Stones of Nairobi

by Vered Ehsani

  “I believe that was a contraction,” Lilly murmured as she grasped my hand in hers.

  “Don’t panic,” I wailed.

  Shaking her head, she grimaced, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. “I’m not panicking, Beatrice.”

  I ignored her reassurances and turned to the doctor. “Dr. Ribeiro, do something.”

  “Oh, Miss Knight,” he said, wagging his head from side to side, “there is nothing I can be doing at this timing. It is Mrs. Elkhart who needs to be doing the doing.”

  “How can you remember Lilly’s new married name but not mine?” I complained in a failed effort to distract myself.

  “You’re kidding,” Lilly grumbled. “I’m being split apart, and you’re fussing about your last name?”

  “It’s a valid question,” I protested as her grip on me tightened. A wave of dizziness overwhelmed me as I inhaled Lilly's fear-tainted sweat.

  “Shouldn’t you be out there defending the house against whatever horde the poet is bringing?” she rebuked me.

  “That would be easier than being here,” I admitted. “But he hasn’t arrived, and you need me more.”

  She patted my arm. “I’m sure I can manage without your presence for a few hours.”

  “Hours?” I repeated, my eyes widening and my breath hitching. “You mean this goes on for hours?”

  “And sometimes days,” Dr. Ribeiro said, smiling at my ignorance.

  Wanjiru nodded, her countenance the epitome of sympathy. “Yes,” she said and blushed as we turned to her. Lowering her eyes, she added in a soft voice, “The missus, she won’t be so long though.”

  “Well, I bloody well hope not,” I said, as if the matter were in any of our hands.

  “Hello, Cilla,” Lilly said, gesturing for Cilla to take a seat near the bed.

  After pleasantries were exchanged and an update on the misunderstanding between Drew and Cilla provided, Lilly clutched at my arm and wheezed, “Promise me that you’ll help her and Drew.”

  “Never mind that now,” I said, trying for a soothing tone even as my breath hiccuped in panic.

  “I need to know,” she insisted, “that someone will be happy after I die.”

  Cilla gasped. “You’re not going to die,” she said before turning to the doctor. “Is she?”

  Dr. Ribeiro chuckled. “Of course she is not dying. She just is feeling like she is.”

  Lilly yelled an incomprehensible word, her eyes widening as she clutched at my arm, her back arching slightly.

  “Are you sure?” I said. “Because that looks an awful lot like dying to me.”

  “Beatrice,” Lilly whispered.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re not helping,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “Please go outside.”

  “If you insist,” I said and leaped to my feet with what was admittedly an indecent enthusiasm.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  WHEN I RETURNED to the library, I didn’t dare meet Tiberius’ anxious gaze. Instead, I provided a vague report and perched on a chair near the fireplace, basking in the cheery warmth of the flames. The rich scent of the burning wood soothed me. Even the sharp crackling was reminiscent of more peaceful times.

  “I can’t believe she came back, and tonight of all nights,” Mr. Timmons muttered.

  “Well, she did,” I pointed out as I lifted my bow onto my lap and inspected it. “It’s no fault of her own, merely bad luck. Do select a different topic of conversation, dear.”

  “I wonder where Liongo is,” Tiberius said.

  As no one could possibly provide an answer, I presumed he merely intended to prevent our stern words from escalating into a quarrel.

  “They’re taking their time,” Koki scoffed.

  “The sun only set a couple of hours ago,” Father noted. “If Le-Eyo is providing an army for Liongo, they probably need to wait until dark before they can move.”

  “Why does the supernatural prefer the night,” I huffed. “It’s so terribly inconvenient.”

  The fire crackled in agreement, its bright flames reflecting off the stone enclave in which it sat.

  We settled down to wait. Father and Koki sat across from each other at a small table. I could only hope that Koki was a good sport, for Father was an excellent card player, and I’d hate to see him lose his head over a game.

  Yao lounged across a paisley patterned sofa that was pushed up against the wall opposite the recently barricaded balcony doors. His head and one arm lolled across the plump armrest. I curled up on the Persian carpet before the fire and attempted to read. My mind couldn’t latch onto the meaning of the words, so I thumped the book on my lap.

