After the ruckus with Dr. Cricket’s automaton, I wondered if I would ever fall back asleep. I was still pondering that when I woke up to the sound of birds and the sight of a giant insect hovering over my face.
I assure you one of the last things I ever wished to see upon waking was a Shongololo. In fact, it was very much near the top of my personal “Creatures I Never Want to Encounter” list, which of course was why the universe conspired to ensure I met up with one.
Worse still, the meter-long, creepy arthropod appeared right above my head while I was luxuriating in my tent with visions of the upcoming Christmas season meal floating through my head. Mr. Adams had assured us all that he had a trunk full of food for the occasion: “Locked, let me tell you, and I have the only key. We shan’t be lacking for anything, not on my watch.”
I had just reached the point when I was contemplating what that meal would look like in a colony such as the East Africa Protectorate when I peeled open my eyes. And there it was, floating above my head—not the meal, of course—all of its thousand spiky legs squirming along its tube-like form, its arm-long antennas poking at the net, searching for a weak spot.
I contemplated screaming. That, after all, was what any civilized Englishwoman would do in such a circumstance, for how else would she react to a paranormally enhanced insect hovering overhead?
Then again, I’m not so civilized. I also have a rather stout constitution and a certain reluctance to fainting and other womanly reactions typical of the times.
By the time I finished all this convoluted contemplation, the moment to scream had long since dissipated, somewhat like my appetite, as fast as a puddle of rainwater in the savannah at midday.
Sighing, I twitched the mosquito net draped over my mattress, but the Shongololo simply tightened its grip, its heavy, meter-long body twisting the netting, stretching it. I hoped the net held. The last thing I needed was for the beastie to fall on me. Its cylindrical body was as thick as my thigh. Granted, my thighs aren’t that big, but for an insect to be that thick around is still rather impressive, in a highly disturbing sort of way.
I glared up at the shiny, black arthropod. Its plated surface glittered darkly in the shaft of sunlight squeezing through the flap that operated as the tent door.
“And what do you want?” I demanded crossly.
Arm-long antennas flicked at me. Below the appendages were two large, round, glassy eyes that were a darker shade of black than its body. Its countless legs shifted and dug into the net.
“Appalling manners,” I muttered, now beyond cross.
Just at that moment, who should decide to float through the tent but my deceased husband.
“Good morning, Bee,” he said in his ghostly soft voice, scandalously chipper.
I despise morning people.
“This tent is becoming rather crowded,” I informed him, hoping he’d pick up on my acerbic tone of voice.
Alas, no. The charming ghost just smiled his beautiful smile, his light brown eyes twinkling in the dim light.
Therein lay the curse of being a widow with a highly developed third eye: I was still burdened with my husband, without any of the benefits.
I chose to ignore him and focused on my first unwanted guest, that guest being now in the process of chewing at the net.
“Good gracious.” With that, I abandoned all hope of a restful lie-in that morning. I heaved my body off my mattress, stumbled through my dead husband and wrapped myself in a red Maasai blanket.
The Shongololo watched me hop around the tent. The front part of its body, the part that passed for its head, shifted in my direction. The rest of its mass followed as it slithered down the net, its thousand legs clicking together in time with its rather sizable pincers.
“Well, I suppose it serves me right,” I muttered as I leaped onto my leather traveling trunk. “Insisting on attending this accursed hunt.”
Gideon chuckled softly. “I did tell you…”
“Oh do shut up,” I snapped. “I wasn’t talking to you in any case. Nowadays, I prefer to converse with myself, for it’s the only way I’m guaranteed a civilized response. And if you’re going to leave me a widow, then please do me the service of leaving me completely, since you clearly aren’t of much use in your current state.”
“You’re in a pleasant mood,” he observed with a taunting grin.
“Sarcasm will get you nowhere.”
He chuckled, I grumbled, and the Shongololo clicked its way across the tarp floor. Warmth from the rising sun oozed through the olive green tarp, but that didn’t dispel the cold in my hands. Fortunately, I was armed with more than just a trunk full of clothes, a book on Victorian etiquette, and a dead husband. Mrs. Steward might think me a burden, but I was, after all, a rather resourceful lady.
“Where’d I pack it?” I demanded as I rummaged through my saddlebag.
“Holy water won’t work,” Gideon informed me in his soft-as-silk voice. “Neither will garlic.”
“The only thing more inconvenient than a know-it-all husband,” I said, “is a dead know-it-all husband.”
“And a bullet will just bounce off its shell plating,” he continued. “Not even silver bullets will dent it.”
As if getting murdered wasn’t enough, he now had the audacity to instruct me in my business. Tiresome man.
My hand closed around a little satin sachet.
“Ah ha!” I yanked the small bag out. Without wasting another moment, I sprinkled some of the contents around the truck, creating a powdery circle of…
“Cinnamon?” Gideon asked.
“It works jolly well against ants, so it will suffice,” I said. “By the way, where were you earlier this morning?”
Gideon shrugged and continued to watch the Shongololo. “Nowhere in particular. Why?”
“Dr. Cricket’s automaton went on a bit of a rampage,” I said as I tossed a pinch in the direction of the Shongololo. As the ground spice floated onto its antennas, the creature hissed and twisted in on itself, until it looked like a shiny, round footstool made of plated armor. It was just the sort of thing any lady of impeccable taste would want in her tearoom, I was sure.
“Really?” Gideon mused absently.
Grabbing my rifle, I used the wooden butt to push the heavy coil of insect across the tarp floor. With a grunt, I shoved it out through the loosely tied tent flap, then sprinkled a line of my precious cinnamon across the doorway.
“Well, that’ll at least keep it out while I dress,” I said with great satisfaction. “And there’s still enough to have with dessert.”
“Dessert? Here? You’re optimistic,” Gideon said.
“And you’re still in my tent,” I said caustically.
With a regal bow and a roughish smile, he faded away and out of the tent, or at least so I hoped. Then again, I still wanted to question him further as to his whereabouts during the night. Liam’s hand gesture had reminded me of Gideon’s.
I sunk back onto my trunk and held my nose over the spice sachet. I closed my eyes and breathed in the cinnamon scent along with visions of a large table back home, laden with roasted meats, pies, and so many other delicacies that were probably non-existent here on the African grasslands. But at least I had a monster-free tent for now. And really, what more can anyone ask for?
Chapter 17