The Shaman's Secret (18 page)

“That's what they said. It was all hushed up. Your father went a little mad after her death. We kept tabs on that too. And Cecil decided that if he couldn't have your mother he would have you.”

I drew back from the table, shrinking away from the sight of this wretched man. This pale sack of decaying flesh. He thought it was fine to talk like this. About killing my mother—and wanting me, in some strange way, in her place.

Cyril was looking up at the ceiling now, away from me. He was talking to himself. “You see, once he had all the money in the world, Cecil became concerned for his soul. He decided he needed
you
.”

“What did he need from
me
?”

“Your soul, Kit. It was Tabby's daughter's soul he craved.”

“So …” I paused and drew breath. “That's why you—and your brother—never had me killed? I was useful to you?” I found my voice had risen in my indignation.

A strangled laugh escaped from Baker's throat. “My dear, it took considerable self-control for Cecil not to kill you. The temptation was fairly strong sometimes. Not to mention your friends. I personally had to intervene several times to stop him having Waldo quietly knifed.

“For some reason, Waldo particularly got on his nerves.
There's his youth, his looks—and you must admit he's rather arrogant.”

I wasn't really listening. I was too shocked by what Cyril Baker had just told me. About the repulsive twins having been my mother's childhood playmates. About my mother, lovely, headstrong, dead—unwittingly behind their hideous schemes for money and power. So Cecil Baker had killed my mother, and now he wanted me. I was caught like a bug in a sticky web of witchcraft.

My whole being cried out against it. But at some deep level it all made sense. Why had the Bakers always been so interested in me? Not in lovely Rachel, or Waldo, or Isaac. It was always
me
. Now Cecil Baker was stalking me, with the snake of death gliding up my arm, toward my heart.

I can't pretend my thoughts were clear. My head was spinning with it all. The other objects that Baker had sought: the Egyptian book of immense antiquity; the sacred waters of Shambala in the Himalayas, which he believed would bring him immortality and which instead had cursed him; the bones of the sage in China. Now this.

He had lost those other treasures; did he hope to make it all up by finding this sacred Anasazi tablet?

Why? What did he hope to achieve? But I was strong. I would fight him with all I had.

“I am scared for you, Kit,” Cyril rasped. “I've been
thinking it over. You shouldn't go to the Grand Canyon. What he plans there—”

“I am not afraid of death,” I interrupted.

He gave a cracked laugh. “Death? You think it's your death I'm frightened of? What my brother plans for you,
dear
Kit, is far, far worse than death.”

Silence hung between us for a bit as I brooded on his words. My mother. Something worse than death. The Grand Canyon.

I looked down at him, my gaze arrested by the snake moving over his chest. It had stopped. Its head had disappeared, as if it had begun to burrow downward.

The snake had begun its descent to Baker's heart.

“The snake?” I asked. “What is it?”

His eyes locked on mine. They had a faraway look, as if they were gazing beyond me, Kit, to something only
he
could see.

“Don't you understand?”

“No.”

“The snake is the disease in our souls. I am marked, as are you and my brother, Cecil. It is all the ugliness, the greed, the envy, the desire for more and more and more. The waters of eternal life in Shambala created this grub of sickness. Eventually it came to the surface of our skin, a
foul snake. Oh, why didn't we listen to the guardian of that mountain paradise? She said we shouldn't drink, that we shouldn't even be there. But we paid her no heed. Now the snake searches for a way back in.”

“Back in?” I echoed, my voice quavering.

The long speech had exhausted Baker. He collapsed and stared at the ceiling. “Back into our heart,” he said, finally. “It's rather ironic, Kit, for, you see, the Black Snake is also the name Cecil gave to our organization. Not the official one that handles our business affairs, but the secret society dedicated to the dark arts.”

His breathing was shallow and furious, the red patches on his pale cheeks crude daubs, like the make-up of a clown. His eyes roved around the room for a while, as if he was seeking something, and I let him be, brooding on what he had said. Black snakes. Snakes crawling up the skin. Black snakes in the land of the white sun.

“Kit!” Baker's voice was panicky as he reached up to clutch me. “Don't let my brother have my body. Make him leave it alone.”

“What can you mean?”

Baker's lashes fluttered, his pale eyes burrowing, like a snake, into mine.

“Bury me. No burn me. As quick as you can. Tomorrow. No—”

“You're going to be well. Please, Cyril …”

But his hand dropped away, sudden as a stone. The agonizing movement of his chest slowed, then ceased.

His eyes were still locked on mine. Even from beyond, they were holding me to account.

I leaned over to him and gently closed his lashes. To my surprise my eyes were wet.

Just at that moment, as I felt his skin burning under my hands, Aunt Hilda came bounding through the door. “It's all arranged,” she boomed. “We've got a stagecoach to take Baker to Chloride City and then, if need be, on to Vegas, if there's no help to be had there. We're going to …” She stopped mid-sentence as her eye fell on Cyril's body.

“Oh—I see I am too—”

“Yes, Aunt Hilda, you're too late. Cyril Baker is dead.”

We were a sad group that night. We gathered in Aunt Hilda's room in Red Dobie's boarding house-cum-salon. The tinkle of the music-hall piano downstairs, the clang of metal pitchers and the occasional wild burst of laughter came through the floor. We didn't feel much like laughing; melancholy claimed us. We sat in silence.