  “Yao is boring,” Yao announced and smacked his lips together as if to prove the case.

  Mr. Timmons snickered but continued flipping through a three-week old newspaper. Father and Koki were far too engrossed in their game to notice. Tiberius stalked the corridor, no doubt wondering when his bat child would be born. Kam remained at his position by a window, studying the night through a crack in the wooden shutters.

  “Don’t you mean bored?” I corrected Yao, since no one else seemed motivated to do so.

  Bottom lip quivering, Yao twisted around to face me, his eyes wide with astonishment and distress. In an injured tone, he whimpered, “Miss Knight, you think Yao is bored?”

  I hesitated, torn between providing a lesson in proper grammar and assuaging his wounded feelings. As he began to sulk, I said, “Of course not. You aren’t at all bored. You’re the most non-bored person I’ve ever had the pleasure of encountering.”

  The Adze’s eyes narrowed at me, as if assessing the veracity of my statement. Somewhat convinced, he sighed and flopped around, his head and arm once again hanging off the armrest. Within moments, he was snoring softly.

  The clock ticked off the minutes. As the night strengthened its hold, the silence deepened and was broken only by the occasional lion cough or hyena cackle.

  Mr. Timmons sat next to me on the carpet before the fire. My neck felt unable to hold up the heaviness of my head, and I leaned against him. His arm embraced me and tugged me to one side where a pillow had conveniently been placed. I wasn’t at all distressed when my disobedient eyes closed.

  Only when my dreams echoed with howls did I awake, but slowly. Wondering what I was doing stretched out on a carpet and why I wasn’t still sleeping, I forced my eyelids open. My eyes blinked at the fire before me, my thoughts disjointed. Judging by the diminished stack of wood, I calculated several hours had passed.

  Drew sat nearby, his head cocked to the side, his ears twitching. His low growl reverberated through the fog of my mind. He began pacing and growling.

  Tiberius likewise tilted his head as if to give his ears better clearance, a cigarette forgotten in his hand, its thin tendrils of smoke catching the light before they dissipated. The sweet aroma of tobacco tickled at my nose.

  “What’s that noise?” he asked.

  “It’s Mr. Timmons whining again,” Gideon said. “He tends to do that frequently.” Snickering, he pushed his head through a wall to investigate.

  “Gideon, do stop mucking about,” I chastised him, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “You know I detest viewing bodies projecting out of the wall, even if they are ghosts.”

  “My deepest apologies,” he said as he withdrew his head. “I pray you’ll forgive me.”

  “Indeed,” I said but in a distracted fashion, for I now heard whatever had attracted Drew’s and Tiberius’ attention. It was a click-clacking that reminded me of the time I’d recovered a bag of bones from a griffin’s den. “Whatever is it?”

  Gideon chuckled but without mirth. “You may wish to see what’s coming up the garden path.”

  “We don’t have a garden path,” I said as I approached a window, moved aside the curtain and loosened a shutter.

  “That’s because we don’t have a garden,” Mr. Timmons said as he joined me in peering through the gap.

  As my
werewolf eyes were almost as sensitive as my nose, I didn’t have to strain too much to see through the gloom. What I observed drained any joviality that might have lingered from Cilla’s arrival.

  “It appears Le-Eyo is providing more than a little assistance,” Koki said as she tapped the glass.

  “Is he still upset that we rescued Wanjiru from the Underworld and ruined his wedding plans?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Possibly.”

  Frowning, I said, “I do not approve of grudges, even from a God.”

  Father drifted to my side, his reflection visible before me on the window. His gasp didn’t reassure me, for it indicated that he’d never encountered whatever we were witnessing. I’d always assumed he’d seen and experienced everything, and had an answer for every question. Now, the question of our survival seemed a little less certain.

  My eyes refocused on the army of skeletons approaching the house. The clattering of their bones was more audible with every passing breath, drowning out all other sounds. Their bones glowed against the darkness of the land.

