The Maharajah's Monkey

by Natasha Narayan

  The monkey grinned away at me. A gibbering envoy from hell.

  “No,” I screeched, pulling the map away from the creature. It grabbed back, ripping the parchment in half.

  A lightning bolt of pain streaked across me, causing my legs to buckle for an instant.

  Yelling guards rushed toward us, as the monkey gave a harsh cackle. But the soldiers were too far away. It was up to me. My hands gripped the monkey’s leg, but it wriggled out of my grasp, clawing viciously at my arms. Its tail lashed me across the face, making my scar throb. With three bounds it was at the wall, a blur of white fur. The Maharajah screamed and a sentinel raised his gun and fired. The bullet missed the monkey by a millimeter and embedded itself in the wall. The beast skittered upward and vanished through the window.

  The pain inside me was such I staggered against the wall and collapsed in a heap. My map! That foul creature had vanished with half of my map! It was as if half my heart had been wrenched away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Guards rushed to the window, others poured out of the room. Too late. When I looked out of the window the monkey had disappeared, a puff of smoke melting into the midday sun. The great gardens were spread out like a jigsaw puzzle, palms, jacarandas and banyans shimmering in the heat, the trickle of the fountain. Dimly I spied a couple of dancing girls, loitering under the trees in their purdah gardens. Otherwise nothing. Or, rather, too much, with the caw of crows, the cackle of chickens, the slow munching of the sacred cows who wandered freely where they would, even monkeys swinging through the trees. Too much life here to single out one malevolent creature.

  “What happened?” the Maharajah asked, his eyes bulging.

  “It was some kind of animal, Your Highness,” the Dewan said.

  “A monkey,” I spat. “A disgusting little thief.”

  “Find that monkey!” the Maharajah shouted at the guards, who scattered out of the door.

  My father, clutching the journal in his limp hands, was close to tears. There was a feeling of jangled nerves in the room, for the odd incident had upset us all.

  “We still have half the map,” I said dully, leaning on the window frame for support.

  “And the journal,” my father murmured.

  The Maharajah intervened. “Borrow this thing,” he said, waving my father to the journal. “You are a great scholar. God willing you will find answers to these mysteries.”

  “This country doesn’t agree with me, Kit.”

  “A whole country can’t disagree with you, Papa! It’s a place, not a person.” I spoke with an effort, for the loss of half my map was still a physical ache.

  “The heat. The food … and that monkey! Nothing is right.”

  After the hullabaloo in the treasure vaults I had gone to my room to change into formal clothes for luncheon and then joined father in the north-facing study adjoining his bedroom. The inevitable punkah wallah was pulling his creaking fan. Dark shutters kept out the worst of the sun’s glare. I couldn’t really sympathize with father’s woes. His rooms were pleasant and airy, the best in the lodge. Sure, like Rachel, he was suffering from “Delhi belly.” But he hadn’t been chosen, only to have it split, torn, snatched away.

  “Cheer up,” I murmured. “We have the journal. That’s the main thing.” I didn’t really think this was true. The journal was interesting, but the map had been special and now it was only half a thing.

  “Quite right,” Father replied brightening. The journal was lying on his desk, a leather-bound book of immense age and decrepitude. It looked as though it would fall apart at one touch. I moved toward it, intending to take a look but Father was there before me. Luckily his stomach chose this moment to give another twinge:

  “Don’t fiddle with that, Kit,” he murmured as he made off in the direction of the bathroom.

  “I won’t,” I promised. Once he had gone, I carefully picked up the notebook. I think it was fate that made it fall open! The first word I saw was Shambala—the map! The very thing I was interested in. I read rapidly:

  My servant Jorge grows ever more fascinated by Shambala. He is entranced by the myth of the fountain of life; the spring of crystal-clear water that gushes forth eternally in Shambala. If ye drink from this fount, they say, ye will never sicken or die. In this mountain paradise all is harmony and peace. While the world below sickens and evil blooms in men’s hearts, Shambala is pure. One day, when war, plague and pestilence ravage the world, the king of Shambala will descend to save mankind.

  A most pleasing story, though most clearly a story. Jorge, I fear, does not see it that way. He is obsessed with the myth of the shimmering ice city rising in the crystal mountains.

