Ghosts of Tsavo

by Vered Ehsani

Gideon was right this time: I had been far too optimistic, believing we’d actually have dessert. In the end, we didn’t even receive the dinner. That was a great pity for, what with Liam’s destructive interruption of the night and my close encounter with a Shongololo, I had been so looking forward to a hearty meal, whatever form it might take. You can very well imagine my disappointment when Mr. Adams effectively canceled the Christmas season, or at least the hunting party.

  We were all congregated around the recently stoked fire that morning, bleary eyed, when he stumbled up to us. “The food stores, raided!” he blurted out. “That thing,” he spluttered as he pointed at Dr. Cricket, “ate our dinner.”

  “I most certainly did not,” huffed Dr. Cricket, his eyelids a pair of rapid blurs.

  “Is there at least breakfast?” I enquired.

  “It wasn’t Liam,” Dr. Cricket protested. “He only eats used cooking oil.”

  “And since we don’t serve that for breakfast, could we eat now?” I asked, starting to feel grumpy. I was quite capable of skipping dinner and even skimping on supper. But my posture would wilt without a hearty morning meal, which I feared might be the case that day.

  “The lions,” someone whispered, and within a heartbeat, the whisper spread through the small camp.

  “At least they didn’t eat one of us,” Cilla said to me.

  “Yes, there is that,” I replied unhappily. “But really, I do hope they left us something.”

  “Wasn’t the food chest locked?” Dr. Cricket demanded, clearly upset his invention was being blamed for everything save the weather.

  “Yes,” Mr. Adams snapped, his hands clenched tightly, his plump knees quivering. “And someone or something opened the lock and left the trunk wide open for any fowl or beast to eat our provisions.”

  “But you had the only key,” a low voice broke through the bubble of conversations.

  Everyone looked to a suddenly silent Mr. Adams, conjecturing amongst themselves as to the true source of the morning’s tribulations, but I studied the speaker. It was Mr. Timmons. He didn’t look at all upset about the prospect of skipping all our meals. No, in fact, he seemed rather pleased. His energy glowed with a repressed satisfaction, something he was keeping close to himself.

  Mr. Timmons glanced my way casually and caught me staring at him. He smirked as if delighted to be the object of my attention. I resolutely turned to face Mr. Adams, my cheeks hot enough to cook my own breakfast. Insufferable man.

  Mr. Adams was still grappling with the puzzle presented to him: he had the only key in his possession, so who opened the lock on the trunk? Many suspicious glances fell his way, but I knew he was innocent. I did a brief, squinty peek and could see his whole energy beaming embarrassed confusion. At that point, I noted Kam by his absence. Hadn’t he mentioned he wanted to stop the hunt? If this was his doing, then he had indeed been very successful, for without food, there was no going forward with the hunt.

  As we packed up to return home, I couldn’t shake the sense that Mr. Timmons might also have had something to do with the failed hunt. But why?

  I mulled over this question the whole dreary way back. By the time I climbed off Nelly, I was famished. The herd of zebras had moved farther down the hill, having devoured most of what had been our front lawn and Mrs. Steward’s attempt at a flower patch. Only the possessed zebra remained behind, presumably to keep an eye on me, for that’s what it was doing. I glared back at it and noticed the zebra’s own energy had faded while the serpent spirit glowed brightly.

  Too tired to dwell on the poor beast, I gratefully left Nelly, who was already snoring on her hooves, to Jonas’ care and stumbled into the house.

  “You’re just in time,” Mrs. Steward said upon seeing me. She was slouched on a chair in the living room, fanning herself.

  I perked up. “Is it dinner time yet?” I wondered what creation Jonas had prepared for us.

  Mrs. Steward scowled. “I highly doubt it. And…” She peered at me in amazement. “Good heavens, you look positively wild, Bee. Your hair is in such a disarray. And your petticoat! Have you seen the state of your petticoat? It’s covered with mud. You’re quite an exhibition. Go clean up at once. No, wait.”

  I stood there with my muddy petticoat and wild hair, wondering what she could possibly expect from me after I’d just arrived straight from a lion hunt.

  “First, go directly to Dr. Cricket with this invitation.” She handed me a small envelope. “Await there for his reply. He won’t mind your current appearance. Men are normally blind to these finer details, especially when it comes to a woman they have no interest in.”

  She paused and picked up another envelope. “Then request him to send his houseboy to Mr. Timmons with this invite. It’s for afternoon tea. They should both be back by now from that silly hunt. Oh, and I suppose you’ll have to invite that horrid girl, Prissy or some such name.”

  I maintained an unruffled countenance and a civil tone, barely. “Why invite them at all?” was all I could think to say.

  Throwing up her hands, Mrs. Steward said, “Well, whom else will I invite so that Lilly has a chance to meet men? That rude porter of yours?”

  “Of course,” I said through gritted teeth, although I’d much prefer Kam to Mr. Timmons. “Can’t you send Jonas?”

  “Bah,” she said. “He’ll just go off for the day.”

  I marched into the kitchen, letting the door thump heavily behind me. “Good morning, Bee,” I said, imitating Mrs. Steward’s higher voice. “You must be so tired and hungry, dear. Did you sleep well, Bee? How did the hunt go, apart from the deadly insects and lion attack and possessed automaton eating all the food? Would you like…?”

  I broke off my rant as I realized I wasn’t alone. Jonas was squatting beside the wood stove, stoking the fire in the black, cast-iron belly. He had swiveled around to gaze up at me, the empty smile he displayed for the Steward family replaced by a knowing smirk.

  “Miss Knight,” he said in greeting. He giggled at my expression and continued with the fire.

  “Jonas,” I muttered. “And what happened to Nelly? I need her.”

  Jonas smiled widely. “She’s out back, waiting for you to go deliver the invitation to the doctor. You have to wake her up first though.”

  “Great,” I said as I grabbed a banana from a basket and stomped toward the back door.

  I felt fully justified in my irritation. It was, after all, a servant’s job to deliver letters and invitations. And while we were all expected to do more household tasks here than in London, I was no one’s servant.

  Jonas giggled again as I slammed the outside door and stepped into the courtyard to the back of the house. Dr. Cricket’s place was not far, but I took my time, selecting a longer route through the edge of the forest. I was in no rush to get back to whatever other tasks Mrs. Steward had in mind.

  When I reached the doctor’s house, I found him sitting outside his door, staring glumly at his boots. I wasn’t in the mood for idle chitchat and, fortunately, neither was he. He did perk up a bit when I handed him the invite. With profuse assurances, he accepted the invitation and promised to send Mr. Timmons and Cilla the other immediately.

  “Oh, Miss Knight,” he called after me.

  I glanced over my shoulder at him, too fatigued, hungry, and mud-splattered to bother turning the half-asleep horse around. “Yes?”

  He stood up and brushed off his clothes. “That blood sample of yours. What made you think it was a lion?”

  I shifted my shoulders in a tired imitation of a shrug. What could I say: it glowed funny in the night? “It was near a place where lions had been spotted. Why?”

  “I see,” Dr. Cricket said. And then he told me something that left me quite disappointed, but he said it all the same. “In any case, it wasn’t from a lion. No, from what I could gather, that blood sample was most definitely human.”

  Chapter 18