The Shaman's Secret (3 page)

“Enough,” Professor Salter interrupted. His mood had changed again; his eyes had become hard. He turned to his sister, Hilda. “The question is, what are we going to do?”

Hilda hesitated for a few seconds before replying. “Of course Kit has seen doctors here, the best doctors that money—”

“Doctors!” Professor Salter threw up his arms. “What do doctors know?”

“Theo. You are a man of science.”

“They didn't help Tabby,” he snapped. For a moment brother and sister glared at each other.

“Tabby was an accident, Theo.”

“
That's what they said
. And now Kit—doesn't that strike you as strange?”

“Look, Theo, there is something else we could try.” Aunt Hilda dived into her pocket and produced the leaflet that the man had pressed on us last night. Theo smoothed it out and read it. Several times. I could see he was struggling to understand what it meant. Grief had dulled his wits.

“What is this?” he said at last.

“I've asked around,” Aunt Hilda replied. “This man, Walter Silas, he is well thought of in San Francisco. Apparently he has worked miracle cures on many hopeless cases.”

“Sounds like a fraud,” Professor Salter said, looking at the leaflet again. “Is there any evidence for this?”

“We're desperate. What have we to lose?”

“So you want to use my Kit, my …” He paused, glaring at both of us. “You want to
experiment
on her. You really think that's a clever idea?”

We looked back at him in silence.

The next morning, the five of us went through the back of a large gray stone building into a garden that ended in a tumbledown shed. Here among coils of wire, bolts, nails and strange contraptions sat a man who could have been the double of Professor Salter. Walter Silas was wiry and untidy, with a shock of gray hair and protruding eyes. Perfectly friendly, but one of those people you feel is
not listening
most of the time.

“He's away with the fairies,” Aunt Hilda whispered to me as we sat on a dirty wooden bench. “Waldo, I'm nervous.”

I gripped her arm for a second. Frankly I was scared out of my wits.

We had argued for hours last night about bringing Kit to Professor Silas's workshop. Finally we had all agreed it was the right thing to do. It was a chance, however slim. The alternative was that Kit could lie in a coma for years. Her life would be wasted.

I think Professor Salter cheered up a little when he saw the workshop. Like Isaac, he is a man of science, and was in his element here. And I think, for our clever friend Isaac, this grubby shed was heaven. He picked everything up and examined it and by the time the helmet was ready to go on Kit's head he had elbowed out the cloddish Rumbelow and was acting as Silas's assistant.

As Kit lay corpse-like on a stretcher, dressed in a lacy white cotton nightgown, Isaac fiddled with the bolts
on a shining copper helmet. We were going to put this dangerous new substance, electricity, through my friend's delicate brain. This could kill Kit; that's what I thought as I watched Silas fiddle with his machine. It could kill her stone dead.

The galvanic electro-shake was a curious contraption, about the size of a small man, made of copper with dozens of knobs down the front, like the buttons on a shirt. Wires sprayed out of it, blue, red and green. Kit was laid on a table and covered in a sheet, her head encased in a copper helmet, which was taken off the machine. Wires ran to her splayed fingers. I didn't understand what these scientists planned to do—I won't pretend to you that I did.

Finally all the preparations were finished and the machine was switched on.

“Wait,” I called, just before they were about to start the electrical stimulation. I looked straight at Mr. Silas. “Have you ever conducted an experiment like this before, sir?”

“Of course,” Mr. Silas replied airily. “I'm a pioneer.”

“That suggests that this is the first time. Tell me, sir, how many patients have you tested the galvanic electro-shake on?”

“A dozen or so. At least, one or two or three. Can't remember exactly. Remarkable results in comatose cases and so on …”

“Lord help us,” Hilda Salter muttered under her breath.

“I usually work on bridges. These new cable cars—I told Isaac here about them. We'll go for a ride after this experiment.”

“No, we won't,” Hilda barked. “Not unless …” and she stopped.

Rachel finished the sentence for her. “I think, Mr. Silas, none of us will want to go for a ride in a cable car. Not unless our friend Kit can come with us.”

Mr. Silas flushed as he was reminded what his “experiment” consisted of. “Of course,” he said. “I understand. Do I have your permission to proceed?”

