My heart stopped for an instant, and I found I didn’t want to look at Waldo.
“About what?”
“Our future …” He blushed. For some stupid reason, I was blushing too. “I mean your future.”
“Oh.”
“He wants to see if I can talk you out of this scheme. This mad scheme to go west—and the Grand Canyon. It’s madness. Chasms. Gorges. Wild raging rivers. Hardly explored. I mean, what can you be thinking of?”
The old fight had gone out of me. Once I had been so sure. But now … everything was hazy … the snake and Baker’s evil presence looming over us … If he had found out where we lived, even now we could be in danger. It was as if I was walking through a land where everything was coated in a layer of mist. Except Waldo, who was shining bright before me, his eyes sky blue.
“How was your visit?” I asked, changing the subject. “Has Mr. Baker told us the truth?”
“Ye-es,” Waldo admitted, looking down at the floor.
“And?”
“There was a school, very well furnished, and the children were learning. They hail Cyril Baker as their savior.”
“And those poor Chinese laborers?”
“He has set them free. With a few dollars in their pockets.”
“So he really has had a change of heart.”
“Or maybe he’s just decided to invest a few thousand dollars into tricking us. That’s not a lot of money for a man of Baker’s wealth.”
“You’re such a cynic, Waldo. I believe him. I think he has repented.”
He glanced at me as I said that, a burning look that made me feel suddenly miserable.
“You’re always so restless, Kit. Always so keen to put your life in danger—and the lives of others.”
“No,” I said softly. “I think Cyril Baker has changed, deep in his soul. I think he knows he has done many evil things and is doomed and …”
“Yes, yes.” Waldo rose from his chair. “I can see I’m not going to change your mind. I suppose we will be setting off for Arizona—and more madness.” He moved toward the door, turning his back to me. “I will have to tell your father I cannot reason with you.”
“Waldo!”
From the door he grunted, without turning round.
“Please. Waldo. Please, come here.”
“What is it now?”
“I want to show you something.”
He came slowly, as if pulled against his wishes, to the spot where I was curled up on the window ledge. I was wearing a maroon velvet skirt with a blouse, which had long lace sleeves that came to my wrists. Not my choice of clothes—Rachel had purchased them sometime when I was ill. Now, calmly as I could, I rolled up my sleeve.
Waldo was standing very near, so close I could feel his hot breath.
“What am I supposed to be looking at?” His words were impatient, but he was very pale and standing very still.
Wordlessly, I tugged at the sleeve and turned my arm over to show him the soft flesh under my elbow.
He grabbed at my wrist and held it so tight it hurt. I bit back the pain. Then he dropped it and moved away, as if scalded. He was trembling.
The brand of the snake had moved. It had crept up my arm while I slept and now lay curled under my elbow. Even as I talked to Waldo, it seemed as if the tiny tongue flickered.
“It’s looking for my heart,” I said. “The snake’s trying to kill me.”
Chapter Eight
We moved to another boarding house that night. It was Isaac who spotted the cowboy with the curling black mustache lounging against the gas lamp opposite us. He wore brown leather boots and a studded belt. The skin on his face was gnarled and wrinkled. Something about his thick, repulsive lips reminded me of someone.
We wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but when I looked out two hours later he was still there. Standing in exactly the same spot. It was sinister. It made Cyril Baker’s warning that his brother was looking for us more real. Waldo and Father both insisted we move. So we paid Mr. Hilton and sneaked out of a back door. Mr. Hilton had organized a carriage for us, which would take us to lodgings run by a friend of his.
I felt like a criminal, flitting in darkness from our hotel. We changed horses twice before we got to our new hotel on the edge of the city. That night I slept uneasily. The only good thing about our move was that we had already packed. It would make our departure for Arizona in the morning much quicker.
Yes, in the end even Father had agreed I had to go. The sight of the sinister full-lipped man stalking us had tipped him over the edge. He no longer thought I was safe in San Francisco.
