The Eden Passion (58 page)

All about him the priests seemed to push closer, those nooses still clutched in their hands, their dark faces revealing nothing at Jennings' worshipful stance. It did seem a weak gift in contrast to the bloodied floor. The place demanded more than three short bobs of the head.

Suddenly—and where the instinct came from, he couldn't say-John experienced an urge, not merely to witness, but to participate. For all the horror surrounding him, there was an honesty to the place, a sense that here, if nowhere else, a man could give vent to his baser desires and impulses.

For a moment longer he tried to defeat the impulse. But it was strong, and demanding to be acted upon, to provide a fitting finale for this "theatrical."

With a lightning-quick movement his hand shot forward and grabbed the yellow noose from a near priest, and still moving at top speed, he came up behind Jennings, thrust the noose over his head, duplicating the sensations which he'd just witnessed—the knee thrust forward against the back, the noose drawn tightly about the man's throat, the coin angled into place near the windpipe, then a sudden thrust of energy which toppled the victim backward and left him gasping, his face upside down in John's vision, his hands clawing at the stricture about his neck.

But of greater interest to John than Jennings' fear-stricken face was a peculiar sound he'd heard at the instant of attack, a collective intake of breath, as though the priests themselves had been shocked by the reenactment of their own religion.

His attention was drawn back to the sputtering upside-down face of Jennings. "What in . . ." the man gasped, his fingers still clawing at the noose about his neck.

John grinned. "Just a theatrical, Jennings. No cause for alarm."

The parroted words seemed to bring the man little comfort, and he continued to thrash about. For a moment John pulled the noose

tighter, feeling adrift somehow, as though his body in some miraculous way had been taken possession of by the ghosts of the ancient Thugs. Not until he noticed Jennings' face turn a shade of blue did he ease his grip on the noose. At the same time he looked up into the priests' faces and was granted a reward almost as great as that collective gasp. In those dark visages which once had caused him such fear, he saw fear.

It started with the priest from whom he'd grabbed the yellow noose, only a flicker of a smile. Slowly it spread, splitting one dark face after another, joined here and there by a giggle, that sound amplified into full laughter as the circle of priests pushed closer, their hands outreaching as though desiring to touch the one who so effortlessly had mastered their sacred religion.

John grinned back, feeling a kinship. Suddenly the priest on his right lifted his head and shouted a sharp command to the rear. A few moments later, John found himself standing at the center of their circle while three adorned him in a black turban, then draped a long black robe over him, bringing up the tail between his legs and securing it to a leather girdle.

He permitted the adornment, relished it, catching sight now and then of Jennings, who apparently had had all his pompous authority squeezed out by his brief tenure under the noose.

Well, John would make his apologies later. For now he was enjoying himself. At some point an earthenware bowl of wet mud appeared, and with his eyes and mouth tightly closed, he permitted them to rub it over his face and neck.

Then the adornment was over. Lacking a mirror, John had no conception of the total picture. But he could look down at the curled sandals on his feet, the robe drawn tightly between his legs, the leather girdle securing the upper half of the robe, draped over one shoulder. The mud was drying on his face and neck. He returned the gaze of his admirers, feeling less an Englishman and more an Indian than he'd ever dreamt possible.

The priest who had issued the command for the transformation stepped forward, his dark face sobered. In his hand he held the long yellow noose, the silver rupee knotted at the middle.

"Rumal," he pronounced, and extended the noose to John.

John looked to Jennings, who was now on his feet. The old man smiled. "He wants you to take it."

Then the priest was speaking at a rapid pace, apparently unmindful of the fact that John was not understanding a word. Abruptly

John lifted his hand and summoned Jennings to step forward. The man came, obviously bearing John no ill will and grateful to be included in the ceremony.

With his translator beside him, John nodded to the priest, indicating that he could continue, and he did, the staccato sounds blending with the soft Oxford hum as Jennings translated. "He says that although you have not been initiated stage by stage into the art of Thuggee, you have nonetheless proven yourself worthy to wear the rumal. And further, he says let any man once taste of the Goor and he will be a Thug, though he know all the trades and have all the wealth in the world."

