Curse of the Nandi (Society for Paranormals Book 5) (14 page)

“Is that your sister, Miss Knight?”

I clutched the locket against my chest where my heart hammered. “Jonas, I swear you do that on purpose,” I grumbled. I hadn’t heard his barefooted approach, and I’d been so engrossed that I’d failed to detect the scent of wood fire, kerosene and herbs that served as his cologne.

“Sorry, Miss Knight,” he said, his sly grin denying his words as he set a tea tray onto the wobbly little table at my side.

“And no, it’s not my sister,” I answered, opening up the locket again and showing it to him. “It’s my mother when she was about my age.”

A wistfulness drifted across his features while his gaze shifted to a landscape I couldn’t see.

“What a lovely magic to have,” he said, his voice meditative and distant. “I’d give many of my cattle to have such an image.”

“How many cattle do you have that you can give away any?” I inquired half-teasingly, for this was the first mention he’d made of owning anything beyond a bedroll, a blanket and a few items of clothes.

Jonas’ slouched shoulders straightened, as did his entire posture and attitude. He stared down at me with stern eyes that were no longer subservient, not even in his mocking way. “Miss Knight, I have many cattle, too many to count, and almost as many goats. And then there are my fields that stretch to the horizon and back.”

My eyebrows rose at this pronouncement of unheard-of wealth, for I knew enough to understand how Africans defined affluence: in the number of livestock. I’d always suspected Jonas was more than a mere gardener (and a terrible one at that), but that he was a prosperous man amongst his people was a startling revelation.

“And for what image would you trade some of that livestock?” I queried.

Jonas sighed and squatted beside my chair, his chin resting on his strong hands, his elbows perched on his knees. “I would trade so many of them for an image of my daughter.”

My jaw unhinged somewhat, and I asked the obvious question. “You have a daughter?”

Jonas glanced aslant at me and snorted. “Yes, I have a daughter who is more radiant than the full moon, her eyes brighter than the brightest stars. My Wanjiru is herself a star among the heavens. And of course I have sons, many sons. Grandchildren too. Even more numerous than the children and grandchildren are the cattle.”

This caused me to pause, for I’d never envisioned Jonas as a wealthy family man, and certainly not a family as extensive as this. Then again, I mused, when had I ever enquired into his life beyond the day-to-day work I required him to do? I had not a clue as to his background, where his home was, who his people were. And this was my recompense for my arrogance and ignorance: a surprising jolt and all before my morning tea.

“And where is Wanjiru? I’d love to meet her,” I said as I sipped at my tea and enjoyed the sensation of warmth coursing through me.

At that, Jonas’ enthusiasm dimmed. “I don’t know, Miss Knight. She was taken underground during the last dry season by the spirit of death.”

“Oh,” I said as I set my cup down. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Loss?” he repeated. “Wanjiru, she may be lost but she’s not dead. She’s very much alive, and I have searched for her ever since. That’s why I came to the village of the People of the Fog.”

“People of the Fog? And who might they be?” I asked, although I had a suspicion I knew.

Jonas shook his head and frowned at me. “You. You people with your foggy skin and your pale eyes, and your wandering through the land like homeless spirits. You are the People of the Fog.”

I pursed my lips, unsure if I should smile or not. Jonas had a stern countenance, without a hint of his usual mischief making, so I maintained a serene expression. “I’m delighted that you did come to our foggy village.”

With a grunt, Jonas stood. “I didn’t want to. But a warrior must not let fear of the unknown stop him.”

I gazed at my gardener / driver / cook in fascination, for the conversation was revealing gem after gem of a person I had not known existed. “You were afraid?”

“Bah! Not me,” he stated. “My family and village, many of them quivered and quaked before the awful image of the People of the Fog.”

“Why, thank you,” I said. “I was unaware of how awful and fear-inspiring our appearance is.”

“Oh, but it is,” Jonas said, his eyes beaming with sincerity. “Terrible to look upon, ghastly. As if you are already dead. Truly…”

“I think I understand now, Jonas,” I interrupted him, and his mischievous grin returned. “So you were a warrior?”

