Stones of Nairobi

by Vered Ehsani

  But the vampire ignored me and continued racing toward the sunrise and to his demise.

  Only as I stumbled after him did I see amidst the escaping skeletons a small bundle held aloft. A tiny human fist waved above the baby swaddling, summoning us to her rescue. Shelby was swatting at the hand, her lips pulled back in a grimace.

  Without daring to glance around for fear I might trip on the uneven ground, I took mental stock of everyone’s location. Near the stables, Kam and Liongo were clashing fists and swords, their roars rising and falling among the clamor of battle.

  With Gideon’s encouragement, Tiberius was tossing skeletons off the roof, hovering above the house like a vengeful demon. Yao was also up there, although no doubt momentarily distracted by the vision of his beloved chasing down a posse of animated bones.

  Mr. Timmons had just entered the house through the main door, Miss Baxter flung over his shoulders.

  Koki, Jonas and Drew were at the other end of the house, finishing off whatever skeletons the elephants hadn’t.

  Of all of us, only Father, Wanjiru and I were in any position to intervene in the baby’s kidnapping.

  The clanging of swords, the trumpets of elephants, the crunching of bones, the cries of fighting all became muted. Everything faded into the background as my ears were filled with my harsh, rasping breath and the swoosh of blood flowing faster through my veins.

  I forced my weary legs to move, my arms pumping in time to the thudding of my feet.

  “Grace,” I shouted, my voice wobbling. “Father.”

  The purple of the sky was fading to a deep blue streaked with pink. Ahead of us, at the edge of the land, the reddish gold streak had thickened and brightened to a fiery yellow tipped with bright blue, as if the sun was pushing the day ahead of it.

  “Father, go back,” I bawled, my voice hoarse and scratchy.

  Not flinching or hesitating, he continued to pursue the kidnappers as they headed in the direction of Koitalel and the approaching sun.

  Animalistic screams echoed around me; only the pain of my raw throat made me dimly aware that I was the source of the shrieking noise.

  Ignoring my pleas, the vampire continued to hurtle toward his granddaughter and toward his death, his limbs flowing with a speed and agility I could never match. The distance between us increased.

  Someone shouted behind me but I didn’t dare pause in my failing efforts to reach Father before the sun did. Futile as it was, I ran.

  Ahead of us, beyond the skeletons, the yellow and bright blue clawed away at the darkness of night. Above us, stars had disappeared, and the purple was completely replaced by dark blue.

  The breeze of my passage tickled at the tears that dampened my cheeks. When had I started crying? When had I ceased hoping for a miracle?

  Father collided with the first of the skeletons, the force of the impact throwing the collection of bones into the next skeleton. Like a set of bowling pins, several of the creatures collapsed under each other, bones clattering and cracking.

  Not bothering to ensure their demise, Father tackled the one carrying Grace. One of his hands snatched the bundled baby while the other swung the mace with brutal force, sending bones flying about him. The skull fell to the ground and rolled toward my stumbling feet, its empty sockets mocking me.

  With practiced ease, Father dispatched the remaining skeletons before dropping the mace and clutching the bundle to his chest. The lines on his face lifted in adoration and awe as he gazed upon his granddaughter. He stroked the face until a little fist grabbed his finger and held on.

  As I staggered to a stop before him, he glanced up, his countenance radiant.

  “Father,” I gasped. “The sun.”

  “It was worth it,” he whispered as he admired Grace. “We must all depart this world eventually, my beloved. I have lived long enough. I’ve been reunited with my children, met my granddaughter and ensured that they are all safe. What more can I ask for?”

  As the ball of fire and death rose up behind him, tendrils of sunlight stretched across the land, swiftly approaching us.

  “Father, I—”

  “Go, Beatrice,” he urged. “You don’t need to see this.”

  I shook my head, regretting that I had no coat to cover him, although that would only delay the inevitable.

  Wanjiru reached us, her eyes wide, her mouth trembling. “Bwana,” she whispered, her gaze shifting between us and the ascending sun.

