The Eden Passion (57 page)

"Why India, Wolf?" she demanded, her confusion rising. But there was no answer.

Again she closed her eyes and kissed the warm soft fur of the purring cat and hugged him close, although he disliked such a show of affection.

"Keep him safe for me, Wolf," she murmured, "and bring him back one day. Please . . ."

Then, in an attempt to dispel the tears in her eyes and banish her loneliness, she went to the fire and knelt before it and studied the flames until she found his face.

Kwandwa, Central India, February 1856

Damn, John cursed as he trudged behind Reverend Fraser Jennings.

Damn, he cursed again, wishing that Jennings would hear him and halt his pace. For a brief respite, John was even willing to endure one of those blasted sermons. But either Jennings didn't hear or was locked into his own peculiar meditation, a mystical trance which seemed to make him immune to such human suffering as hunger, thirst, heat and fatigue.

For seven weeks, since December, they had been walking north to Delhi, a mere seven hundred miles distant from Bombay.

On occasion, Reverend Jennings, speaking a peculiar mix of Arabic, Persian and Urdu, had managed to get them a place in the back of a passing ox cart. Of the two modes of transportation, John was forced to admit that walking was preferable.

But fatigue and blistered feet were only part of his misery. The rest had to do with his shrunken belly and the perverse temperature which alternately left him with chills and fever, and his growing apprehension concerning Reverend Fraser Jennings himself.

As though Jennings was aware that he'd entered John's thoughts, he looked back, a smile on his tanned face. "God has provided us with a very comfortable place to make camp up ahead. I've stopped there many times, in that lovely grove of lime trees." He saw the fatigue on John's face and stepped toward him in concern. "Can you make it, my young friend? Here, lean on my arm."

John shook his head. He would collapse on this dusty road before he took the arm of a sixty-five-year-old man.

"You're unusually quiet this evening, John," Jennings said, walking easily up the incline. "Of course, I think I know the reason/' he went on in his customary fashion, posing questions and answering them all at the same time. "It's this land, isn't it?" he asked, rhap-sodically gesturing ahead to the Vindhya mountains.

The mountain range had been in view for three days. At some time they'd left the flat plains behind them, the terrain rising all the time, the countryside on occasion appearing as verdant and green as England.

"Ah, yes, this land," Jennings went on. "In this place, one is left with a mysterious crystallization. Even to the wayfarer such as yourself. Do you feel it, John?" he whispered.

"I'm damn hungry, Jennings. That's the only communication going on within my spirit now."

As always, instead of being put off, Jennings laughed heartily, and patted John on the back, praising him for his honesty. "An honest spirit is close to God." He nodded admiringly. "Come. Not far now to rest and sustenance." Again he set a fast pace, leaving John with a rearview study of his grasshopperlike frame, his lankiness accentuated by his Indian garb.

John brushed aside a buzzing insect, winced slightly as his foot came in painful contact with a sharp pebble, and tried to take his mind off his various miseries. It had been days since he'd bathed, his trousers were torn from repeated contact with bramble, and his once white shirtwaist was now stained yellow from his own sweat. He'd not worn a coat since shipboard, and the gray one rolled in his knapsack served as his pillow each night

But—and here was the mystery—as John seemed to be disintegrating, Jennings appeared to be embracing life with all the enthusiasm and zeal of a man half his age. Every day of the wearisome trek he'd managed to find the energy to lecture John upon the nature of Indian life, waxing eloquent on the immense structure of Indian society, which was based upon complications of caste, religion and land ownership.

During these long monologues, nothing had been required of John but the appearance of a listening ear, and that he'd given because he'd had no choice. But most of the time his attention had wandered in one of three directions, either back to Eden, which now seemed so remote as to belong to another planet, or to Lila Harrington, or ahead, to the mystical Delhi, where, with luck, he'd rapidly

find his fortune and flee this place of vast uncharted distances and timelessness.

Suddenly he heard Jennings shout, "There! Just ahead, John. See it? Our place of refuge for the night!"

