Molly Moon's Hypnotic Time Travel Adventure

by Georgia Byng

  “Eat! This melicious deal is all for you, Lommy!”

  The ten-year-old faltered. Why was the maharaja being so nice? Suspiciously, she began to eat.

  At the first mouthful Molly realized what torture was being inflicted upon her. The food was fiery hot with chili. She coughed and reached for a napkin to spit the food into.

  “I said, EAT IT!” Molly tried again. She had never tasted anything so hot. Her mouth began to feel like a burning inferno.

  “I can’t!” she said.

  “You will.” Waqt’s face loomed up close. “You will eat it, or you die,” he said, smiling.

  So Molly ate. Her mouth went numb. She drank three jugs of water, but still her mouth was a roaring fire.

  “Nicey spicy! Spicy nicey!” Waqt taunted. It was torture. And the more she spluttered and drank, the more the cruel giant laughed.

  “Do you merember this?” he laughed. “Can you merember this?” was the strange question he kept asking her. Molly didn’t know what he meant.

  Molly woke sweating from a late afternoon nap. While she’d been asleep in the howdah, the memories from her younger self had materialized. Waqt’s “Do you merember this?” was directed at her now. He was talking to her now through her ten-year-old self.

  She remembered that eventually she’d eaten the food and gone to the room where the three-year-old and the baby slept. After two hours the feeling had returned to her tongue.

  Molly cuddled the puppy Petula and thought how much she smelled like her own Petula. This made her smile, because of course they were the same.

  If Petula was alive, perhaps she would remember this cuddle, Molly thought. She plunged her nose into the puppy’s velvety fur and shut her eyes.

  Twenty-nine

  That evening, as the sky turned golden, they arrived in Agra.

  “I told you I’d been here,” said the six-year-old Molly, pointing. The Taj Mahal was as little Molly had described it—its marble roof, towering on elegant columns, was just like a meringue.

  “Awesome, ain’t it?” said Forest.

  Ojas prodded Amrit to turn right and they proceeded to the docks on the river. The Jamuna River.

  It wasn’t a sophisticated dock. In fact, it was more of a soggy muddy bank because of the rains. But there was a short wooden landing jetty and some wooden boats were tethered to the shore. Two girls sat on their haunches beside their crop of melons nested in straw. The other side of the river was a bare, grassy flood plain. They all dismounted.

  “So,” said Ojas, pointing down the gray expanse of river, “Benares, the City of Light, is that way.” Molly followed his finger and something bright caught her eye, making her jump.

  “What are those things burning?” she asked, stepping toward the river’s edge.

  For there, beside the jetty, bobbing about in the water, were what looked like handmade dolls, wrapped in white and yellow silk. The dolls’ faces were uncovered. And each doll, it was perfectly clear, represented one of her party. There was Forest, Rocky, herself, Ojas, little Molly, and the puppy. Each doll was set alight and the flames licked at their features.

  “They’re like voodoo dolls!” Molly gasped.

  “I don’t believe in voodoo,” said Rocky, staring with revulsion at the effigies in the water.

  “It’s a clue,” yelped Ojas. “The City of Light is where people go to die. When they are dead, their bodies are wrapped in silk and burned! Waqt has left this clue for you to find, so that you know to go to the City of Light.”

  “But I don’t want to be wrapped up like a birthday present and burned!” shrieked the six-year-old Molly.

  “No, no, of course you won’t be,” Rocky consoled her. “This is just a… just a joke.”

  “A joke? Oh.” Satisfied with this answer, the little girl sat down on a rock and began playing with the puppy.

  “The guy is seriously sick,” said Rocky. “Needs to be put in a top-security loony bin.”

  Molly looked up the river and spotted a large wooden vessel with a hooped bamboo roof. The prow of the boat was pointed, with a small deck at the front. The long, middle part was totally enclosed, but the back ledge before the stern of the boat was an open, cargo-carrying platform. “Ojas,” she said, “can you go and ask that man whether we can hire his boat?” She pulled out her purse full of money from the clothes shopkeeper.

