“Sleeman,” interjected Indiana. “Major William Sleeman.”
“That’s the fellow,” Blumburtt concurred.
“He actually penetrated the cult and apprehended its leaders,” Indy went on. “1830, I believe. Courageous man.”
“You have a marvelous recall of past events.” Chattar Lal spoke with growing interest.
“It’s my trade,” acknowledged Indy.
“Dr. Jones,” the Prime Minister pressed, “you know very well that the Thuggee cult has been dead for nearly a century.”
Bhimhurtt agreed. “Of course they have. The Thuggees were an obscenity that worshipped Kali with human sacrifices. The British army did away with them nicely.”
A second platter was placed on the table by servants: steaming poached boa constrictor, with a garnish of fried ants. One of the servants slit the huge snake down the middle, exposing a mass of squirming, live baby eels inside.
Willie turned quite pale.
The merchant to her left chortled with satisfaction. “Ah! Snake Surprise!”
“What’s the surprise?” Willie drooped. She was distinctly less hungry than she had been.
Indiana was pressing his dialogue with Chattar Lal. “I suppose stories of the Thuggees die hard.” Especially when they had some basis for being perpetuated.
“There are no stories anymore.” The Prime Minister begged to differ.
“Well, I don’t know about that.” Indy shook his head pleasantly. “We came here from a small village, and the peasants there told us that the Pankot Palace was growing powerful again, because of some ancient evil.”
“These stories are just fear and folklore,” Lal sneered.
“But then,” Indy continued, “as I approached the palace, I found a small shrine. It contained a statue of the goddess Kali, the goddess of death, destruction, and chaos.”
Zalim Singh and his prime minister exchanged a glance. Indiana noted the exchange. Chattar Lal composed himself before answering. “Ah, yes. We played there as children. My father always warned me not to let Kali take my Atman, or soul, as you say. But I remember no evil. I only recall the luxury of being young. And the love of my family and pets. Village rumors, Dr. Jones. They’re just fear and folklore. You’re beginning to worry Captain Blumburtt, I expect.” His face was a mask.
“Not worried, Mr. Prime Minister,” denied the jovial Blumburtt. “Just interested.”
Short Round went back to playing with his little monkey friend. He didn’t like this scary conversation. He hoped Huan-t’ien, Supreme Lord of the Dark Heaven, was keeping an eye on things down here.
But as if the talk weren’t bad enough for Willie—human sacrifices, indeed—this food was unbelievable. And just when she was wondering about eating a flower, she looked up to see a servant lean over her shoulder and place a six-inch-long baked black beetle on her plate.
She whimpered quietly as she watched the fat merchant next to her lift a similar shiny, giant, grotesque insect off his dish and crack it in two. At which point he enthusiastically sucked the gooey innards out.
Willie turned even paler. Shimmering lights wiggled in her vision.
The merchant looked at her dubiously. “But you’re not eating!”
She smiled weakly. “I, uh, had bugs for lunch.” Always be polite when dining with a Maharajah.
Meanwhile, the uneasy banter continued near the head of the table.
“You know,” Indiana was saying, “the villagers also claimed that Pankot Palace took something from them.”
“Dr. Jones.” Chattar Lal’s voice had become thick. “In our country a guest does not usually insult his host.”
“Sorry,” said Indiana. “I thought we were just talking about folklore.” He kept his tone innocent, conversational, but his insinuations were clear to the people who feared them.
“What was it they claimed was stolen?” asked Blumburtt officiously. Thievery: now that was a different matter; that fell squarely within his purview.
“A sacred rock,” said Indiana.
“Ha!” barked the Prime Minister. “There, you see, Captain—a rock!”
They all laughed uncomfortably.
Willie could concentrate only on the sight and sound of a dozen dinner guests breaking open these horrible mammoth beetles, then sucking out the insides. She leaned over to Short Round, who was teaching baseball signs to the monkey.
“Give me your hat,” she rasped.
“What for?” he asked suspiciously.
“I’m going to puke in it.”