Aunt Hilda had purchased some traveling clothes for us. Light, tough cotton skirts, calico blouses and large hats to shade the glare of the desert sun. It promised to be a grueling journey, traveling by rail and stagecoach to the Grand Canyon. We would have to cross deserts and mountains, going through territory that only the toughest pioneers had braved before us. But first we would traverse the gentle California hills.
Before we left, something rather sad happened. We were all ready to depart at first light, hasty breakfast eaten, the carriage pulled up outside the hotel, when we noticed Father had disappeared.
“Go up to his room and stir the old fool,” my aunt said to Waldo. “We have to be off before Cecil Baker gets wind of our whereabouts.”
“I’ll go,” I said, glaring at Aunt Hilda, for I found her habit of calling her brother and my father “fool” offensive.
I trekked to his room and knocked on the door, but there was no answer. I knocked again. I tried the handle, which turned easily. But there was something blocking the door and, pushing hard, I was unable to move it. I heaved with all my might and finally the door opened. I went in to find Father lying spread-eagled on the floor.
“Father!”
For an awful moment I thought he’d had a heart attack. But he was breathing, short, shallow puffs. I moved his hat, which had fallen off, and I sat down by him. Gently, I lifted his hand. It was clammy, unpleasant to touch.
“Father,” I repeated.
He opened his eyes. They were flickering wildly over the room as if seeking some invisible enemy. They flitted over me, as if he didn’t recognize me, then came back and focused. I saw the relief on his face.
“Kit?”
“What is it, Father? What happened?”
“I must have fainted.”
Breathing heavily, my father stood up. His legs were weak and wobbled. He only made it as far as the chair, which stood in front of the oak writing table, before he collapsed.
“Are you quite all right?”
“I’m fine, my dear.”
“Father, are you nervous about the journey?”
“No. Not at all. I know …” He paused. “I know we are in the best hands with your aunt. Such a brave woman. An explorer, a …”
He paused again, his thoughts drifting away. Looking at him, I knew he was lying. He was scared. He didn’t want to come with us, but would make himself. Duty was very important to Father. Hadn’t he just said he would never leave me to fend for myself again? At the sight of him crumpled up on the chair like a very old man, my heart flipped over. I didn’t want to play a trick on him, but for his own sake I had to.
“Father, prepare yourself. I have some very bad news.”
I removed a piece of paper from my coat pocket. “This is an urgent telegram. It has just arrived.”
“What? What?”
“It’s from the museum.”
“What museum?”
“Your museum, Father, the Pitt in Oxford. They say the Ancient Egypt section is in turmoil. And they don’t know what to do with the Early Hebrew exhibition. They are in a mess, Father. They beg you to come back. Only you can sort it out, they say.”
“Oh dear, oh dear.” He paused. “NO. I cannot do it.”
“They’re begging you, Papa.”
“My place is with you, Kit.”
“Father, they say the museum is on the poin
t of collapse. You must save it!”
He was torn. I could see it. His hands tugged at his hair and he chewed his lips.
“It’s collapsing?”
“Yes, collapsing.”
“But you’re my … my Kit … How can I leave you?”
“You mustn’t feel guilty. I will have Aunt Hilda and Waldo. I will be quite safe.”
I could see the relief in his eyes. After another ten minutes of persuasion I managed to gain his consent to return to Oxford and the stricken museum. Luckily he hadn’t asked to see the telegram. If he had, he would have found it was a list of the items Aunt Hilda had bought for our trip.
As we embraced and said our tearful goodbyes, Father pressed something into my hand. I opened my palm when I was outside in the corridor and saw something golden glimmering in it. It was a heart-shaped locket on a gold chain. I opened it and inside was a miniature of a young woman. She had a lovely oval face and wild auburn hair. But it wasn’t her beauty that arrested me. It was the fire in her eyes. Usually the faces of ladies in miniatures are placid and a bit dull. But the painter hadn’t been able to hide this woman’s spirit.