  Despite their clumsy gait, they didn’t seem fragile. Certainly the various tools of war they gripped in their bony hands were strong enough to cause harm, even the ones that were rusted, dented and chipped. Some carried agricultural instruments but I didn’t hold that against them. I’d learned never to underestimate the damage a pitchfork can inflict when in the right hands.

  As clouds shifted to allow more starlight to reach the earth, the vastness of the skeleton army became apparent. The house was surrounded, as confirmed by Gideon after a brief reconnaissance.

  When the skeletons were no more than a hundred yards away, they ceased moving. The silence was overwhelming but not for long. A heavy clumping filled in the gaps, followed by a scraping of large scales against rock.

  “That couldn’t be…” I whispered.

  Koki leaned over and whispered back, “I believe it is.”

  “It’s what?” Tiberius asked as he inhaled deeply on his cigarette.

  “Tompandrano,” I replied, my voice cracking. I cleared my throat and said with greater force, “It’s Tompandrano, a giant sea crocodile we encountered on the Isle of Pate.”

  “And I’m sure he doesn’t hold any grudges,” Koki purred. “Oh, except against Miss Knight who gouged out one of his eyes.”

  Father sighed while Mr. Timmons chuckled.

  “In my defense, he was going to eat us,” I said.

  “No,” Koki said, smirking. “Just you, and possibly your fat horse.”

  A roar interrupted any further conversation on the matter as Tompandrano appeared amongst the skeletons, his giant head glowing in the dark. Standing next to the monster was the warrior-poet, Liongo.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “A ONE-EYED lizard, an old poet and a bunch of walking bones,” Gideon summed up the army before us. “That doesn’t sound too ominous.”

  “For someone who’s already dead, perhaps not,” Mr. Timmons snarled. “But some of us are still alive.”

  “Rub it in then,” Gideon muttered, engaging Mr. Timmons in a glaring match.

  “They’re on the move,” Koki said as she pushed away from the window. “You two can continue your marital spat after we defeat this rabble.”

  “Aren’t you optimistic,” I said.

  “Yes, we are,” Yao yipped, jumping up and down as if the upcoming battle was the most thrilling event to enter his life in a few decades at least.

  Father retreated to the fireplace, warming his hands, the flames casting him in an orange aura. Koki eyed him before asking, “What would you suggest, vampire?”

  Before he could respond, Jonas whispered, “Us, we are doomed.” Backing away from the window as if it might bite, he added, “Me, I’m going to go now.”

  “You traitorous little miscreant,” Mr. Timmons said, grabbing at Jonas’ arm as the man swiveled toward the door. “We haven’t even begun.”

  “And you shouldn’t,” he said, his shoulders slouching, his tone mournful. “The Prophet is with Liongo. Koitalel leads the army.”

  “Are you referring to the Nandi’s dead prophet?” Tiberius asked, peering out the window. I rejoined him and noticed next to the one-eyed, vengeful crocodile a small, elderly man.

  “Who else should lead a dead army but a dead man?” Koki said, her characteristic smugness gone.

  “Surely you aren’t concerned,” I turned to face her.

  “He was a brilliant strategist,” she replied, her haughtiness returning as she sneered at me. “Even more so than Liongo.”

  “A prophet and a poet,” Gideon snickered. “Oh, this should be fun. Will one recite prophecy and the other poetry? That would certainly defeat us: death by boredom.”

  I was grateful Jonas couldn’t hear Gideon, for he deeply revered Koitalel. We had met the Nandi’s prophet previously, to request his assistance. Apart from tottering on the brink of annihilation due to a deepening conflict with the British, the Nandi had unwittingly unleashed a pack of monstrous beasts upon Nairobi. Sadly, our meeting with Koitalel had been fruitless.

  “He’s walking alone to the front door,” Tiberius murmured. He lit another cigarette and sucked at it with more force than usual.

  “Then we best go meet our visitor,” I said, the clenching of my hands the only indication that I wasn’t as nonchalant as I pretended to be.

  At the chorus of protests, I talked over the others. “Of all that is out there, it is Koitalel with whom we are most likely to enjoy a civilized conversation and perhaps a means to avoid this encounter.”

