The Eden Passion (68 page)

From that vantage point he viewed the entire city, saw it in flames, every structure burning, the only portion of the horizon intact and not on fire the Red Fort and the palace within.

"Is Mama . . . ?"

"I don't know," John said. "We can't stop here." He urged Black forward, trying to keep his eyes on the road and at the same time on the hooded head.

They rode without speaking for over an hour. Shortly before dusk, John left the road and took off across the open fields, heading for a distant fringe of trees.

With the flame-streaked sunset behind them, he guided Black into the dense trees and heard water nearby. He brought the horse to a halt and slid down, carrying Dhari with him. He was aware of Aslam following closely behind as he placed her on the grass.

"Take Black to the stream," he ordered Aslam.

At first the boy glared defiantly down on him, as though he knew he was being sent away.

"Please," John whispered, relieved to see the boy obey.

Slowly he approached the hooded face, and with one hand cradling her head, withdrew the hood and stared down. Her eyes were closed, her mouth distorted by a blood-soaked cloth which had been stuffed between her lips. Quickly he removed it, felt it so filled with blood that it dripped freely as he tossed it into the grass. Yet what was the source of bleeding? He saw no cuts on her face, her lovely features intact except for the smeared blood about her mouth, her lips parted from the thickness of the gag, revealing . . .

No, Godl

Had he cried aloud? He closed his eyes, then opened them, then leaned closer, his fingers gently separating her lips, growing red with her blood.

She had no tongue. They had cut out her . . .

"John?"

He looked up through blurred eyes to see Aslam standing nearby, and could not find any words to keep him from coming closer.

"Is she . . . dead?" the little boy asked fearfully.

It was that simple question which stirred John out of his grief and into action. No, she was not dead, and gently he lowered her to the grass and commenced tugging at the rope about her wrists, trying to keep his eyes away from the atrocity of her mouth. He pulled his shirtwaist free from his trousers, ripped the tail and handed the material to Aslam with an order, "Soak it with water. Hurry!"

As the boy dashed off into the shadows, he raised her head and slipped beneath her, cradling her in his lap, his hands mindlessly smoothing the blood-soaked sari as though feeling the need to put something in order.

Why hadn't they fust killed her, killed him as well? But no. Obviously they had discovered that she had lied to them, and apparently lacking the will to kill the granddaughter of the Emperor, they'd merely rendered her silent so that she would never lie again to anyone.

These suppositions only heightened his grief, and as he lifted his head to shout for Aslam, the boy appeared, holding the dripping cloth in front of him, his eyes wide with fear.

"She isn't dead, Aslam," John soothed, taking the cloth, "and she won't die, I promise you." He commenced gently to cleanse her face, guiding the cloth about her lips.

Opposite him, Aslam squatted, watching closely, holding her hand. A few moments later, John felt her stir in his arms, her head twisting, and at last, her eyes opened, first to him, then to Aslam, then grew wider in terror, apparently at the memory of her torture.

A strangling sound escaped her lips, the voice box intact but the instrument of speech gone. She tried again, louder this time, the grief and frustration clear upon her face, her eyes searching John's, one hand grasping his shoulder as though begging him to help.

"Don't, Dhari," he whispered.

It came a third time, a moan which rose to a wail, her hands moving to her mouth as though to deny what she knew was true. Suddenly she seemed to suffer a spasm; her head fell backward, a low

gurgling sound rose in her throat and almost violently John pushed her onto her side as the vomit of blood erupted in a crimson stream, Aslam on his knees staring in fear, John bent over her as though wanting to take the racking convulsions into his own body, enclosing her tightly, unmindful of the warm red liquid spilling out over his arm.

Not until the sky was streaked with the light of dawn did he feel it was safe to close his eyes and not keep a watch on the field and the road beyond.

At several intervals during that long night he'd heard horses on the road, and drunken cries, and had seen torchlight, all confirming what he feared, that the mutiny was spreading, that it would be impossible to travel in safety on the road.

