Shamanka (20 page)

GARLIC
Anti-viral and anti-fungal. Kills intestinal parasites

OREGANO
Good for chesty coughs and asthma

E
gypt is a big place. You could search your entire lifetime for a man sitting under a stripy umbrella and never find him. Ah, but say you're in possession of the witch doctor's notebook; all you have to do is study the list of names and, if you have the gift, your eyes will be drawn to his portrait, complete with stone crocodiles. He's called Yerba Hufat and he lives in the Black Desert.

“If the sand's black, the umbrella should be easy enough to spot,” announces Sam confidently, snapping the notebook shut.

Kitty harumphs. “Not if it's a black umbrella.”

“It's
yellow
,” Sam insists. “It was yellow in my dream.”

“What if the sand isn't black?” says Kitty. “Say it's yellow. We'll never find him.”

She doesn't seem very keen on going to Egypt. Sam thought she'd jump at the chance; it's where her people came from, isn't it?

“I should have gone years ago,” replies Kitty. “But John Tabuh arrived, so I put it off.”

“So why not go now?”

There are problems. Although Kitty's an excellent sailor – a skill she learnt from her adoptive father – the barge would never make it to Egypt. Anyway, what would they do for money?

“We could sail the barge to France and sell it,” suggests Sam. “Then we could afford to hire a car, drive it through Italy and pick up a good boat from there.”

“All that travelling … my weak heart,” mumbles Kitty.

She's stalling for some reason, but Sam has made up her mind. “If you won't come, I'll go on my own. I'll find a way, I always do.” She goes down into the fo'c'sle to pack her belongings:

1. Clothes

2. Witch doctor's pouch

3. Divining rod

4. Witch's cord

5. Protective oil

6. Mr Fraye's coin

7. Various magic tricks

8. Shell locket…

Oh no! Where's the locket? Sam put it under her pillow last night; but it's gone.

“Lola, where's my locket?” she cries. “Look in the other pillowcase.”

Unfortunately, Lola's pillowcase has been worn thin by so many cats' claws it explodes in a puff of feathers, just as Kitty walks in.

“What
are
you doing?” She sneezes so violently, her mask blasts forward and she has to clamp the chin down.

“Looking for my locket, then we're leaving,” says Sam.

Kitty nods her head, then, in a voice that even Lola doesn't recognize, she says, “Fey Ra wants to go home.”

It could be the voice of the priestess or a ventriloquist, but whoever it is, Kitty has changed her mind. She's coming to Egypt after all. Sam is relieved. She's an independent girl but there are certain things she needs an adult for, such as selling barges and hiring cars. Besides, it will be more fun with all three of them.

“Kitty, that's brilliant! But what about your heart?”

“Still beating… Any sign of your locket?”

It has to be here somewhere. They turn the barge upside down but it's vanished. In a final attempt to find it, Sam tries the divining rod. It points at Lola, but a thorough search through her fur reveals nothing.

The passage to France goes without a hitch. They manage to sail the creaking barge across the Channel, through the French canals and up the river without springing a leak, falling overboard or capsizing. It's a slow haul but, finally, they reach their destination and dock at Biarritz, near the foot of the Pyrenees Mountains.

The plan is to shop for supplies then put the barge up for sale to fund their trip, but Lola has fallen ill. She's been off her food for days. Sam thought it was just seasickness but now she's rolling around on dry land, coughing and clutching her stomach.

“Maybe she has a purr ball,” says Kitty.

Sam isn't sure if apes get fur balls, but she knows cats eat grass to cure themselves, so she puts Lola into a wheelchair and strolls along the mountain track to look for suitable herbs. Ruth Abafey had told her about the healing benefits of certain plants and she drew them in the witch doctor's notebook; but none of them looked like any of the flowers growing here. It's no good, she'll have to take Lola to see a vet. She's trying to remember the French for “My orang-utan is sick”, when the silence is broken by the arrival of a truck full of invalids, coughing, wheezing and complaining. They are pilgrims on their way to Lourdes.

“Is there a vet in Lourdes?” Sam asks.

“You don't need a vet,” booms the driver. “You need a miracle. Hop in!”

“I'm not sick,” explains Sam. “It's my orang-utan.”

The driver turns to his passengers, who are twitching and groaning. “Anybody know if the Blessed Virgin heals apes? Speak up! I can't hear you.”

“Oh,” says a woman covered in boils, “the holy water didn't cure your deafness then?”

“It did! It's just that everyone's mumbling.”

