The Weeping Ash (20 page)

So they both promised, and then Scylla hurried away, late again, to her other pair of princes, who were impatiently awaiting her, pulling straws, meanwhile, as to which was to have first dip into an enormous plate of sweetmeats, honey and curd nuggets, globes of sugar spun on a thread, and sugar-coated crystallized fruits, which had been sent to them by their stepmother the Rani Sada. Scylla forbade either of them to touch a single candy until lesson time was over; wondering, meanwhile, with one corner of her mind why Sada should trouble to send a gift to her stepsons, for whom she entertained the most profound indifference, concentrating, as she did, all her affections upon her own child, a fat spoiled little boy of three called Ajit, who was seldom seen outside of her apartments. But perhaps she, also, was looking ahead and cultivating possible friends all over the palace…

Scylla was too perturbed about her brother to have much attention to spare for palace politics today, however. She could not wait to get away and study Cal for herself—ask him if this was the first such seizure he had suffered, or had there been others? Did Miss Musson know of this tendency? Did he remember last night's attack, or was the occasion blanked out in his mind? Now, putting her own impressions together with facts gleaned from Miss Musson about other such cases, Scylla could see that everything about her brother's temperament dovetailed with the likelihood of his having an epileptic tendency—his dreaminess, moodiness, fits of energy alternated with lethargy, his strange detachment from the world about him, his tendency for deep, deep sleep…

Never had two hours gone so slowly.

“Good-bye, boys,” she said at last, gathering up their geometry exercises to take to Cal. “Don't eat yourselves sick, now. And I will see you tomorrow at the same time—”

“Au revoir, mademoiselle! Will you not take a bonbon, mademoiselle?”

“Thank you, no! I do not wish to become as plump as Mahtab Kour,” she said outrageously, and left them giggling at such an improbability.

On her way along one of the palace galleries, Scylla was intercepted by a servant with a message that the Mahtab Kour wished for her company, but she excused herself on the grounds that her brother was sick and that she must hurry home with all possible speed, promising, however, to call in the following day, and sending a message of extravagant thanks for the beautiful sari.

As on a previous visit she sensed, rather than heard, a presence overhead, and looked up in time to catch a twitch of a curtain in an upstairs gallery; the palace felt even more alive than usual with whispers and tiptoeings, unseen watchers and listeners. Scylla hurried out into the courtyard with relief, wondering absently why Mahtab Kour's servant—the fat, surly Huneefa—had seemed so astonished to see her. But all other considerations were overborne by her anxiety about Cal as she summoned Abdul from his shady spot by the great gate and made her way homeward through the teeming streets.

Cal, when she reached the bungalow, had just sleepily strolled out onto the veranda and was attacking a large slice of watermelon. His only emotion, when Scylla burst out with solicitous inquires, seemed to be a mild impatience and disgruntlement.

“Oh, botheration! It was nothing—the merest trifle! Do not be boring on about the confounded business, my dear.”

Questioning, however, elicited the fact that he could recall nothing at all of the circumstances of his seizure or how it had come about; could not, indeed, remember anything much about the visit to the fortune-teller.

“There was a skinny blind fellow in a loincloth, calling on Tazreel and Bezroth and a whole lot of other djinns and demons—it was a decidedly tedious occasion, if the truth be told; oh, yes, and a girl was playing wearisome stuff on a flute; I think I must have fallen asleep.”

“But do you feel in good health now, Cal dear?”

“Lord, yes, never better! In perfectly plump currant. I'll take you riding to the Great King's tomb, if you wish!”

“Do not be absurd! It is by far too hot! But tell me, love—has this ever happened before?”

Intensive questioning elicited the reluctant answer that he had had one or two minor seizures of a similar nature in the last few months—generally when something had occurred to startle or trouble him, or sometimes, as a result of external physical circumstances, such as dazzling or flickering lights. These brief attacks had passed over as swiftly as they had come, and seemed no more than a momentary spell of oblivion, an “otherwhereness” as he put it.

“But, gracious heavens, Cal! Supposing such an attack were to occur while you were on horseback, miles from the town!”