Worse than that, all night long he'd observed the red glow which had filled the night sky in the direction of Delhi. All hope of a quick military put-down was lost, as was the hope of returning and seeking medical aid for Dhari. There was only one safe direction now, and that was south, either to Bombay or Calcutta, a torturous journey he knew well from experience, made doubly impossible now by the fact that he was traveling with a child, a seriously ill woman, no food, no blankets, no money.

All at once the bleak inventory blended with his fatigue and his sense of horror at the various atrocities he'd witnessed firsthand, and he stumbled on a protruding root and went down on his knees. As he fell, he heard a curious clinking sound inside his pocket and with a strange listlessness reached inside with one blood-caked hand and withdrew three gems: one a ruby about the size of his thumb, another slightly larger, and one emerald of equal proportion. He stared at them, at first unable to identify them.

Slowly he sat upon the ground, remembering all. Why had she gone back inside the palace? For these? Suddenly he enclosed the stones in an angry fist and looked up toward the crude pallet of banyon boughs less than ten feet away, an equally crude coverlet of reeds and brushes covering the two small figures, both of them sleeping soundly despite their makeshift bed.

He'd have to awaken them soon. They must put distance between themselves and the burning city, the possibility that the sepoys would change their minds and come after them, for he was certain now that they had been allowed to escape. On whose orders, he had no idea. Perhaps her grandfather's, or a sympathetic cousin's. Or per-

haps they had been permitted to escape because the rebel sepoys had known that they would never make it to safety, that a prolonged dying on the road would be more agonizing than a decisive thrust of a sword.

The sun was climbing. It was time to move. They must find food before too long. He was aware of the gems still clutched in his fist. Curious, these had been his purpose for coming here. Now they were of no value to him whatsoever, and willingly he would have given them all over for transportation away from this place of danger.

He heard a soft moan and looked toward the pallet. Dhari was stirring, one hand lifting as though to fight off unseen assailants. He hurried to her side and knelt down, held her hands between his own until the tenor of her nightmare passed, until she found the courage to face the terror of the day.

Close beside her, Aslam was still sleeping. Carefully John drew back the covering of boughs and lifted her in his arms, noting an increase in the bruises and swelling about her face.

Gently he carried her to the banks of the stream, went down on his knees with her in the mud, lifted the dried cloth which had fallen onto her breasts, soaked it with water and applied it to her bruised lips.

Once she'd had her fill of water, he moistened the cloth again and tried to cleanse her face, aware of her eyes upon him. He found himself praying for both their sakes that she did not try to speak again. The sound he'd heard her make the night before still echoed in his ear. Silence was better.

"We must travel today, Dhari," he began. "Are you strong enough?"

She nodded.

"We'll go slowly," he promised. "Has the bleeding stopped?"

With her head pressed against the trunk of the tree, she opened her mouth as though for his inspection. The small cavity was dark, but he saw the severed ends of the tongue, the jagged tissue white now, the bleeding stopped.

Gently he leaned forward and kissed her. He reached down for her hand and placed the three gems in her palm. "I'm afraid the rest spilled," he said.

She looked down as though in surprise, and returned them to him, her lips moving in that same low monotone. She tried to form words and failed, and as her frustration mounted, he drew her close, her sobs filling his ear.

"Don't, Dhari, please," he begged, knowing what she had wanted to say.

The gems were his. She'd gone back. For him.

"I'll never leave you," he whispered. "You'll be with me always. Do you understand?"

He held her face between his hands, needing her reassurance that she understood. Slowly her sobbing subsided, and with one hand she reached out to him, caressed his forehead as though he were the one in need of comfort.

At first her recovery and their progress had been nothing short of miraculous. But ten days later, as they were approaching the outskirts of Mirzapur, she fell forward across the horse in a faint, and John, walking ahead, was summoned by Aslam's cries. Running back, he caught her before she dropped to earth, lifted her down into his arms, felt her brow on fire and saw a black foam issuing from her lips.