  Ever since the accident that has left him disfigured, he dreams of his lost youth. I believe he seeks to regain his former beauty. This is the devil’s work, I have told him. Those who aspire to the holy life should have no interest in such mortal snares. Alas, to no effect.

  Earlier today when we had audience with the Great Emperor Akbar, holding court from the heights of his immense golden throne, we found also a strange, half-naked person there. This man was a pagan. An Indian magician-fakir of the most evil kind, one who claimed occult powers. I fear the Emperor was most beguiled by his stories. To my horror I found young Jorge was equally enthralled.

  Later when I came into our chambers I found Jorge. He blanched when he saw me, threw up his hands. I confess, I became angry and snatched something out of his hands. A map to Shambala. What strange writings upon it. The scribblings of these yogis if I am not mistaken. There is a—

  “Kit!” Father’s voice boomed in my ear. “What are you doing?”

  I turned round. He was red-faced, furious.

  “Sorry,” I muttered, hurriedly replacing the precious journal upon the desk.

  “You must wear gloves when reading ancient manuscripts. The sweat on your fingers can destroy them!”

  The arrival of the servant to tell us our carriage was ready saved me from more lectures. Along with the Maharajah and the Dewan we had been invited to luncheon with the Spraggs. It was sure to be tedious I thought, as we hurried through the gardens to the road where Rachel and the others were already waiting. The six of us crammed in one tikka-gharry, and clopped by the edges of the market, thronged with people who stopped and stared when they saw the royal crests. Once I saw a pall of oily gray smoke and heard a low hubbub, which I thought must be from a fire. It was burning bodies from the ghats—the funeral pyres by the river. Soon we pulled up outside the British Residency, a grand, colonnaded building, built in pinkish stone, surrounded by a wilting lawn. We were ushered inside by a footman in a magnificent red and white livery, wearing a turban decorated with a sort of scarlet fan.

  When we arrived there were already some twenty people, including the Maharajah, the Dewan and Mr. Prinsep, seated around a gleaming ebony table. Above the table, to the left of the enormous crystal chandelier, was the biggest punkah I’d yet seen. Never mind palm leaves, this one must have been made of a whole palm tree. It was operated by two liveried boys, each pulling a strand of palm. Mrs. Spragg, in a fussy satin gown, presided. She was attended by her forgettable husband and her golden-haired son Edwin, dressed up in a suit just like his papa. How sweet he looked. How deceptive appearances are.

  I made a slight vomiting noise at Edwin’s saintly appearance to my friends. Waldo grinned back at me, then contorted his face, mimicking Edwin’s prim expression.

  The sight of the feast spread on the white tablecloth cheered me. I had thought Mrs. Spragg might serve some rather soggy food, but she clearly had a good native cook. Dozens of silver trays heaped with fried potato patties, crispy savory biscuits, more of the bhajis I had grown to love. Fowl, chicken, that delicious fragrant rice. Mangoes and sweetmeats. Pitchers of ice-cold lemon sherbet. My stomach was already rumbling.

  No one else was going to do it, so I slipped into the empty chair next to Edwin, as the waiters filled our glasses with frosty lemon sherbet. For a while I concentra
ted on eating the starter, watery mulligatawny soup. Once I’d finished my bowl I could get on to some decent food.

  “Father always says—” Mr. Prinsep began but Mrs. Spragg interrupted.

  “Is that the tenth Baronet Prinsep of Prin Towers?”

  “Rather,” said Mr. Prinsep coloring a little. “Well, Father has old-fashioned views about things, I’m afraid. That’s why he shipped me out to the colonies. Thought I might contract an unfortunate marriage, you see. Thinks I’m too much of a romantic. I’ve to prove myself for three years at a proper job before he gives me my inheritance.”

  Over the soup tureen I could see Miss Minchin, straining to catch their conversation. I’d never seen her so blooming. I’ve never been one for romance, for all the soggy sentiment that gushes around lovers. I have to admit Mr. Prinsep’s attentions had worked wonders on my governess. It had smoothed out her harsh lines, transformed her frowns into blushes.

