The boy could be anywhere.
Resting her hands on the top of her broom, she stood perfectly still, in the perfect stillness, and listened for a sound . . . any sound. At first the place seemed utterly silent, devoid of all life. But gradually she became attuned to the tiny noises that surrounded her . . . the breeze that rustled the leaves overhanging the walls, the far-off chatter of a monkey, the occasional screech of a parrot somewhere in the engulfing jungle. But nothing that sounded even vaguely human. She wanted to shout his name, to call out to him, but something inside her told her not to . . . something warned her to keep silent for the time being. She wondered in which direction to begin her search. And again, something told her to walk to the east.
The flagstones, which once must have fit together like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, were now ruptured and displaced; she had to watch her feet, to see that she didn’t trip over the upturned edges of the stones. Her sandals chafed, particularly on the top of her instep, where she suspected her bruises had reappeared. Was this why they had come to her in the first place? To prepare her for the rescue of this little boy—Ranji? In that, she could almost divine a sort of plan, a reason for her to have been the chosen one; her own brother had been lost to her, years before, and in her heart she had searched for him ever since. Just as she had searched for the reason for his death. Now another little girl, waiting at the foot of the bridge, had enlisted her to save the brother she had lost, and Celeste felt herself invested with the power to do that . . . to restore to someone else what she could not restore to herself.
And there was something right, and well-ordered, in that.
By now, she had crossed the main courtyard, and found herself approaching a veritable maze of doorways and open colonnades; while once they had no doubt presented a fantastic symmetry and design, now it was all Celeste could do to decide which passageway would not turn out to be an utter dead end. Huge blocks of stone—pale red late rite and dusty gray sandstone—had fallen helter-skelter on the ground; the elaborate carvings had been broken apart so that what they depicted was no longer clear. Passing under one darkened archway, she thought at first it was surmounted by three purely structural curving columns; it was only on looking again that she realized the columns were in fact meant to be the tusks and trunk of an elephant. Where the trunk touched the ground, it was gracefully plucking lotuses, also carved of stone. It was all done on a monumental scale, but not without great artistry and skill, and were she not on such a desperate mission, she might almost have lingered, to study it further.
She had not, she suddenly realized, seen a single snake.
Beyond the elephant arch, there was a series of terraces, cut into the rising hillside. Surely there had once been steps, ascending up the middle, but now the centuries of disuse had covered them entirely. The hill simply rose, in a gentle gradient, to what Celeste could tell was the focal point of the whole, vast complex. And it was there, she felt in her heart, she would find Ranji—either dead or alive.
Tucking the broom under her arm, she started to climb the grass-covered slope; every so often, she could feel, under the dirt and vegetation, the edge of a buried stair. Rubble was strewn all around her, half-hidden by the tall, yellow grass. Her shadow, lengthened by the setting sun, preceded her up the hill.
What would she find at the top? How would she be able to rescue the boy, if he were indeed held captive by some evil force? She tried to concentrate only on the climb, on placing one foot ahead of the other, but doubts and fears began to creep into her mind. And she wondered, as she labored toward the summit, if these fears were being sown in her from within . . . or without.
The last few yards were the most difficult, perhaps because she stopped for a second to look behind her; the height to which she had ascended was greater than she’d thought. From the top of the hill, she could see the broken columns and fallen roofs of the neighboring buildings, and the distance she would have to travel just to return herself, and Ranji, to the main gate. Breathing deeply, she turned and made her way to the very top, where the stone paving remained more even and intact than down below.
The whole summit of the hill had been leveled, and in its center had been raised a colossal temple, or wat. Elaborately decorated, covered by consecutive panels in which, as best Celeste could make out, scenes from Hindu mythology were depicted, the temple rose up in much the same way as the hill on which it rested: There were terraced levels, each one embellished with rearing lions or beckoning maidens, elephants in procession or warriors on the march, and these terraces were stacked, one on top of the other, to a dizzying height. From where Celeste was standing, the temple resembled the conical headdresses, of beaten gold and chased with rare gems, worn by royalty, gods, and celebrated dancers in the ancient Khmer rituals.
Often she had seen her mother in just such a headdress.
The portal in front of her was partially blocked by the pieces of a fallen frieze; knowing the Khmer builders to be devoted to symmetry, she guessed she would find a similar entrance on the opposite side of the wat. She picked her way around the edge of the temple, and was astonished to find, spreading out far below her, a large and sullen black lake. The east side of the temple looked out over this watery kingdom, almost as a woman might gaze into a looking-glass; the temple and the lake, she could not help imagining, were in some bizarre way aware of, and dependent upon, each other.
Nor did it escape her that, insofar as her own adopted religion was concerned, the east—and only this one archway permitted entry—was the province of the Devil. “Prince of the East,” he had sometimes been called, in earlier times. Often, going about her duties in her self-imposed silence, Celeste had considered the religious beliefs she had encountered in her youth in Cambodia—the Buddhist tenets and Hindu rites—and the Christian doctrine she had later embraced, and found in all of them deep and surprising similarities . . . as if the Godhead were indeed one, and its thousand manifestations only the result of cultural differences and human interpretation.
