by Vered Ehsani
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 asked.
I didn’t realize 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.”
His broad shoulders shuddered with a suppressed chuckle, 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 have 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, one of 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 likable aspects of his personality 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 was such a thing as too much information and this, I was certain, would be one of those instances. I picked up my metal 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 was no excuse for letting one’s appearance deteriorate, especially near death. No one wanted 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 from the kettle into my teapot and inhaled the scent of the brewing 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 imagining 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 was 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 such an 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 two 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 as
sumed 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. Powerful but terrible.
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 tea into two cups and breathed in the rich scent that mingled with the steam, soothing in its familiarity.
I passed him a cup and we sat in silence again. Or rather, we ceased our speaking, but the savannah was never truly silent. There was never an absence of noise, especially at dawn and dusk, when all manner of life either began 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 a 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 found them primitive and low class (“Very native,” she’d said), but I rather enjoyed their asymmetrical shapes, the rough surface, the muted colors.
“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 teacup that fortunately didn’t snap in my grip. “I don’t much appreciate…”
He waved my words away, along with a small moth, 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. I wondered how I could possibly trust a man who had admitted to being the worst sort of thief, and who had such a marked effect on my composure.
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’ 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, Beatrice,” 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.”
“All he did was fail to kill the ghost lions, which you seemed determined to protect,” I pointed out, not mentioning that this implied his guilt.
Now that I knew his power, I also knew why he would want to derail the hunters from success. To turn into a lion could be a most advantageous skill indeed. He had wanted to absorb the identity, and thus the powers, of one of the lion twins.
“And…” he prompted.
“And he confiscated the… automaton.” My voice faded off at the end as it dawned on me what Mr. Timmons was suggesting.
“Exactly.”
“But surely Dr. Cricket wouldn’t go to such lengths,” I said even as another possibility tapped at my stuttering heart.
“No, he wouldn’t as you well know.” Mr. Timmons paused, eyeing me, perhaps trying to determine if he should continue and if my nerves could handle the truth. He must’ve been satisfied on that count, for he said, “Mr. Adams took the very automaton that would allow your dearly departed husband to return to life, in a manner of speaking. I strongly suspect he has the contraption in his ghostly possession.”
I slumped back in the chair, my chest as constricted as if I were wearing one of those stupid, overly tightened dresses that Lilly used to insist we wear whenever we went to a social occasion in London.
But it was his next words that caused me to cease breathing momentarily.
Leaning forward, he placed one of his large, warm hands gently over my clenched ones. “As far as Gideon Knight is concerned, you’re still married. Once he figures how to possess the automaton and maintain control of it, and possibly strengthen his charismatic powers in the process, he’ll be returning for you.”
After I’d reclaimed the use of my lungs, all I could say to that was, “Being widowed really is such a bother.”
I extracted my hands from his, sat back, and reminded myself that this potentially life-altering issue would have to wait until after breakfast. It was utterly unhealthy to worry about life, death and obsessed husbands on an empty stomach and before one had consumed at least a small pot of tea. And if all else failed, there was always my handy walking stick to establish some order.
Thus having reassured myself, I topped up our cups and waited for the sun to rise.
Facts & Fiction
For those with little appetite remaining for historical matters, skip this section and go directly to the next.
For the rest of you, perhaps you’re wondering how much of this narrative is based on anything resembling historical fact and what is more in the realm of fiction. Below are the facts and fictions as I understand them.
Fact: The Ghost Lions of Tsavo did exist.
Fiction: They weren’t really ghosts or anything of the paranormal realm. They were actually two maneless lions that were so famous as to be given names: The Ghost and The Darkness. They were each more than nine feet long; it took eight men to carry one after it had been shot.
Fact: Mrs. Isabella Beeton’s Book of Household Management did indeed describe housewives as Household Generals. Another of Mrs. Steward’s favorite books, Mrs. Lydia Child’s American Frugal Housewife, clearly recommends earwax as a remedy for cracked lips.
Fiction: I personally would never use earwax on any part of my body apart from inside my ears, and even that’s debatable.
Fact: Ants don’t like cinnamon. Sprinkle some on the ground where they are and they will find another route.
Fiction: The same cannot be said for lions, so please don’t try the cinnamon trick while on safari.
Fact: The construction of the Uganda Railway between Mombasa and Kisumu was started in 1896. Nairobi is approximately mid-way between the two cities.
Fiction: Initially, the train only carried construction materials. It began to accept passengers in 1903, so Mrs. Knight and the Steward family couldn’t have used the train from Mombasa to Nairobi in 1899.
Fact: Nairobi, the capital of Kenya, started life as a British railway camp and supply depot for the Uganda Railway in 1899 and it was, as Mrs. Steward points out, built on a brackish swamp. Nowadays, though, we’d call that a wetland.
Fiction: In the year this story takes place (1899—one year
after the shooting of the man-eating lions of Tsavo), there probably wasn’t anything more than a tented camp for workers; more established homes such as the Steward residence might not have been built yet, but they soon were.
Fact: In the early 1900s, Nairobi became the “first stop” for big game hunters, beginning the decimation of African wildlife that still continues today with illegal poaching.
Fact: On 11 October 1899 (a couple weeks before the Steward family left London), the Second Boer War began between the UK and the Boers in South Africa.
Fact: Shortly after the Steward family arrived in their new home, the British and Egyptian victory ended the war in Sudan.
Fiction: Vered doesn’t live in a mud hut. Her kids don’t ride an elephant to school as their father uses the elephant to go to work. And the pet lion ran away.
THE AUTOMATON’S WIFE
Society for Paranormals: Case 2
By Vered Ehsani
from Africa… with a Bite
Prelude
Dear Reader
As I mentioned to you in the previous installment of my adventures in British East Africa, I maintain a diary. It is only due to the insistence of my dead husband that I’ve bothered to extract from it the more pertinent notes. My objective is to advance the understanding regarding the paranormal community in my new home.
In my last compilation of discoveries, I made mention of my nearly fatal encounter with a pair of ghost lions. I also referred to the giant snake into whose nest the identity thief Mr. Timmons boldly dragged me.
I’ve since discovered that the forests behind the house and the grasslands stretching away from the railway construction camp and village of Nairobi are replete with a menagerie of paranormal beings and curious animals.
This collection of paper you now have before you describes my subsequent adventure, one that I barely survived.
In fact, I owe my twenty-five years of existence in no small part to my highly robust constitution. I don’t mean that in a boastful manner, for such an unfeminine constitution is frowned upon by Englishwomen of refinement, such as my Aunt Steward.