  Now her smile suddenly froze and I knew she had overhead Mr. Prinsep’s remarks.

  “Looks like he’s not going to be her Prinsep Charming after all,” Waldo said softly.

  “That’s a terrible joke,” I muttered.

  “He’ll probably marry some Indian princess, if he’s out here for three whole years,” Isaac added.

  “Don’t you know anything?” I asked. “Indian princesses are not allowed to meet foreigners, let alone marry them! They have to live in separate—”

  I stopped in the middle of my remarks for I noticed that my governess had turned pale and was swaying slightly in her seat. Suddenly she dropped her spoon, with a clatter that turned several heads.

  “Miss Minchin. Pray, what is the matter?” Edwin stood up, and leaned across the table as if to assist my governess, his whole body a picture of angelic dismay.

  Trust that dratted boy to call the attention of the whole table to Miss Minchin.

  “Pray do not bother. It is stuffy in here … nothing altogether.” Miss Minchin visibly tried to pull herself together. “Some air.”

  “Here. Have this.” Edwin handed my governess his tumbler of lemon sherbet. “Just the thing to beat this heat.”

  My governess reached across the table, her hand trembling, to take the glass. A little of the liquid slopped over the side of the rim on to the white tablecloth. It was a dark golden color. Too dark. The cogs of my brain slowly whirred into action. Lemon sherbet. The acid yellow of freshly ripened lemons. The—

  “WAIT!” I yelled.

  Leaping to my feet I overturned my bowl of mulligatawny soup on to the tablecloth. I knew Edwin. I’d seen his hands flickering a blurred moment ago. For a minute I was afraid of making a fool of myself.

  “DON’T TOUCH IT,” I shouted.

  Rows of heads turned along the table. I glimpsed Mr. Prinsep, his mouth gaping open like a goldfish, my aunt’s open mouth, the Maharajah’s wavering hands, Waldo trying to restrain me. Every single person in the room was watching me, Edwin and Miss Minchin. Even the waiter opposite me had frozen in the act of ladling out curry.

  “THE LEMON SHERBET IS POISONED.”

  There were varying degrees of disbelief on the faces around the table. Someone screamed, while the Dewan rose thunderously from his chair.

  “Quiet!” I snapped and turned to Mrs. Spragg’s angel. “Hold out your hand, Edwin,” I demanded.

  All eyes were on the drama. The Dewan had sat back down and was watching me.

  “She’s demented,” the boy replied in a surly voice, but he didn’t open his left hand which was clenched tightly shut around something. “That scratch has infected her brain.”

  Mrs. Spragg jumped up to declare her outrage. But she was sitting too far away to intervene and I had no intention of dropping this.

  “I saw Edwin put something in the sherbet,” I said slowly, in a cold voice. “Powder from a box.” I seized the boy and tried to pry open his fingers, while the little devil wriggled under my grasp. I managed to force them open and there, clasped in his sweaty little hand, was a minuscule silver box.

  “Here it is!” I said triumphantly holding up the box for everyone to see. The lid had been removed, there was white powder inside.

  “That’s not poison,” Edwin spat. “I like my lemonade extra sweet. It’s sugar.”

  I had a horrible moment of doubt. Had I made a fuss in front of all of these people for nothing? Then I gathered my courage.

  “Eat some then!” I held out the box to him. “A spot of sugar, Edwin?”

  Edwin blanched, backing away so quickly that he knocked over his chair. Down the table Mrs. Spragg let out a deafening scream and her husband hurried to her aid.

  “This isn’t the first time Edwin’s played tricks like this,” I said but my words were drowned out by the Dewan who had risen magisterially to his feet.

  “ENOUGH!” he thundered. “Memsahib Spragg, we are leaving.” He held out his hand to me for the silver box. “We will test this powder. If we find your son has been up to mischief …” He paused and glared at the Spraggs. “We will not be happy!”

  The Maharajah, who I noticed cast a disappointed look at the feast, rose and the rest of the party followed, in a confused huddle. Indignation was in every inch of the Dewan’s back as he marched out of the dining room, Mrs. Spragg opened her mouth to protest and then changed her mind. The boy’s face was as innocent as ever, but he couldn’t resist snarling at me. I gave him a sunny smile in reply.