From just behind her, she heard a vague rustling sound. At first she mistook it for the stirrings of the twisted vines that hung down over the temple doorway; then she realized it was in fact coming from within the temple chamber. The sound came again—a soft, rhythmic whisper, as if something of no great weight were brushing lightly across a surface of rough stone. With the end of the broom, she parted the tendrils that drooped down over the entryway, and in the light that now penetrated the gloomy chamber she took in several things all at once.
First, the inner chamber was large, with walls on which ancient weapons—rusted pikes and swords and shields—haphazardly hung. The ceiling was high and flat, supported by evenly spaced columns carved with faces and figures. And in the center of the room . . . in the center of the room, there was a low circle of stones, enclosing what appeared to be a pool of black water. From the middle of the pool—where there must have been a submerged stone, or ledge, for it to rest upon—the largest king cobra she had ever seen was weaving, gently, back and forth, straight up in the air.
Weaving in perfect time with it—and adding to that slight rustling sound she had heard outside—was a bare-chested boy, his hands alternately pressed to, and raised from, the floor. He rocked as if in a trance.
Celeste let the vines fall behind her, and stepped silently into the room. She had to accustom her eyes to the dim and flickering light; creeping in through narrow windows, placed high above the floor, and through cracks and crevices in the walls, the pale yellow rays were reflected off the ancient armor and the pool of black water. She felt as if the whole chamber were in subtle motion, as if light and shadow were shifting and swaying in some indecipherable, but deliberate, way.
The boy had his back to her, but the snake was looking right at her. Still, Celeste knew enough about snakes to know it probably couldn’t see her. Their vision was notoriously poor; at best, she probably appeared as a dark blur, blocking the doorway. But that would change quickly; snakes were
keenly sensitive to movement, and could see perfectly well once you were within striking distance.
And Ranji was well within that.
Slipping off her sandals, so as to make as little noise as possible, Celeste slowly inched across the cold stone floor. The boy and the cobra were still locked in their private dance, possibly even unaware of her approach. How, she wondered, would she separate them? How would she alert the boy to her presence, and pull him out of range, without giving the serpent time to attack?
Lowering herself to a crouch, she padded forward, her bare feet sticking to the granular stone. Were her soles sweating? Or was it blood? Had her wounds reopened? She didn’t dare think about it. Not now. Not when she had crept to within a few yards of the serpent’s pool. But should she still be holding onto the broom? It had served her well against the crocodiles, but now she felt she would need both hands free, to grab Ranji by both of his little shoulders and drag him quickly away from the snake.
And would he wake up enough to run with her toward the main gate?
She placed the broom flat against the floor, and left it there. Now she felt even more alone and unprotected. Keeping one eye on the snake, which had spread its broad hood, she reached out toward Ranji’s bare brown skin; his shoulder blades flexed, forward and back, as he rocked in place. Under his breath, Celeste thought she heard him softly humming.
The snake suddenly jerked its head back, and hissed.
Celeste froze. The snake’s tongue—long and forked—flicked from its jaws, testing the air around it. The temperature, odor, movement of the air, all told the serpent that an enemy had approached.
Its dark green body, marked by horizontal white rings, stood as erect as a staff; it rose, above the water, to the height of a man.
“Ranji,” Celeste whispered, in Thai, “I’ve come to take you home.”
The boy did not respond.
She gently cupped his shoulders—his skin was warm and smooth—and stopped him from rocking. He was utterly compliant.
The snake hissed again, and a shiver descended its long, slender body.
Celeste slipped her fingers under Ranji’s arms, and just as she prepared to yank him out of reach, the snake lunged.
Celeste threw her own body in front of the boy; she felt the head of the snake smack against her shoulder, as sharp and hard as a whip. She pushed the boy away from the pool. The snake pulled back, its lidless eyes focusing on its prey, then lunged again, this time sinking its fangs into Celeste’s own forearm.
She screamed, and tried to pull the arm away, but the snake hung on. Its body unraveled from beneath the black water of the pool, like a wet and endless skein. Its eyes bulged, its jaws were spread wide enough to encompass her entire arm; the fangs felt like two curved needles working their way deeper and deeper into her flesh. She screamed again—Ranji bolted upright on the floor—and batted at the serpent’s head with her other hand. Its jaws were moving, chewing on her skin, attempting to press as much of its venom as possible into the wound. The yellow poison bubbled around its head.
“Ranji, run! Run away!”
Paralyzed with fear, the boy didn’t budge.
Celeste grabbed the snake just under its hood, and tried to choke it; the scales were smooth and slick to the touch. But the fangs just worked their way even deeper. She could feel them tearing backwards into, and under, her flesh. She swung her arm out, to fling the snake away, but its body—at least fifteen or twenty feet long, longer than any snake she had ever seen or imagined—simply lashed against the floor, like a length of thickly braided rope. She clenched the neck, and pushed this time, pushed the head forward, so that the retracting fangs might lose their hold. The jaws slid forward, first the top one, then the bottom; then she ripped the head upwards, feeling her own skin ripping with it.
