Under the Jeweled Sky

by Alison McQueen

  Isadora Schofield died peacefully in her bed that summer, on a Sunday morning while the church bells were ringing. Veronica said that it was God’s way of calling her to him. There was no funeral service to speak of, just a brief civil affair without ceremony before the cremation. George’s father took her ashes to France, to the small town on the Riviera they had honeymooned at and dreamed of moving to one day, and scattered her remains in the rose garden of the hotel at sunset before ordering six bottles of their most expensive champagne and inviting every guest to drink a toast to his wife, the most beautiful woman in the world. His body was found the next day, washed up on the beach at Juan-les-Pins.

  How rare their love had been, George thought, and how foolish of him to have thought that he might be lucky enough to find the same.

  He took a last drag of his cigarette, flicking the butt to the ground. He hadn’t smoked in years. Veronica had hated the smell of cigarettes, so that was another thing that he had given up, along with his penchant for taking a couple of pints at the local pub on occasion. Just one or two, never more, in the company of a few honest-to-goodness hard-working men. The conversation would always turn to the war. It was unavoidable really. There was nobody to listen at home, nobody who would appreciate what it had meant, so they kept those stories for themselves, man to man, and everyone understood. They were bereft, some of them, returning home to find the world a changed place and unsure of where they fitted in. Their lives were their own again, but many of them didn’t know what to do with it. There was nobody to tell them where to sleep and what to eat and when to stand at ease. They missed the bark of orders, the shared hardship, the camaraderie.

  All George Schofield had ever really wanted was a wife to love, who would love him too. With that, everything else would have fallen into place. Veronica had never loved him. He knew that now, yet it had never crossed his mind to put an end to it. They had promised themselves, for better or for worse, a vow from which there could be no return for an honorable, if misguided, man. He should have taken his daughter and walked away, no matter how impossible it might have been, but what would have become of Sophie then? And even if he had attempted such a thing, what trouble would it have unleashed? These were the things he thought of now, out in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the camp, the bitter smell of fires lacing through the still night air. He lit another cigarette and shook out the match, drawing the smoke deeply into his lungs, picking a thread of tobacco from his lower lip. His fingers wandered to the mustache he now wore, touching it absentmindedly, comforted by the way it felt, the sensation of the short bristles suddenly giving way to the softness of clean-shaven skin. He must be getting old, he thought, the whiskers having come through peppered heavily with gray. He hoped Sophie would like it. If she didn’t, he would take it off, but in the intervening weeks, he would keep it and enjoy it, simply because he was free to do so, at last.

  Dr. Schofield finished his cigarette. He stood from the camp chair and stretched, long and slow. Perhaps he should turn in for the night. He would write to Fiona in the morning. He was too tired to think about it now. With any luck, his sleep would be dreamless.

  30

  Jag washed his father’s fragile body and dressed him in cotton robes, wishing they could be cleaner. There were no flowers to adorn the body, not even a single garland of marigolds. He anointed his father’s head, marking him for the last time with the ritual of his prayers. Death comes to every man, like a long-awaited friend, but Jag had hoped to be much older before he performed his final duty as his father’s only son. He had promised himself that when the time came, he would take his father to the holy city of Benares for the closing chapter of his life, so that he might achieve immediate liberation from samsara. To die in the city of light would be to pass through the gate to moksha and enter spiritual bliss. He would have scattered his father’s ashes into the River of Heaven, the sacred Mother Ganges, washing away his past, erasing the sins of many lifetimes. There would be no need for his father to return to earth, having freed himself from all material desires. Instead he would enter the realm of immortality, the highest among the heavenly planes, the dwelling place of Brahma, where his wife would be waiting for him, wearing a crown.

  “We have come to help you honor your father.”