  I could afford to be friendly, now I’d finally wreaked revenge on the little pest.

  Chapter Fourteen

  My friends chattered about Edwin as our horses raced back to the palace. I joined in for a bit, savoring my triumph over the appalling boy. Then my thoughts moved on. The odd incident had cleared my wits and thrown the intrigues surrounding us into sharper focus. The fragment of Father Monserrate’s journal I had read about Shambala fascinated me. It was such a haunting account: a mountain paradise, serene above the turmoil of the world. Cliffs as sharp as razors, snowy glaciers and then—appearing through the mists—an ice city set in flower-flecked meadows. A place of peace, and of plenty.

  I had visions of this mountain bower, shimmering in the air above me. Beckoning to me. It was the Eden where Adam and Eve romped. Before Eve was tempted by the snake and mankind began its centuries-long descent into a swamp of greed and war, and, well, badness. Such a place was surely a myth? Yet, yet … I had a feeling. My aunt and father were fascinated by the legend. There was some nugget of fact, some truth under all the swirling myths. My wounded map, safe in my inner pocket, called me. I felt the fact that it was torn as a pain inside me. Nevertheless, when I touched its crackly surface, a jolt started in my fingertips and ran along my nerves till it touched my heart. It wove a skein of enchantment that bound me like butterfly in amber. Whatever I was doing in India, this huge, heathen country, it had something to do with my map.

  Have you ever had the premonition that something is waiting for you, just past that bend in the road? Not for anyone else. Just for you. It was foolish, irrational—but that was how I felt.

  The scar on my cheek throbbed as I pondered. I had begun to feel less self-conscious about the mark—though I couldn’t help feeling that people’s eyes were drawn to it. Anyway, it was of no matter. What was important was the secrets piling up around us.

  There was something my elders were not telling me. I couldn’t help believing that Aunt Hilda and my father knew a lot more than I did. I tried to marshal my chaotic thoughts. To put them into categories: A, B, C:

  A. The deposed Maharajah, Malharrao.

  B. The monkey.

  C. The two wheezing, sick Baker Brothers.

  D. The blackmailed, supposedly hypnotized, Gaston Champlon.

  What on earth brought them to India? Why had the gang blackmailed Champlon to kill little Sayaji? I could see, of course, that the Baker Brothers hated Champlon. I could understand Malharrao’s interest in assassinating his successor. But why would those fabulously wealthy millionaires, the Bak
er Brothers, be interested in the fate of Baroda, this faraway part of our Indian Empire? Was it gold, diamonds, jewels? Was there something in the treasury they wanted to get their hands on? Try as I might I could not see what they wanted with this dusty, teeming place.

  Unless it was my map.

  Their monkey had snatched away half of it.

  Yes, that was it. It wasn’t pearls or the Star of the South. It must be my map they were after.

  I shivered, despite the afternoon heat, which was so intense my clothes were damp with perspiration. The map, all these happenings, had taken such a hold on my imagination that I was exhausted. We arrived back at the palace lodge with me in a sort of daze and I trooped off to my bedroom. It was such a relief to finally be alone to try and sort out my thoughts. In my cool room, with the tick of the clock and the soothing whisper of the fountain in the gardens outside. Sighing, I took off the formal shoes I had put on for the Spraggs’s lunch and collapsed on the bed.

  Too soon there was a knock on the door. It was the pani-wallah, the same boy who had waited on Champlon. He bowed and indicated I should follow him.

  I followed the boy through the gloomy corridors. Suddenly we heard raised voices, saw two people standing very close together. It was Miss Minchin and the Maharajah’s tutor, unaware of our presence.

  Mr. Prinsep tried to slip his arm round Miss Minchin’s waist. “Listen.”

  “No, Charles. Don’t,” she hissed, pushing him away.

  “I’m sorry I upset you. I—”

  “Three whole years,” Miss Minchin interrupted. “Why, I’ll be an old maid by then!”

  “You’ll always be young to me.”

  “You expect me to believe that?” Miss Minchin snapped. There was silence for a second then her voice softened into sadness. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’m sorry.”