The Shaman's Secret by Natasha Narayan Page B

in Liverpool.
    Cyril Baker was waiting for us at the ferry station, hiding, it seemed, behind some bales of cotton. He was asghostlike 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.
    â€œThis 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.
    â€œNothing but the best,” Cecil replied. “I’ve spared no expense to make this expedition as comfortable as possible.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œWe 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 fruitgroves; neat, bright villages. Oranges bigger than cricket balls, scented almonds, figs, grapes, lime, olives. Such bounty that we in England could only dream of.
    â€œYes, I noticed that,” Isaac said. “The train said Calistoga. Surely we need to go in the opposite direction?”
    â€œHush.” 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.
    â€œAre you all right?” she asked as we left the dining car.
    I shrugged.
    â€œI’m really worried about you. Ever since, you know, you woke up … well, you haven’t been quite …”
    â€œMyself?”
    â€œYes. I suppose that’s one way of putting it.”
    â€œI’m sorry. You mustn’t worry.”
    â€œI can’t help it, Kit. Is there anything I can do?”
    She looked gently determined. There is more to Rachelthan 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:
    â€œThere is something.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œIt’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.”
    â€œThen 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