  Jag looked up from his father’s body. His neighbor, Navinder Singh, stood with two other men. Jag nodded as they removed the shallow canopy from the shelter, and the four of them lifted the shrouded body, the meager weight no burden. As they passed through the camp, a path opened up before them, the people parting as they approached, heads respectfully bowed. Jag felt as though he were moving through a terrible dream, the world around him slowing and silencing as the smoke of the eternal funeral pyres neared, his eyes smarting.

  The pyre seemed inadequate for such a great man, Jag thought. He would have seen his father placed atop a stack as tall as he, but there was little wood to be had, the landscape around the camp bare, and that which could be found was thin and dry. Jag worried that the small allocation for his father’s mound would not be sufficient to release his body. He must burn properly and be cleansed by the fire.

  Accepting the burning twigs from the dom who tended the pyres, Jag walked around his father, counterclockwise, for everything was backward at the time of death. He leaned down and pushed the burning twigs into the belly of the stack, his father now an offering to Agni, the fire, to convey him to heaven. Thin lines of smoke appeared, curling tendrils around his father, touching his face with pale fingers that slid through the stained cotton robes. A faint crackle began as the twigs gave up their flames, passing their sacred fire into the kindling and dry grass packed beneath the kerosene-soaked wood. Head bowed, Jag circled his father’s pyre, reciting the prayers for the dead, intoning a low chant, ram nam sit hair, ram nam sit hair. The smoke thickened and the fire took hold, flames licking, softly at first, before reaching up and engulfing his father’s body.

  For three hours, Jag watched on silently as his father burned, the shrouded figure blackening as it willingly released what remained of its earthly flesh, the fire leaping heavenward. As the fire began to die, Jag turned and walked away without looking back. He felt utterly alone. Moving through the camp, passing by the hospital tent, he wondered how many more would die today.

  • • •

  “Hey! You there!” Jag kept walking, head bowed to the ground, unhearing of the voice. “Yes, you!” He stopped and looked up and saw a man approaching, an orderly with blood on his shirt. “You look like a strong chap. Could you lend us a hand? We’re absolutely swamped and short of at least ten able-bodied men. There’s been another outbreak of dysentery and half the medical staff have gone down with it.” Mutely, Jag followed the man into the hospital tent. “Go and give your hands a good scrub.” He indicated a basin and jug set up on a stand. “Have you eaten today?” Jag looked at him. “You can grab something from the mess tent if you want. No good trying to work on an empty stomach. It’s through there.” The orderly pointed toward a flap opening at the back of the tent. “There’s no need to look so worried, lad!” He slapped Jag on the shoulder. “Somebody will tell you what to do.”

  Jag stood quietly and stared at the table in the mess tent. Two enormous silver urns, warmed by burners, sat side by side, one filled with coffee, the other with hot water. Plates of sandwiches, piled high, covered over with thin cotton cloths. A tin barrel packed with biscuits. A basket of apples. Another spilling over with bananas. Jag wanted to weep, to cry out and say that this table would have saved his father, his father whose remains now blew through this awful place, death carried on the breeze. A white-sleeved arm reached across him, lifting a cloth and taking a handful of sandwiches.

  “Go ahead, lad,” Dr. Schofield said. “Help yourself. We all have to keep our strength up.” Jag looked at the man and felt his skin turn inside out. Dr. Schofield studied his face. “It’s all right, lad,” he said gently. “Yo
u mustn’t feel bad.”

  George Schofield had seen this before. It was probably the first decent meal this young man had laid eyes on in God knows how long. “I know it looks like a lot, but it soon goes, let me tell you, so best have a few of these while they’re still around.” He took another plate from the stack, loaded it with sandwiches, and handed it to Jag. “Tea?” He filled a couple of tin mugs from an enormous pot. “There’s milk in that jug if you want it.”

  Jag stared at him, unable to believe his eyes. It was Sophie’s father, right here beside him, pouring him tea. His heart thundered in his chest.

  “New volunteer?” Dr. Schofield said cheerily. “I haven’t seen you before.”

