Society for Paranormals

by Vered Ehsani

  The wedding day dawned warm and sunny with a cloudless sky that promised a hot day ahead.

  Mrs. Steward wasted no time in ordering us about, in true Household General style. Speaking of which, she dredged out Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management from the drawer in which I had hidden it. Both Lilly and I made disapproving sounds, but oh so softly. To Mrs. Steward, that book was second in importance only to the Bible.

  The book was filled with pithy advice on the obligations of a good wife, the needs of a well-managed household, the correct approach to social engagements, the manner in which a wife should organize parties and dinners to further her husband’s prestige, proper etiquette, and the details of decent English cuisine.

  “Lilly, my dearest daughter,” Mrs. Steward sniffled into her tea. “It’s my solemn duty as a mother to prepare you for the moment in which you leave… leave…” More sniffs and sobs. “Leave my home and enter the home of… of…” She gasped, rolled her eyes upward, thumped the book against her chest and continued, “Of your husband. I hope I’ve done so adequately.”

  Lilly smiled with a certain weariness. “Of course, Mama. I…”

  “And to complete my obligations,” Mrs. Steward continued, “it is my privilege and pleasure to pass onto you this weighty tomb of delectable advice on good stewardship and, in a word, guidelines to achieving that status that all women aspire to, that of a great Household General.”

  With that pronouncement, she slid the book across the table. Lilly and I stared down at it.

  “Does it have a section on looking after a bat?” I asked with all innocence.

  Lilly smothered a giggle while Mrs. Steward bestowed a delicate frown on me. “Really, Bee, you do say the most ridiculous and inappropriate things. Of course there’s such a section. It’s in the chapter on ridding one’s house of pests. Most useful indeed.”

  Lilly and I exchanged a look bubbling with mirth but managed not to laugh. Lilly would have to write her own chapter on ‘How to live with a Popobawa’.

  The wedding was to be hosted by Lord and Lady Hardinge in their significantly more developed and elaborate garden. The morning was spent in primping the bride, calming the bride’s mother and ordering the men folk to carry out various tasks and errands. Only Drew was exempt, simply because he refused to enter the house.

  “The office is less strenuous than this,” Mr. Steward noted but only after his wife left the room.

  “Laying train tracks is less strenuous,” Jonas muttered.

  “Couldn’t they have just enveloped?” Bobby added.

  “That’s eloped,” I told him, “and no, they couldn’t.”

  He stuck his tongue out at me and went into the garden to relieve himself, a habit that I was guilty of encouraging out of desperation one night not long ago.

  We were all delighted when the covered wagon arrived to collect us, for it meant the end of a constant barrage of orders, but not unfortunately of advice.

  “Now Lilly,” Mrs. Steward said when we’d all clambered into the wagon, with Jonas sitting in front with the Hardinge’s driver. “Do remember to use your best manners when dining with his family, won’t you? And be aware of the rules of social engagement. Mrs. Beeton makes a splendid case for them and includes a list of the most pertinent ones with an explanation for each. I’m not sure that all will be relevant here, but it’s still helpful to know.”

  She inhaled deeply and continued. “You’ll soon be entirely responsible for Mr. Elkhart’s happiness in the domestic sphere, and must ensure that there is wholesome food on the table, the home is in good order, the children, should you be so blessed, properly raised… Bobby, stop slouching!”

  Mrs. Steward continued her litany of expectations of a Victorian English bride, a painful list of do’s and don’ts that were nearly enough to dissuade anyone from matrimony. Lilly did her utmost to appear attentive while Bobby did a brilliant job of falling asleep while sitting perfectly upright, a line of drool dribbling out of a corner of his slack mouth.

  I stared out the open back of the wagon. A puff of reddish dust followed us. Beyond that, a herd of zebras watched us with mild interest and even less concern. Two giraffe glided around, their long necks elegantly waving in time with their spindly legs.

  The long legs recalled to my mind a certain Mantis of gargantuan proportions who was, by Kam’s calculations, little more than two weeks away. The Lightning God had promised to locate Anansi the Spider, but would that beast be any safer to converse with? My forehead furrowed in reflection of my worries.