The voices fell silent, and as the sense of ceremony increased, John saw the priest withdraw a coarse-looking yellow lump from the folds of his robe and extend it forward.

Ever helpful, Jennings whispered, "You're to eat it."

Hesitating for the first time, John looked at the lump in the man's hand.

"Take it," Jennings whispered. "It's a rare honor."

Finally John lifted the lump to his mouth. The taste was sweet, the texture like sand. But as all were watching, he had no choice but to bite down and swallow the mixture.

With a lift of his hand, the priest signaled for attention. Again the twin voices took over. "He says," Jennings whispered, "that you are a brother, that you have demonstrated the instinct of the wild beast, and that from now on you shall ride a horse like a true Thug and wear your rumal and show a front."

Ride a horse! John could think of nothing he'd like better, but he had no horse. Jennings was there, still translating, "And finally he says that the sanctity of this temple is always open to you, that no matter what, you are now a true son of Kali and she will protect you from all adversity."

Apparently the presentation was over, and John was aware of the priests on either side moving him toward the arch which led to the door of the temple.

Outside, he noticed that the dusk had turned to night, though in the area surrounding the temple there were dozens of lit torches, casting a red glow over the scene.

Jennings saw it first, for John heard a gasp and only then did he look toward the bottom of the steps, where he saw a massive black stallion, saddled, a priest holding the reins.

"It's a gift," Jennings whispered as the priest placed the reins in John's hand, "befitting a brother Thug."

John stroked the flank of the magnificent animal. "You must thank them for me."

As Jennings' voice filled the hushed silence, John placed his foot in the stirrup and swung up into the saddle, consciously striking a pose.

They saw him astride the handsome animal and heartily approved. Lifting his hand in salute, John urged the horse forward, suddenly desirous of leaving the place while his luck still held and while he was still vaguely aware of who and what he was.

With Jennings trotting behind, John led the way down the road at a slow pace, a peculiar sound following after him, more than just the rhythm of Jennings' sandals slapping against the dirt. This new sound was a high-pitched lament, wailing voices raised in wordless cries.

In spite of his instinct to look back, John kept his eyes straight ahead. What he felt was inconceivable and irrational, a sense of melancholy at his separation from a group of barbarians who earlier had terrified him.

It wasn't until they were two or three miles removed from the shrine that John reined in the horse and led him to one side of the deserted road and waited for Jennings to catch up. The mud on his face and neck had now dried, causing a pinching sensation. The girdle had been pulled too tight and his hair beneath the turban begged to be scratched. But he waited out all these discomforts and watched the trotting figure approaching in the night.

As Jennings drew near, John prepared himself for the apology that he knew he must deliver. But he was never given that chance. Instead, the man burst upon him with a breathless enthusiasm that had nothing to do with his recent exertion. "My God, what a master stroke!" Jennings grinned. "You're an Indian, that's what you are," the man went on. "By God, but you almost fooled me, you did. I thought you were English through and through, to the quick, to the marrow, to the heart." He laughed outright, lavishing John with affectionate attention.

At the first break, John ventured a tentative apology. "You're . . . not angry?"

"Angry! It was a master stroke, that's what it was. I'm only regretful that I didn't think of it myself."

"Your. . .throat?"

"Is fine, fine. What an experience! I've never seen the Goor ritual

before. I daresay no white man has." He stepped back. "Do you realize what an honor has been bestowed upon you?"

Impressed by the man's enthusiasm, John still was suffering from the rapid transition of Thug back to Englishman. "Surely you don't approve of their cutthroat ways?" he asked.

For the first time since they had paused by the side of the road, Jennings appeared to be speechless. He contemplated John and his question with an intense gaze. Clearly the battle was a painful one, his Christian god in open warfare with his Indian gods.

