by Vered Ehsani
“Miss Bee, if you wish to stroll about the countryside, I can arrange for a tour guide,” Inspector Jones said, each word bitten off in anger as he stomped behind me. “But I have far more important business than catering to the whims of a woman who by all rights should be back home tending to her husband’s home.”
“I’m not married,” I informed him.
“Well, that explains everything,” he retorted. “And at this rate, you shall remain thus.”
I paid him no heed for just then, the ghost vanished and two men and three women, all dressed in white, stepped out of the trees.
“Can you see them?” I whispered to Inspector Jones, eyeing the group.
“Of course I can see them,” he sputtered, wiping the sheen of warm humidity off his face. “I’m not blind, now am I?”
I didn’t respond, for the truth was that yes, he was in fact blind although his eyes worked well enough. One of the women stepped forward and nodded at me.
“M’dam Beatrice,” she said, her voice soft yet confident. “I am Mame. You are welcome.”
“How does she know you?” Inspector Jones asked, close to pouting as a grown man can be, for Mame paid him no attention at all.
“Thank you,” I said, unsure what I was being welcomed to. “Ngofariman said I might find you.”
“Who is Ngofariman?” Inspector Jones huffed and reached into a pocket for his snuffbox.
“Not I,” Mame said, still speaking only to me. “The hairy one is of no consequence now. You are here to meet Mami Wata.”
At her words, Inspector Jones guffawed. “That old fairytale? Is that why I was dragged through the foulest corner of Lagos, to listen to superstition and voodoo nonsense? Preposterous.”
At his outburst, Mame finally deigned to glance his way. “I assure you, Inspector, Mami Wata is no fairy, although she does at times have a tail. As for voodoo, that exists in the realm of the one you seek.”
Inspector Jones snorted as I asked, “You mean the one behind the smuggling ring?”
Mame nodded.
“So this Mami Wata has information about that?” I continued, the thrill of the hunt surging through me.
Mame hesitated. “It is best that she answer that question. She is waiting for you.”
At that, she turned and walked away, her bearing regal as a queen amongst her subjects. The others waited for us to follow her before falling in place behind us.
“Who’s Mami Wata?” I whispered to the Inspector.
He snorted, and by that I mean he snorted a large pinch of whatever was in his snuffbox. I frowned at the box; the man was rapidly deteriorating into addiction, by the looks of it, and that didn’t bode well for our investigation.
“A mermaid,” he said with a sneer.
“Really?” I asked, intrigued. I’d never encountered a mermaid in my investigative work, and had suspected they were no more than a combination of a rather long sea journey, a bottle of rum and the overheated imagination of bored sailors.
Encouraged by my interest in his supposed expertise, Inspector Jones resumed his explanation. “Yes, imagine that. She has quite a following in West Africa. Also Central Africa, by all accounts. Her worshipers have a fixation on the color white.” He shook his head derisively, as if unable to comprehend how anyone would like such a color. “They wear white clothes, use white objects, and paint their donkeys white for all I know. The benefit of this cult is that at the least, they profess to doing good and keep themselves impeccably clean. They’re always bathing in the sea to pay tribute to her.”
“Well, that’s all positive then,” I suggested.
Inspector Jones swatted at a large leaf that had the temerity to hang in front of his face. “Apart from the fact they’re all delusional, yes. At least they don’t cause us trouble. They’re too busy praying to a mermaid to heal the sick and protect the women.” He leaned toward me to dodge a prickly plant. “That’s her forte: protecting women and motherhood.”
I found that last part particularly reassuring, for surely a creature that protected women couldn’t be all so terrible.
The humidity and heat increased the further we walked, and a swarm of almost invisible insects settled around our heads, although Mame seemed undisturbed by any of it. Just as my discomfort reached an almost unbearable level, the trees and shrubbery thinned out and we stumbled out onto a pristine beach.
