The Shaman's Secret (7 page)

We wouldn't have thought anything of it, but when I looked out two hours later he was still there. Standing in exactly the same spot. It was sinister. It made Cyril Baker's warning that his brother was looking for us more real. Waldo and Father both insisted we move. So we paid Mr. Hilton and sneaked out of a back door. Mr. Hilton had organized a carriage for us, which would take us to lodgings run by a friend of his.

I felt like a criminal, flitting in darkness from our hotel. We changed horses twice before we got to our new hotel on the edge of the city. That night I slept uneasily. The only good thing about our move was that we had already
packed. It would make our departure for Arizona in the morning much quicker.

Yes, in the end even Father had agreed I had to go. The sight of the sinister full-lipped man stalking us had tipped him over the edge. He no longer thought I was safe in San Francisco.

Aunt Hilda had purchased some traveling clothes for us. Light, tough cotton skirts, calico blouses and large hats to shade the glare of the desert sun. It promised to be a grueling journey, traveling by rail and stagecoach to the Grand Canyon. We would have to cross deserts and mountains, going through territory that only the toughest pioneers had braved before us. But first we would traverse the gentle California hills.

Before we left, something rather sad happened. We were all ready to depart at first light, hasty breakfast eaten, the carriage pulled up outside the hotel, when we noticed Father had disappeared.

“Go up to his room and stir the old fool,” my aunt said to Waldo. “We have to be off before Cecil Baker gets wind of our whereabouts.”

“I'll go,” I said, glaring at Aunt Hilda, for I found her habit of calling her brother and
my
father “fool” offensive.

I trekked to his room and knocked on the door, but
there was no answer. I knocked again. I tried the handle, which turned easily. But there was something blocking the door and, pushing hard, I was unable to move it. I heaved with all my might and finally the door opened. I went in to find Father lying spread-eagled on the floor.

“Father!”

For an awful moment I thought he'd had a heart attack. But he was breathing, short, shallow puffs. I moved his hat, which had fallen off, and I sat down by him. Gently, I lifted his hand. It was clammy, unpleasant to touch.

“Father,” I repeated.

He opened his eyes. They were flickering wildly over the room as if seeking some invisible enemy. They flitted over me, as if he didn't recognize me, then came back and focused. I saw the relief on his face.

“Kit?”

“What is it, Father? What happened?”

“I must have fainted.”

Breathing heavily, my father stood up. His legs were weak and wobbled. He only made it as far as the chair, which stood in front of the oak writing table, before he collapsed.

“Are you quite all right?”

“I'm fine, my dear.”

“Father, are you nervous about the journey?”

“No. Not at all. I know …” He paused. “I know we are
in the best hands with your aunt. Such a brave woman. An explorer, a …”

He paused again, his thoughts drifting away. Looking at him, I knew he was lying. He was scared. He didn't want to come with us, but would make himself. Duty was very important to Father. Hadn't he just said he would never leave me to fend for myself again? At the sight of him crumpled up on the chair like a very old man, my heart flipped over. I didn't want to play a trick on him, but for his own sake I had to.

“Father, prepare yourself. I have some very bad news.”

I removed a piece of paper from my coat pocket. “This is an urgent telegram. It has just arrived.”

“What? What?”

“It's from the museum.”

“What museum?”

“Your museum, Father, the Pitt in Oxford. They say the Ancient Egypt section is in turmoil. And they don't know what to do with the Early Hebrew exhibition. They are in a mess, Father. They beg you to come back. Only you can sort it out, they say.”

“Oh dear, oh dear.” He paused. “NO. I cannot do it.”

“They're begging you, Papa.”

“My place is with you, Kit.”

“Father, they say the museum is on the point of collapse. You must save it!”

He was torn. I could see it. His hands tugged at his hair and he chewed his lips.

“It's collapsing?”

“Yes, collapsing.”

“But you're my … my Kit … How can I leave you?”

“You mustn't feel guilty. I will have Aunt Hilda and Waldo. I will be quite safe.”

I could see the relief in his eyes. After another ten minutes of persuasion I managed to gain his consent to return to Oxford and the stricken museum. Luckily he hadn't asked to see the telegram. If he had, he would have found it was a list of the items Aunt Hilda had bought for our trip.

As we embraced and said our tearful goodbyes, Father pressed something into my hand. I opened my palm when I was outside in the corridor and saw something golden glimmering in it. It was a heart-shaped locket on a gold chain. I opened it and inside was a miniature of a young woman. She had a lovely oval face and wild auburn hair. But it wasn't her beauty that arrested me. It was the fire in her eyes. Usually the faces of ladies in miniatures are placid and a bit dull. But the painter hadn't been able to hide this woman's spirit.

It was my mother. Tabitha. The locket was a beautiful thing, one that I had never seen before. I hurried down to the waiting carriage, my eyes awash with tears.

I had a job persuading Aunt Hilda that the museum was in trouble and Father couldn't come with us. But finally she accepted it:

“He's such a lily-liver that he was probably glad of the excuse to go home.”

There was a bit of truth in her words, but that didn't make me less furious with her for speaking of her brother like that. Father has always had a difficult relationship with his bully of a sister. He is so bruised by years of schoolroom battering that it takes a lot of provocation to make him stand up to her. Leave him alone, I wanted to say to Aunt Hilda. I know she is fond of him, but she is such a stubborn bull-like person that she has no understanding of tact. The journey would be easier without the burden of protecting my father from my aunt.