A servant came forward to her side to offer assistance. Willie smiled at him as well as she could; she was nothing if not a trouper. “Listen, do you have something, you know, simple—like soup, or something?”
The servant bowed, left, and returned almost immediately with a covered bowl. He placed it in front of her, removed the cover. It was soup. Some kind of chicken base, it smelled like. With a dozen eyeballs floating in it.
The merchant nodded approvingly at Willie’s choice. “Looks delicious!” he exclaimed.
Tears began to run down Willie’s cheeks.
Indiana was still pushing Chattar Lal. “I was dubious myself, at first. Then something connected: the village’s rock and the old legend of the Sankara Stone.”
Chattar Lal was obviously having difficulty controlling his anger. “Dr. Jones, we are all vulnerable to vicious rumors. I seem to remember that in Honduras you were accused of being a graverobber rather than an archaeologist.”
Indy shrugged. “The newspapers exaggerated the incident.”
“And didn’t the Sultan of Madagascar threaten to cut your head off if you ever returned to his country?” Chattar Lal suggested.
Indy remembered the Sultan well. “It wasn’t my head,” he mumbled.
“Then your hands, perhaps.” By the gleam in his eye it seemed clear that the Prime Minister knew precisely what body parts had been threatened with extinction.
“No, not my hand,” Indy backed off, a bit embarrassed. “It was my . . . it was my misunderstanding.”
“Exactly what we have here, Dr. Jones.” Lal sat back with a smile. “A misunderstanding.”
The Maharajah suddenly coughed and, for the first time, spoke. “I have heard the terrible stories of the evil Thuggee cult.”
His words silenced the table, as if it were a great surprise for him to offer an opinion about anything.
“I thought the stories were told to frighten children,” he went on. “Later, I learned that the Thuggee cult was once real, and did unspeakable things.” He looked hard at Indiana. “I am ashamed of what happened here so many years ago. We keep these objects—these dolls and idols—to remind us that this will never again happen in my kingdom.” His voice had risen by the end; a fine sweat lined his upper lip.
The room was hushed.
“Have I offended?” Indiana finally said quietly. “Then I am sorry.”
The room breathed again. Servants whisked away the old plates and brought in the new. Conversation resumed. Indy felt both more informed and more ignorant about the situation here.
“Ah,” said the obese merchant beside Willie, “dessert!”
Short Round’s monkey suddenly screeched and tore off through an open window. Willie closed her eyes: she would not look, it would be too gross, she didn’t need this. She heard silverware clattering, though, and people digging in. Ultimately, curiosity prevailed, in conjunction with general lightheadedness; she opened her eyes.
It was instantly too late, though. She couldn’t not see what she saw, and it was infinitely worse than she’d imagined.
Plates full of dead monkey heads.
The tops of the skulls had been cut off, and sat loose, like little lids, atop the scowling heads. Each plate sat on a small serving pedestal down which the long white monkey hair dangled from the little scalps.
Short Round looked shocked. Even Indy and Captain Blumburtt seemed somewhat unsettled, unsure.
Willie watched in utte
r dismay as the Maharajah and his guests removed the skull tops and began dipping small golden spoons into what was inside.
“Chilled monkey brains!” The merchant beside her could scarcely contain his delight.
Willie could scarcely contain anything else. So she dealt with the situation as honorably as she could, and fainted dead away.
“Rather bizarre menu, wouldn’t you say?” Blumburtt remarked to Indiana as they strolled out of the pavilion, through the gardens. Short Round walked alongside. Hundreds of lanterns illuminated the after-dinner hour; the scent of the hookah mingled with the natural fragrances of the garden.
“Even if they were trying to scare us away, a devout Hindu would never touch meat,” Indiana nodded. “Makes you wonder what these people are.”
“Well,” gruffed Blumburtt, “I hardly think they were trying to scare us.”
Indy made a noncommittal expression. “Maybe not.”
“Well, I must be off. Retire the troops and all that. Terribly nice to have met you, Doctor.”
“Same here, Captain.”