Sand as white as Mame’s dress dazzled my eyes and I had to squint against the glare. That was when I saw her strolling out of the gentle waves, the energy field of a powerful water spirit glowing about her curvaceous form. Her long hair shifted between black and green, and her skin was the color of ebony. Her countenance glowed with a benevolent smile as she held out her arms in a motherly greeting. The long, thin snake that encircled her waist hissed but even that couldn’t distract from her beauty.
“Mami Wata,” I murmured as Mame and the other followers fell to their knees.
“Bloody…” Inspector Jones breathed out but bit his tongue when I clucked disapprovingly. There was no excuse for cussing even when faced with a mermaid-type paranormal.
‘Greetings, Beatrice,’ Mami Wata sung out, her melodic voice wrapping around my mind.
Even in my amazement, I recognized that her lips hadn’t moved.
“She’s communicating telepathically,” I said, all astonishment at a skill that was no easy feat at all.
“Blast it,” the Inspector muttered, reaching for his snuffbox with a quivering hand.
‘Beatrice, you search in dangerous waters,’ Mami Wata continued in her telepathic sing-song voice.
“So I’ve gathered,” I said, unsure if she would hear my thoughts which were tumultuous at best.
“Now just a moment, madam,” Inspector Jones interrupted, his movements as jittery as his nerves. “This investigation falls under my jurisdiction, and I have some questions…”
He was unable to complete his sentence, for Mami Wata, benevolent water spirit and protector of women, had turned to face him. Her deep brown eyes darkened, the color filling over the whites, and her countenance transformed from loving to wrathful. With a slight nod of her head, she spoke aloud a word and Inspector Jones fell to his knees, his hands at his throat, a constricted gurgling the only sound he could produce.
Unsure how to intervene, or even if I should, I took a step toward the fallen man. As I did, his breathing resumed, albeit jagged and uneven.
‘This is my domain,’ Mami Wata clarified, to dispel any doubt that might be lingering on the matter. ‘You do not belong here.’ She waved her hand as if to encompass everything before her.
Unsure if she was addressing that declaration to the Inspector, to me or to the Queen of England, I hesitated to speak, but my tongue has a habit of moving before my brain does sometimes. “Why did you wish to meet me?” I asked.
She turned her gaze entirely to me, and I pondered the wisdom of my thoughtless words, for who was I to question a goddess? In my experience as a paranormal investigator, I’d acquired (sometimes painfully) an appreciation for the seemingly random and incomprehensible logic used by supernatural beings. Questioning that logic was a certain path to insanity or death, both of which were thoroughly unhelpful states to be in when attempting to solve a case.
‘Prof Runal doesn’t belong here,’ she replied in her gentle mind-voice, ignoring the Inspector as one would an ant crawling about beneath one’s feet. ‘By extension, neither do you.’
“And I shall remove myself from your domain promptly, once this matter is resolved,” I promised with all sincerity. For really, why would any Englishwoman wish to remain in a place that boasted heat and humidity that melded one’s clothes into one’s skin, and hosted talking chimps and bloodthirsty mosquitos, not to mention light-loving vampires?
Mami Wata shook her head as if dismayed by my response, although her face betrayed no surprise at it. Abruptly she altered her approach to the conversation. ‘Beatrice, the Mantis is coming.’
“The
Mantis,” I repeated. “That’s what the tattoos were.” I glanced down at the Inspector, who was on his hands and knees coughing vigorously. “The driver and your assistant both had a tattoo of the insect.”
Unable to look up, Inspector Jones waved a hand at me as if gesturing for me to continue without him.
“Does this Mantis have a name?” I inquired, maintaining a polite and subdued tone of voice.
Mame gasped behind me and the snake around the water spirit’s waist hissed. ‘Yes, a name that is best left unmentioned.’
I couldn’t for the life of me comprehend why one should avoid speaking a name, but I persisted in my line of inquiry. “I don’t fear names.”
Miami Wata smiled as if a child had declared herself the Queen of England. ‘The name is Koki.’
Koki the Mantis. I must admit I wasn’t particularly overwhelmed with terror. “So how do we find this Koki?”