  Ojas nodded. “Good idea, Mollee.” He put two fingers to his mouth and whistled.

  The captain, a swarthy man with a flat, broken nose, poked his head out from under a tarpaulin where he’d been napping.

  That was how Molly and her friends found themselves aboard a traditional Indian boat with an elephant.

  The captain raised a small grubby sail and they were off. Steering the boat with a tiller oar, he took them away from Agra. Carried on the fast currents of the Jamuna, they headed for the Ganges and Varanasi, the City of Light.

  Days and nights unfurled and rolled along. The river curled under them.

  There wasn’t much to do on the river. Molly and her friends spent hours watching the world go by: watching birds and the people who lived along the riverbank.

  The rains had subsided. Morning and afternoon, they washed the dung off Amrit’s end of the boat, and every evening they moored the vessel and all went for a swim. Amrit would lie on her side in the shallows and someone would stand on her and scrub her with a broom. When they all dived in the water, she would immerse herself completely, swimming in the river like a huge hippo.

  Mealtimes punctuated the day, with delicious dishes cooked by the captain’s mate.

  Molly played with the puppy Petula. Although life on the boat was perfect, in a way, all the time, she was tortured by anxiety as she wondered whether her big Petula was being well cared for.

  One night Rocky and Molly lay on the deck of the boat, staring at the stars.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to help you more,” Rocky suddenly said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, you know, my voice hypnosis hasn’t come in very useful.”

  “That’s not your fault. People here don’t speak the same language as you. And, anyway, you do help so much, Rocky. You always have the right advice. You found the visitors’ book, and you keep us all calm. You’re wise, Rocky.”

  “Yeah, well. But I can’t do the really starry action stuff.”

  “What—you think the starry action stuff is more important than what you do?”

  “Well, you know, I’m not exactly Mr. Key-Mover.”

  “Rocky! You are Mr. Cool-Cucumber-Everyone-Loves-You-and-You-Make-Them-Feel-Good. I’d rather be that than Miss Key-Mover. If your real mother ever found you she would really like you, I know it. You’re just so likable. You’re so calm and reassuring. Rocky, without you, the six-year-old Molly would have been freaking out.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. She loves you. She loves you more than she loves me!” Molly laughed. “She ought to love me best because I’m her. But she doesn’t! She loves you best!” Rocky smiled. “You have a special talent for making people feel good. If that isn’t something special, I don’t know what is. You’re going to be a star doctor in our hypnotic hospital when we get home.”

  “Thanks, Molly.”

  The next evening, as the sun set, they passed a small white temple on the riverbank. In front of it was an old man whom Ojas was very excited to see. He explained that the man was a legendary saddhu. Both the man’s arms stuck straight up in the air and he was standing on one foot. His fingernails were so long that they curled back on themselves. Apparently he’d been in this position for forty-three years.

  “Is he mad?” asked Molly as the boat drifted past.

  “No, he is devout,” said Ojas in awe. “He is doing this to show the gods how much he loves them. If he makes this kind of sacrifice, then there is a better chance of him not being born again after he dies. Instead, he will go to heaven.”

  “Let’s hope the gods
notice!” Rocky commented drily. “Or he’s been stiff as a post all his life for nothing!”

  “So Hindus believe that after you die you are born again?” asked Molly.

  “Yes,” said Ojas. “Born again as a bee or a mosquito or a lovely elephant or a brilliant hypnotist! Depending on how good you have been!”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “Maybe.” Ojas laughed. “I was born a Hindu. So what is your religion, Mollee?”

  “I don’t really have one,” said Molly. “I suppose I just believe in being nice to people. You know, as nice as you would expect them to be to you. Help someone if they’re down in a hole—that kind of thing.”

  “That sounds like a good religion,” said Ojas. “If everyone were like that, I think life would be better and it is very important to allow other people to believe what they want—as long as their religion isn’t hurting people. Some religious people fight or kill others who don’t hold the same beliefs! Whoever God is, I don’t think he or she would like that behavior. God likes man to be kind.” He threw Amrit a piece of gnarled wood, which she caught with her trunk.