In spite of his fatigue, John increased his pace, caught up with his companion, and for the last few yards even led the way until at last he was seated beneath a tree on a cool carpet of moss, his head tilted upward, eyes closed.

He heard movement about him but did not have to open his eyes to know what was happening. The sounds were unmistakably those of Jennings "pitching camp," a euphemism which meant that the man had removed his knapsack, had spread out a cloth and on it had placed their "supper," another euphemism, which meant two pieces of dried fruit and a flat round cake of flour which tasted like wood and was called chupattis.

The next voice he heard was Jennings' inviting him to "Come and wash before partaking of God's bounty." Now he trudged wearily after the man to the edge of a small brook, where, bending down, the two of them washed the dust from their faces and hands.

Somewhat restored by the cooling water, John sat back on the bank and unlaced his boot, searching for the pebble that had caused him grief for the better part of the day.

A few moments later, stripped and fully submerged in the shallow water, he looked up into the night sky and saw a familiar configuration of stars, the same he'd seen many nights walking the headlands of Eden.

Was there anywhere in this world a place called Eden?

Before he had a chance to search for an answer, he saw a small beacon fire at the top of the incline, saw the familiar lank figure holding a worn Bible, intoning, 'The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. . ."

But John did want, would have given anything that it was in his power to give to be away from this place and from that man who clearly coveted after the ways of those he saved.

Jennings had roused John early this day, telling him they must walk twelve miles beyond their prescribed course the day before. Jennings had promised a group of Thuggees, religious zealots, that he'd visit their temple in Bindhachal in exchange for safe crossing of their territory. This had enabled their journey to proceed on a direct line

to Delhi rather than having to skirt the huge territory held by the potentially dangerous warriors.

All morning long, Reverend Jennings told him that it was just a theatrical show, and that he was not to take anything he saw at Bindhachal too seriously. Still, apprehension accompanied John on the day's long walk.

About midafternoon they came down from the foothills of the Vindhya mountains and John found himself once again on a dust-swirled plain. The traffic on the road seemed to be increasing. Now and then a caravan of camels passed them by, the heavily veiled riders scarcely looking down from their rocking perches. And there was an almost continuous line of ox carts interspersed with steadily increasing pedestrian traffic.

But worse than anything was the proliferation of beggars. Most of them were maimed, a few eyeless, one with half his face eaten away by disease. They ranged in age from very young children to old men and women, most of them sitting in numb despair by the roadside.

On the other side of this town, Saugor, John looked up to an impressive sight, a second settlement, light-hued sandstone structures, one building the largest that John had seen for several weeks, a multistoried affair of mixed architecture graced with two copper-domed mosques, as though medieval Muslim art had joined tentative forces with staid, mid-nineteenth-century English architecture.

The building was surrounded by several smaller ones and the entire compound sat in the middle of a vast parade ground. Treeless, the settlement rose with the suddenness of a mirage, and crowning all, on an arrow-straight standard planted atop the largest structure, was the Union Jack, fluttering now and then under the pressure of a tentative breeze.

John needed no identification, but Jennings gave him one anyway. "British Cantonment for Central India," the man muttered, revealing his feelings as he generally did in all matters.

As they topped a rise of land, they stopped for an unbroken view. A large regiment was on parade. From this distance they looked like toy soldiers.

"Good little boys, aren't they?" Jennings grumbled.

Puzzled, John asked, "Would you have them go home?"

"They never should have come," Jennings said, "and one day they will go home. The sepoys will see to that."

"Will you go with them?" John smiled, playing a halfhearted devil's advocate.

Jennings looked at him. "God sent me here, not to corrupt or exploit, but to spread His Word. When my work is over, He will tell me."

Against such quiet conviction, John, as always, had no effective rebuttal.

Beyond the parade ground, in the shadow of the cantonment, John saw an appealing spectacle, a cluster of whitewashed bungalows, each house bordered by flowers and hedge. On the lawns fronting these inviting bungalows, he saw colorful arrangements of ladies in billowing gowns, seated beneath the trees, waited on by white-jacketed natives, the silver of a tea service glistening in the afternoon sun.

