Society for Paranormals Page 4

  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, 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.”

  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 her, 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

  When the ship anchored in the harbor, 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.

  Cilla just laughed off my critical summation of the town, village, or 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 instructed myself firmly. You’ve been through worse, and after what happened in West Africa with an elephant-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.

  “Poor thing,” Cilla whispered to me as she put up a white parasol over us to block out the fierce sun.

  I wasn’t so compassionately inclined, even if Mrs. Steward’s countenance was as dismal as if an executioner awaited her on the shore.

  Small waves bounced us around as the sailors heaved and hoed at the oars. Moist air heavy with salt 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 wandering off alone,” Cilla called after her.

  “I am perfectly capable of managing, young lady,” Mrs. Steward shouted, just before a crowd of dark children materialized out of the shadows and surrounded her, grabbing at her flouncy 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. “Mr. Steward. Mr… ROBERT!”

  We somehow made it out of the port area with most of our wits and belongings intact. Mrs. Steward remained tight-lipped the entire 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 and the wide expanse of grassland. 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, none of us had energy 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, colorful hatboxes 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 prove very useful to you in your quest to discover and document. Good luck. I’m sure you’ll have a marvelous 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 had 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 observ
ing 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. He had the muscles to match those eyes. Now here was a man with a proper build for carrying heavy loads, but I strongly suspected he was no one’s servant.

  “Miss Knight,” he said, as if we were already acquainted. His voice was as deep as his skin color and rough, perhaps from little usage. But when used, it commanded attention.

  “It’s Mrs. Knight, actually,” I corrected him.

  He shrugged, 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 replied, “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 noticed, of course.

  “How remarkable,” I murmured.

  “Yes, it is,” Mrs. Steward said. “Finally, a porter for my trunk. You.” 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.”

  Kam 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 hatboxes almost dropped them, his expression shifting almost as rapidly as the boxes. He lowered his face, but not before I saw the hurt. 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, was unfazed. His generous mouth shifted slightly, perhaps in amusement or disdain or both.

  “I apologize on her behalf,” I said softly, not sure what the man might do to Mrs. Steward or why I felt compelled to apologize at all. “She doesn’t really know any better. Did Prof. Runal send you?”

  Kam’s countenance shifted again, and now I regretted having spoken thus. He wasn’t a man you ‘send for’ as you would for a carriage. I tried not to squirm under his scrutiny. For all I knew, he was the chief of his tribe, or perhaps the director of an African Society that studied unusual specimens of European species. The thought wasn’t appealing, and for the first time, I understood why some of the creatures I had documented had been less than thrilled about my attentions.

  “When you are ready, we will meet again,” he said.

  “And when will that be?” I asked.

  Now his mouth really did form a smile, as slight as it was. “You tell me.”

  And despite his towering height, powerful build, and unusual skin markings, he had, within seconds of leaving my side, utterly vanished into the crowd.

  Chapter 9

  My meeting with Kam, however brief, had revived me. Lilly on the other hand threatened to faint away from the heat and dust (a threat I wished she would carry out) and Mrs. Steward lamented the loss of one of her hats (the porter having conveniently dropped it in front of a passing wagon with a wonderful precision of timing).

  Mr. Evans, the stationmaster—a nervous-looking English chap with thick glasses, thin hair and a very pink complexion—promised in a stuttering voice to arrange a second wagon to bring the remaining trunks to our new house.

  Outside the station was a motley collection of mule-carts and manually pulled rickshaws, the operators of which were all shouting in various languages to attract our attention. Mr. Evans directed us to a rickety, uncovered, wooden wagon. The driver didn’t so much as glance in our direction, nor did he attempt to assist us. He remained fixed on his narrow wooden seat, his black head bare to the hot sun, his back to us, and his shoulders stooped under a tattered, colorless shirt.

  Once we were loaded onto the wagon along with a few of our possessions, he snapped the reins. The fat ox connected to the two-wheeled wagon plodded along as if it had no desire to escape the heat spiking us from above.

  From below, the rough, dusty path that passed for a road was littered with pebbles, bumps, holes, and the occasional large bone. Every motion shuddered up through the wheels and let itself be felt by my spine and backside. I didn’t dare breathe in deeply, as none of us had changed since at least the day before.

