Curse of the Nandi (Society for Paranormals Book 5), page 12
It was then I noticed the weariness about his eyes, and I had to remind myself he was after all a European vampire. “Of course.” Then I added with a hint of hesitation, “Father.”
His entire countenance lit up and his smile was beatific. With slight bow, he retreated to his own quarters, leaving me alone with Cilla.
I sat on the side of the bed and clasped her limp hand in mine. “Oh Cilla, I’m so sorry you’re unwell. And you missed the most wonderful moment,” I said in a restrained whisper. “Today, I discovered that I have not one but two brothers, and also a father. Isn’t that the most marvelous of news? Good grief, I’m beginning to sound like you, with all my gushing and heightened emotionality.”
Cilla stirred and her eyelids fluttered open. “Bee?” she gasped.
I squeezed her hand, and fervently hoped Uncle James – Father – was correct in his diagnosis, for I couldn’t bear to lose Cilla. There was so much I wanted to share with her, for my family was now hers.
“You’ll be all right,” I said with a stern tone, as if I could command her disability to leave.
“It’s not,” she whispered. “I’m not…”
Nurse Manton stomped into the room, bearing a tray with a pitcher of water and two glasses. “Here you are, miss,” she said as she lowered the tray onto a side table, her gaze flicking over Cilla as if searching for the Plague-induced buboes. “Will there be anything else?”
I dismissed her with a shake of my head and a small frown, for which I silently chastised myself. Fear was a perfectly understandable reaction on her part, for Cilla’s symptoms were remarkably similar to the initial signs of the Plague: chills, malaise, and high fever. Still, I couldn’t fully quell my displeasure at her reluctance to further assist us.
Once the door closed after the stocky woman, I offered Cilla water and wondered when Dr. Ribeiro would arrive.
“I’m not like you, Bee,” Cilla murmured, her lips barely moving.
“Of course not,” I said, a tad too sharply. I sighed, wondering if I would ever be able to adopt a soothing, maternal tone as Lilly had with me when I was recovering from my lost hand. “Of course you’re not, my dearest Cilla. You’re you.”
“I’m not normal,” she sniffed.
That induced a laugh from me. “Good grief, I should hope not! And how could you be with all this lot about you? At best, you could only be abnormal.”
Her pale lips lifted in a smile before they quivered. “Where’s Drew?”
“He’ll be along shortly,” I reassured her, making a mental note to track him down and smack him upside the head with my walking stick. Perhaps that would knock some sense into him, or some wildness out. “You mustn’t fuss.”
Her eyes opened fully, and she gazed up at me with a shocking intensity. “But that’s just it, Bee. I never fuss. I so desperately want everyone to be happy and for everything to be positive, and I’m sure everyone believes me to be a naïve child. But it’s because there’s so much sadness around and I don't want to add to it.” At that, she eased to her side and began to sob with quiet gasps of desperation that she smothered into her pillow.
I glanced about the room, desperate for assistance. Where did everyone disappear to, just when I needed them most? Why did Mr. Timmons insist on accompanying me in tracking down the Kerit but abandoned me when his niece had an emotional meltdown?
“Look at me,” I muttered. “If you think you’re not normal, what am I? I’m incapable of managing myself appropriately.”
I thought about what Lilly would do, marveled that I now relied on her as a role model, and reached out my hand tentatively to stroke Cilla’s hair. At least, I hoped that would be as soothing for her as it had been for me.
“None of us is really normal,” I said, not certain if that would make her feel better or not, but I couldn’t lie either. “Still, we’re together in our not-normalness.”
I frowned at my use of a noun that I was certain didn’t exist prior to my uttering it, but there was nothing to be done about it now. The word had been created: not-normalness.
Cilla sniffed deeply as if trying to retract her tears and stuff them back into the abyss from which they came. In the course of our conversation thus far, it had become apparent to me that my cherished friend was inconsolable, yet I couldn’t fathom the source of her despair.
As if discerning my perturbation, Cilla coughed and whispered, “I am in a most pitiable state, am I not?”
My body, wearied by the contrariety of emotions the day had thus far elicited from me, sagged somewhat and it was all I could do to summon the energy to sit upright.