“I do not think it would,” he replied, after considering the matter. “I feel almost certain that such attacks do not occur while I am mentally or physically occupied. They seem to accompany inertia, not activity. Now pray, Scylla dear, do not plague me about it anymore—if I do not trouble my head about it, why should
you
? I have a great notion for a section of my poem about the olive—the sacred tree of Athens—and how Alexander brought it, or the legend of it, to India, and it became transformed into the sacred tree of the Hindu scriptures—so, please, leave me in peace, will you, like a sweet girl, and let me work?”

“But if your attacks come as a result of immobility,” said his exasperating sister, “should you not be up and about, taking exercise?”

“Which is the more important—my poetry or a few trifling physical symptoms?” he demanded. She was obliged to agree that his poetry was important.

“Oh, by the by, Ram says that dentist fellow, Wharton, has been seen in the town. Why do not you occupy yourself by writing a letter to our cousin Juliana?”

“You think you can fob me off. Oh, very well, I will leave you in peace!”

Scylla made her way to the hospital, intending to ask Miss Musson's opinion about Cal's state. She found that lady very preoccupied and worried, however, over the case of little Bisesa, the cook's daughter, who acted as maidservant and ayah in the bungalow.

“It came on so suddenly! I cannot decide what ails her. It is not prickly heat—nor mango rash—and although the symptoms, thank heaven, do not seem those of smallpox, the poor girl is in great distress—none of my remedies, at present, seem to help at all. She was perfectly well at breakfast time—then a couple of hours ago her father brought her here in
such
a state—I devoutly hope that it is not some infection that will spread like wildfire.”

Scylla went in to see the girl, for whom she had a great affection. Bisesa was only fourteen or so, a slender, pretty creature, slim as a gazelle, with enormous, velvety eyes. Normally her skin was a pale smooth brown, but now it had become thickly covered with tiny angry blisters; the chief areas of infection were her shoulders, arms, and upper torso, hips, thighs, the sides of her neck, even the top of her head under the hair, the irritation from the blisters was so excruciating that Miss Musson had bandaged her hands, in an attempt to prevent the poor girl rubbing her skin or scratching it—but the bandages were of little avail, she lay frantically rasping herself raw with her bandaged fists and weeping with agony, calling on her dead mother to come and cure her.

“I shall have to give her a dose of opium,” said Miss Musson, much perturbed, and did so. “Now stay with her, Scylla, talk to her and soothe her until it takes effect; I have sent for her sister Ameera to come and be with her.”

Scylla sat with the poor child for several hours, gently preventing her from scratching herself and trying to distract her, talking about her forthcoming wedding and all its ceremonies, singing lullabies, until at last the opium acted and she fell into a troubled sleep. Miss Musson and Scylla covered her with lotions, but these, usually efficacious in cases of prickly heat, seemed slow in having any beneficial result.

When they went home at dusk, leaving Bisesa in the charge of her sister and old Jameela, Scylla unburdened herself to her guardian about Cal's disability. She found, as she had half suspected, that this news came as no surprise to Miss Musson.

“He is of an epileptic constitution; I have apprehended as much for the last year. But do not be putting yourself in a pucker about it, my dear child; there is nothing to alarm you. Think how many great men have been similarly affected—Julius Caesar—St. Paul—indeed quite half the saints, I understand; it seems an affliction particularly disposed to single out those of a saintly disposition, or men of genius. If our boy is
that
,” she said, smiling, “we must not repine, should Providence think fit to touch him also with the accompanying weakness—perhaps as a reminder that no man can be expected to be quite perfect!”

“No, ma'am, I see,” Scylla agreed, somewhat comforted. “Cal, certainly, is not perfect—I know that! What must we do, then?”

“Why, try not to kick up a great dust about it—as Cal would say—but make sure, unobtrusively, that the dear boy has plenty of wholesome food, enough exercise, and—if possible—a calm, well-ordered life, without unsuitable excitement. Sometimes young men grow out of such disorders, acquired in the teens—the visitation may be an accompaniment of sudden late growth.”

“I see, ma'am. Thank you. I will try—I will try to be sensible about it.”