  “Yao likes encounters,” Yao announced, his smile fading into a pout when he realized that no one else shared his enthusiasm.

  “Shall we?” Mr. Timmons said, offering me his arm.

  In silence, we exited the room and strode to the front door. Well, Mr. Timmons strode and I scurried to keep up. Jonas followed us, perhaps unable to resist a meeting with the prophet. We unbarred the door and opened it just as Koitalel arrived at its threshold.

  Before we could speak, Jonas pushed between the two of us and blurted out words in another language. Koitalel nodded while I studied him.

  He hadn’t changed at all, despite being dead. Wrapped in an ochre-stained leather wrap and bearing no weapons, there was a sense of contradiction about him: he was both proud in his bearing and humble in his attitude; his skin and smoothly shaven head was youthful even as deep lines creased around his eyes and mouth; his eyes were deep and old as the Rift Valley, but sparkled with childish energy; he spoke with innocence, yet his tone implied ancient knowledge.

  My gaze drifted over his shoulder to the edge of the garden where the skeletons stood. The sight of them, unmoving and armed with various utensils of both war and agriculture, seemed all the more alarming without a wall between us.

  I interrupted Jonas’ reunion with his prophet. “Why are you here?” I asked and frowned at the touch of hysteria I detected in my voice.

  “Le-Eyo offered me one more battle to defend my people,” he replied. His words were uttered in perfect English but I could tell by the movement of his mouth that he was speaking in his own language.

  “How odd,” I said, marveling at the minor miracle occurring before me.

  “How so?” he asked, cocking his head slightly to one side as if he too was curious about the linguistic phenomenon before him.

  “It’s—”

  “Not relevant,” Mr. Timmons interrupted. “With all due respect, why would you wish to fight in another battle? I thought the Nandi were defeated.”

  Jonas scowled at the impertinence of our questions but the prophet smiled. “They were, for now. But one day we shall rise up against the invaders, the People of the Fog.”

  As if to emphasize to whom he referred, he added, “We shall yet again battle with your pale tribe. Next time, we shall be triumphant and will send them back to their lands. Thus have my visions informed me.”

  “When?” I demanded.

  His smil
e softened. “You need not fear, for this will not happen in your lifetime, Miss Knight.”

  “As I don’t know the length of my lifetime, that’s hardly reassuring,” I said with a sniff. “But perhaps we should return to the present moment and leave the visions of the future to those who will live it.”

  “How is your presence here assisting your people’s future encounter with my tribe?” Mr. Timmons asked, his eyes narrowing. “You know there are unarmed women in this house, and a baby being born.”

  “That is why I’m here,” came the reply.

  “Are you a midwife?” I asked. “We could certainly use one.”

  Jonas’ scowl deepened until the lines on his face were crevices. Koitalel’s smile never wavered. His eyes clear of emotion, he said, “I’m here for that child. She is too powerful to remain amongst a primitive and savage people.”

  “Why would you want her?” I demanded as Mr. Timmons loomed over Koitalel, his energy snapping threateningly around us.

  “It is for the best,” Koitalel said, his voice gentle, almost compassionate. “I do not wish her to be harmed in this battle that you will surely lose. Liongo has sworn to destroy Kam and all who fight with him. And even if by some miracle you are not defeated, how will you raise her amongst the People of the Fog? The colonial settlers are not tolerant of differences.”

  Fixing his gaze upon me, he continued, “Miss Knight, your eyes are open to reality, but most of your people are not so gifted. They fear what they do not understand. Their fear fuels hate. They will turn against this child once they see what she truly is.”

  As much as I resisted, it was difficult to deny the truth of his words. Grace was a mixture of races which was scandalous enough for many of my fellow British nationals. To exacerbate matters, she was also part Popobawa and had already absorbed the powers of the nefarious Mrs. Cricket. Who knew what she would do once born. What if she was born with bat wings, as frequently occurred in my nightmares?

  Koitalel must have observed my doubts, for he reached past Mr. Timmons and laid a wrinkled but strong hand on my arm. “Miss Knight, she will be safe. My people will love and care for her. She is our future.”