“No, he’s only recently come back to India. He’s spent the last century out in the Far East.”
“So doesn’t it make sense he’d base himself somewhere he knew?” John was turning over the maps quicker and quicker.
“A place that existed back then?”
“Yes.” John stopped at one of the maps, leaning over it to read the faint copperplate calligraphy. “We need to compare a map from the 1850s with ours. We need a map of old Calcutta, not modern Kolkata. Find out which locations appear on both.”
Ash quickly unfolded the modern map they’d been using. They’d marked all the one hundred and fifty potential locations on it with red felt pen. Only half had been checked so far.
“We want this one,” said John.
The map he held had been printed in 1849. Calcutta was a fraction of its present size then, but Ash recognised the snaking path of the Hooghly River, the octagonal Fort William, the neatly arranged Botanical Gardens and the main Kali Temple. Palaces of local rulers were also outlined, as were the various military compounds that housed the East India Company’s troops, there to keep an eye on their mercantile and political interests.
The maps had been drawn to different scales, and the earlier one lacked the satellite accuracy of the modern one Ash had, but by using the river, the fort and the temple as reference points, they could quickly tick off which locations were common to both. Some had already been checked, others dismissed as blatantly inappropriate for Savage, being too public and exposed. But there was one…
“The cantonment.” Ash pointed to a large rectangle on the outskirts of the city. “Here.”
The word ‘cantonment’ was still used in India for a large, enclosed compound. It usually referred to civil servant accommodations, with offices and facilities like hospitals and shops within the walls. A city within a city, originally set up by foreign armies to house their troops.
“It’s isolated, large, and judging by the main building, suitably palatial,” said Ash.
“Perfect for Savage, don’t you think?” John couldn’t help but smile.
“Totally.” Ash checked his wallet. The map wasn’t cheap, but he had enough. “Let’s get this and take it to the others.”
“Don’t you think we should check the cantonment out first?” said John. “If we go in loud and noisy, Savage will just run away and we’re back to the beginning. Anyway, this is only an idea. He may not be there. Let’s just snoop and make sure.”
What better way to make it up with Parvati than to find Savage? Ash grinned. “You’ve changed a lot, John.”
John looked at him. “I just follow your example.”
he last time Ash had visited India, it had been during the height of summer. He’d spent the days dripping in sweat, living in an oven. The rivers had been dry and the landscape a sea of bone-white dust. But now – after the monsoons – the countryside overflowed with life. Tall fields of green grass swayed at the roadsides and the trees were hung with sagging vines bearing massive, polished leaves.
John and Ash sat in the back of a motor rickshaw. The three-wheeled cross between a scooter and a taxi zipped in and out of traffic, taking them away from Kolkata across the Howrah Bridge. That massive cathedral of steel, seven hundred metres long and thirty metres wide, was the main crossing over the Hooghly River. Gigantic steel arches, pummelled with fist-sized rivets, stretched across from one bank to the other. It reminded Ash that when India did something, it did it supersized.
The entire frame crawled with traffic, wheeled and on foot, motorised and bullock- or donkey-driven. It felt as if the entire city was on the move. Stall owners offering snacks and drinks and trinkets lined the railings, some perilously perched on the beams above, crying out for customers. Kids weaved between the gridlocked cars, selling newspapers and cigarettes. Ash and John’s rickshaw joined this sluggish river of life and machinery until they finally broke free of the city into the surrounding countryside. Night was falling, and cloying smells rose from the blooming flowers, filling the air along with musk and whining insects.
“The cantonment, sahib,” said the rickshaw driver.
The rickshaw’s single bright headlamp lit a path across a thicket to a cracked, vine-covered wall. The original plaster had long since crumbled away and was covered in plant growth and moss, creating a curtain of green. Tree roots broke up the short drive to the front gates, which themselves were rusty iron and bound with ivy.