They shook hands once more; Blumburtt retreated.
Indy looked down at Shorty. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s see what we can come up with.”
They made their way around to the kitchen. Indy firmly believed that if you really wanted to learn something about a place, you talked to the servants.
A dozen people were back there cleaning up, washing dishes, putting things away. Indy spoke to the man who looked like the cook, but the man remained silent. Indy switched dialects. No response. He approached several others, all with the same results.
He saw a howl of fruit on a sideboard, picked it up, asked if he could eat some. No one seemed to care.
“See, Shorty, it’s just like I always say, you want to know about a household, you ask the help.”
Short Round yawned.
Indy seconded the motion.
One young lady did look like she was winking at Indy—at least that’s what he thought—but an older man immediately ushered her from the room. She left with a motion that Indy seconded even more heartily, a certain subtle motion of the hips that gave him a sudden wistful pang for a certain lady-in-waiting who was recently occupying a few of his thoughts.
He looked at the dour servants bustling about; he looked at the fruit bowl on the table; he looked at Shorty, dozing upright. He decided they all needed to relax a little.
Five minutes later, they were walking down the shadowy corridor to their bedroom. Short Round carried a covered plate, and yawned every ten seconds.
Indy patted him on the head, took the plate from him, stopped at their bedroom door. “Umm, I think I’d better check on Willie,” he told the boy.
“That’s all you better do,” Shorty joked. He backed into their room as Indy continued on down the hall; then whispered loudly: “Tell me later what happen.”
Indy stopped short. “Amscray,” he ordered. Shorty shut the door.
But he opened it a crack, just to watch, just for a minute. This was the beginning of the big love scene, after all, a union with potentially grave import for Short Round.
Just like the great Babe Ruth, Indy was about to score a home run—if he didn’t strike out first.
Nothing would go wrong, though. Shorty was increasingly convinced that Indy and Willie were, in fact, the legendary lovers Hsienpo and Ying-t’ai, descended from the sky. Originally, they’d died in each other’s arms, whereupon the Jade Emperor had sent them to live in all rainbows, Hsienpo being the red, Ying-t’ai the blue. And weren’t Willie’s eyes just that shade of blue? And didn’t Indy’s contain that reddish tinge? So now hadn’t they obviously returned to join once more on earth and claim Short Round as the violet product of their fusion?
Short Round felt certain that they had.
For weren’t his own brown eyes flecked with violet?
He could hardly keep his violet-flecked eyes open now, he was so sleepy. It made him wonder if Willie, like The Shadow, had the power to cloud men’s minds. But Shorty would not sleep yet; he would at least witness the first coy twinings of this mythic pair.
Indy walked a few more steps to Willie’s suite. The door was closed. He was about to knock, when it opened. Willie stood there, still in princess garb, looking mildly startled.
“My, what a surprise,” she said.
“I’ve got something for you.” Indy spoke from his throat. He was trying to be suave, though his face wasn’t entirely in control.
“There’s nothing you have that I could possibly want.” She said it to tease, but even as she said it she knew she didn’t really mean it.
“Right,” nodded Indy. No point in sticking around where you weren’t wanted. He turned to go, pulling an apple out from under the covered tray he carried. He bit down on it. Willie heard the crunch.
She grabbed the apple from him and took a bite. Apple never tasted so good. She closed her eyes, savoring the tart juices, the crisp texture. Heaven. As she opened her eyes, he took the cover off the tray, holding it up to her: bananas, oranges, pomegranates, figs, grapes.
Willie gasped. She took the tray into her room. He followed.
Short Round smiled wisely and went to bed.
Jones wasn’t such a bad guy, really, Willie mused, if he were only a little less conceited. He had helped her out, though, and people did seem to have heard of him, so maybe he was actually sort of famous, and now this divine food, and you know, really he was very cute, and here they were thousands of miles from a radio or a car . . .
She stuffed a few more grapes in her mouth and smiled at him, standing there like a busboy in the doorway. If driving fast cars you like, If low bars you like, If old hymns you like, If bare limbs you like . . . She rolled up her sleeves and peeled a banana. If Mae West you like, Or me undressed you like, Why, nobody will oppose . . .