The head was loose, hissing and spitting. The body snapped and writhed in fury.
She clutched it by the neck, with both of her hands now, holding the head away.
Her arm showed two jagged gashes, glistening with blood and poison.
She could feel the serpent’s ribs expanding, its scales swelling with anger and the urge to strike.
She backed across the floor—Ranji was up now, looking terrified and bewildered—and closer to a line of pillars. The black eyes of the cobra—one on each side of its head, and covered only by a clear scale—were staring into hers; its jaws were straining to bite. The fangs dripped with honey-colored venom.
Did it know what she was trying to do?
Would she be able to do it before the poison took effect?
When she was positioned between two of the stone columns, she threw the head away from her, and before it could leap back, grabbed the body a few feet further down. The head was already lashing back, hissing madly, when she swung the body, like a whip, toward one of the pillars. The head and neck wrapped around the heavy stone, and then, before the snake could recover enough to attack, she whipped it back again, against the opposite pillar. The sinuous body made a low, whistling noise as it cut through the air; the head made a dull crack as the skull and teeth collided with the stone. Again and again, she lashed the cobra between the two columns, until the stone was wet with its blood, and the body in her hands felt limp and dead. Even then, she struck its head once more against the stone, before flinging the creature away. Its head was almost entirely gone now; the body stretched, in lazy, lifeless curves, across the spattered floor.
Gasping for breath, she fell to her knees. The room was spinning around her.
She heard crying. Ranji was crying.
Her arm ached, with a dull, cold fire.
She would need to stop the poison.
Lifting her bloodied arm to her mouth, she put her lips to the wound; she tasted her own blood, and the bitter tang of the venom. She sucked as hard as she could—the pain rising like a flame—and spat the juices out on the floor. She sucked again, and felt the numbing effect of the poison on her lips. She licked at the yellow stains around the edges of the wound, then scoured her tongue with the hem of her torn habit.
She would need a tourniquet now, something to keep the poison she had missed from circulating in her bloodstream. But her hands, when she tried to tear a strip from her clothing, were shaking so badly she couldn’t do it. She squeezed her forearm, just above the wound, as tightly as she could, while her mind raced.
What could she use? She’d seen nothing in the room. Nothing on Ranji. Nothing like a belt, or a shoelace, or a necklace . . . a necklace.
Her fingers fumbled under the hot collar of her habit, and pulled from around her neck the tarnished silver chain on which her crucifix hung. Instinctively, she kissed the medallion, slipped it over her head, and then up onto her arm. A couple of inches above the snakebite she twisted the chain until it bit into the skin, and then held it that way.
This would have to do. It would have to help her get as far as the gate.
“Ranji,” she said, as calmly as she could, “we’re going to go home now.” She looked up at the terrified boy. “But you must stop crying. You must be very brave now.”
He looked more afraid of her than the cobra.
Celeste struggled to her feet, and felt dizzy for a moment. She closed her eyes until it passed.
“Ranji,” she said, “take hold of my hand, and don’t let go.” She stepped up to him, and repeated the instruction. Out of terror, he obediently took hold of the hand that now hung limply at her side. “Now we are going to have to help each other.”
Together, they walked to the archway, past Celeste’s abandoned broom and sandals. The black lake at the bottom of the hill was not so still as before; an evening breeze now ruffled its waters. In another half hour or so, it would be nightfall.
Celeste led the way, back around the perimeter of the temple, wondering how Ranji had ever found his way here on his own. What had lured him to the very heart of this evil complex? How had the cobra caught him in its spell? Why had he crossed the bridge in the first place
?
On the other side of the temple, Celeste could hardly bear to look down. The hillside looked so steep and treacherous. She hesitated on the very edge of the summit, until Ranji, still holding her hand, said, “I can do this.”
“You can?”
He had stopped his crying, and seemed, in a strange way, to have awakened from his stupor inside the temple.
“Yes. I’m the best one in the village. I can go anywhere.”
Perhaps this was what had prompted his excursion into the temple.
“Then you must lead the way,” Celeste replied.
Without another word, he pulled her forward, onto the grassy slope, and like a nimble goat, he picked his way, in a kind of zigzagging pattern, down the darkening hillside. Celeste, putting her faith in God, simply followed along, using whatever strength she had remaining to hold the chain in place on her arm. She could feel the effects of the poison conspiring inside her.
“Don’t put your foot there,” Ranji advised, and Celeste glanced down at a black pit, several feet around. Unless she was imagining it, she thought she saw eyes—round, bulging eyes—looking up at her from the bottom.
“There are snakes in there,” Ranji said. “They like to come out at night.”
They skirted the pit, and a couple of others that looked much like it. Celeste began to feel their every move was being watched, followed. The poison was making her exhaustion even worse; it caused a kind of slow paralysis that chiefly affected her breathing. She had to consciously draw in great lungfuls of air, and then just as consciously expel them. There were twitchings in the muscles of her arms and legs, as if they had fallen asleep for a second and then pricked themselves awake again.
Private Demons Page 11