It was my mother. Tabitha. The locket was a beautiful thing, one that I had never seen before. I hurried down to the waiting carriage, my eyes awash with tears.
I had a job persuading Aunt Hilda that the museum was in trouble and Father couldn’t come with us. But finally she accepted it:
“He’s such a lily-liver that he was probably glad of the excuse to go home.”
There was a bit of truth in her words, but that didn’t make me less furious with her for speaking of her brother like that. Father has always had a difficult relationship with his bully of a sister. He is so bruised by years of schoolroom battering that it takes a lot of provocation to make him stand up to her. Leave him alone, I wanted to say to Aunt Hilda. I know she is fond of him, but she is such a stubborn bull-like person that she has no understanding of tact. The journey would be easier without the burden of protecting my father from my aunt.
I made the carriage stop at the telegraph station so I could send a message to my father’s colleagues in Oxford. Tactfully I told them that Papa was returning for his health, but that I would appreciate it if they pretended they could not manage without him. My father is so dreamy he would probably have forgotten why he was returning by the time his ship docked in Liverpool.
Cyril Baker was waiting for us at the ferry station, hiding, it seemed, behind some bales of cotton. He was as ghostlike as ever. He seemed to float onto the boat, in his cream linen suit, similar to the one he wore in Egypt when I first set eyes upon him. He had taken off the ginger wig, and the black dye in his hair seemed to be fading. I noticed there was a rash on his neck, burning red spots creeping up to his chin.
“This is a grand old boat,” Waldo said, looking at the small steamer that would take us across the bay to Oakland. From there we were to join the newly completed Pacific Railroad through the Sierra Nevada mountains, then board a coach through the fearsome Death Valley, skirting Nevada to Arizona and the Grand Canyon.
“Nothing but the best,” Cecil replied. “I’ve spared no expense to make this expedition as comfortable as possible.”
“I should think so,” snorted Aunt Hilda. “Remember we’re doing you a favor.”
We disembarked after a smooth trip, arriving just in time for the train. Everything smelt of newness—new paints, new seats, new everything. This is a very democratic country, and there was no first class, which rather annoyed Aunt Hilda. There was a very good saloon car, however, and a fine dining car.
“We seem to be going in the wrong direction,” I said, as the waiter brought us a cup of tea.
California flashed past our windows. Blue skies and sunshine reigned over lush tropical plants; flowering fruit groves; neat, bright villages. Oranges bigger than cricket balls, scented almonds, figs, grapes, lime, olives. Such bounty that we in England could only dream of.
“Yes, I noticed that,” Isaac said. “The train said Calistoga. Surely we need to go in the opposite direction?”
“Hush.” Mr. Baker shot a meaningful glance at the waiter, who was hovering nearby. When the man had gone, he explained. “It is a device to put my brother off our trail. We will take this detour and then make extra speed through the mountains.” He flushed. “Besides, I am feeling unwell and the hot springs there can work miracle cures.”
He flashed a glance at his arm as he said this, where his illness crawled on his skin in the form of the snake. His papery face burned in my mind. His glowing eyes. I was tired. I could take no more. I rose and said I was going back to my cabin to lie down. Rachel rose to accompany me, though I really didn’t want her to.
“Are you all right?” she asked as we left the dining car.
I shrugged.
“I’m really worried about you. Ever since, you know, you woke up … well, you haven’t been quite …”
“Myself?”
“Yes. I suppose that’s one way of putting it.”
“I’m sorry. You mustn’t worry.”
“I can’t help it, Kit. Is there anything I can do?”
She looked gently determined. There is more to Rachel than there seems at first; she is so kind and soft people can mistake her for feeble. Aunt Hilda thinks she is a halfwit. She is wrong. Rachel is one of the most stubborn people I know. I could have told her about my dreams, the feeling of some foreign mind probing in my head. But I didn’t. Rachel already had enough to worry about—besides, if I let her know what was troubling me, she would never leave it alone.