There was a sense of incompleteness to the exchange, and John was on the verge of pursuing it further when suddenly Jennings suggested that they pitch camp here for the night, get a good rest before starting on the road to Delhi in the morning.

But in the quiet of the evening, John thought he could still hear the priests' keening. "No, let's go farther down the road." Tossing the reins of the horse to Jennings, he suggested, "You ride."

He didn't wait to see Jennings mount, and led the way back to the deserted road, where a half-moon struck the dust and caused it to resemble snow. He was aware of the horse walking behind him, Jennings giving him the lead for the first time in weeks.

"Walk like an Indian," Jennings shouted. "You have been blessed beyond the conception of most men. You are now Kali's son. Walk like it!"

But John did nothing to alter either his stance or his pace. His head down, he wondered if Fraser Jennings had any notion of how close he'd been to death this day, how it had consumed all the rational discipline at John's command to resist the mysterious forces loosed at Bindhachal.

Delhi, March 1856

Three weeks later, having followed the left artery of the Ganges through Cawnpore and Agra and Aligarh, leading the black stallion between them, they came out onto a high plateau and looked down upon an incredible sight.

There was Delhi; and high above the Jumna River, presiding over the bazaars and teeming alleyways of the walled city, stood the fortress palace of the Moghul emperors.

For once Jennings was silent, apparently sensing John's awe and sharing in it. "No matter how many times I leave and return," he murmured, "the sight of that city always brings tears to my eyes."

John glanced at him, impressed to see moisture on his face. During the last few weeks, since Bindhachal, he'd grown fond of the old missionary, and now that the time had come when they would shortly part company, John found himself dreading it. Still, his "business" in Delhi had nothing to do with Jennings, and the sooner the separation came, the better.

There were a few hours left. John had promised to take a look at Jennings' mission school and to have dinner with him. Though the man frequently had been a bore and a puzzle on their long journey, John felt indulgent of him, the kind of indulgence which always marks imminent separation.

"Have you seen inside?" John asked, motioning toward the fortress palace, knowing that such a simple question would keep the man talking for half an hour.

"Oh my, yes." Jennings smiled, wiping away the tears of home-

coming. "I've been a guest there many times. I've played chess with Bahadar Shah Zafar, though he's a godless man. He's little more than a pensioner, you know, lives altogether at the mercy of the British."

John saw the scowl on the man's face as he turned to the right. "There it is, there is the contagion," and he pointed toward a large cantonment on the outskirts of Delhi. "There are our British brethren," he muttered.

Nothing more was said all the way down to the banks of the river, though now John noticed an increase in traffic, hundreds, or so it seemed, passing back and forth across the curious boat bridge.

Presiding over all this multitudinous activity was a scattering of British soldiers, looking stylish and well-fed in their red tunics and white shakos, like large clear targets in a sea of brown and gray and black.

But of consuming interest to John was the palace itself, looming larger, protected by high red sandstone walls, perhaps two miles around.

Again Jennings' pace increased. John trotted behind, his head swiv-eling in all directions. It wasn't until they were approaching the main gate which led into the Red Fortress that Jennings slowed his pace. He drew to one side out of the crowded street and waited for John to catch up, then pointed up to the beautifully carved central arch.

"Do you know what it says?" Jennings asked. Without waiting for the answer, he squinted upward toward the massive arch and read, "If there be a paradise on earth, it is here, it is here, it is here'*

A dust cloud swirled up. Grit stung John's eyes. It would be paradise if those red sandstone walls were as generous with him as they had been with Alex Aldwell. "Is this the only gate?" John called out above the noise of street traffic.

"Oh, no," Jennings shouted. "There are four gates, but they are kept locked now."

The "now" was significant, and John wanted to explore it, but again Jennings was pushing through the narrow streets, as though to signal there would be no more stops, not with the anticipation of "home" drawing him like a magnet.

John tried carefully to note the twists and turns. The next time he passed this way, he would be alone, though it occurred to him that rinding his way back to the Red Fortress would require no intelli-