“And still am. Not just a warrior, but a great warrior,” he said, standing as tall as his small frame would allow. He patted his left leg. “That’s why this drags a bit. I fought in one of the greatest battles of our time and was wounded as proof of that.”

“Well, I hope you won then,” I quipped.

He peered down his nose at my
awful image
, as if I’d asked the most imbecilic of questions, and wordlessly left.

As Mr. Timmons had departed earlier on business, I ate breakfast alone and then summoned my great warrior to prepare the wagon for a shopping excursion and to saddle Nelly, who needed a bit of exercise. As I waited, I wondered how a man who had been a warrior and the owner of great herds of cattle could tolerate being a servant to a foreign people. And what of his search for his daughter? It had led him here, but surely he hadn’t abandoned his quest.

I paid a quick visit to the main house as I’d hoped to interrogate Mr. Elkhart regarding his night flight. However, Lilly informed me in a rather uppity tone that her husband was still slumbering in his chamber due to the mission I’d pressed upon him. Thus dismissed, I went to the barn where Jonas sat waiting on the wagon, Nelly snoozing nearby.

On the ride into town, I bombarded Jonas with more questions. For his part, he had retreated into a taciturn mood, focusing on keeping the ox trundling along in a straight line, and so I let him be, resolving to continue the conversation at a later date.

The town, such as it was, was abuzz with news of the brainless bureaucrat murdered the night before. While I had little sympathy for the man, I knew enough regarding social decorum to fain shock and outrage when conversing with the good, normal citizens of Nairobi.

Our first stop was the general store, Rossenrode MacJohn & Co, which was unsurprisingly located on Victoria Street. A two-story structure made of wood and metal sheeting, the shop was raised a couple feet above the street, presumably to avoid the churned-up mud and large puddles that collected during the rainy season, if ever we were to see rain.

Upon climbing the stairs onto a veranda, one was confronted with several posters promoting the latest health cures or the must-haves in makeup. Regrettably, half of the products thus listed weren’t to be found in any store or kiosk in Nairobi. This state of affairs made shopping a process of discovering what you couldn’t have as much as what you could have.

The owners of the store, J.H. Rossenrode and the Armenian, Mesrop MacJohn, were chatting with a few patrons when I entered.

“This Nandi nonsense and headless corpses, it’s bad for business, that’s what,” Mr. Rossenrode complained into his bushy mustache. Mr. MacJohn muttered agreement beside him while the patrons nodded sympathetically, although I could tell from the fearful buzz in their energy fields that they were probably more concerned about their brains than his business.

“And what do the officials in their pristine white uniforms do about it?” Mr. Rossenrode continued in a strident voice, his monologue gaining momentum. “Nothin’, that’s what. Bloody nothin’. Just sit about in their whitey whites and chat about the weather.” He spat a tobacco-tainted gob into a nearby tin while Mr. MacJohn nodded and muttered.

“I’d be rallyin’ the troops and marchin’ into those native villages lickity split, I tell you,” he proclaimed with such ferocity that I wondered if he was submitting his candidacy for a position, so he could join those white-garbed officials.

“I heard from Dr. Spurrier that they are bringing in troops,” I interjected as I indicated to Jonas a sack of flour I wished to procure.

“Humph,” Mr. Rossenrode said. “And it’s about bloody time. Oh, and good day to you, Mrs. Timmons. You’re lookin’ lovely on this fine day, ma’am.”

I smiled in a vague way, nodded in his direction and moseyed through the shelves, eyeing their limited stock and breathing in the dusty scent of assorted spices, wood shelving and flour.

“I just hope those troops put an end to this foolish bear story,” Mr. Rossenrode continued, and I wondered if he was directing the comment at me. “The workers believe the Nandi sent their cursed bear as punishment for workin’ with the enemy, so to speak. Now, some of the natives are avoidin’ town. Just another bloody excuse to not work, if you ask me.”