While Scylla was inwardly demanding of herself how such a well-ordered life as Miss Musson prescribed could be achieved among the unpredictable oriental ups and downs of their existence in Ziatur, they arrived back at the bungalow.

There Cal, to be sure, seemed innocuously engaged on the veranda, ink on his brow, wreathed about with reams of scribbled paper and the dozen or so quill pens he liked to have by him when inspiration struck; he gave them a vague nod and returned without pause to his writing.

Miss Musson and Scylla repaired to their respective chambers to wash and rest before the evening meal. In her room Scylla noticed with absent surprise that the rose-colored sari, Mahtab Kour's gift, which she had left swathed in its muslin wrappings on top of her wooden chest, seemed to have been unwrapped and untidily tossed onto the floor. Perhaps gray apes had got in, as they were sometimes prone to do, from the loquat trees in the garden, to scamper about and make mischief; but it was odd that nothing else had been disturbed, Scylla thought, glancing around the room. It seemed almost as if someone who had a spite against her, who resented her having been sent the gift, had played this childish prank—but who could have done such a thing? The thought of the Rani Sada did just brush Scylla's mind—but that seemed too improbable; besides, how could she, or any emissary of hers, possibly have had access to the bungalow? No, it must have been apes; if poor Bisesa had not been at the hospital, she would have picked up and refolded the sari, and its owner would never have known about the occurrence. Or no—she must have learned about it, Scylla found, picking up the garment and rather hastily and distastefully rewrapping it (she could not get out of her mind the notion that it was intended as a bribe for informing the Maharajah about Sada's intrigue with Mihal). The accident could hardly have been concealed from her, for the choli was quite badly torn at the neck. Well, what does it matter, I should never have worn it, Scylla thought, bundling it all together inside the muslin; and, going to wash her hands, she resolved to mend the choli as invisibly as possible and gives the garment to little Bisesa for her wedding—even torn as it was, with all those seed pearls it must be worth a handsome sum, and the child would have nothing else so fine; besides, she would certainly treasure it, as it came from the palace.

They were just finishing supper—for which Cal had with difficulty been dragged from his writing—when Colonel Cameron was announced. He entered the room pale, dusty, and evidently laboring under very considerable distress. Miss Musson took one look at him and sent Habib-ulla for brandy-pani. When a large dose of this had been administered, “What is it, my friend?” she asked quietly.

“The Maharajah is dead,” he said.

“Oh, the poor man!” exclaimed Scylla. “How strangely sudden! Why, he did not look so ill this morning.”

“It was not illness.” Cameron pushed a hand over his dusty brow. Unobtrusively, Miss Musson refilled his brandy glass. “They will be crying it in the streets any minute now. I came to tell you so—so that you can be deciding what is best for you to do.”

“
Not
illness?” Miss Musson queried. “Then—an accident?”

He gave a grim snort. “No more an accident than the rising of the sun—if I am any judge.”

“What happened?”

Even Cal was attending now, having come out of his poetic trance to listen, though still with a somewhat disengaged air.

“Why, we were returning from a review of the troops out on the plain—you were right,” Cameron said to Scylla, “it will take months of wear before the men become accustomed to those French breastplates—but the Maharajah was pleased with them and thought they looked very fine—he was riding ahead on his elephant, I following behind on another—as he went through the archway of the great gate, a huge stone became detached from the masonry and fell on him, knocking him off his beast.”

“It
could
have been an accident, surely?” interjected Miss Musson.

“What followed certainly could
not
,” Cameron said harshly. “He was lying on the ground—I had jumped down and was coming to his aid, and the mahout of his elephant was on the other side—when the beast shouldered past us; it knelt on him, carefully and deliberately, on his loins, his chest, his knees—I heard his bones crack, I heard him scream. Oh, dear God, I have seen plenty of deaths in my time, but none more horrible man that—”

“Could the beast have gone
musth
?” demanded Miss Musson, looking very appalled.

“No, ma'am, that elephant was not mad, it was as calm and collected as you or I. It had been trained to that little trick. And I—heaven help me—I should have seen this coming—heaven knows, I had clear warning—perhaps I might have been able to take steps to avert it—”