“This will surely pass,” I said as I sought to reassure her. “I’ve heard it stated that as many as one half of all Europeans who venture to these lands succumb at some point or other to the difficult air. Soon you’ll be your chipper self.”
With some effort, her lips quivering with the strain of our discourse, Cilla pushed herself up against the headboard, her sunken eyes observing me with a sense of age that belied her fair skin.
“Oh, Beatrice, your faith in me is utterly misplaced,” she spoke in a constrained manner. “For so long, I’ve sought to keep my uncle’s spirits buoyed, despite whatever darkness he believes possesses him. Now he has you, and he smiles with less effort; he laughs more often. Do not mistake me, for I am delighted. In you he has discovered a very amiable companion.”
A cough wracked her frame. “As for you, I’ve never needed to assist you, for you are a towering pillar of strength and determination, so unlike most of us that I can only stand back and admire.”
I clucked my tongue in consternation, for if only I could admit my flaws so easily, she would know how shaky the pillar truly was.
“It’s true,” she insisted. “You cannot deny it. Here, in this wild land, your strength is highlighted, while mine is diminished. For what use are my efforts to bring hope and cheer when in truth an ability to survive is of far greater import? Not even Drew needs me here, where he is free to roam as he pleases in whatever form he fancies.”
“Oh Cilla,” I whispered, and I despised the helplessness reflected in my tone even as I reluctantly perceived the situation through her tearful eyes. Amongst our close acquaintances, we were all enhanced in some strength or power save Cilla. I struggled for some means with which to console her and floundered as she watched with resignation.
“Have you ever participated in a cheerless function?” Gideon asked in his soft voice as he ghosted into view at the foot of the bed. “Dreary and unmemorable, let me assure you.”
I was torn between irritation and relief at the interruption, but restrained my tongue either way. Besides, Cilla couldn’t see or hear Gideon, so what was the point?
“Why, I can see a ghost, Bee,” she said in wonder. “Is that Gideon? He’s quite handsome.”
My heart contracted painfully, for only the gifted or the dying could perceive phantoms, and I knew Cilla wasn’t endowed with supernatural sight.
Gideon directed a roguish grin at Cilla. “It is, and I am indeed as you say.” His features shifted to an angelic expression as he continued, “Cilla, your gift to us is the very trait you disparage: your joyful, optimistic nature. Without that to brighten our days, we would all dwell in the half-light of cynicism, wallowing in bitterness, despairing at life and marveling how anyone could be happy.”
“It’s true,” I exclaimed, latching onto the verbal lifesaver. “Please oh please don’t abandon us, dear Cilla. Fight back and live. You’re too young to succumb to a mild fever. We do need you, we all do, and Drew more than ever, or else he will be lost to the call of the wild without your gentle, sweet reminder of what it means to be human.”
Hesitant, as if she didn’t dare believe us, Cilla peered into my eyes, then Gideon’s, and a faint smile curled her lips. A moment later, she was asleep, her breathing calm and regular.
“Will she live?” I whispered. “She saw you. That can only mean…”
“It’s all right, Bee,” Gideon said nonchalantly. “She had a moment when she was on the edge, but she’ll be fine.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I stood to leave the room, for as relieved as I was to observe a smile gracing Cilla’s lips, I was eager to return to the cottage. I made a mental promise to her to return promptly or whenever events allowed, and turned to face the ghost. “You did wonderfully, Gids.”
Gideon shrugged, his cheeky grin lighting up his face. “Well, you seemed to need saving. It’s a bloody good thing you’re not a nurse or the like, for your patients would all wilt at your touch.”
I frowned at Gideon, but I couldn’t in all sincerity be cross with him. “I didn’t realize you had such profound insights.”
“I was just making it up,” he said as he trailed behind me like a pet cloud. “I didn’t mean a word, truly I didn’t.”
“Ah huh,” I said as we entered the narrow hallway. “And why did you arrive at the most appropriate moment to deliver your nonsense?”
“Yao has departed and Jonas has arrived with news that the others thought you might find of interest.”
When he didn’t continue, I huffed with exasperation. “And what would that be?”