Mr. MacJohn and the others grumbled in agreement, while I focused on my shopping. I suspected these sort of impromptu tirades were occurring every time a new set of customers entered the store. I could discern no good in contributing to them, particularly if it was to inform the Nairobi residents that in fact the bear was no story, nor was it a mere bear. No, it would hardly do to cause a panic amongst the blissfully ignorant population. The Society’s injunction to maintain a veil of secrecy around the world of the paranormal was a wise one and served to protect everyone involved.

Having signed for the goods, I followed Jonas out to the wagon, a line of assistants with sacks and boxes on their heads in tow. Mr. Rossenrode joined us and eyed Nelly, who cheerfully belched at him.

“How long have you had this here nag, ma’am?” he asked.

I watched the workers as they loaded our items, or rather I studiously observed their quick fingers, for I’d lost more than a few bits and pieces during the packing process. Knowing where this conversation was leading, I smiled and patted Nelly’s neck. “She’s been here a couple of years now. Isn’t that right, Jonas?”

He grunted in response, hiding his scowl from Mr. Rossenrode, for he too saw the way the man was eagerly studying our little horse. In the conversational lull, a rickshaw pulled by a stout fellow clattered past, while a two-wheeled wagon attached to a mournful pair of oxen trundled in the opposite direction, wheels squeaking against the axis. Fine clay particles fluffed around in their wake.

“Two years? That’s somethin’, that truly is somethin’,” Mr. Rossenrode said, stepping closer to peer into Nelly’s eyes. I only hoped they wouldn’t start glowing, as they were wont to do whenever Nelly became excited. Now, that would truly be something.

“Yes, but she’s a lazy beast,” I said to discourage him, but he seemed not to hear me.

“That’s a rare horse that can withstand the horse sickness,” Mr. Rossenrode said wistfully. “I’ve had a number of horses just up and die. They can’t handle the African air, you see.”

“Hm,” I said, hoping my lackluster response would discourage him, but Mr. Rossenrode was set in his purpose.

“And the zebra that some folk are starting to train here, well they don’t die too easily, that’s for sure, but the lions!” He whistled and spat a brown glob onto the dirt. “Well, lions do love a zebra, so hookin’ up a zebra to a cart only attracts those vermin and then you have yourself another problem. But a salted horse like this one…” He nodded his head knowingly.

I smiled as I rubbed the reins between my fingers. “Yes, they say that salted horses are worth their weight in gold.”

The man raised his hands in dramatic shock. “Well, I’m not sure about the gold part, ma’am, but it sure is worth somethin’ to have a horse that won’t just up and die at the first bad turn. So would you be interested in a transaction of some sort? This would settle your account for some time to come, I’d imagine.”

“Yes, I imagine it would,” I mused, pretending to ponder the opportunity.

Jonas stared at me with a mournful expression, as if I’d not only betrayed Nelly and him, but all his children, grandchildren, and cattle and goats to boot. Nelly refused to look at me, but instead shifted one of her hooves to settle on my boot. I grimaced and pushed her off. “On second thought, Mr. Rossenrode, I’m rather partial to my horse, although at times I wonder why.”

He chewed on his lips, and then shrugged. “Well, ma’am, if you change your mind, you know where to bring her.”

“Yes, if she misbehaves or bothers me overly, I know exactly where to bring her,” I said as Nelly rolled her eyes at me and Jonas snorted in a very horsey manner.

“Hm,” Mr. Rossenrode grunted and then nodded to the stone post office down the street. “Looks like the mail has arrived and is ready for distributin’. White flag is up.” With that, he returned to his store.

I left Jonas with the wagon and directed Nelly to go home. Once we were clear of town and any possible onlookers, I gave her free rein. While she was still a rotund little creature, she was capable of startling bursts of speed both on ground and in the air, thanks to the serpent spirit she’d ingested. In a blur of green and reddish brown, we were home in a jiffy.

When I entered our stone cottage, I found a note had been slipped under the door. I recognized the handwriting at once, although I’d only seen a couple of examples of it. It belonged to Mr. Elkhart Senior.

My Dearest Mrs. Timmons, come see me when you can, even during the daytime. I have some matters of import to discuss with you.