“That's because we're
ill
!” moan the pilgrims.

They look so sick, Sam's reluctant to go with them. The driver bangs on his steering wheel. “Get a move on, love. Time is money.”

She and Lola squeeze in between a man with a twitch and a woman with warts. Afraid that she'll catch something, Sam dabs protective oil on her wrists. The pilgrims seize on it immediately.

“What's that? Holy oil? Is it better than holy water?”

“It's only herbs,” says Sam. “But if you think it'll help, maybe it will.”

The driver snatches the bottle and rubs some on his eyes. “I was blind – hey! Now I can see!”

“Really?” cry the pilgrims.

“Nah. I'm still blind. Only joking!”

An argument breaks out. Which stupid idiot booked the blind driver? What's the point of going to Lourdes for a cure if they're all going to be killed on the road! Sam tries to calm them down.

“Shhhh! Think of your blood pressure. Tell me about Lourdes.”

Apparently, it all began when the Virgin Mary appeared before a peasant girl and told her to dig a well. A blind man bathed his eyes in the holy water that was drawn from it, and miraculously, his sight came back.

“And that,” interrupts the driver, “is why the sick, the lame and the hypochondriacs have gone there ever since.”

“Do you believe in miracles?” asks Sam.

“Oh, yes,” he bellows, then he whispers to Sam. “'Course not, but don't tell anyone. A million punters want me to take 'em to Lourdes at forty euros a trip. It's a right little earner.”

“You're not really blind, are you?”

“There are none so blind,” he says, “as them who can't see. Know what I mean?”

One of his passengers has overheard. “What
do
you mean? Are you calling us stupid because we believe in miracles?”

“Ignore the driver,” yells a man with gout, “he's talking out of the back of his head!”

“At least he's
got
a back to his head!” grumbles a man who hasn't.

They carry on moaning until, finally, they arrive at Lourdes. Sam helps Lola into the wheelchair and takes her to a pool of holy water in a secluded spot. She encourages her to sit in it.

“That's right, Lola. Splash it all over. We'll bring some back for Kitty, shall we? It might heal her burns.”

Just then, a vision appears before Sam, but it isn't the Virgin Mary. It's Monsieur Hubert Faya – Inspector of Miracles. He doesn't look very pleased.

“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle! What is that gorilla doing in my well?”

Is seeing believing? Can you trust your own eyes? Let's see.

1. Concentrate on the four dots in the middle of the picture for 30 seconds.

2. Close your eyes and tilt your head back. Keep them closed.

3. You will see a circle of light. Keep looking at the circle and a vision will appear.

S
am gives the Inspector of Miracles a steely stare. “She's not a gorilla, she's an
orang-utan
.”

“Oh?” he says. “Pardonnez-moi! I suppose that makes it all right then, does it?”

Shielding her eyes from the sun, Sam looks around for prohibitive notices. “I'm sorry, Monsieur Faya, is there a sign that says No Orang-utans?”

His reply is somewhat sarcastic. “Mais non … then I haven't got a leg to stand on.”

“No leg? Perhaps you should hop into the well,” Sam retorts.

Monsieur Faya allows a small smile to perk up his moustache and his manner softens. “Ah, well, I suppose an ape is entitled to a miracle as much as I.”

Unfortunately, the holy waters don't seem to be doing the trick for Lola. Her cough seems to be even worse. Sam is concerned. “How long should I leave her in there?”

The inspector puffs out his cheeks. “She is not a piece of laundry. Divine intervention doesn't have a washing cycle.”

He sits down on the bank and adjusts his hat and, at that moment, Sam has the strangest feeling that she knows him from somewhere.

“What?” he says. “Does my hair look silly?”

“No, I'm sure I've seen you somewhere before, that's all.”

She sits down next to him, kicks off her shoes and dangles her toes in the water. To her surprise, he looks over his shoulder like a furtive schoolboy, unlaces his own shoes and slips off his socks, as if it's the most daring thing he's ever done. “Forgive me, but I'm sure God never intended for us to wear brogues,” he sighs.

If God exists, he's the one Sam would really like to question:
Are you magic? Are you real? Are you an illusion?
Maybe Hubert Faya could enlighten her.

“Do you believe in God, monsieur? Only I'm not sure Lola does, in which case she won't be entitled to a miracle, will she? What time does the vet shut?”

Hubert Faya looks at his watch. “Cinq heures et demi.” He refuses to be drawn into whether or not he believes in God but says that miracles have happened to people who have no faith, therefore they might also happen to orang-utans.