Ghosts of Tsavo by Vered Ehsani

Author:Vered Ehsani [Ehsani, Vered]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General Fiction
Publisher: Vered Ehsani
Published: 2015-01-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

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.

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