Mami Wata tilted her head slightly to the side, as if contemplating a question she hadn’t expected. ‘Do not try.’
“With all due respect, Mami Wata, that is precisely why I came here,” I asserted. “We need to stop the Brownie smuggling and whatever else that gang is involved with.”
My explanation petered out at the end, as the mermaid spirit held up a hand as elegantly as a monarch would when addressing adoring subjects. ‘The Mantis will find you if you insist on your search,’ her voice echoed through my mind. ‘The Mantis is unforgiving, unrelenting. You must leave.’
I frowned at the suggestion I abandon my mission, for I was not one to flee at the first indication of difficulties, even if they involved insects. While I wasn’t overly enamored with Brownies, they were for the most part innocent enough and certainly didn’t deserve the cruel fate that awaited them once smuggled out of the relative protection the Society offered in Great Britain.
‘Be at peace, Beatrice,’ she continued as if understanding my concern. ‘There are other forces at work.’
It was true that there were mysteries beyond the ken of mortal minds, but I was thoroughly dissatisfied with the notion that I should abandon my work and scurry away back home like a frightened dormouse. “Can you not assist us at all then? Perhaps we can’t find this Mantis, but at least we can arrest the gang members and put a stop to this nonsense.”
By this time, Inspector Jones had recovered enough to push himself upright, where he staggered in place and nodded in agreement to my suggestion.
Mami Wata studied me with eyes that now matched the green tinge of her thick hair. ‘The port, tonight,’ she finally whispered into my mind. ‘But if you value your life, you will leave before then.’
I shrugged. “I have a rather limited quantity of self-preservation,” I admitted.
She bestowed on me that curious smile, as if my words were those of the village idiot. With that, she turned about, strode into the waves and dove in, her legs fusing into a dolphin’s tail.
As grievous as Brownie smuggling was, enduring a budding addict was tiresome and potentially more hazardous to my health than Koki. No sooner had Mami Wata transformed into a mermaid and vanished beneath the surf, then Inspector Jones cursed in an intolerable fashion despite my disapproval, pulled out his rapidly depleting stock of snuff and inhaled a wad large enough to clog up a set of nostrils less robust than his.
“If you prefer to rest this evening, I’m quite capable of attending to this matter without a chaperone,” I remarked with a touch of sympathy for the man’s dilemma. While I was fully conversant in the ways and means of paranormal investigations, this poor man hadn’t the faintest notion; nor had he voluntarily requested to be informed. “This is the sort of beings I associate with on a fairly regular basis.”
The Inspector coughed, although I couldn’t be certain if it was the effect of the snuff or my words that caused him to react thus. “I’ll not hear of it, Miss Bee,” he declared, with less assurance than normal. “Although I must admit I’m not overly comforted by your assertions. What sort of woman spends her time in such company?”
“The sort who is an investigator,” I quipped, any modicum of tender sentiments withering under my dry tone.
The man huffed in disbelief. “Be that as it may, I am duty-bound to accompany you. The port, didn’t she say?” He waved a hand limply toward the water.
“As you wish,” I murmured, although I wasn’t at all confident in his ability to continue, for his nerves weren’t quite as hale and hearty as his nostrils seemed to be.
Inspector Jones accompanied me to my lodgings and we parted ways with the understanding he would return before dusk. Relieved to be free of the man for a few hours, I partook of a sparse meal and requested Mrs. Pritchard in no uncertain terms to send for me once Inspector Jones arrived. After her assurances she would do that, I retreated to my room and attempted to rest.
Sleep however eluded me. I had only been in the employment of the Society for a year or so, yet even the newest of recruits was informed of the Mandates and my mind gnawed on the three Society laws with grim determination. In particular, I obsessed over the wisdom of involving Inspector Jones.
The man was neither a being of supernatural essence nor was he a fully indoctrinated and trained human. Yet perforce he had been thrust into the strange world I inhabited and was clearly demonstrating his inability to cope with it. This only demonstrated yet again the importance of creativity and imagination in my line of work. How else could one cope with reality without these essential tools of the paranormal investigator?