  “Fear not,” he reassured us, his voice soothing, his manner calm, even content. “One only dies once, and if one does not die well…”

  He stopped, smiling at me to continue the quote.

  “A good opportunity is lost and will not present itself again,” I croaked, then started to snivel.

  Father kissed the baby’s forehead, holding that pose for a moment before he said, “Wanjiru, please take Grace to her mother.”

  “Yes, bwana,” Wanjiru sobbed. She took Grace in both arms and drifted back to the house, her shoulders stooped.

  Shadows faded as the sun’s light reached us. I began to weep, my chest aching, my eyes barely able to see through the tears.

  “It’s going to be fine,” Father reassured me, gripping my hands in his, even as his skin began to smoke.

  “Father,” I cried.

  I felt his fingers stroke my cheek. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Please don’t die,” I pleaded, my eyes fixed on his.

  He smiled. “It’s time. Be well, and don’t forget—”

  He never finished the sentence. At that moment, a large Praying Mantis fell on us.

  Chapter Thirty

  HAVING A TON of insect husk crushing one’s self into the ground is, most fortunately, a once in a lifetime experience. While at the time my exhausted mind wasn’t certain if Koki was saving us or taking advantage of the chaos to exact some petty revenge upon me, the result was beneficial for Father. No longer was he exposed to the sun; instead, he and I were smushed face first into the soil that had been churned up by skeletons and elephants.

  “Father,” I called, unable to move closer to him and consumed by a desperate need to verify that he hadn’t been smothered.

  His hand squeezed mine. “I’m still here,” he wheezed.

  “You sound surprised,” I said.

  “I am.”

  The Praying Mantis shifted and lifted the front of her pale green body slightly so that we could breathe while still being shaded from the sun behind us. A large triangular head angled toward me, its mandibles as long as my forearm. Antennae flicked about as if testing the air for danger.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, my throat clenching as I reflected how I’d almost lost another parent. That I was again indebted to the she-demon was an insignificant price to pay for having Father alive by my side.

  The mandibles clicked and the triangular head dipped in acknowledgment.

  Before we could succumb to sentimentality, a large bat landed with a heavy thump in front of us, the black leather wings whooshing through the air and stirring up loose leaves and soil.

  “He’s alive,” I called out in case Tiberius entertained the wrong impression and attacked Koki. “She saved Father.”

  As the words gushed out, the full realization of the night’s ordeal — the battle, the giant crocodile, Grace’s birth and kidnap, Father’s near demise — overwhelmed me and I began to sob again. My entire being convulsed with emotion, my limbs quaking as I gave vent to every sorrow and horrible memory. I could only clutch at Father’s hand in the hopes that his presence would anchor me before I was overcome by the flood of tears.

  When at last my cries faded into hiccups, I realized I was no longer under Koki but sitting on my husband’s lap, my shivering form in his arms. He continued to rock me and stroke my back as the hiccups calmed into regular breaths. My vision blurry, I glanced around but the Mantis and the Popobawa were gone.

  “Koki and Tiberius took your father inside,” Mr. Timmons answered my silent question, hi
s voice soft. “He’s safe now. We all are. Well, except Liongo.”

  I continued to survey the scene. Bones were scattered over the churned-up ground. What little landscaping Lady Hardinge and her gardener had managed to coax out of the wilderness was uprooted, crushed or broken. Even the grand house hadn’t survived the night unscathed: clay roof tiles lay shattered on the ground, a number of windows were smashed, and the front door was hanging on by only one hinge. All in all, it was apparent that a cataclysmic event had occurred.

  “It’s most fortunate we have no immediate neighbors to whom an excuse is owed,” I snuffled.

  “I see you’re recovering,” Mr. Timmons observed with a chuckle. “Your concern for such social niceties is a sure sign. Speaking of neighbors, here’s one who’d like to pass on its greetings.”

  A shadow caressed my flushed face, followed by a small trunk.

  “Hello, little one,” I said, patting the baby elephant’s head. The stiff hairs prickled against my skin.

  The matriarch of the herd ambled past us, pausing only to stroke her baby with her trunk and to grant me an unblinking, knowing gaze.