Professor Salter nodded. His skin was gray, and there were deep rings under his eyes.

Without further ado, Mr. Silas turned a knob on his contraption and, as we watched, a huge current traveled up the wires to Kit's head.

Nothing happened. Nothing.

I pulled my eyes away from Kit's white-sheeted body and looked around restlessly. I couldn't bear to see what was going on. At the door to the shed a figure in a cream linen suit had appeared. It was a man, who stood there watching. Something about the narrowness of his body, the stoop of his shoulders, was familiar. And the pale, pale skin.

But this man had black hair. Jet-black hair that contrasted oddly with his corpse-like pallor. A caterpillar-sized mustache curled above his upper lip.

It took me a few moments to recognize the man. It was Cecil Baker, our old enemy. Or was it his brother, Cyril? Both of them were murderers, monsters who wanted Kit dead. It only took me a moment, looking at him, to realize what he was doing here.

We had been tricked. This was a trap
.

I turned to my friends, my mouth opening in an agonized yell.

Dr. Silas said, “Looks like we need more power.” He reached out and turned the middle red knob on his machine to maximum.

“STOP!” I shouted, launching myself toward the machine. “FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE, STOP HIM! THEY ARE GOING TO KILL HER!”

Too late. A massive charge of electricity sizzled down those wires toward Kit's brain.

What am I doing here? One minute I am in China, in the caves above the Shaolin monastery. I am standing there, water dripping all around me, with the bones of a long-dead saint in my hands. The next minute I am waking in a shed full of twisted metal and wires … They tell me I am in America.

America, the new world.

My father, Isaac and Rachel. Their faces loomed above me as I lay on the table. My joints ached, the light hurt my eyes and my mouth felt dry. I tried to talk. My tongue was swollen. It felt unfamiliar, scaly, like a cobra coiled in my mouth.

“Kit?” Rachel was holding my hand, gulping. My father beside her, blocking out the light. He had aged, his hair a shocking white, new lines on his face. His eyes were wet. It made me feel strange. I had never seen Father cry before.

“I'll never leave you again. I promise,” Father muttered.

You didn't leave me
, I wanted to say.
It was my fault, Father
. My tongue wouldn't work so I could only look at him and hope he knew what I meant. He held out his hand and took mine. My heart tumbled inside my chest. His image flickered and for a moment all I saw was his outline, muzzy, whitish against a glowing light.

“Don't punish me, Kit. I mean to spend much less time on my work. I
will
be a better father to you.”

What was he talking about? He is a wonderful father. Kind, generous and not too attentive to what I get up to.

Rachel was crying, fat tears dripping down her face. She let out a sob and used a tissue to blow her nose. Even Isaac's eyes were welling up. I couldn't cry. I felt a deep bewilderment. The world seemed soft, insubstantial, as I looked out at it. I remembered the feeling so strongly I could touch it, of peace, of being curled up in a deep, dark place.

A safe place.

“We must take her home,” Father said, turning to Rachel. “We must take Kit back to Oxford as soon as possible.”

In the background I could hear shouting, screaming. It was somewhere far away, tinny to my ears. Something crashed and then clanged and clattered away across the floor. I could hear Waldo yelling and Aunt Hilda's deep voice. And someone else, someone whose voice was a high-pitched, ghastly whine.

Making a supreme effort, I pulled my body up. My ribs hurt and the breath came hard. Rachel and Isaac both rushed to stop me.

“Nooooo. You mustn't,” Rachel wailed. “It is too soon.”

I had to. I had to
see
. I had managed to lever myself upright. Waldo and Aunt Hilda were bunched together, both talking at once. In front of them was a man—it came to me in a rush, Cecil Baker. No, not Cecil, his brother, Cyril. They were so alike it was hard to tell which of the twins it was. Or at least they used to be. This man was transformed. With hair dyed black, trimmed mustache. He looked more wrong than ever, like a ghost pretending to be a dandy.

“You don't understand,” Cyril said, his voice rising. “It was me—I SAVED KIT'S LIFE.”

Waldo and Aunt Hilda both began shouting at once. Their voices rose hysterically. I heard the word “killer” and “get out.” A bookshelf full of screws and bolts had been overturned, and pieces of metal rolled all over the floor.