It is sad to lose a friend. Even though Mr. Baker had been the strangest friend I'd ever had. It had taken a long time for me to learn to like him. Even in the desert, riding our stagecoach or tramping for miles on foot, there had been something that lingered in the back of my mind. Mistrust. I couldn't forget that this was a man who had lied and cheated and murdered, who had traded in human beings as if they were so many pieces on a chessboard. But then, slowly, flashes of real generosity from him had put me to shame.
It is possible for someone to change
. He had offered me his last sugar-coated wafer. Made me swap seats in the stagecoach, so I could rest my head against the side window.

These generosities sound small, but there was also the larger thing. That he had gone against his brother, who by the sound of it had always dominated him. He had cast off evil and stood up, at last, for the right thing. Now that he was dead, I finally realized how much I valued his loyalty, how much safer he made us all feel. He had died so far from home, without his brother, who for most of his life had been everything to him. My heart was heavy as lead.

They planned to bury him in the camp's cemetery; it had taken a furious argument on my part for them to agree to burn his body first. I shuddered to think what Cyril was afraid of. Cecil was versed in the dark arts—who knew what diabolical uses he could have for his brother's body?

I had told my friends a little of what he said as he lay dying, though not all. Aunt Hilda paced up and down the small room, her boots thudding on the bare planks. Frankly her restlessness was getting on my nerves. Now she broke the silence.

“We're jammered,” she said.

“Pardon?” Rachel said.

“Word I made up, pretty obvious really. We're in a jam. Or in a pickle, a stew, a soup. A big juicy jam. Up the creek without a paddle, stuck in the Irrawaddy in monsoon, canoeing down the Thames in a leaky—”

“We get the point,” Waldo cut in.

She flashed him a smile. Waldo was always her favorite.
If Rachel had interrupted her, it would have been another story.

“Cards on the table?” Aunt Hilda continued. “As far as I can see, we're stuck in this godforsaken place in the middle of nowhere. We don't know where we are going, because Mr. Baker was leading us on this foolish wild-goose chase. And, to cap it all, we are stone-cold broke. Not a nickel or a dime to our name. So far Red Dobie, who I must say seems a bit of a gentleman, is footing the bill. But how long before he turns off the tap?”

“Pretty soon, I should think,” Waldo said. “It's every man for himself out here.”

“Exactly. And in normal circs I heartily approve. But these aren't normal, blast it!” Her eyes gleamed. “If it comes to it, we might have to put Rebecca here to work as a showgirl.”

Rachel blinked, then flushed deep red. Isaac let out a brotherly yelp of outrage.

“What?” Aunt Hilda said innocently. “I'm only saying that she's a pretty little thing. These miners would pay a good deal to hear her sing. Let's face it—we don't have many options. The way things stand at present, we don't even have enough to pay our stagecoach back to civilization.”

“Things haven't come to such a pass,” I said, quietly. I dug into my pocket and lifted something out. Then I strode over to the side of the room and held the thing to the lamp. It was a big stone, the size of a sparrow's egg, and it shone
with a million points of blue light. How it blazed! It was by far the brightest thing in that shabby hotel room.

A chorus of
ooh
s and
aah
s came from my friends.

“It's beautiful!” Rachel gasped, looking at it greedily. “I've never seen something so lovely.”

Aunt Hilda strode forward and lifted it out of my hand. She held it between her stubby fingers, tilting it this way and that so that it caught the light. The stone sparkled, warming my aunt's face.

“An Indian diamond. From one of the Raj's princely states, if I'm not mistaken. And of darn good quality. Where on earth did you get it, Kit?”

“You'd have to ask Mr. Baker. My guess is that the brothers bought it, or stole it, when they were in India. He pressed it on me when he was dying. Said he'd hidden it in the false bottom of his trunk. Bandit Bart had emptied the trunk, but didn't think of a false bottom. It wasn't till later, after he had died, that I looked at it and realized how fine it was.”

“I'm not surprised,” Waldo said. “A man like that. A millionaire. He would have carried some insurance on him. Well—thank heavens he was so practical. One has to have an instinct for saving one's skin.”

I gave Waldo a hard look. I hadn't forgotten what he had done to our Apache friends. Everything about him was repulsive to me. His slick blond hair, the look of smugness about his full lips, his self-satisfied blue eyes.

“Oh, I expect
you
know all about being practical, Waldo,” I said. “It's all about Number One with you, isn't it? Blast the consequences for anyone else.”

I felt a moment of glorious satisfaction as I saw the look of shock on his face. Aunt Hilda turned round and glared at me.

“Well, I think Waldo has the right attitude,” she snapped. “We have to be sensible here.”

“Oh, don't you worry. I won't let the side down. I'll be just as selfish as you and Waldo,” I snapped at Aunt Hilda, and stalked out of the room.

The air was blue with smoke in the saloon bar downstairs and thick with conversation. The others hurried after me as I entered the room. A cowboy was tinkling away at an out-of-tune piano, and a couple of showgirls were dancing. They wore ruffled scarlet skirts, scandalously short for they only just covered their knees. They kicked their legs in the air to reveal lacy white underwear. Their hair was bright blond and they had thick circles of rouge on their cheeks. A third lady was singing, or at least that's what I think she was doing. Her voice was so whiskey-rough it wouldn't have disgraced a gunslinger.