by Vered Ehsani
I nodded my head once. “How do you do, Miss White? I’m Beatrice Knight.”
“Oh, please do call me Cilla. All my friend do,” she gushed.
I mumbled some incoherent and noncommittal sentiment before turning about, determined to abandon this new and unwanted acquaintance. I really had been enjoying my solitude.
“What do your close companions call you?” she said. A most persistent creature.
“Bee,” I said, before I thought better of it.
“And I think we shall be great friends, don’t you, Bee?” she said as she followed me. “That’s what Prof. Runal said. Oh, and he mentioned that an acquaintance of his will be meeting you in Nairobi. You know, to continue the undead work. How exciting for you.”
I frowned and decided to correct the error she had now twice made. “There’s nothing undead about the work I do, nor am I an undead investigator. For a start, I’m very much alive. And, contrary to common, and therefore uninformed, belief, the paranormals as a whole aren’t dead nor are they some version of dead.”
“Oh,” she said, her pale skin blushing. “I beg your pardon. But you are an investigator for the Society, aren’t you?”
I sighed deeply at her absolute lack of tact, for these were not matters to be discussed in public places. Fortunately, we were alone on this portion of the deck. “Yes, I am. But please don’t raise the subject so openly. Understood?”
“Of course. Brilliant,” she said. And before I could protest her forwardness, she linked an arm around mine and pulled me along the deck. I allowed her to as I battled with my desire to swat her over the head with my hefty walking stick.
I was still pondering the wisdom of befriending me, but how many social options could I hope to find in East Africa? I daresay, there would be few and far between.
Perhaps, all things considered, an acquaintance with one who was already informed of the Society and its members wouldn’t be such an intolerable thing after all, even if she did smell like a dog.
Chapter 8
One stormy day after we had assembled for supper, Cilla invited herself to our table. That suited me very well, given the normal conversation during the afternoon meal was about as fascinating as muddy boots, and considerably less useful. Mr. Steward made some mild effort to inquire after her health. After that, we were free to our own conversation. But just then, an apparition floated into the dining hall.
I gasped as the familiar form of Bloody Mary solidified just enough for me to clearly identify her.
“What’s she doing here?” Gideon whispered, having himself just materialised at my side.
“I don’t know,” I said through pursed lips. How thoroughly uncivil of ghosts to appear so abruptly and without the least consideration to propriety.
“What don’t you know?” Cilla asked, peering at me from my other side.
“She often talks to herself,” Lilly said as she tugged her bread roll away from Bobby.
Bloody Mary spun about, her face scrunched up, confused, until she saw me. Her eyes lit up and she wagged a finger in my direction.
“Good gracious,” I muttered and returned to my soup. My hand trembled and I wasn’t sure what upset me most: Bloody Mary’s silent warning or the thought that I had brought with me all of London’s ghosts and ghouls. When I glanced up though, Mary and Gideon were both gone.
I watched another ghost rise up out of my soup bowl and I stared sternly at him. He ignored me and floated up with the steam. Cilla opened her mouth, but Lilly interrupted us.
“You’ve been to Nairobi before, I’ve heard,” Lilly said. “What’s there to do? Are there dress-up balls?”
“Dress-up balls? Oh no, none of that,” Cilla gushed, distracted from her line of questioning. “But there’s so much to do there that you won’t be bored for a moment.”
“Do tell,” Lilly said, her eyes brightening at the prospect.
“Well,” Cilla said, “there’s hiking up the mountain, for a start. Trekking across the savannah, horseback safaris amongst the zebra herds, drumming with the natives, camping out under the starlight, spending weekends at one another’s cottages hunting gazelles and avoiding poisonous snakes, that sort of thing.”
There was a deep, almost impenetrable pause as everyone around the table absorbed this shocking description of the new country awaiting us. Even the cutlery didn’t clink together with quite the same tinkle.
Mr. Steward delicately cleared his throat. “That is rather singular,” he said, thus breaking the spell.