Quickly he made camp, and as always sent Aslam on ahead into the village. He'd learned long ago that his white face would gain them nothing. But apparently no one could resist the beautiful little boy. Daily Aslam had done the scouting, had wandered into the village of the moment and had always returned with something, chup-patis, fruit and on occasion a roasted chicken. John had never quizzed the boy too closely on whether the food had been given or stolen.

Now at midaftemoon, with Aslam still gone, he cradled her in his arms, fearing the worst. She'd not regained consciousness once. As he held her, he rocked gently back and forth, suffering that peculiar awareness that he'd lost a portion of his senses, that the events of the last two weeks had taken a toll from which neither of them would ever fully recover, hiding from black and white alike, for to the Indians she was traveling with the enemy, and to the whites he was traveling with the enemy.

At last, though untutored and unskilled, he lifted his head and prayed to whatever god happened to be in the vicinity, tried to remember how Reverend Jennings had done it, what words he had spoken. But he could remember nothing that made sense, and settled at last for simply admitting to the green boughs overhead that he had done all he could do, and if there was any truth to divine intervention, he needed it now, for Dhari's sake.

He closed his eyes and waited, sensing, in spite of his amateur's

prayer, that no one had heard. It was while his eyes were still closed that he heard horses, looked up and saw a half dozen fierce-looking riders drawing near, their black robes blowing backward, their bearded faces obscured. And in the lead, as though that most horrible nightmare were being performed in repetition, he saw Aslam, his eyes wide with fear, held a prisoner by the lead rider.

Hurriedly he placed Dhari on the grass and stumbled upward, and had taken only three steps forward when the horsemen surrounded him, their faces smeared with white dust, the leader grinning down.

Frantically John turned in all directions, bitterly thanking God for his answered prayer. As he heard an outcry from Aslam, he looked back to see the rider holding a knife at the boy's throat.

Then, because he could endure no longer, because he'd seen more spilled blood and mutilated bodies than a man could see and still survive, he lunged toward the knife-wielding rider, was just out-reaching to pull him down and wrest the knife from him when he felt a noose go around his neck.

He struggled uselessly, then fell backward, seeing the sun explode into a thousand fragments overhead. As the earth rose up to meet him, he thought quite lucidly that this was for the best. At least he could die with Dhari.

Compared to what he'd recently seen of living, death seemed a worthy alternative.

He awakened to two companions: one, Kali the Terrible, Kali the blood goddess, consort of Shiva the Destroyer, naked, stuck all about with human skulls.

And two, a fat, well-fed, massive black-and-white-striped cat who licked his face with a rough tongue and brought him back to consciousness. If this was death, he'd been here before.

Slowly he raised up from the pallet and saw a third companion seated near his feet.

"Aslam . . ."

As the temple spun about him, he lay back, aware of the boy hovering over him.

Not far away he heard the high chatter of men's voices raised in dispute. He looked in that direction, recognized the rider who'd held the knife to Aslam's throat. And another, an older priest with graying beard who seemed to be speaking with authority. He'd seen that face before as well.

They were in the Thuggee Temple at Bindhachal. The old priest

was the one who had adorned him, given him the gift of the rumal and the horse.

The men saw him looking at them. Steadily they returned his gaze and came forward until they were standing over him. He was aware of Aslam's hand in his and thought with grief on Dhari.

Laboriously the old priest squatted beside him, his leathery face a network of wrinkles. He said something and waited for an answer. Helpless, John looked to Aslam.

The boy smiled. "He wants to know if you've made up your mind yet? Are you a white man or an Indian?"

John failed to see the humor in the question. "Tell him I'm neither," he muttered. "Tell him at the moment I'm simply a lost man."

As the boy repeated the message in his high clear voice, John raised himself to a sitting position.

After the translation, the old priest laughed, and spoke again, his face growing suddenly sober.

Again John was dependent upon Aslam, who relayed the message. "He wants to know where we have come from."

"Tell him."

John watched the exchange, trying to read the moods on their various faces. The talk was concluding now. The group of black-robed men standing behind the priest still glared down on both John and Aslam, as though they had been deprived of something.