The Shaman's Secret (8 page)

Waldo and Isaac also made some excuse. So I was stuck in the mud bath with Aunt Hilda, in a frilly bathing dress which made her look like a marquee, and Mr. Baker. It's an odd sensation, the mix of sulfurous water, volcanic ash and peat bubbling between your fingers, sliming between your toes. Not unpleasant. Perhaps it is the natural springs that make one feel so drowsy. Looking downward, I felt unusually detached from my body; all I could see of myself was hidden by mud, popping away like chocolate pudding in a huge vat … Mmm, if it only tasted as good as it felt.

I was more relaxed than I had been since I'd woken from my coma. How cowardly my friends were not to give it a try. This was … pleasant. Staring skywards I took in the sun sinking in a filmy scarlet ball, the birdsong, the stillness of this broad, huge valley. I scarcely listened to my aunt as she burbled on to Mr. Baker about our coming journey. Then even she fell silent and closed her eyes. I was sinking into a light, pleasant doze.

When I awoke, Mr. Baker was staring at me. His pale eyes were drilling into mine, his papery face flushed with the heat of the mud. He wanted something from me. It was as if he wished he could feel inside my head.

Strangely, I wasn't scared.

“What is it?” I asked.

He dropped his eyes then. He had a big muddy smear on his cheek, ridiculous in such a neat old man. In fact he looked bizarre, his head bobbing, disembodied, over the sea of brown mud. For a second I wanted to laugh, but his expression was too fearful.

“I know you want something,” I said.

“Is it that obvious?”

“What are you afraid of?”

“I don't want to scare you.”

I sighed. “The situation could scarcely be more frightening. We're both cursed. We're both dying. We know this mission to the Grand Canyon is crazy … This tablet—do you even have the first idea how we're going to find it?”

He looked at me and held my gaze for a long instant. His eyes were burned out. All I could see in them was fear, not the man he once must have been.

“Very well. You've asked …” he said. “Do you feel it too?”

“Feel what?”

“Feel it. I don't know what
it
is. It
moves
in your head.”

I went rigid, every nerve tense. I had felt it, but had tried not to dwell on it. Behind my frequent headaches, there was something strange, sinister.

“Prodding, poking about in there. Like a maggot in your brain. Looking for a way to burrow in deeper—”

“What's doing this?” I interrupted. “If you know, for heaven's sake, tell me.”

“I don't have the answers. All I have is a feeling. A very strong feeling. I think it's Cecil.”

“Your brother? But that's impossible. How could he …” My voice trailed off. “How could he get in my head?”

“I told you he is a shaman. A magician. He hates me now and he has
always
hated you. He is playing with us. Playing inside our heads.”

“How can you know? I mean—”

“We're twins,” he cut in. “Cecil and I have been together since we were babies. We lost our first tooth in the same week, courted our first girl together. Not that there's been much courting in our lives. The business always came first. Now we're wrenched apart and it's as if I've lost half my arm. Sometimes I think any hell would be better than losing my twin.”

“You've been brave to leave him.”

“Don't you see? It's just because I know him so well. In so many ways I
am
him. This is why I know it's him in my mind. I know his … his … How can I put it? … His handwriting.”

I glanced at Aunt Hilda. She was snoring lightly. I was shrouded in a chill fog. Me and Cyril Baker together, struggling through the murk. Everything was dark now, the momentary peace gone.

“Playing inside our heads,” I murmured.

Cyril's mouth closed with a snap. To my left Aunt Hilda grunted and opened her eyes. She flashed a suspicious look at me and then at Cyril, as if we had played some trick on her.

“It's nearly dark,” she said. “Better wash off some of this muck and get to bed. It's an early start tomorrow.” She heaved her body out of the tub, like a great muddy whale. Mutely I followed as she waddled off across the lawn toward our lodgings.

I heard Cyril cough in the dusk behind me. Heard the slap of his feet on the path. How could he have described the feeling of something inside my head so well if it hadn't happened to him too? But that his brother was some sort of magician who could enter other people's minds … The idea was fantastic.