As they drew closer, John heard the sound of a woman's laugh and the delighted squeal of well-fed children as they romped over the green, two fat terriers joining in the fun. It might have been a scene in Hyde Park. Of one thing John was certain. The lovely white-and-green spectacle bore no relationship to anything else he'd observed during their long trek.

Finally he trudged after Jennings, though a few yards down the road he stopped and looked back, suddenly aware of how low and weak the wall was surrounding the ladies, not strong enough to keep out anything of substance, let alone the dramatic differences between two worlds.

As Jennings had predicted, they approached Bindhachal at dusk, a fiery sunset outlining the temple itself. They had not stopped for food or rest all day save for the slowed pace at Saugor, and now John found himself gazing upon this remarkable sight through eyes dimmed by hunger and fatigue.

Never had he seen anything like it, a broad dusty road leading past a line of low cottages, the road itself clogged with people, all eyes turned toward the shrine, a dazzling arrangement of gold spires, set in gradations, the uppermost pointing heavenward. Ornately carved columns, six on each side, supported the roof and gave access to the inner chamber of the temple. Hundreds of supplicants crowded on the steps and across the pavilion, apparently having come from all over India to propitiate the goddess.

Jennings whispered, "This is it, the holy place of the Thugs."

Although impressed, John had seen enough. Caught in the push of supplicants, he had just managed to catch the sounds coming from within the dark recesses of the temple, shrill cries like bleating sheep

or weeping women. Since there was no aspect of mind or dimension of imagination in his entire existence to prepare himself for the sights and sounds, he felt only a powerful compulsion to vacate the place and leave the incense and cries to those who worshiped here.

As he was about to turn away, he felt an iron grip on his arm and looked back into the amused eyes of Fraser Jennings. "No cause for alarm." The man smiled. "Come, we must humble ourselves before the goddess Kali." With a sense of melodrama, he leaned closer. "We are being watched," he whispered. "Make no mistake of that."

While John was listening, his attention was drawn away by the sight of something at his feet on the temple steps, a stream of red spilling down the stairs, bare feet walking through it, leaving red footprints.

"It's blood, all right," Jennings whispered, "but harmless, I assure you. The British permit them to slaughter animals."

"Jennings," John began, "I think I'll wait—"

"No, you won't," Jennings said sternly. "I promised them your supplication, too, and they will see you bowed."

Hurrying to catch up, he drew even with Jennings as they passed beneath the arch. His eyes at first had difficulty adjusting to the torchlit interior, but a moment later he saw all too clearly and too much.

The inner chamber was vast, the floor covered with black mosaic tile, about forty priests arranged in a circle near the end, some engaged in self-flagellation, the screams of their pain blending with the shrieks of goats and lambs whose throats were being cut before the monstrous goddess, the entire room one screaming, blood-soaked arena, presided over by an immense ebony statue, Kali the Terrible, the blood goddess, consort of Shiva, naked, with her sword, noose and bludgeon, and stuck all about with human skulls.

John took three steps inside the arch, then stopped. The priests appeared to be in a trance of ecstasy, though now he noticed that one or two looked up from their bloody rituals, their dark eyes focused on Jennings, then himself. With no words spoken, the message spread, and one by one, the men, their robes bloodied, stepped away from the goddess.

Where only moments before the chaos had been deafening, now all that could be heard was heavy breathing, and on occasion the pitiful bleating of a lamb whose life had been briefly extended by the appearance of two Englishmen.

John heard Jennings whisper, "Come near. Kali awaits us."

In spite of the new tension in the chamber, John followed after, keeping a wary eye as they passed down the line of priests, a few holding at the ready yellow silk nooses tied around a silver rupee with which the stranglers had been killing the animals prior to cutting their throats.

Ahead, he saw Jennings standing before the goddess as though transfixed. Watching closely, John saw the man lift his arms to his chest and incline his head. Three times he performed this ritual of supplication.