  “Bee, do stop scrunching up your face,” Mrs. Steward snapped as she mopped her chest with a lavender-scented cloth. “You’re aging your face by doing so. Not that it overly matters in your case, having so violently dismissed one suitor who could’ve saved you from perpetual widowhood and rescued us from an eternal dependent. Poor Dr. Cricket,” and she energetically fluttered the cloth about her face.

  Lilly glanced over at me, her eyes soft with sympathy. If Mrs. Steward only knew that there had in fact been a second suitor, she would’ve suffered a spasm of nerves that we would never have recovered from.

  The moment we arrived at the significantly grander household of the Governor’s, Lady Hardinge was there to whisk the women away to a set of rooms reserved for our use, where we could refresh ourselves, wipe off the coating of dust from our skin, and wait for the commencement of the event.

  Cilla was there as the second bride’s maid (I having been burdened with the dubious honor of being the first). She hugged me fiercely and I knew she knew of my most recent altercation with her uncle.

  “Is he all right?” I whispered.

  “Don’t you worry about him,” she reassured me, but her voice had a faint tremor in it.

  I paced about, my hands yearning for the comforting weight of my walking stick. Mrs. Steward had insisted, on threat of throwing a tantrum, that I leave it at home. I couldn’t for the life of me understand what issue she had with it. Why shouldn’t I bring a weapon to my cousin’s wedding?

  Of course, Mrs. Steward didn’t realize there was a giant, psychopathic insect stalking me, one that would be more than delighted to decapitate everyone around me before delivering me from my misery. But surely she could appreciate the more mundane dangers of rogue lions, hungry hyenas and intoxicated hunters.

  “Do sit down, Bee,” Lilly implored. “You’re making me quite nervous, even more so than is appropriate for such a day.”

  I did as she bade me, and she took my hand in her gloved ones. There we sat until a messenger arrived at the door to the room.

  “All right, girls, let’s go,” Mrs. Steward squealed, more excited and anxious than everyone put together.

  I trailed behind Lilly, she being escorted by Mr. Steward down a short aisle between two clusters of chairs in the garden. The guests weren’t many but included everyone I knew, including an unhappy Dr. Cricket. His pale eyes blinked rapidly as he noticed me behind the bride.

  A few rows ahead stood Mr. Timmons. His expression wasn’t as readable, and I was grateful when we passed him by, although I could feel his gaze following me.

  Mr. Elkhart stood at the front with Mr. Evans the stationmaster who acted as priest when the need arose. The nervous little fellow peered at us from behind thick glasses, his thin hair and pink complexion in sharp contrast to Mr. Elkhart’s warm skin tones and thick hair. I smiled at the bat man who was looking even more dashing if that was at all possible.

  I shall not bore you any more than I already have with the details of the proceedings. The bride was radiant, the groom handsome and no one raised any objection to the union, which was a jolly good thing, for if they’d tried, they might have been pounced on by a giant bat.

  I’m certain you’re more than familiar with the rites that an English wedding entails. Vows were exchanged, tears were shed, flowers and rice tossed and, suffice to say, by the end of it two people were married.

  All was as it should be, until the were-lion appea
red.

  Chapter 11

  One addition Lilly should include in her version of Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management has to do with the vexing subject of lions appearing at public events. “What must one do when a lion arrives at a wedding uninvited?” would be followed by the answer, “Such a breach in protocol must be amended at once and an invitation provided.”

  It never ceases to amaze me how people ignore what they don’t understand. While I’m not overly complaining, it puzzles me how no one noticed a large lioness hunched under the buffet table.

  Fortunately no one did, apart from a few of us already inducted into the secret paranormal community. I was the first to respond upon spotting Nyarvirazi the were-lion. Of course, the correct term would be were-lioness, but that doesn’t trip off the tongue quite as easily.

  I hurried to the table while the guests were engaged with congratulating the new couple.

  “Follow me,” I ordered the lioness.