“I should say so,” Mrs. Steward said as she clasped her hands and stared aghast at Cilla, as if it were entirely the girl’s fault that there were no gowns and balls in Nairobi. “What will become of my poor Lilly in such a backwater of a place?” She groaned and wrung her hands.
“Is that… er, normal?” Lilly asked with a certain degree of trepidation, once she had recovered sufficient voice and wit to talk. “Are there no balls at all, or afternoon teas or other civilised associations?”
Cilla contemplated the questioner and must have decided, in a gracious display of wisdom and tact, that a gentler vision of life in Africa was required in order to avoid a scene of hysterics and fainting, which would have completely ruined all prospects of dessert.
“Of course,” she said. “You can stay inside Nairobi and live in a somewhat similar manner as you would in London.”
Both Lilly and Mrs. Steward breathed audible sighs of relief, rather prematurely, as Cilla continued, “Minus, of course, the shops, the street lighting, teahouses, cobblestone roads, churches, dress-up parties, ridiculous fashions, theatre and other urbanised nuisances.”
I stared at her in amazement and not a small amount of admiration.
Lilly however gasped and paled; Mrs. Steward covered up her dismay by sniffing derisively at this description of a typical day in the British colony. “That’s not how one behaves in the civilised corners of the globe,” she said, not deigning to look at Cilla. She held up a finger authoritatively. “In the Book of Household Management, the highly esteemed Mrs. Beeton quite clearly describes the appropriate day of a lady, and the majority of her time should be spent handling her domestic duties and socialising as her husband's companion in such a manner as to further his prestige. And if she isn’t married, she should bend all her energies to acquiring that noble status. She should certainly not be gallivanting about the savage countryside.”
Cilla glanced about the table, her eyes wide, her small mouth forming a perfect O.
“And furthermore,” Mrs. Steward pressed on, clearly on a role and determined that we should all benefit from the insightful instructions of Mrs. Beeton, “on such occasions when a woman is called forth to socialise away from her husband’s side, there is a strict protocol to adhere to.”
Clearing her throat, her eyes lifted up to a noble horizon unseen by myself, she quoted from that illustrious manual:
“After luncheon, morning calls, and visits may be made and received.... These visits should be short, a stay of from fifteen to twenty minutes being quite sufficient. A lady paying a visit may remove her boa or neckerchief; but neither shawl nor bonnet....”
With a dramatic sigh, Mrs. Steward delicately placed a hand over her heart. “You would be well advised to memorise such eloquent and benevolent words of wisdom,” she finished.
“Here, here,” Mr. Steward mumbled faithfully, his gaze fixed on the approaching dessert tray, while Lilly nodded her head energetically, much relieved by such noble words of guidance.
“Well, that was… um…” Cilla turned to me for inspiration, but I tilted my head forward as to avoid her gaze. “Enlightening,” she finally settled on. “Yes, most enlightening.”
Chapter 9
When the ship anchored in the harbour, Bobby and I joined Cilla on deck to stare at the port of Mombasa. It was little more than a large, ramshackle village, full of commotion, the narrow streets plugged with carts, animals, and people.
“Isn’t it a handsome place?�
�� Cilla gushed as if we were staring into the pram of a pleasantly plump little baby.
“If by handsome, you mean primitive, then yes, absolutely,” I said sharply.
Where had Mr. Steward brought us? I was beginning to agree with Mrs. Steward’s assessment of the situation, which in itself was alarming to admit to.
Cilla just laughed off my critical summation of the town, village, whatever it was called. “It’s really quite lovely close up. And aren’t the fishing boats adorable?”
“I’m sure,” I said. “Those nets full of dead fish must have a truly adorable smell.”
Bobby stood on his toes—he was a rather small fellow even for a twelve-year-old—and asked dubiously, “Is that where we’re going to live?”
“I should hope not,” I muttered. “Is Nairobi anything like this?”