  I slanted my sunhat to shade more of my face and checked to ensure it still covered my mangled, right ear. Lilly huddled under her parasol, sniffing a lavender-scented handkerchief. I avoided looking at Mrs. Steward, who had remained very, very quiet, a most dangerous state of affairs. Even Bobby kept as still and small as a twelve-year-old boy could.

  The road meandered past the outskirts of the camp, a ramshackle collection of bleached tents and a few mud or tin shacks, before winding up a long hill. Toward the top, the ox stumbled to a stop before a solidly built brick-and-stone, one-floor structure boasting a thick, thatch roof.

  The house squatted with great determination along the flattened ridge of the hill, and overlooked both the camp and the savannah stretching all the way to the horizon and beyond. A stand of forest, filled with invitingly cool shadows, rose up behind the dwelling.

  As Mr. Steward assisted his sullen wife and daughter off the wagon, I clambered after the driver. The driver turned to face us and gestured with his hands to the building, as if formally introducing us.

  Mrs. Steward surveyed our new home with a cool eye, not a flicker of emotion betraying her inner landscape, which, I knew from experience, resembled a steaming volcano.

  “What’s wrong with that tree?” she demanded and pointed to the offending plant.

  We all looked in the direction of her stiff finger. The tree in question stood alone in the middle of our front lawn. It was of medium height and girth, but was devoid of all foliage. Strips of bark hung off it, as if it had been flayed and left to rot.

  “Elephants, mama,” the driver promptly replied, his eyebrows lifting in astonishment at her ignorance. “Elephants, they like to scratch against that tree.”

  “So I have an elephant scratching post in front of my door,” she said, her icy gaze flicking to Mr. Steward. “Charming.”

  “Not charming,” our driver said. “When elephants come, you must stay inside. They can be very angry if you disturb them.”

  “So now it’s dangerous to walk about our garden.” Mrs. Steward let that statement sink in, before she demanded, “Where’s the rest of the staff?” She turned her glare to the small, stooped man who had driven us here. “Why aren’t they standing outside to greet us?”

  “Indeed,” Gideon snickered, ghosting to my side. He raised his voice an octave in a remarkable imitation of Mrs. Steward and demanded, “Where is our masseuse? Surely they provide that basic service.”

  Meanwhile, our one-man welcoming party rubbed his head, which was covered in tight, little black-and-grey curls. He frowned as if struggling to understand the question and his face wrinkled up like an expired apple. His hands, gnarled but strong, fell to his side and gripped the frayed hem of a dingy shirt too big for him.

  “Jus’ me, mama,” he finally said with a slight lisp. His
front two upper teeth were missing. “Jus’ ol’ Jonas.”

  “Where’s the cook?” she asked, her emotionless mask cracking with exasperation.

  “I am,” Jonas promptly replied.

  “The gardener?”

  Jonas nodded his small head enthusiastically, smiling widely, his wrinkles deepening into crevices.

  I didn’t dare look to Mrs. Steward; I could feel her energy sizzling outward, but before I could remove myself from its path, she stomped into the house and slammed the door behind her. Not a moment passed before the door was flung open and the good lady stuck her head out.

  “There’s no breakfast parlor, Mr. Steward,” she said in a low voice that did not bode well for the poor man. “No parlor at all. What sort of a house lacks a parlor?” With that condemnation of the entire building, she retreated and the door smacked heartily into its frame.

  In the awkward moment that followed, in which we all stood quite still, I gazed about. It was then I noticed a herd of zebras munching the dry grass in what was a corner of our front lawn.

  One zebra defiantly stared back at me. I narrowed my eyes and could see the animal’s energy glowing brightly even in the sunlight. A second, snake-shaped energy coiled around the zebra and hissed at me.

  I stared at the serpent creature invisible to all save me, wondering if it was wise to be so blatantly observing the thing.

  “Oh look, darling,” Gideon remarked, his whispery words fluttering about me. “You’ve found yourself a pet.”

  “Bee,” Mr. Steward said in a weary voice. “Please arrange for our bags to be unloaded.” His fingers twitched at his side as he stared at the front door. Then with a resolute expression and an almost confident gait, he entered the house, followed by his children.

  The driver and I stared at each other. “I’m Mrs. Knight,” I said into the silent stare I was receiving.

  “Jonas, ma’am,” he said and scratched at his knobby hair. Frowning, he peered up at me, for although I wasn’t particularly tall, Jonas was even less so and his slouched shoulders shrunk him further. “Why the bwana ask you to take care of the bags, ma’am? Is this the job of the second wife in your tribe?”