  “Thank you,” I said, wondering if she understood.

  Flapping her ears, she lifted her trunk and let it fall before strolling toward the rest of the herd and the grasslands. The baby trotted after her, trunk waving and spindly tail wagging, its trumpets a cheerful accompaniment to the tweets and chirps of the waking birds.

  Sighing, I laid my head against Mr. Timmons’ shoulders. “I could fall asleep right now,” I murmured and began to do just that.

  “Not yet,” he said as he gently shook me and helped me stand. “There is one matter remaining, the fate of Liongo.”

  So saying, he directed me to a corner of the house where an unrepentant and bloodied poet stood before his judges and, most likely, his executioners: Yao and Kam. It struck me that not one of us was unscarred by the night’s events, for we all sported our share of bruises, gashes and tattered clothes.

  As we approached, Yao nodded to me, his expression uncharacteristically somber. Kam’s fierce gaze was fixed upon his father. Koki joined us in her human form, her long dress swishing with her movements.

  On an impulse, I grabbed her hand and in a fervent tone said, “Thank you for saving him.”

  Her eyes widened and her mouth parted, no doubt as shocked as I by the contact. Her chin held high, she tilted her head and smiled.

  “You should die.”

  Kam’s words broke the moment, and we turned to focus on the impromptu trial.

  Liongo sneered at his son. “Then strike me,” he said, speaking each word with a sharp precision.

  “Here’s a copper nail,” Jonas announced, appearing by Koki’s other side. In his gnarled hands, he held a large, rough spike, the end of which had been smoothed into a wicked point.

  Kam accepted the nail and stared at Liongo. Silent moments dribbled past. Only the bird songs and the distant elephant trumpets marked the passing of seconds.

  Then Kam let the nail fall by his feet. “No.”

  “No?” Koki, Jonas and I repeated.

  “Well, if you won’t, I will,” Koki added, snarling as she rubbed the back of her head.

  Ignoring our disbelief, Kam stepped forward, leaving only a few inches between himself and Liongo.

  “I murdered you once,” he said, his gravelly voice low. “You had a right to be angry with me and to seek revenge. We have fought a good battle. Now it is settled.”

  Liongo tilted his head, studying his son for a moment before he nodded. “So be it.”

  “I think not,” I huffed. “There’s no such thing as a ‘good battle’, only a battle that is won or lost. The least you can do, Kam, is rid us of this menace. After all, he did attack our home.”

  “If you’d rather not, I’m happy to oblige,” Koki said, her eyes narrowed, her mouth twisted into a sneer.

  “No,” Kam said again, no indication of emotion on his face. “We are agreed. By extension, he is at peace with all of you.”

  Koki rolled her eyes. “Very well, Kamalu. But if I see Liongo lurking about my territory, I’ll not be so restrained. I may not carry around a copper nail, but I’m sure decapitation will work just as well.”

  So saying, she spun about and strode back into the house.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  THE UPHEAVAL CAUSED by the battle with Liongo was nothing compared to the commotion caused by one newborn baby.

  “How is it possible,” I complained to Mr. Timmons, “that a creature as tiny as that thing can reorganize an entire household in less than twenty-four hours.”

  The man chortled. Well he could afford to do so, as we were in the relative safety and tranquillity of our baby-free cottage. Lord Hardinge had arranged with the Chief Constable for Mr. Timmons’ confinement to be carried out at home rather than in the jail cell. He was thus quite comfortable while waiting for his trial to commence.

  Meanwhile, across the garden, the Hardinge mansion stood in deceptive stillness. I knew that within the abode there was a veritable beehive of activity taking place.

  A team of workers was patching up the hole in the library, while Lady Hardinge oversaw the renovation of a small study; Lord Hardinge dared not complain when his trophies and books were tossed unceremoniously into the library to make way for the nursery.

  “Your cousin won’t appreciate you calling Grace a creature,” he remarked, although his wicked smile suggested he’d enjoy Lilly’s response.

  “Hm,” I said around my teacup.