I made the carriage stop at the telegraph station so I could send a message to my father's colleagues in Oxford. Tactfully I told them that Papa was returning for his health, but that I would appreciate it if they pretended they could not manage without him. My father is so dreamy he would probably have forgotten why he was returning by the time his ship docked in Liverpool.

Cyril Baker was waiting for us at the ferry station, hiding, it seemed, behind some bales of cotton. He was as
ghostlike as ever. He seemed to float onto the boat, in his cream linen suit, similar to the one he wore in Egypt when I first set eyes upon him. He had taken off the ginger wig, and the black dye in his hair seemed to be fading. I noticed there was a rash on his neck, burning red spots creeping up to his chin.

“This is a grand old boat,” Waldo said, looking at the small steamer that would take us across the bay to Oakland. From there we were to join the newly completed Pacific Railroad through the Sierra Nevada mountains, then board a coach through the fearsome Death Valley, skirting Nevada to Arizona and the Grand Canyon.

“Nothing but the best,” Cecil replied. “I've spared no expense to make this expedition as comfortable as possible.”

“I should think so,” snorted Aunt Hilda. “Remember we're doing you a favor.”

We disembarked after a smooth trip, arriving just in time for the train. Everything smelt of newness—new paints, new seats, new everything. This is a very democratic country, and there was no first class, which rather annoyed Aunt Hilda. There was a very good saloon car, however, and a fine dining car.

“We seem to be going in the wrong direction,” I said, as the waiter brought us a cup of tea.

California flashed past our windows. Blue skies and sunshine reigned over lush tropical plants; flowering fruit
groves; neat, bright villages. Oranges bigger than cricket balls, scented almonds, figs, grapes, lime, olives. Such bounty that we in England could only dream of.

“Yes, I noticed that,” Isaac said. “The train said Calistoga. Surely we need to go in the opposite direction?”

“Hush.” Mr. Baker shot a meaningful glance at the waiter, who was hovering nearby. When the man had gone, he explained. “It is a device to put my brother off our trail. We will take this detour and then make extra speed through the mountains.” He flushed. “Besides, I am feeling unwell and the hot springs there can work miracle cures.”

He flashed a glance at his arm as he said this, where his illness crawled on his skin in the form of the snake. His papery face burned in my mind. His glowing eyes. I was tired. I could take no more. I rose and said I was going back to my cabin to lie down. Rachel rose to accompany me, though I really didn't want her to.

“Are you all right?” she asked as we left the dining car.

I shrugged.

“I'm really worried about you. Ever since, you know, you woke up … well, you haven't been quite …”

“Myself?”

“Yes. I suppose that's one way of putting it.”

“I'm sorry. You mustn't worry.”

“I can't help it, Kit. Is there anything I can do?”

She looked gently determined. There is more to Rachel
than there seems at first; she is so kind and soft people can mistake her for feeble. Aunt Hilda thinks she is a halfwit. She is wrong. Rachel is one of the most stubborn people I know. I could have told her about my dreams, the feeling of some foreign mind probing in my head. But I didn't. Rachel already had enough to worry about—besides, if I let her know what was troubling me, she would never leave it alone.

But there was a question I wanted to ask her. With my aunt and Waldo safely out of earshot, I bent low and said:

“There is something.”

“Yes?”

“It's Waldo. What's up with him? Have I offended him?”

Rachel smiled. “I wouldn't worry about offending Waldo. His skin is thicker than a rhino's.”

“Then what have I done? Sometimes I think he positively dislikes me.”

Isaac, who had come out of the dining car after us, caught the end of our conversation and grinned. “I wouldn't worry about that!” he said. “Waldo's just embarrassed. The silly idiot.”

“About what?” I asked, but Rachel shot Isaac a warning glare and he clamped his mouth shut.

“What's Waldo got to be embarrassed about?” I probed Rachel. “What's he done now? Why are you grinning like that, Isaac?” But I could get nothing out of them, just
more smirking from Isaac, who really showed no sense at all.

Shortly after this, we arrived in Calistoga. We were staying at the Hot Springs Hotel, built at great cost by California's first millionaire, Sam Brannan. This rogue of a businessman had made his fortune by selling shovels to the prospectors who flocked to the land, desperate to find gold. The hotel was an enchanting sugar cube of a building which rose near the railway tracks, circled by lawns and little cottages with gingerbread gables. There was an ice rink, tennis courts, a ballroom. All this in the very middle of nowhere! The town of Calistoga itself is a small settlement with just one street, surrounded by woody hills and overhung by the grim Mount Helena.

A smell of sulfur hangs over the town, something rich and strange in the air. I felt as we entered the grounds of the hotel that this was somewhere special. The area was sacred to the Indians who lived here before the coming of the white man. They believed the geysers and hot springs had healing properties—and forbade fighting in the area.

We had a pleasant meal. I wanted an early night as we had to leave at dawn, but Mr. Baker insisted we sample one of the famous mud baths. He seemed to think it would be good for my health. Aunt Hilda was all for it, but Rachel made a face and refused. She said the idea of lying up to one's neck in bubbling brown mud was “revolting beyond
belief—but you try it, Kit.” She added hastily, “It might help you feel better.”