“Oh no, of course not,” Cilla said with a dismissive wave of one gloved hand. “It’s not nearly as developed as the port. Although my godfather wrote that they’ve just finished setting up the first all-purpose store. Thrilling, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” I said, noticing in myself a certain uncharacteristic faintness at the prospect of living in such a place that could only just now boast one store.
Snap out of this, I told myself firmly. You’ve been through worse than this, and after what happened in West Africa with a horse-sized Praying Mantis, you should be able to handle anything.
I straightened my back and my shoulders in response to that thought, but wondered how the others would react. I could only imagine Lilly’s reaction, if this had been mine.
Bobby’s quick little mind must have reached a similar conclusion, for he spun about and went running off, gleefully shouting, “Mama! Lilly! Guess what?”
Getting to shore was quite the ordeal. The rowboat was sound enough, and the sailors decently mannered. Sadly, the same couldn’t be said for Mrs. Steward.
“Robert Steward Senior, this is abominable, unacceptable, and entirely your fault,” Mrs. Steward screeched as five sailors attempted to assist her down the ladder and into our rowboat. They were having a difficult time despite their burly muscles and stout sea legs. They may have battled the treacherous ocean and the beasts within, but they clearly had never encountered a creature quite like Mrs. Steward.
Mr. Steward followed wordlessly, perhaps hoping no one would associate him with the noisy woman in the flouncy, pale-green dress. The moment he was seated, the sailors pushed us away from the ship and began rowing us to shore.
“Poor thing,” Cilla whispered to me as she put up a white parasol over us to block out the fierce sun. “Unlike you and me, Bee, she’s never travelled.”
“Hm,” I said, “you may have a point.”
Mrs. Steward was glaring grimly ahead as if an executioner awaited her on the shore. A single tear slid down her powdered face and she brushed it off hastily, then snapped at Robert Junior to stop rocking the boat, even though the child was sitting unusually still.
Small waves bounced us around as the sailors heaved and hoed at the oars. Moist, salty air brushed by us but rather than refreshing me, it left a sticky film on my skin that combined with the heat in an intolerable way. My clothes seemed to tighten around me, trapping even more warmth inside their folds.
At that moment, I could only be grateful that my long hair was straighter than a pencil and tied back in a bun. Lilly’s beautiful curls, draped so artistically around her face and shoulders, were rapidly transforming into a frizzy nest.
As we approached the shore, we were assailed by the combined stench of dead fish (from the nets of the adorable boats), drying seaweed, decomposing garbage, and the excrement of the numerous seabirds flying close overhead, their plaintive cries intermingling with the slapping of water against the rocky shore.
When the rowboat bumped up against a rickety wooden dock, Mrs. Steward couldn’t climb out fast enough. No sailor needed to offer her assistance as she clambered up the ladder and marched down the dock, the wood creaking ominously beneath her.
“Mrs. Steward, I wouldn’t go wondering off alone,” Cilla called after her.
“I am perfectly capable of managing, young lady,” Mrs. Steward shouted, just before a crowd of dark children materialised out of the heavy air and surrounded her, grabbing at her sleeves. She spun around, trying to find a way through the mass of bodies pressed up against her, her lacy purse clutched tightly to her chest. “Robert. ROBERT!”
We somehow made it out of the port area with most of our wits and belongings intact. Mrs. Steward remained tight-lipped the whole ride from the port to the train station. Mr. Steward chewed on his bottom lip, probably praying that conditions would improve when we reached Nairobi, and I didn’t have the heart to inform him differently.
When we boarded the train—a cranky old steam engine encased in thick, black metal—I had great hopes, for surely we would be able to view first-hand the famous African wildlife. Indeed we did, but the novelty soon wore out along with our nerves and our rattling bones.
By the time the steam train pulled into the Nairobi train station the next day, we were too relieved to comment on the limited facilities. The station was nothing more than a long, dusty platform tucked against a small brick building and surrounded by curious goat herders and quick-tongued tradesmen.