Ash jumped out and approached the gates. He pulled out a small torch and shone it through the gap in the railings. The light didn’t reach far, but he could make out a row of derelict bungalows, almost lost within the overgrowth. Trees rose and spread over the central path, overwhelming it in darkness. Cicadas chirped their nightly songs from the trees and bushes.
John tugged at the gates. They were held fast by the vines. The place looked like it hadn’t been used in a century. It might have once been all neat lawns and cosy verandas, but now the jungle had reclaimed it, quashing all signs of civilisation under a sea of tangled roots and leaves.
Ash looked up and down the long wall. No lights, no signs of anything or anyone.
“I don’t think this is the place,” he said. There was nothing here but jungle and insects.
“There could be another way in,” said John. He tested one of the thick vines clinging to the wall. “We could get over easily. If you’re up for it.”
“Shall we go back, sahib?” The rickshaw driver was already wheeling his vehicle round.
“We’ve come all the way out here,” said John. “We might as well take a look.”
“You wait here,” said Ash as he handed the driver a fistful of rupees. The man looked at them, clearly confused about why they’d want to be out here at this time of night, then shrugged, switched off his engine. He held up both hands.
“Ten minutes, no more,” he said.
“Fine. Ten minutes.” That should be more than enough time for a snoop around.
John put one foot up and swiftly climbed to the top of the wall. “Come on,” he said.
Ash took hold of a sticky, sap-coated vine and a few moments later crossed over the wall and dropped down into the darkness within the compound.
They hid among the tall grass, watching and listening. The nearest bungalow was about fifteen metres away, now half submerged under heavy leaves and tree roots.
And then Ash saw someone.
The figure was resting his hand on his chin, looking at something on the ground. All Ash could see was the moonlight shining on his curved back. Ash put his finger to his lips and waved that John should wait where he was.
In spite of the grass, Ash made no more noise than a faint breeze. He put one foot softly down in the lush, damp earth, waiting for it to absorb any sound before moving the other foot. The bamboo kept him hidden in deep shadow.
Ash blinked, drawing up his dark powers. He would use Marma Adi to knock the person out. All he needed was to search the golden marks on the man for something non-fatal. But he couldn’t see anything on the dark figure, and certainly no golden map of death.
What was wrong?
He stepped out of the bamboo, now less than ten feet away from the man. The guy hadn’t moved.
Ash paused, digging deeper into the swirling energies within the pit of his soul. Raw, intense energy surged through him, but the glimmering lights did not appear.
It didn’t matter. He’d punch the guy in the back of the head. Definitely knock him out and hopefully keep brain damage to a minimum.
Ash was right behind the man. He pulled back his fist and swung.
Then he screamed and hopped back, shaking his pulsing arm. He cradled his hand, groaning as pain filled it with fire.
John ran up. “What’s wrong?”
Ash kicked the unmoving man. “It’s a bloody statue!”
And not just any statue, but a life-sized copy of The Thinker by Rodin. He should have recognised it.
Now that Ash looked around, he noti
ced that there were dozens of statues scattered everywhere. Some were hidden by moss or entangled by vines and ivy; others just lay fallen on the ground. It looked like someone had emptied out an art gallery or a museum and dumped the statues here.
John pulled some loose vine off a rusty statue of Shiva. The statue’s face and body were pockmarked by years in the rain.
“You crying?” asked John.
“So would you if you’d just punched solid bronze.” Ash carefully unflexed his fingers, hoping he hadn’t broken them. More tears sprang from his eyes. It really, really hurt.
They walked towards the first bungalow. Creepers reached from the trees to the roof like green flags, and large moths flitted in the night sky. The mustiness of the cantonment smothered Ash.
“Creepy, aren’t they,” said John, poking one of the statues with a stick.
Yes, they are, Ash thought. They were from all parts of the world, some classical Greek, most Indian, some modern, many ancient. Most were copies of copies, a few sculpted with care and art, others crudely thrown together and misshapen. Ash couldn’t shake the feeling that he was walking among the dead. Lifeless, empty eyes gazed at nothing, their forms frozen and slowly decaying. There were hundreds of them. It was worse than the graveyard.