I knew, deep down, that Cyril had only told me a part of the story. All the things I didn't know cast shadows over my thoughts. I was convinced he was still hiding something. It may have been true that his twin was playing in our minds. But there was more—I
knew
it. I could only guess what Cecil was really planning: the beating heart of our mission was still secret.

I almost didn't see Cyril Baker waiting by the stagecoach. The man was becoming more see-through every day. As if he was shrinking, vanishing. He didn't mention our talk of the night before, but I couldn't look at him without a dark cloud descending.

There were eight horses to pull the stagecoach. They pawed at the ground, their breath rising in steaming fingers. The driver was on his seat, his whip between his legs. As well as a broad-brimmed Stetson hat, a holstered pistol and an ammunition belt jangling at his hip, there was another shotgun by his seat. The only law, as one went west, was the barrel of a gun. Indians, cowboys, miners and homesteaders fought for control of these wild lands. They would shoot first and ask questions later.

The coach, built by the famous Concord company, was very sturdy. It had two huge wheels at the back and could seat nine inside. Two more could hitch up next to the driver, and for short journeys it was known for five or six extra passengers to clamber on the roof. At the moment
the roof was stacked with our suitcases and trunks. Luckily this coach was hired for our private use.

“The front seat, madam?” Mr. Baker asked my aunt.

“Humph,” she grunted. “Should think so. Waldo, you can squeeze up here too. Sit next to the driver.”

She had swatted Mr. Baker aside like a fly, choosing the most comfortable seats for herself and Waldo. Cyril was finding, like most men, that my aunt is an unstoppable force. The softer emotions were not natural to my dear aunt, but I wondered briefly if she ever dwelled on her friend Mr. Gaston Champlon, who had died in an avalanche in India. They were very friendly before his death, and I'd sometimes even hoped they might get married. But now it was impossible to imagine my gruff aunt ever letting a man rule her.

For the journey across the mountains Rachel, Isaac and I were stuck with Mr. Baker for company. He sat across from me, knees locked uncomfortably close to mine. I was often conscious of his eyes on me. It was as if nothing else existed for him, just me and my mind. In a dark moment I even wondered if it was him who was entering my head, playing tricks with my sanity. Was this all part of some cruel game?

I thrust the thought away as soon as it entered my head. You have to trust someone in this world. Hadn't he given my friends solid proof in Chinatown of his change of heart?

The sights of the California mountains were wonderful.
Instead of our English oak and ash, they have trees such as the evergreen manzanita, the maple, the buckeye and of course the fabulous redwood. These monster trees grow higher than a church steeple, and there is one so huge they've cut a hole in it through which you can drive a wagon and eight horses. The giant redwood is somehow very American. Everything out here is simply
bigger
—Waldo, of course, would say better as well. The mountains touch the clouds, and the great plains are amazing in scale, stretching out as far as the eye can see.

America can make dear old England feel very small.

“The last time we journeyed by stagecoach we were kidnapped by you, Mr. Baker,” Rachel murmured as we drove along. “Let us hope this journey is more pleasant.”

“My brother's idea.”

“Mr. Baker's presence here will provide insurance against being kidnapped, I'm sure,” I said.

He smiled uneasily at that and for many miles there was silence. Stagecoach travel in America is a bone-shaking experience. The seats are hard and you're jolted and rattled up and down till your very breath feels shaky. Dust blows in through the open window, coating everything and leaving you choking for breath. We were all delighted to stop for lunch at a curious attraction called the Petrified Forest.

This contains the stumps of huge redwoods that were
coated by volcanic ash centuries ago, weird skeletal shapes that remind you of long-dead beasts. It is managed by an enterprising Swede, who bought this land to farm. He chanced on the fossils and decided instead to turn it into a business. Now he charges fifty cents to enter the forest. Such is the spirit of America. Even old fossils can be turned into gold.

We ate our lunch of rolls, muffins, boiled eggs and ham. Well, to be honest, while the others wolfed it down, I picked. I hadn't felt properly hungry since I'd woken from my coma. Food made a sick feeling rise in my throat. I noticed Mr. Baker hardly ate either. He was jumpy, starting at every noise, constantly on the lookout for his brother. Afterward, we wandered awhile in the forest. Eerily silent, the ghosts of past trees all around, it brought home to me the immense age of America. Only Aunt Hilda seemed unaffected by the spirit of the place.