“YOU SHOULD BE THANKING ME, NOT CURSING ME,” Cyril Baker shouted.

You can make yourself do anything, even if your body rebels. My body was telling me to lie down and let all this pass, but I made up my own mind. Using all my strength, I sat up straight and spoke.

“YOU … SHOULD …”

Everyone in the shed stopped arguing and screaming and turned to me. There was pin-drop silence. I took a gulp of air, which streamed into my lungs, giving me new strength.

“LISTEN … TO … HIM.”

Having spoken, I collapsed back onto the table. Someone had propped a bolster behind me, so now I was sitting half upright. Five words, but they had a sensational effect. My friends looked astonished, as if a ghost had spoken, while Mr. Baker's mouth widened in a broad smile.

“Kit Salter is finally back,” he said. “You have me to thank for that.”

“Stand aside, you monster,” Aunt Hilda said to Mr. Baker. To me she muttered, “I'm so pleased to see you here again, my darling.” She glared at Mr. Baker and then came over to enfold me in her stumpy arms. I struggled for a second and then relaxed into the embrace. She smoothed back a strand of hair and looked into my eyes.

“Welcome back, Kit,” she said, and then switched her attention to Baker. “We all know that you hate my niece. We all know that she is the only one, apart from me, who has ever thwarted your plans.”

“I've changed,” Baker said. “Ask Professor Silas.”

The shabby man he pointed to was cleaning a metal mannequin. He was bent over almost double, rubbing it with a soft cloth. As he worked, he clucked to himself.
Absorbed in his task, he hadn't heard Baker and didn't reply.

“Silas,” Baker called out, “who sent you Rumbelow? Who funded your galvanic electro-shock machine? Didn't I make you seek out Kit Salter and cure her?”

“Perfectly true,” Silas replied. “Why? Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters!” Aunt Hilda exploded. “This man is our sworn enemy. He is a liar, a cheat and a murderer.”

“A murderer?” Silas asked.

“I know of at least five murders he has personally ordered.”

“No! Really? Are you sure?” Silas said. “I mean, he's always been good to me. Paid in advance. Dollars. Nuggets of gold. Most generous terms.”

“He is rich,” Waldo said. “But his wealth is based on death, slavery and—”

“Waldo,” I interrupted from my slumped position, “let Baker talk. There is something … He may be telling the truth. Please—”

But Waldo and my aunt interrupted me indignantly, leaving me unable to finish.

Thankfully my father came to my aid. His angry voice sliced through the babble. “NO ONE IS DOING ANY TALKING!” he said. “We are going to take Kit home. She will rest. She will see a doctor. This is not the time for argument.”

He glared at the five of them: Waldo, Isaac, Rachel, my aunt and Baker. Shamefaced, my friends came forward and eased me onto the stretcher that lay near the table. Swaying between them, I was carried out into the garden. The last thing I saw was Mr. Baker's pale face and black hair, looming over me like a deathless vampire.

Over the next few days I was cocooned in gossamer, coddled like the weakest newborn babe. I was swaddled in soft blankets despite the heat, talked to in hushed voices. Nothing was too good for me. No food that I demanded too exotic. I was drowning in kindness.

I basked in the treatment, feeling strength return to my limbs and some clarity to my thoughts.
Some
. I confess I was still fuzzy, the colors of the world murky. I felt as if I had woken up after a long time in the deep sea and now saw the world through watery eyes.

By the fifth day, after the doctor had pronounced me miraculously better, I was getting a little tired of my hush-hush treatment.

“Aunt Hilda,” I said as the doctor was ushered out of the boarding-house parlor, “I think we should see Cyril Baker.”

“That man? He already infests the place far too much.”

“What do you mean?”

“He's been here every single day since you recovered. He's probably next door in the spare parlor right now.”

“Why didn't anyone tell me?” I asked, rising from the armchair where I had been made to sit with a blanket over my knees.

Aunt Hilda and Rachel, who was sitting by the fire knitting, glanced at each other.

“It was for your own good,” Rachel said. “You're still very frail. For goodness' sake, you've just recovered from a six-month coma—you shouldn't be worried by things.”