  “Yes,” Jag tried to say, but his throat had closed. He cleared it uncomfortably. “I mean, yes.”

  “You speak English?” Dr. Schofield smiled. “Splendid! Well, eat up, lad, then get in there and make yourself useful.”

  “Thank you,” Jag said, watching him walk away to join a pair of nurses at a far table, knowing that everything was going to be all right.

  Jag lay awake through the night, restless despite his fatigue. He heard her calling to him, saw her face in the stars that shone down from the night sky way above the mountains. So clearly they shone, so relentlessly. He must be strong. He must now put to the test all that he had learned over his life, for it was time for him to become a man, a good man, in honor of his mother’s memory, and now of his father’s too.

  31

  Sophie couldn’t see her toes, much less touch them. She skipped the exercise and stretched her arms to the sky instead, breathing deeply, counting along in her head.

  “Breathe in, two, three, four, five, six.” Miss Pinto flexed herself upright. “And exhale.”

  Sophie loosened her shoulders, closed her eyes, and pointed her face to the morning sun, its gentle warmth upon her skin. Given another hour or two, its rays would intensify to a searing heat, sending an airborne haze rising from the uneven roof tiles. The whole place turned into a dust bowl at this time of year, bleaching the landscape, shrouding everything in a thin mist of fine red sand.

  She hadn’t slept much last night, unable to get comfortable, her body grumbling and overloaded, back aching, a nagging stitch catching in her abdomen each time she turned from one side to the other.

  Miss Pinto ended the session in the same way she always did, rubbing her hands together, warming her palms before placing them on her face and sweeping them gently down, finishing in a silent moment of prayer. Sophie knew the routine like a poem by heart, the rhythm of each movement bringing a comforting sense of familiarity as her body opened itself to the day. She had felt awkward at first, huffing and puffing through the breathing exercises and struggling to follow the most rudimentary of instructions. Miss Pinto had manhandled her into position on more than one occasion, pulling at her arms, adjusting her footing until she posed, just so. It had taken Sophie two weeks to master her own center of gravity, and the difference it had made to her had been remarkable, affecting her every move, her balance more pronounced, a heightened consciousness of her body and the space it occupied in this life. It seemed to settle her mind too, even on those mornings when she woke filled with all the worries of the world.

  Sophie pressed her palms to her face, passed them down over her body and brought them to rest at her sides. As she opened her eyes, she became aware of a warm sensation below her sacrum. Instinctively she stepped back, a thin trickle of water seeping to the parched ground from her bare foot. She stared down at it, confused, clutched the sari between her legs and said oh, before looking up and noticing that the other girls had fallen silent, watching her. Miss Pinto clapped her hands briskly.

  “Breakfast,” she said, shooing her class away. As they dispersed, she took Sophie by the arm, holding her hand. “Come,” she said softly. “Let us go and make you comfortable.”

  • • •

  In the night, Sophie had known that her baby was coming. It had been so still, filling her completely, her body tight like a drum. She had held her breath, waiting for the stitch to pass, hoping that it would stop, wishing she could make time stand still. She could not give birth. She did not want to feel the terrible things that she had heard through the thick walls. It would be too much for her. She would never be able to tolerate the pain. It would not be like the beatings. They had been easy to bear, coming suddenly out of nowhere and over with quickly, each blow a short, sharp shock against which she would grit her teeth. She would count them off in her head, rarely passing ten, and would then be left alone as the pain gave way to a dull ache. Something had always ached, and she had become used to the sensation of bruised tenderness in unexpected places. It had been her constant, lonely companion, aching bones, darkened patches on her skin that moved from lilac and mauve to green then pale yellow. The beatings she could take. The birth of this baby she could not. She was afraid of the pain, not wanting to go to that place where she knew she must. It was unthinkable that such a thing could pass through her body without ripping her apart. She had cried in the night, such was her fear.