As we stumbled out of the train, packages and trunks trailed behind us. Keeping a close watch on her items, Mrs. Steward shouted after Bobby (who was crawling under the train), complained to Mr. Steward (who did a brilliant job acting deaf), and ordered around the porter who had the great misfortune to be helping us. A skinny young man, he struggled to balance the six large, colourful hat boxes Mrs. Steward had stacked in his slim arms.
“Really, where are these people when one needs them?” Mrs. Steward complained as our luggage was piled about us. Evidently, one porter wouldn’t suffice.
I did my best to pretend I didn’t know her. Instead, I re-read the note Cilla had given me. It was covered with Prof. Runal’s scrawled words, blotches, and smudges of ink.
My dear Beatrice, I’ve made arrangements for a guide. I’m convinced he will be very useful to you in your quest to discover and document. Good luck. I’m sure you’ll have a marvellous time. Sincerely, Runal.
Prof. Runal’s note was, as per his habit, purposefully vague in the unlikely event it should fall into the wrong hands. What hands those might be, I have no idea and the good professor always declined to elaborate whenever the topic came up.
As I held the note, I glanced about me and noticed a tall, dark man sailing through the crowd. He stood at least a head taller than the next tallest man and he moved effortlessly through the dense crowd of people and packages. I would have removed myself from his path, if it hadn’t been obvious that his path was directed straight for me.
As my guide—for who else could it be?—approached, I studied him from under the shadow of my sunhat. His skin was darker than the other East Africans I’d seen so far, and pierced and painted with startling markings of swirls and dots on his strong, angular face and along his muscular arms and chest. When he was a few paces away, a breeze carried his scent to my overly acute olfactory senses and I breathed in spice, warm earth, wood smoke, and something a little wild.
I wasn’t the only person observing his passage. Indeed, there wasn’t a female in the vicinity who didn’t stare at him, for he was strikingly handsome. Even men couldn’t help but watch him with various degrees of admiration and jealousy.
I peered upward, my hat sliding back off my sweaty forehead. His head was shaved of all hair, which made his eyes all the more startling: fierce, pale-brown, and not intimidated in the least by those who thought themselves the colonial masters of this land. And he had the muscular build to match those eyes. Now here was a man with a proper build for carrying heavy loads, but I strongly sensed he was no one’s servant.
“Miss Knight,” he said, as if we were already acquainted. His voice was as deep as his skin colour and rough, perhaps from lit
tle usage. But when used, it commanded attention and obedience.
“It’s Mrs. Knight, actually,” I corrected him.
He shrugged his shoulders, as if the details of my name were unimportant.
After an appropriate pause that lengthened into uncomfortable silence, I gestured to him. “And you are…?”
His head tipped slightly to the side, considering my question, and his full lips shifted into the slightest of smiles. Finally he said, “You may call me Kam, if you wish.”
What an odd sort of response, I thought.
“Very well, Mr. Kam,” I began.
“No,” he corrected. “Just Kam.”
“I see,” I said and studied him closely.
I avoided his piercing gaze and instead squinted as some of the markings—runes of a sort I was unfamiliar with—shifted about his skin. No one else seemed to notice.
“How remarkable,” I murmured.
“Yes, it is,” Mrs. Steward said. “Finally, a porter for my trunk. You—” And she snapped her fingers at the giant standing before me. “My trunk is that one over there with the pink trim. And do try to be careful with it. I don’t want everything more of a mess than it already is.”
My guide glanced at her, one tapered eyebrow sliding up as he stared down at the plump little woman ordering him about. From his expression, she might’ve been a tiny poodle yapping at his heels. As if he’d said enough by saying nothing, he turned his attention back to me.
“Well, the nerve,” Mrs. Steward huffed. “I certainly hope the other natives are better mannered.”
I cringed while the porter juggling the hat boxes almost dropped them, his expression shifting almost as rapidly as the boxes. He lowered his face, but not before I saw the hurt, and then a breath later, he looked up with a forced, empty smile and a slightly confused appearance, as if he hadn’t really understood her.
Kam, however, seemed unfazed. His generous mouth shifted slightly, perhaps in amusement or disdain or both.