  One of the house staff was passing by and, startled by my voice, eyed me warily. I waved her away and hurried off in the opposite direction and around the back of the house. There was far less activity here and, better yet, a small shed that stored various garden instruments.

  “In here, Nyarvirazi,” I ordered while pulling open the door. The lioness gazed at me with pale, golden eyes, unblinking and hungry.

  “How are your daughters?” I asked politely, hoping to remind the large carnivore that I’d had a hand in saving Ooma and Nyambura, twins who had inherited their mother’s shape-shifting abilities. Unlike her, they had greater control over the change.

  The were-lion twitched her ears, each one as big as my palm, and snarled.

  “Lovely,” I muttered.

  “I hardly think so,” Lilly said behind me. “Really, Bee, you should’ve told me you wanted to invite all your friends to my wedding.”

  Mr. Elkhart peered over her shoulder and flinched. “Even then, there are some venues that really aren’t suitable for certain friends.”

  “I didn’t invite her, she’s not my friend and one of her daughters tried to eat me,” I said. “How did you two manage to escape your throng of adoring admirers?”

  “We won’t be able to for long,” Mr. Elkhart pointed out.

  “Why did she come then?” Lilly asked, not nearly as put out by the appearance of a lion at her wedding as she should have been.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” I said. “We need to feed her meat. Kam said that she turns into a human once she’s eaten.”

  “Bee, this is my wedding day, not a charity event for stray wildlife,” she said, her eyes narrowed.

  “Says the girl who married a bat,” I retorted.

  “All right ladies,” Mr. Elkhart said, physically stepping between us. “Lilly, go back to the luncheon, before your mother starts searching for you. We’ll…”

  “Is everything all right?”

  I spun about and lo and behold, there stood Mr. Timmons at the entrance of the crowded garden shed. He eyed the lioness who coughed at him. “Well, you certainly know how to put on a wedding, Mr. Elkhart.”

  I provided the introductions and reminded them, “We need to feed her as a matter of urgency.”

  “In that case, go to the outdoor kitchen,” Mr. Elkhart said as he began to steer Lilly out of the shed. “I believe there’s a few butchered goats and we won’t miss one, I’m sure. Mrs. Elkhart, shall we?” and he smiled broadly while offering Lilly his arm.

  Lilly might as well have been butter and the Popobawa the sun, for she all but melted (and given the heat, she would’ve been forgiven for doing just that). The newlyweds departed, utterly unconcerned that there was a hungry were-lion in the garden shed.

  For my part, I was more perturbed that Mr. Timmons was in the shed. The lioness I could handle.

  “You go get the goat meat,” Mr. Timmons said wearily. “I’d do it myself, except I couldn’t very well leave you alone in here with her.”

  I didn’t argue as I was too relieved at any excuse to leave. It was easy to find the outdoor kitchen: there was fire, smoke and the smell of roasting meat. I wasn’t sure how much the were-lion would need to transform, but I presumed I shouldn’t skimp on my offering. There were several trays stacked with recently cooked goat parts. The meat stunk – I still couldn’t appreciate the appeal of goat meat and had thus far refused to eat it — but it would suffice for a lion.

  Nurse Manton, a box-shaped woman with frizzy hair, was the nanny for the three young Hardinge children. She was also the head cook for the wedding, and was issuing orders to the crew of assistants so fast that I marveled any of them could understand her. I waited until she dashed off to the indoor kitchen before scooping up a tray and staggering off with it. The African assistants didn’t question my right to do so, but watched me with bemused expressions.

  When I reached the shed, my hair stuck to my face and neck, and my back itched where sweat-soaked fabric prickled against my skin. I almost dropped the tray on my toes in my haste to relieve my arms of their burden.

  Nyarvirazi wasted no time and pounced on the tray with a snarl, feral eyes filled with an uncivilized glower. As she ripped into the offering, the scent of dead goat overwhelmed me, fetid and almost putrid, heavy and sticky in my nostrils.