  If she stayed quiet, perhaps the baby would remain there. She was too young, too unprepared. And then she knew. She knew that this was the seat of her mother’s fury, the reason why she looked at her the way she did, anger unchecked, hands flying. How could you feel anything but resentment after being put through this agony? What punishment was this to endure for giving the gift of life? It should not be this way, a baby causing its mother so much suffering before they had laid eyes upon each other. It was too great a sacrifice, too much to ask just for the privilege of being born.

  And she had made her mother suffer indeed, Sophie knew; she had been told often enough that she was not worth the pain she had caused. It was something that she would never be able to make up to her, and she could never expect her mother’s forgiveness. Nobody could be absolved for such a wrongdoing, the ruination of one woman’s life for the sake of another. Her mother had told her that she too would have to go through what she had, that the day would come when she would know what it was like to have her innards torn out. It would be her comeuppance and would wipe that smile off her face and give her something to think about. Her life would be over and she would have to submit to an existence of servitude and drudgery, for nobody would ever care about her again, because nobody cared about mothers. Then she would learn what it was to be a woman, and she need not expect any help from her mother, because she had already raised a child and she would not do it again.

  The hours drew out until they felt like days. How much longer? She heard her own voice as if from a distant room. How much longer will this go on? I can’t. I can’t.

  If only he were here with her now, he would know what to do. He would hold her hands and look into her eyes and she would find all the strength she needed in that infinite gaze of tourmaline green and she would feel no pain. He would hold her close and whisper words of comfort to her, and while he held her, their child would come into the world without pain or fear, emerging from them both, appearing in their arms as though they were one.

  Sophie felt herself detach from the world, set adrift. Her eyes remained closed, her body not hers any more, emitting sounds she did not recognize. She breathed deeply, two, three, four, five, six, and exhale. Thoughts rushed in and out of her head. Water, air, the sky inside her, the fields of poppies in June. And fire, oh the fire, burning like a furnace. Her body was aflame. She tried to block it out, holding herself in a faraway place as the fire raged. Sounds circled around her, a deep cracking, like ice giving way on a frozen lake, a deep-throated glacial groan opening out like a crevasse.

  “Good girl!” Ruth shouted, holding her hands as Sophie leaned forward, hair soaked with perspiration, and pushed with all her might.

  • • •

  “It will help if you feed him,” Ruth said gently. “But you don’t have to. We can take him and feed him fo
r you if that is what you want, but it would be better for you and the baby if you feed him yourself.” Sophie didn’t reply, lost in awe at the infant in her arms. She opened the front of her nightdress and slid him inside. “That’s it,” Ruth said. “Just relax. He’ll know what to do.” Sophie smarted for a moment as the baby latched on to her breast. Her eyes darted to Ruth. “It’s all right.” Ruth smiled and put a hand on her arm. “Strong little things, aren’t they?” Sophie nodded. “He will be well nourished and content if you let him feed whenever he wants to.”

  Sophie lay back on the pillows, feeling a warmth spreading through her, a soporific sensation enveloping her as she watched him at her breast. His tiny hand came to her flesh, and he murmured softly.

  “His father’s name is Jagaan Ramakrishnan,” she said. Ruth turned away, as though she had not heard, and tidied the few things on the small linen chest. “We wanted to be together, but my parents would never have allowed it. They found out about us, and it was terrible.” Sophie’s finger wandered to her baby’s hand and he clasped it tightly. “If he hadn’t been Indian, we would have been married by now, because that’s what would have happened, isn’t it? Everyone would have insisted that we marry straight away, if he had been white.” Ruth sighed a little and nodded. Sophie swallowed hard. “It’s not fair.”

  “No, dear, it isn’t.”

  “He doesn’t know about the baby.”

  Ruth came back to the bed and took her Sophie’s hand. “It’s for the best, dear.”

  Sophie felt the heat in her face, the ache behind her eyes. “How can it be for the best?” She looked at Ruth. “They won’t let me keep him, but what about his father? What if he were to come and take him? What then?”