The bungalow was uninhabitable. The wood was warped and rotten all the way through. The veranda seat creaked, and a couple of lizards scurried across the wicker chairs.
“Hasn’t been used in decades,” said Ash. He stopped at a notice board on the main street. There was a poster, yellow and streaked, advertising a hymn recital on March 13, 1941, with tea afterwards, organised by Lady Middleton. There was also a small card referring to a missing cat called Gladstone and a list of the army’s cricket fixtures for the summer.
This is time travel, Ash thought. OK, not in a blue police box or through some wormhole in space, but he could feel what this place must have been like when the British had been here. They’d made the cantonment a small piece of England, with tea parties on the lawn and Sundays with the vicar. They came all the way here and brought all their Surrey entitlements with them. They’d made sure India was kept out, beyond the gates.
Now look at it. Moth-eaten furniture and rotten, crumbling bungalows, their prim English gardens turned into swampy jungle.
He and John moved further into the compound. The statues filled the paths and lurked in the lush greenery, some so covered in vines they looked like they could have been dryads, tree spirits.
Ash, hands on hips, looked up and down the crossroads. More bungalows on either side, with a parade ground ahead. “Let’s look over there.” If they couldn’t find anything, they’d head back before their ten minutes were up and the rickshaw driver left.
The parade ground was surrounded on two sides by office buildings, with a derelict but still magnificent hall at the head, a strange hybrid of English mansion and Indian palace with domes and battlements and towers. But the jungle surrounded it, a green giant stretching out its fingers of moss and bark, its many arms hugging the broken roof. Tall mangrove trees spilled their massive roots through windows and ran like monstrous tentacles over the walls.
Ash stepped on to the open parade ground.
What’s wrong with this picture?
He bent down and inspected the grass along the edge. The stalks were ragged, but when he touched them, he felt a clean diagonal tip.
“Someone’s cut the grass,” he said.
It could be something, or it could be nothing. He looked at the statues gathered round the perimeter of the field. One, a replica of David, caught his attention. It had been made well, but something wasn’t right. The grass all round it had been trodden on, he realised, great areas flattened as though an army had marched over it.
But where was the army? There was nothing here but statues.
“This is pointless,” said Ash. “Let’s go.”
“No. Let’s look around a bit more. Be sure.”
“You really have changed, John. You weren’t like this at the Lalgur.”
“It took guts to help you escape.” John turned his back on him. “And for what?”
“What do you mean?”
“You really don’t remember, do you?” He spoke with cold rage. “We had a deal, Ash.”
“But you escaped! You said you got out.”
“Oh, yes. I did. I got out. I made a whole new bunch of… friends.”
“Who, John?” A chill dread seeped into him.
“Friends who gave me money. Who helped me find my mother. Who still send her a thousand rupees every month.”
“Tell me who these friends are.”
John met his gaze. “What wouldn’t you do to help your family?” He pushed Ash out of his way and retreated towards the line of statues. “I’m not sorry. I want you to know that. I’m not sorry.”
Ash tensed, looking around as John disappeared into the darkness. But there was nothing. He was surrounded by lifeless stone. He glanced again at the statue of David.
Then, the stone grinding loudly in the still night air, David turned his head.
nother statue, fallen down and tied to the earth by thick vines, began to struggle against its bonds. The vines snapped as it pulled free a bronze arm. Its joints creaked as it stood.
One by one, the statues moved. Slowly, as though waking from a long, deep slumber, they shook free the tangling creepers and the rust of decades from their joints. Then they began moving faster. A Chinese stone lion jumped off its pedestal; the trees trembled as it landed. A heavy foot thumped behind Ash, and he tumbled sideways as a six-armed Shiva tried to grab him. Its hands clanged together.
