A fragment of conversation buzzed in my ear like that wretched mosquito last night: Mr. Adams swearing upon everything holy that he would stop at nothing to find the ghost lions. And then, miraculously, he had changed his mind while wearing clothes three sizes too big.
“You…” I gulped, an unseemly sound, one I was sure Mrs. Beeton wouldn’t approve of. Then again, that would be the least of Mrs. Beeton’s grievances with the current situation.
He nodded, his jaw clenched. He eyed me warily, as if it were I, not he, who absorbed other people’s identities.
“In the camp, that wasn’t Mr. Adams at all, was it?” I whispered. I had been right then, but I’d assumed it had been a trick of some sort, an image projecting device perhaps. But to become the person was quite extraordinary in a horrifying sense.
Mr. Timmons shook his head, dark locks shadowing his eyes, hiding whatever those soul-windows would’ve told me. “No, Mrs. Knight, it wasn’t Mr. Adams at all.”
“Well, was he dead at the time?” I asked, which really wasn’t any of my business, nor was it the question I had been thinking of, but I feared the answer to that other one.
Mr. Timmons shrugged, his cavalier attitude sliding back into place. “Quite likely. And being chewed on by the vultures. The body was in a rather untidy state when it was found.”
“How unfortunate,” I murmured. “I do detest an ugly corpse.” To distract myself, I poured hot water into the teapot. The scent of tea mingled with the steam, soothing in its familiarity.
We sat in silence again. Or rather, we ceased our speaking, but the savannah was never truly silent. There was never truly an absence of noise, especially at dawn and dusk, when all manner of life either begins to wake or to sleep. All of that seeped into the quiet of the kitchen.
Insects buzzed and chirped, birds sang out, and the leaves in the tree just outside the window rustled in tune with the dry grass. Soon enough, as the sun heated the air, vultures would circle, looking for the remains of a lion kill. I shuddered, wondering if they had filled their gullets with bits of Mr. Adams and if I would be their next meal.
“What did you really want to know?” Mr. Timmons eventually asked, after I’d watched the imaginary vultures circling over my body enough to make me dizzy.
I stared at the uneven paving stones that made the kitchen floor. Mrs. Steward f
ound them primitive and low class (“Very native,” she’d said), but I rather enjoyed their asymmetrical shapes, the rough surface, the muted colours. “What do you want?” I asked, still studying the stones. “And why are you telling me this?”
He chuckled. “What do I want with you?”
I straightened up, my hands tightening around my tea cup which fortunately didn’t snap in my grip. “I don’t much appreciate…”
He waved my words away, along with a small fly, and said in his cavalier tone, “Don’t flatter yourself, Mrs. Knight. While I like you well enough and consider myself your friend, if you would accept that offer, I certainly don’t need to impose myself on you. There are enough ladies who would gladly have my company.”
My breath hissed out but before I could think of a suitably cutting retort, he continued. “What I want from you is someone I can trust, someone who knows the truth about me. And I didn’t kill Mr. Adams.”
“But… you…” I spluttered as my real question was answered. Tea splashed onto my thigh as my hands shook in my confusion, and I wondered how I could possibly trust a man who had admitted to being the worst sort of thief.
Mr. Timmons removed the cup from my quivering grip. “I took advantage of the situation, to be sure. I absorbed what was left of his memories and energy, so I could imitate his form. But he was already well on his way when I found him, beyond saving. No, Mrs. Knight, I shall have to disappoint you and state my innocence in the case of Mr. Adams’s demise.”
“I’m not disappointed,” I protested, and that was the truth.
“I’m pleased to hear that,” he said, smiling warmly.
My cheeks heated up with I don’t dare say what complex mix of emotions. “I am, however, confused. Mr. Adams is dead and you seem the most likely culprit and yet you dare claim otherwise.”
“Think, Bee,” Mr. Timmons said, and I was so alarmed by the overall conversation that I didn’t take him to task for being so familiar with me. “His murder coincides a little too neatly with something he did.”