He smiled back at her. The desperate girl. She obviously wanted him badly. Well, he didn’t mind. She had what it took, and he certainly wouldn’t refuse a little pick-me-up. He inched a step toward her.
“You’re a nice man,” she purred. “You could be my palace slave.”
In fact, she’d been looking better each day. Gave him that old funny flutter to watch her now. “You wearing your jewels to bed, princess?”
“Yeah, and nothing else,” she countered. “That shock you?” Anything goes.
“No.” He moved up to her. “Nothing shocks me. I’m a scientist.” He took the apple from her, chomped down on a mouthful.
“So,” she said, “as a scientist, do you do a lot of research?”
“Always,” he intimated.
“Oh, you mean like what kind of cream I put on my face at night, what position I like to sleep in, how I look in the morning?” This was getting kind of randy; she hoped he made his move soon.
Indy nodded as if he’d heard her thoughts. “Mating customs.”
“Love rituals.”
“Primitive sexual practices.”
“So you’re an authority in that area,” she concluded, untying his tie. He was looking better all the time.
“Years of fieldwork,” he admitted. Love in the tropics.
They kissed. Long, soft; controlled, but picking up speed.
They came up for air. “I don’t blame you for being sore at me,” she half-apologized. “I can be a real handful.”
“I’ve had worse,” he replied with noblesse oblige.
“You’ll never have better,” she promised.
“I don’t know,” he smirked, starting to close her door behind him. “As a scientist I hate to prejudice my experiment. I’ll let you know in the morning.”
Experiment! she thought, turning livid. Like I’m his performing rat or something! “What!” she hissed. She would be a lover, with pleasure; she would not be a conquest.
She opened the door he’d just shut. “Why, you conceited ape! I’m not that easy.”
“Neither am I,” he said, puzzled, then riled. “The trouble with y
ou, Willie, is you’re too used to getting your own way.” He stalked out, to his own door across the hall.
“You’re just too proud to admit you’re crazy about me, Dr. Jones.” That was really his problem: he had to be in control all the time, and being passionately in love with her made him feel too vulnerable, too much at her mercy. Well, she would show mercy—if he acted more like a gent.
“Willie, if you want me, you know where to find me.” He stood in the doorway to his suite, trying to sound cool. She’d be around, soon enough.
“Five minutes,” she predicted. “You’ll be back here in five minutes.” He wanted her more than he cared to admit; that was clear. He wouldn’t last long in that state, poor boy.
Indy made a big show of yawning. “Sweetheart, I’ll be asleep in five minutes.” He closed the door.
“Five minutes,” she repeated. “You know it, and I know it.”
Indy opened his door a crack and peeped out, then closed it again. Willie slammed hers like the last word.
Indy stood in his room, leaning with his back against the door. No footfalls outside; no apologies forthcoming. Well, the hell with it. He walked over to his bed and sat down. Really steamed, and with good reason.
Willie marched away from her door, sat on the bed. She sank into the down mattress, muttering grimly. He’d be back. He wasn’t all that smart, but he was a man—and she was a lot of woman. She picked up the clock by the bed and challenged it: “Five minutes.” She took off her robe.
Indy took off his jacket. He glowered at the bedside clock. “Four and a half minutes,” he grunted. Ridiculous. She was a ridiculous woman, this was a ridiculous palace, they were in a ridiculous situation, and he felt simply . . . put-upon.
Willie paced around her lavish suite. She blew out candles, turned down lamps, paused in front of the full-length mirror, began to primp. Her hair was really kind of a mess in all this dampness; could that have been the problem? She wished he hadn’t stormed out quite so abruptly. But he’d be back.
Indy looked in his bureau mirror. So what was wrong with how he looked? Nothing, that’s what. Of course she was a handsome woman, there was no denying that—but that was no reason to expect him to come groveling.
The Adventures Of Indiana Jones Page 26