Ash retreated to the main street and stared as dozens of now-living statues lumbered towards him. Where had John gone? What had he done?
The trees creaked. The ground shook violently and a cloud of leather-winged bats burst from their hidden perches within the foliage. Leaves tumbled down and the entire jungle came to life.
Ash looked up in mute horror.
Tree trunks bent, then splintered.
A groaning noise, then crashing, as the trees fell towards him.
And then something began to emerge. Something huge. As it stepped over the broken trunks, its footfalls made the ground buckle.
The statue towered over the forest, twenty-five metres tall, its grey body mottled with moss, weeds growing like veins across its stony flesh. It wore an embroidered and pitted skirt, and bracelets and necklaces were carved round its wrists and neck. The bare torso was sculpted with the lean muscles of a young man. Bats shrouded its head like a dark, chaotic halo. The head was as big as any of the bungalows. The statue raised a truck-sized fist, dust showering from its joints as it curled its huge fingers.
Ash started to run, not even conscious of having given the command to his legs. But he didn’t seem to be getting any further away. The shadow of the giant figure covered him, and the sound of rumbling stone drowned out his own panting breath and pounding heartbeat. His legs seemed sluggish, each step small, insect-like compared to the immense reach of the creature behind him. Was this how he was going to die? Swatted like a fly?
The wind roared as the fist swept down and Ash hurled himself forward. The ground shattered, throwing broken paving slabs, old rocks and large chunks of soil into the air. The shock wave lifted Ash off his feet and he crashed into, and then through, the wall of one of the bungalows. Bits of plaster, wood and mouldy old thatch fell over him as he lay, coughing, head spinning, among the ruins.
Fear – empty, drowning fear – threatened to overwhelm him. The giant statue peered down through gaps in the roof; his fingers, as long and wide as building columns, ripped through the tiles and groped blindly within. Ash bit down hard to stop himself from screaming. The massive fingers broke apart the wooden frame as if it were made of balsa wood.
Run. Just get out of here. Nothing smart, nothing heroic, just run.
Ash shoved the chunks of plaster off and got up into a crouch. He felt sick
, dizzy, frightened.
Outside, the feet of the hundreds of moving statues sounded like distant thunder, a constant rumbling, uneven and gross with threatening violence. The bungalow rocked on its brittle old beams.
A vast, black shadow loomed over him, blocking out all light. The timbers over his head creaked and splintered, and in a long, thunderous wave of tearing and ripping, the roof came off.
The statue peered in, searching for him, his vast head blocking out the sky. It tossed the ragged roof away and reached down with its hand. Ash heaved himself to his feet and scrambled over the broken walls and fallen struts as the statue’s palm, easily three metres wide, flattened the room he’d been in, cracking through the floor and shaking the building’s rotten foundations. The second hand crunched down in front of him, and he slipped over some mossy carpet to stop just before the fingers grabbed him.
The bungalow couldn’t take any more. Walls tottered and fell, and Ash turned just in time to see a support beam swing down. He ducked, but not fast enough. It struck him across the back and he was sent reeling into the corner.
He tried to get up, but a wall of stone encircled him. Ash pushed as trunk-thick fingers closed round him. He tried to scrabble out of the massive hand, but was caught round the legs, waist and chest.
Ash struggled, but what could he do? His powers were useless. This thing wasn’t alive, so it didn’t have glowing points of weakness. The giant statue lifted him out of the bungalow. Stone monkeys leaped upon the thing’s arm and scurried up to perch on its shoulder. A little more pressure and Ash would burst like a grape. The statue straightened, lifting him higher and higher until it held him before its blank eyes. This close, Ash could see the weathered, cracked skin and the centuries of moss that covered its grey flesh. He could do nothing but glare and snarl, “Well? What are you waiting for?”
He’d been stupid and it had got him killed again. But this time there would be no coming back.
But the statue only held him. Why had it gone so quiet?
ASH MISTRY AND THE CITY OF DEATH Page 13