As I reflected on the predicament of Inspector Jones and the obnoxious wet heat pressing down upon me, I drifted off into a slumber. I’m certain I would have remained thus except for a disturbing dream involving a talking chimp shape-shifting into a mermaid. My sleep interrupted, I lay in the darkness, blinking away the heaviness of mind that accompanies a long nap, wondering what else was disquieting me.
Darkness.
It was dark, which indicated that it was well past dusk. The obvious and simplistic nature of that thought further befuddled my sleep-addled mind, until I identified why such a statement should cause me distress: Inspector Jones had not come for me.
While there were many possible explanations for this, I was confident that only two had the highest probability of being true: either he sincerely intended to fetch me, and this unexpected and uncharacteristic tardiness could only be proof that he was dead; or he had decided to save me the inconvenience of a trip to the piers and had proceeded without me.
“The imbecile,” I muttered as I stumbled into action. The description was accurate either way, for if he was indeed dead, it was due to his overuse of snuff and his underuse of imagination; if he had declined my services, then he was entering into a situation for which he was ill prepared.
As this wasn’t London with its plethora of carriages, I decided to set off on foot for the port, which wasn’t that far away given the diminutive size of Lagos. Mrs. Pritchard was appalled at the notion.
“But my dear,” she said, her hands clenched together as if imploring me to reconsider, her energy thoroughly agitated. “This is not the sort of place where one ventures out into the streets unaccompanied, particularly for a proper Englishwoman and specifically at night. There are all sorts of vagabonds and undesirables roaming about.”
At that I smiled, my irritation at any delay mollified by her pained expression and sincere concern for my wellbeing. “Do not fret, Mrs. Pritchard, for I’m hardly proper and I am in fact accompanied.”
With that, I raised my fully loaded walking stick and ventured out into the darkness. My eyes — those strangely colored orbs — adjusted to the gloom which only the inconstant light of stars softened. Despite Mrs. Pritchard’s assertions that there were thugs and goons skulking about each street corner, I found the town to be remarkably absent of loiterers. I wasn’t at all alarmed by the solitude, far from it, for it meant I could proceed to my destination without the nuisance of having to thump sense into a bandit or two.
Inspector Jones and his cohorts were far too easy to spot, at least for me. I merely had to squint and their energy popped up as clear as fireworks. They squatted in several loose clump behind stacks of crates conveniently placed along the port, near the entrance of a warehouse that loomed over them. I studied the piers before proceeding; the police were the only energy sources in the area apart from the mosquitos and rodents. Whatever was supposed to happen hadn’t yet begun.
I joined the Inspector in his shadowy hiding spot. His facial features tightened further when he realized who had joined him. He cursed and inhaled a pinch of snuff. While I wasn’t particularly impressed with his behavior, I was rather concerned about his increased use of the narcotic. In my limited experience thus far, a drug-addled mind was an unreliable one, and was a certain recipe for death and other inconveniences.
“Surely you’ve had enough of that,” I muttered under my breath.
“Surely you shouldn’t be here,” Inspector Jones muttered back.
I sighed and could only hope that he lived long enough to prove himself useful, or at least not a hindrance. While in my younger years I would’ve experienced a trace of womanly concern and sympathy for a man who insisted on handing his mind over to a drug, I had rapidly learned over the previous year working for the Society that such tender sentimentality was a dangerous distraction.
I continued upon such internal deliberations to pass the time while occasionally scanning the area for signs of humanoid life. It was during such a scan that I noticed the Obayifo. He was standing at the other end of the pier, his skin darker than the sky that framed his tall and muscular form.
“We have company,” I whispered to Inspector Jones and gestured with my chin in the general direction.
“I don’t see a blasted thing,” he said and scowled at me as if it was my fault the man was blind at night.
“You will,” I reassured him and just as I spoke, another humanoid joined the Obayifo and providentially held up a lantern. The men near me shifted in anticipation, flexing their muscles in preparation for action. Inspector Jones glanced askew at me but declined to remark on my ability to see in darkness.