  “I suppose,” said Molly, “that every religion is having a guess about what is behind the mystery of life. When you think about it, there are probably men and women all over the world with equally clever brains who have different religions. I think a person’s religion probably depends on where you grow up. I mean, I can’t imagine there are many Hindu Eskimos, because Hinduism comes from India and it hasn’t got to the North Pole yet! What is the name for God in the Hindu religion?”

  “Brahma is the creator,” said Ojas. “There are two others that are as important as him. Vishnu and Shiva. ‘Allah’ is the Muslim name for ‘God.’ Christians say ‘God,’ don’t they?” Molly looked down the river behind her at the saddhu and wondered how he slept.

  “I think all religions are made up by human beings,” said Rocky.

  “Oh, no!” exclaimed Ojas. “A religion is written down by people who hear the true voice of their God.”

  “A religion is just a set of rules to live by,” declared Rocky. “It gives people something to hold on to, because the idea of no God frightens them. And governments like religions because they keep people under control. I could make up a religion on the way to Varanasi.”

  “Sometimes governments outlaw religions,” said Forest. “They, like, ban religion.”

  “But, Rocky, you have to admit,” said Molly, “there is something—some power in the world, and a lot of mystery. Maybe that is God.”

  Waqt stood tall on the prow of his barge. At last they were arriving in Benares. He sniffed as the smells of the city reached his nostrils, and he admired the way its buildings dragged along one side of the Ganges River and how its ghats, its steps, came down from these buildings straight into the water.

  He turned his nose up distastefully as he saw the hordes of holy people bathing in the river, dipping themselves in it like biscuits being dunked in a river of tea. They did this because they believed that if they dipped themselves into the holiest river in India they would be forgiven their sins and filled with holy spirit.

  “YOU SHOULD WORSHIP ME,” he called, but his words were carried away on the wind. “Maybe you will,” he added quietly. “Yackza!”

  As quick as a bad allergic rash, Zackya was by his side.

  “Bring me the young Mollys.”

  Zackya bowed low and soon returned with the hypnotized three-year-old and the blindfolded ten-year-old, who was holding the baby.

  “So,” said Waqt, taking the child from her. It wriggled in his arms and made a gurgling noise. “Yes. Hmm. You are the one, my little Waqta,” he said. “I’ll get you a fleet of noper prannies soon—just one more stycral-fountain ceremony and you will have been properly initiated.” He glanced at the older girls. “Then it will be over and we can get on with your life.” He handed the baby back to the blindfolded Molly.

  “They are on the Ganges now, aren’t they?” he said to her. “I’ve received word that they are traveling with an elephant. Ha!”

  Molly said nothing. She had lovely memories of being six and playing with an elephant and a puppy on a boat. The rhyme that she’d sung so much was still etched in her mind.

  “Fiercely loyal, I see. That’s good.” Waqt cracked his knuckles. “It seems that Molly has found herself some trime-tavel stycrals. Cunning! I don’t suppose you would fill me in on how?”

  Still, the ten-year-old stayed quiet.

  “I’m glad to know Waqta will be cunning. You can go,” said Waqt, giving up, and they were removed by guards.

  “YACKZA!”

  “Yes, sahib?”

  “The game goes well. Molly Moon has stycrals, so she can follow me. But she’s getting a little bit big for her boots. She needs to be shown her place. I want to give her a faste of the tuture. The dead pug—you have prepared it for burial?”

  “Yes, sahib,” said Zackya, bowing low.

  Thirty

  The scruffy boat finally arrived at Benares. The green Ganges River swung around a bend and suddenly there it was. Benares, or Varanasi—the holiest city in India. Molly put her antennae out to try to sense where her younger selves were. They were near, somewhere a little way inland.

  The captain drove the boat close to the water’s edge. There they saw women in saris dipping in the river, men in lungis going under the water, and saddhus in loincloths praying. And floating on the Ganges were hundreds of flowers and lit candles—offerings to the gods. Holy cows stood or walked along the steps and platforms of the ghats and monkeys hopped from building to building above. They passed a place where bonfires were burning on the shore. Nearby were huge piles of wood to build more fires. The puppy and Amrit sniffed the air. The others sat at the side of the boat looking out.