  “And I think we should be congratulated,” Mr. Timmons continued, his smile widening. “It appears we may have cause for another celebration soon enough.”

  Narrowing my eyes, I said, “I’m celebrating right now. We survived.” I paused, waiting for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, I huffed and said, “Don’t leave me in suspense, you cruel man. What celebration?”

  “It seems your brother and my niece—”

  Tea sloshed over my skirt as I leaped up. “Are they really?” I gasped.

  “Are they what?”

  “Insufferable man,” I grumbled as he laughed. “I must find them at once and congratulate them.”

  Peering up at me, he said, “So you’re willing to venture back into that baby-infested house?”

  “Good point,” I said and resumed my seat. Still, nothing could suppress my delight. Not only would Cilla be even more closely related to me as my sister-in-law, but Drew would have no cause to race off into the wilds for weeks on end.

  A knock on the front door distracted me from my joy and provided me an excuse to release my excited energy into motion. As I approached the door, the whiff of damp dog immediately called to mind my brother. Through no fault of his own, Drew had in common with all werewolves a stench of wet dog. For once, the smell thrilled me.

  “Drew,” I exclaimed as I tugged open the door. “What exhilarating news. I...”

  But it wasn’t Drew. A large man stood before me, hat in his hands, head lowered, his shaggy hair unaccustomed to the touch of a comb, his nose oversized, his very presence creating a shadow not just on my doormat but on my entire life.

  “Good morning, Beatrice, a fine morning to you,” Prof Runal boomed.

  I gripped the edge of the door, my breath stuttering in my throat. “You,” I managed to breathe out.

  The Director of the Society for Paranormals had the decency to appear sheepish, but I no longer trusted him. Besides, werewolves weren’t sheepish by nature.

  We stared at each other, unmoving, neither willing to be the first to venture into a conversation rife with history and emotion. Birds chirped, branches rustled and my lungs wheezed as they worked against the fury that held my body rigid.

  Memories overwhelmed my capacity to think, to react. I recalled in perfect detail my first meeting with the Director, and his intervention to prevent my mother’s husband from sending me to an insane asylum. My mind echoed with his repeated and sincere reassuran
ces that I was perfect just the way I was, and that I needn’t attempt to fit into the confines and dictates of a blind and ignorant world. How he had liberated me from my self-hate and despair!

  Like the rapid fluttering of bird wings, more memories flashed before me: the numerous occasions when he took me into his embrace and soothed my childish fears away; his constant guidance and steady voice as I struggled to accept my true nature and embrace my gifts; his personal attention to my training; the moments of levity when we partook of tea and crumpets in his office while he lifted my spirits with jokes and humorous anecdotes. His loving presence and encouraging words filled almost every memory I had of my life before moving to Nairobi.

  All of it was premised on lies.

  “Beatrice,” Mr. Timmons’ voice drifted to me from the sitting room.

  The sound of my name recalled me to the present, to a life of love without betrayal, to my growing family, to my future full of hope, wedding plans and baby nappies.

  “It’s fine, dear,” I yelled back as my metal hand’s fingertips dug into the wood of the door. “I’ll just be a moment.”

  So saying, I slipped outside and closed the door.

  “I gather I’m not to be invited in, then?” Prof Runal asked, his voice a soft bellow.

  “You gather correctly,” I said, my lips quivering between a sneer, a frown and a distressing emotion that I refused to release. Before he could say anything more on the subject, I asked in a cold and distant tone, “What are you doing here?”

  He guffawed, although it sounded forced. “Well, visiting you, my dear, visiting you. I wanted to see how you’re getting on.”

  I shook my head so fiercely that a lock of hair slipped from my bun and framed one side of my heated face. “No. I mean, what are you doing here. In Nairobi. In Africa.”

  “Did you not receive my letter?”

  “I burned it,” I lied, enjoying his shock.

  Shuffling his large booted feet, he coughed and gazed about, no doubt viewing the piles of human bones, broken branches and elephant-sized footmarks in the churned-up garden. “It seems you’ve had an eventful time of it, eventful indeed.”