  I left the shed, followed by Mr. Timmons who stood near me but didn’t venture into conversation, for which I was grateful. I couldn’t bear to look at him for my part, and gazed over at the outdoor kitchen where Nurse Manton was in a frenzy, pointing and ordering while stirring and chopping. It appeared the woman had four arms.

  “Asante.”

  I turned about to face the speaker. “Karibu,” I said to the African woman exiting the garden shed. About my height (which is to say, not so tall), Nyarvirazi sported a tangled mop of kinked hair that she was combing out with her fingers. Lean and muscular, she retained something of the lioness in the glitter of her eyes, her purposeful gait and the way she held herself, as if preparing to pounce.

  A tinkle of laughter reached us from the main garden, and I yearned to return there, to forget my role in this crazy world by submersing myself in the gossip and idle chit-chat of party goers.

  “Why did you come here?” I asked rather impolitely in my directness, but I had even less patience for civilities than usual. This was after all my cousin’s wedding and here I was at the back of the house by a garden shed with a were-lion and one of my rejected suitors. It wasn’t the surest recipe for encouraging conversation from me.

  She angled her head to the side, eyeing me, and it struck me that her English was probably rather limited. Even the Africans who worked in the camp in increasing numbers, gradually transforming the place into a small town, struggled with the vagaries of the English language.

  As my Swahili was abysmal, I turned to Mr. Timmons who shrugged and obliged me with a translation.

  She continued to look at me with those unnerving lion eyes and said, “Thank for my…” and she made a motion as if rocking a baby and then gestured with her hands on either side.

  “Oh, your daughters,” I said. “Nyambura and Ooma. Karibu. I was happy to help them. Are they well?”

  I had wondered how the twin shape-shifters were doing since they had returned to their village after causing a panic in the camp not long ago. Kam had been rather reluctant to divulge information regarding his nieces.

  She shrugged, less keen to converse than I. “Okay,” she said. “Kam,” and she paused, struggling to translate her message. “Kam say spider here.”

  “Well, I’m sure there are many spiders here… Oh!” I gasped. “That spider. He’s here? Where?”

  Mr. Timmons, almost as alarmed, translated as he gazed about the grounds. I sorely regretted the absence of my walking stick.

  Nyarvirazi shook her head and growled, “No. Spider near.”

  “Oh,” I breathed out, for it simply wouldn’t do to have an overgrown arachnoid at the wedding. A were-lion and a Popobawa were quite eno
ugh paranormals in one setting. Perhaps the Hardinge family knew something of the paranormal world, but I was certain most of the guests were blithely and fortunately ignorant, and would prefer to remain so.

  “Kam come,” she stated, held up two fingers and shook them at me. “Days.”

  “Kam is coming in two days,” I repeated.

  She nodded, her body relaxing with relief at having delivered her message. She stared toward the grasslands spreading out beyond the garden and a cluster of trees. Without so much as a goodbye or other such niceties, she darted past us and, in moments, was gone.

  Chapter 12

  Gideon returned that night.

  I was laying in bed, trying to write in my journal and already missing Lilly, her room an empty reminder of my loss of a newly acquired confident.

  “She’s not lost, just moved,” I said aloud in a stern voice, not impressed with my moping. “And not even so far.”

  “You’re still talking to yourself,” Gideon whispered as he floated through a wall.

  “Gids!” I sat up straight, my startled heart bouncing about my chest. While I’d normally reprimand him for making such a dramatic appearance, I was too relieved to see him.

  “Sorry,” he said and he actually looked the part.

  He’d never apologized for floating through walls previously, even though he knew my position on the habit: it’s uncouth and ill-mannered. Losing one’s body is no excuse for losing one’s manners.

  “Really,” I said, not bothering to hide the skepticism that laced my voice.

  He smiled but not with his usual mischievous energy. Although much improved from the last time I’d seen him, when he was trapped in an automaton with an evil spirit, he still wasn’t fully his old self. His appealing smile, his smooth voice, his boyishly handsome features and the lock of brown hair that swirled about his light brown eyes: all was a few notches down in terms of sparkle and charm.