  “Those are funeral pyres,” explained Ojas. “Soon you will see a procession.”

  Sure enough, the next minute a group of people emerged from the streets above the ghats. Six of them were carrying a body wrapped in yellow material. They brought it down to the fires at the river’s edge and set it down on the shore.

  “Burning in fire is a very fine way to go,” Ojas went on. “Remember, it is just a body. Dead as a dead insect. It burns and the smoke rises to heaven. A body wrapped in yellow is a man. Women are wrapped in white.”

  A small boat with seven white clad men rowed out past them and into deeper water. They had a wrapped and weighted body on board. They pushed it into the river, where it floated for a second before sinking.

  “Ah, now that body was the body of a very, very holy saddhu or a priest. Only they are allowed to be dropped into the Ganges like that!” Ojas leaned over, dipped a cup into the green water, and drank from it.

  “Yuck,” said Rocky. “How can you do that? Have you stopped to think what kinds of bacteria are in this river?”

  “I don’t know what you mean by ‘bacteria,’” laughed Ojas, “but I do know that you people have very weak systems. My stomach is like iron. I never get sick.”

  Then Molly saw something else wrapped in white bandages burning on the water. It was coming toward them, carried on the current.

  “And what’s that?” she asked Ojas, realizing that the burning parcel was the size of a dog or cat.

  Ojas studied the bobbing object. He looked about and his eyes widened. “There’s no funeral party with it.”

  “Are dead pets always burned on the water?” asked Molly.

  “This…” Ojas found it difficult to find the words. “This is not normal, Mollee.”

  The small burning dolls that they had seen in Agra flashed through Molly’s mind and at once she knew what the burning parcel was.

  “It can’t be Petula! It can’t be!” Molly watched the orange flames curl about the white bandages, blackening them. As the bound body drifted closer, six brown letters painted on its bandages leaped out at her. PETULA, they read. Ojas knelt down and began nodding in prayer.

  “That’s horrible,�
� Rocky gasped.

  Molly’s head spun and a terrible misery flooded her. Her skin prickled as sadness sprang through her. Without Petula, she didn’t feel whole. Petula, who’d been by her side, who’d shared her life. To see Petula’s body burning on the water now, it didn’t seem possible. But it was real. A pain that stabbed at the pit of her heart shot through Molly, making her quake. She heard herself shouting, “YOU MURDERER, WAQT. YOU TWISTED, FOUL MURDERER.” Then she crumpled up.

  As she lay sobbing, she felt a small wet nose dab at her cheek. It was the puppy Petula and it was as if she were saying, “Don’t worry, Molly. I’m still here.” Molly hugged the puppy, but she didn’t feel better. For she knew that, if ever they got back to the future, this puppy would have to be returned to her correct time. The Petula that Molly knew was dead. Molly buried her face in the puppy’s fur.

  The boat ferried them up alongside the Benares riverbank until they were away from the burning ghats. Molly had never felt so sad. More than ever, she knew that Waqt was perfectly capable of killing the younger Mollys. She sat up and tried to pull herself together. As she did, she realized with sudden horror that while she’d been crying about Petula, the younger Mollys had moved from this time. What was more, the feeling of them was getting fainter and fainter—like characters on a train leaving a station, they were becoming more and more distant. But they weren’t on a train. Waqt was carrying her younger selves away, away into the future.

  “Waqt’s taking the other me’s forward in time!” she gasped. “They were here, but he’s just taken them forward.”

  “Just now?” asked Rocky.

  “Yes. It feels like they’re months ahead now. They’ve stopped months ahead. And I can’t move forward in time. This means that we’ll have to wait here for months just to get into the same time zone as them! What’s more, Waqt might move in time again. But I don’t care. Nothing matters now that Petula’s dead.” Molly put her head in her hands and massaged her forehead. She was starting to feel really tired, like an exhausted climber stuck on the side of a vast mountain.