“We'd better get on, Baker,” she boomed after we'd been in the forest a mere half-hour. “We need to be at the trading post by nightfall.”

So we were off again, keeping up the same relentless pace. Climbing the rutted track, up and up. The horses were lathered in froth before we reached the way station where we would change horses and spend the night. Not much of a place, I must admit. A wooden shack with a tin roof and another shack for the horses. Around the houses
was some pasture, and a vegetable patch, but the forest pressed in on all sides, deep and dark.

It looked a lonely place to live.

Waldo jumped down from his place near Aunt Hilda. He was smiling and looked fresher than the rest of us.

“At least we'll get bacon for breakfast,” he said, pointing to the pig pen near the shack.

The innkeeper came out at last to meet us. He was a small, wrinkled man in a gray apron smeared with blood. He greeted us courteously and offered refreshments, but when he saw Mr. Baker his face twisted in a puzzled frown.

“Back already? What happened to your red coach? Did you smash it up?”

For a moment no one understood what he was talking about. Our coach was black, a very smart black and gold. Then the light dawned. Cyril Baker stared at him, blood draining from his already bloodless face.

“What is it, man?” the innkeeper said. “You look like you've seen a ghost. I'm only saying you left yesterday—and now look at you. Back with a new gig. Not as fancy as the last one though.”

“That must have been my brother, Cecil,” Cyril said at last. “People say we're very alike.”

“Alike? You're the spitting image of each other. You two playing hide-and-seek over the mountains?”

But Cyril didn't reply. Turning away, he asked for his bag
to be taken to his room, which the innkeeper's son did. So our plan to throw his brother off our scent by detouring to Calistoga had failed. Even worse, Cecil Baker was ahead of us, which meant that if we didn't make up speed he would reach the Grand Canyon before us.

Cyril had warned that if he found the tablet before we did, the consequences would be catastrophic.

That evening we partook of the most revolting meal of my life. In the inn's rough kitchen we sat round a dirty wooden table. There were barrels for chairs, no stove, just a fire with a big pot suspended above. There were no cupboards or dressers or shelves, not even a floor, just earth packed hard under our feet.

“Slumgullion,” the innkeeper said, sloshing some grayish stew into our tin cups. “Oughtter keep you going.”

What can I say? Slumgullion is a mix of sand, bacon rind, grease, dish-rag and probably pig droppings. The others gulped it disgustedly down, along with gritty hunks of cornbread. I managed no more than one mouthful and Mr. Baker had not even that.

After such a feast what could we do but retire early? There were no gas lamps in this simple shack so we took candles up to our rooms. I was sharing a mattress with Rachel while Aunt Hilda slept on the cot. Even if I had not been uneasy, my brain throbbing, my back aching on the hard floor, my aunt's snoring would have made a good
night's sleep impossible. At midnight, Rachel put a pillow over her head. If anything, her snores became louder.

I finally fell into a heavy sleep around dawn. I had one of those dreams in which you feel like you've been drugged, or hit over the head with a sandbag. I knew I was sleeping, but I couldn't wake, as a very pale man in a very pale gown came up to me. He looked like a mummy, with no hands or feet but trailing yards of bandages. The man leaned over me, breathing in my face, his papery skin crackling.

It was Cyril or Cecil Baker—I couldn't tell which. His eyes drilled into my brain, and then he held out a pale hand and stroked my hair. Stroked it as if he wanted to pull it out by the handful. Then I noticed the snake on his neck, crawling up to his cheek.

“WHAT'S THE MATTER? KIT, ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?” Rachel was holding me, her face inches from mine. In the background I could see Aunt Hilda was upright, awoken suddenly from her sleep.

“Fine,” I gasped, backing away from Rachel. My face was sweaty, my hair damp. “Just a bad dream.”

“You were screaming, child!” Aunt Hilda snapped.

“Hush, everything is just fine. No need to worry,” Rachel said. “Shhhh,” she murmured to me, as if I was a small child. Her soothing voice stilled my heartbeat and gradually I found myself calming down.