His smile widened. “It would seem that the Nandi are on the move.”
“Goodness, what a day,” I muttered. Lifting my skirt, I hurried out of the house.
Once inside the cottage, I detected Jonas’ presence before I saw him, for I could smell that curious blend of kerosene, dried grass, red soil and open sky that defined the African perfume for me. But upon entering the kitchen, I caught sight not of Jonas but of Mr. Timmons. One eyebrow was quirked upward and there was a tension in his eyes.
I nodded and mouthed, “She’s all right,” at which he relaxed. His smile invited me to sit beside him around our cozy kitchen table, his relief barely diminished upon spotting Gideon behind me.
Only then did I observe Mr. Elkhart and Jonas. They were conversing with such intensity that I dared not disturb them, but allowed Mr. Timmons to grip my hand in his while he pointedly ignored Gideon. For his part, Gideon floated across from us, a sulky expression marring his boyish looks.
“Tiberius,” I interjected into a pause, still hesitant to use his name with such familiarity despite our sibling bond. “What did you find last night?”
“More trouble than we are prepared to handle,” he replied, his tone grim.
“Oh?” I said to encourage an elaboration of such a vague response. “Did you see Drew?”
“Initially, yes. He was running with the Kerit, but I lost sight of them in the bamboo forest on the slopes above the Nandi lands,” he explained. His long fingers tapped out a beat against the wood tabletop as if playing music to accompany our discourse. It brought to mind Prof Runal’s pendulums with their rhythmic ticking. Mesmerized by his elegant hands, I suspected the tune being drummed out would be played in a minor key, forbidding and tragic.
“Is that so bad?” I prodded while eyeing Mr. Timmons who, I suspected, was intentionally provoking Gideon with a show of gripping my hand to his chest. As it was my metal hand, it couldn’t have been very comfortable.
“No,” Mr. Elkhart said, but his somberness indicated otherwise. “It’s what else I saw that alarms me. There was a considerable amount of commotion in the nearby Nandi villages.”
“Which is hardly surprising, given that a pack of supernatural carnivores lurk nearby,” I suggested.
“Indeed,” he said with a gracious nod at me. “Hyenas they are not. But after what I witnessed, Jonas’ report is particularly worrying.”
We all turned to face Jonas, who straightened up self-importantly. Only a scowling Gideon remained unconcerned with whatever riveting news our employee was about to deliver.
“Me, I know the Nandi,” Jonas said. “Their diviner, he foretold the same as ours: about the People of the Fog, the metal snake, and the terrors that would follow.”
“People of the Fog?” Mr. Timmons queried.
“That’s us,” I explained.
Jonas grinned as he nodded with an unbecoming enthusiasm.
“And what’s this to do with the Kerit?” Mr. Timmons demanded, clearly not impressed with being described as ‘fog’.
“The Nandi, they unleashed the Kerit, and there will be more as they prepare to fight,” Jonas said nonchalantly, without a suggestion of concern for the carnage the statement implied.
“They cannot win, surely,” I said, shuddering at the image of the Africans armed with nothing more than bows and arrows, facing the war machinery of the British Empire. Even a few Kerit wouldn’t turn the tide of blood that would sweep the tribe into oblivion.
“No, they can’t,” Mr. Elkhart agreed, drawing a small noise of outrage from Jonas. “But they can distract and diminish the troops by exasperating another problem — the Plague.”
Puzzled, I looked at him. “Are they now summoning a swarm of flea-infested rats?”
Mr. Timmons chortled at the notion, and I was yet again reminded how similar our humors were and how extraordinarily well suited we were for each other.
Jonas was less impressed. “The curse of the Nandi isn’t the Kerit,” he informed us in an impertinent tone. “It’s what the Kerit carry.”
“It would seem that the Kerit’s fur is a perfect environment for fleas,” Mr. Elkhart said softly. “The Nandi aren’t waiting for the British troops to find them. They’re bringing the battle to us. The troops will all be dying before the fighting ever begins.”
Chapter 22
“Me, I don't know what the problem is,” Jonas muttered into the silence.