But there was a question I wanted to ask her. With my aunt and Waldo safely out of earshot, I bent low and said:
“There is something.”
“Yes?”
“It’s Waldo. What’s up with him? Have I offended him?”
Rachel smiled. “I wouldn’t worry about offending Waldo. His skin is thicker than a rhino’s.”
“Then what have I done? Sometimes I think he positively dislikes me.”
Isaac, who had come out of the dining car after us, caught the end of our conversation and grinned. “I wouldn’t worry about that!” he said. “Waldo’s just embarrassed. The silly idiot.”
“About what?” I asked, but Rachel shot Isaac a warning glare and he clamped his mouth shut.
“What’s Waldo got to be embarrassed about?” I probed Rachel. “What’s he done now? Why are you grinning like that, Isaac?” But I could get nothing out of them, just more smirking from Isaac, who really showed no sense at all.
Shortly after this, we arrived in Calistoga. We were staying at the Hot Springs Hotel, built at great cost by California’s first millionaire, Sam Brannan. This rogue of a businessman had made his fortune by selling shovels to the prospectors who flocked to the land, desperate to find gold. The hotel was an enchanting sugar cube of a building which rose near the railway tracks, circled by lawns and little cottages with gingerbread gables. There was an ice rink, tennis courts, a ballroom. All this in the very middle of nowhere! The town of Calistoga itself is a small settlement with just one street, surrounded by woody hills and overhung by the grim Mount Helena.
A smell of sulfur hangs over the town, something rich and strange in the air. I felt as we entered the grounds of the hotel that this was somewhere special. The area was sacred to the Indians who lived here before the coming of the white man. They believed the geysers and hot springs had healing properties—and forbade fighting in the area.
We had a pleasant meal. I wanted an early night as we had to leave at dawn, but Mr. Baker insisted we sample one of the famous mud baths. He seemed to think it would be good for my health. Aunt Hilda was all for it, but Rachel made a face and refused. She said the idea of lying up to one’s neck in bubbling brown mud was “revolting beyond belief—but you try it, Kit.” She added hastily, “It might help you feel better.”
Waldo and Isaac also made some excuse. So I was stuck in the mud bath with Aunt Hilda, in a frilly bathi
ng dress which made her look like a marquee, and Mr. Baker. It’s an odd sensation, the mix of sulfurous water, volcanic ash and peat bubbling between your fingers, sliming between your toes. Not unpleasant. Perhaps it is the natural springs that make one feel so drowsy. Looking downward, I felt unusually detached from my body; all I could see of myself was hidden by mud, popping away like chocolate pudding in a huge vat … Mmm, if it only tasted as good as it felt.
I was more relaxed than I had been since I’d woken from my coma. How cowardly my friends were not to give it a try. This was … pleasant. Staring skywards I took in the sun sinking in a filmy scarlet ball, the birdsong, the stillness of this broad, huge valley. I scarcely listened to my aunt as she burbled on to Mr. Baker about our coming journey. Then even she fell silent and closed her eyes. I was sinking into a light, pleasant doze.
When I awoke, Mr. Baker was staring at me. His pale eyes were drilling into mine, his papery face flushed with the heat of the mud. He wanted something from me. It was as if he wished he could feel inside my head.
Strangely, I wasn’t scared.
“What is it?” I asked.
He dropped his eyes then. He had a big muddy smear on his cheek, ridiculous in such a neat old man. In fact he looked bizarre, his head bobbing, disembodied, over the sea of brown mud. For a second I wanted to laugh, but his expression was too fearful.
“I know you want something,” I said.
“Is it that obvious?”
“What are you afraid of?”
“I don’t want to scare you.”
I sighed. “The situation could scarcely be more frightening. We’re both cursed. We’re both dying. We know this mission to the Grand Canyon is crazy … This tablet—do you even have the first idea how we’re going to find it?”
He looked at me and held my gaze for a long instant. His eyes were burned out. All I could see in them was fear, not the man he once must have been.
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