While I was tempted to agree — for didn’t the Nandi have the right to defend themselves? — I reflexively cast an admonishing look to Jonas, who scowled defiantly at the table.
“The problem, Jonas, is that the Plague is colorblind,” Mr. Timmons explained.
“And it’s mutated,” I added, hastily explaining to the others what Dr. Ribeiro had discovered.
“How horrid,” Mr. Elkhart murmured, and I knew he was thinking not of his own health but of his wife and unborn child.
Mr. Timmons nodded with a grim countenance. “Once the camp dwellers realize the severity of the outbreak, they will leave Nairobi and return to their homes, thus spreading it far and wide.”
Jonas grunted, and I couldn’t discern what he intended by that. Or did the Africans have an immunity against the Plague that we fog people didn’t? It wasn’t inconceivable, given how none of them ever seemed noticeably affected by the swamp fever.
“We need to convince them otherwise,” Mr. Elkhart stated. “Perhaps we can persuade the authorities to hold off an attack in exchange for cessations of hostile activity.”
“I’m sure they’d be delighted to comply,” Gideon said sardonically.
Mr. Timmons snorted at that, while I added for Mr. Elkhart’s benefit, “I somehow doubt the British authorities would miss an opportunity to test out their military prowess while removing a nuisance. Not to mention it would remind the other tribes to behave.”
“Or encourage them not to,” Gideon said.
“We have to try,” Mr. Elkhart said, his fingers steepled before his dark eyes.
“Jonas?” I asked, for the little man was preparing to depart the room.
With a disdainful glance at no one in particular, Jonas said, “Maybe I know someone.”
Mr. Timmons tipped back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. “Jonas, out with it.”
Jonas wasn’t one to take our threats too seriously, but Mr. Timmons’ tone left no doubt what wrath he might incur if he didn't admit to what he knew. “Maybe I know their prophet.”
“They have a prophet?” I asked.
“Everyone has a prophet, Bee,” Gideon informed me. “Maybe I’m yours. Stranger things have happened.”
“Maybe you should leave now,” Mr. Timmons growled.
Mr. Elkhart leaned his chin on his hands. “Is Gideon here by any chance? I’m only asking because of the particular and notable influence he has over my dear friend and brother-in-law.”
I bit my lower lip so as not to laugh at Mr. Timmons’ dark expression and Mr. Elkhart’s bemused one.
“Think me not immune to such injurious comments,” Gideon said with a dramatic sniff. “Nor is it my purpose to tolerate such unjust verbal volleys. I shall depart at once.”
“And good riddance,” Mr. Timmons muttered, but Gideon had faded away.
“You are a tad harsh on him,” I admonished but with no heaviness in my tone, for it was awkward all around when one’s dead husband insisted on making appearances when the new husband was present.
“So, about that prophet,” Mr. Elkhart said, redirecting the conversation into a more fruitful direction.
Still snickering, Jonas nodded. “Us, we need to visit the diviner of the Nandi. We need to visit Koitalel.”
Thus decided, we ceased our deliberations and with a few words, set off to the barn. Given that the Nandi lived in the Rift Valley, and we were disinclined to spend an entire day traveling in each direction, we had no other option but to fly. Mr. Elkhart shifted into his Popobawa bat form and set off at once with a reluctant Jonas in his claws.
Nelly displayed her usual enthusiasm for vigorous activity by belching heartily as I led her out the barn. I had long ago accustomed myself to my horse’s uncouth behavior, and Mr. Timmons wasn’t one to let such trivialities disturb his equilibrium. Before Nelly could chew on my sunhat or wander off in search of flowering bushes to decimate, Mr. Timmons mounted and then swung me up behind him.
Needing little more than a prod and a mental picture of our destination, Nelly sprung into the air with more energy than she normally displayed. The world blurred by us in a smear of colors and wind, and breathing became a tad bit challenging. The trick, I had learned, was to lower one’s chin to chest and focus on breathing through the mouth. This had the unfortunate consequence of directing one’s sight downward, so I would also suggest closing one’s eyes firmly. Nothing was more disorientating than viewing the rapidly moving ground from such a height, except perhaps missing breakfast.
