Danger at Dahlkari

by Jennifer Wilde

  “We go,” the man said.

  He pointed toward the horse, and then fastened strong brown fingers around my wrist. Still nervous, I tried to pull back. He gave my wrist a savage tug, causing me to stumble forward, and it was then that Sally flew at him with balled fists, pounding viciously at his chest. The man sighed heavily and gave her a shove, brushing her away as he might have a bothersome gnat. Sally stumbled and fell to the sand on her backside, giving an outraged yell. Ignoring her, he pulled me across the sand to the horse and then lifted me up, swinging me into the saddle with no effort whatsoever, as though I were weightless. Returning to Sally, he pulled her to her feet, and when she tried to hit him again he swung her up over his shoulder like a sack of feed. She kicked and struggled and pounded at his back with her fists, but his face remained utterly impassive as he sauntered back over to the horse.

  “Unhand me, you brute!” Sally yelled. I began to suspect that she had not only discovered my cache of novels but had read them as well.

  The man deposited Sally up on the horse behind me, showing no emotion when she seized a handful of raven hair and began to pull it violently. He reached up, caught hold of her wrist and freed himself, giving her a look that caused her to be still instantly. Emitting a little sob, she placed her arms around my waist and held on for dear life. The man sauntered back to the place where we had been standing and kicked at the bag of fruit with the toe of his boot, frowning when the red and brownish-orange balls rolled out. He picked up one of the leaf parasols and brought it over to me, indicating that it should serve for both of us, and then, taking the reins in his hand, he began to lead the horse over the sand, heading east.

  The parasol was large enough to shield both of us from the sun. I held it over my shoulder, holding on to the saddle horn with my free hand. I had clung to the precious canteen throughout all this, and I slung it back over the saddle horn now, feeling it would be wiser to wait awhile before we drank more. I could feel Sally relaxing, her grip not as tense as it had been before.

  “I just know he’s got something dreadful in store for us,” she remarked after a while.

  “Nonsense.”

  “Rape,” she said chattily. “One of the girls at the orphanage—this was years ago—she was raped, and she said the best thing to do is just relax and enjoy it.” I could tell the minx was beginning to warm to the idea. “Of course, he might be a white slaver,” she continued. “We might end up in some dreadful house!”

  “I do wish you’d hush, Sally.”

  “It is rather exciting,” she admitted, “and I must say riding on the back of this splendid horse beats trudging over the sand. My poor feet! Do you really think he’ll take us to Dahlkari, Miss Lauren?”

  “I feel sure he will. He knows Reggie will give him a large amount of money for rescuing us.”

  “You’re probably right,” Sally agreed, sounding almost disappointed. “This has been quite a day. At least I’ll have something to tell my grandchildren. Not that they’ll believe it. Who would? It’s like something out of one of those books you were always reading on the sly.”

  “So you did find them?”

  “’Course I did. Read a couple of ’em, too. They were a lot more interesting than those dreary foreign things you read the rest of the time. I couldn’t make head nor tails of those.”

  Sally was her old cheerful self again, and I felt my own spirits rising. It had indeed been an incredible day, but things were definitely looking up now. Our guide was fierce and sullen, but at least he hadn’t whipped out a yellow scarf and strangled us. He knew that the English soldier McAllister would give him many rupees, and I felt confident that his desire for the reward would make him think twice about doing anything uncivilized. He did look quite capable of rape, but, after all, Sally and I were English.

  The hood of his burnoose pulled up over his head, the native moved at a steady pace, leading horse and riders over the burning sand and showing no sign of weariness. An hour passed, then another, the sun beginning to move gradually west, the rays not quite so intense now, the hard blue sky softening to blue-gray. Sally and I drank more water, almost emptying the canteen. Both of us were ravenously hungry, and I wished our guide hadn’t been so disdainful of the fruit. Hot, hungry, weary and worn, both of us grew silent, although Sally made an occasional comment about her backside. She was certain it had been bruised when that vicious brute had knocked her down, and bouncing up and down on the back of the horse didn’t help a bit. The sky had taken on a pale violet hue and deep crimson banners were beginning to smear the horizon when our native guide turned the horse toward the jungle and, reaching its edge, stopped and indicated that we should dismount.

  Sally slipped off the horse with considerable alacrity, rubbing her posterior with both hands as soon as she was on the ground. I thought I saw a smile play on the native’s lips, although it might have been a grimace. He reached up and took my hand, helping me dismount, and, bone-weary, I was grateful for the assistance. I noticed again how very tall he was, how strong and powerful that lean, muscular body was. He made me feel exceedingly vulnerable, exceedingly feminine, and I was horrified by the realization. The man was a native, a brutal rogue if not an out-and-out villain, and I suddenly realized that he looked exactly like one of those wildly unprincipled gypsy-vagabond-highwaymen who swaggered through the pages of the romantic novels I had consumed so avidly. Certainly not handsome, the man had a ruthless virility and a raw, primitive magnetism that was much more powerful than good looks could possibly have been. I was shocked at myself for even noticing it.

  “What now?” Sally said grumpily, still rubbing briskly.

  “I suppose we’ll make camp for the night,” I told her.

  “In the jungle? With all those cobras and jackals?”

  “I—I imagine it’ll be safer. The Thugs might return, Sally. We mustn’t forget that.”

  “I haven’t,” she said, serious now. “All the time we were bouncing along I kept my eyes peeled. Truth to tell, I feel a bit safer with Laughing Boy here at our side. I fancy he could take on any number of Thugs with his bare hands. They wouldn’t send back more than two or three to—to tidy things up, and, if worse came to worse, I’d put my money on Chuckles. He is grim, isn’t he?”

  “Rather,” I agreed.

  “Regular barrel of laughs. I’m still not convinced he isn’t planning something perfectly foul—he certainly looks the type. Sure, he wants the gold he’ll get for rescuing us, but his unbridled lust might be stronger than his greed.” There was a wistful note in her voice.

  “You’re outrageous, Sally.”

  “I know men,” she retorted.

  Taking the reins again, the tall native motioned for us to follow him and led the horse into the jungle. It was denser here than it had been near the campsite last night, and there was no visible pathway, but our guide moved briskly and with great confidence, obviously very familiar with this particular area. Sally and I trudged along behind him, frequently stumbling, thorny shrubs and low-hanging branches making it an obstacle course. Although it was rapidly fading, there was still plenty of light. Monkeys chattered noisily overhead, swinging from tree to tree, and the birds were shrill. Complaining vociferously, Sally freed a lock of hair from a branch, kicked a rock out of her way and made highly unflattering remarks about our leader.

  “Slow down, you rogue! What is this, a five-mile sprint? Watch that branch, Miss Lauren. I’m a game girl, but enough is enough! I might as well save my breath,” she groaned. “He’s a thoroughly heartless brute any way you look at it.”

  We finally stumbled into a tiny clearing in the middle of the jungle, not even as large as the one with the idol had been. Limbs stretching overhead formed a rustling ceiling, tree trunks and flowering vines closing in on every side. I could hear a pleasant gurgling noise in the distance, the sound of running water, and realized there must be a stream. The native motioned for us to remain here and then, pushing back a curtain of vines covered with scarl
et flowers, led the horse out of the clearing and toward the sound of water. Sally and I crumpled to the ground. It was surprisingly soft and spongy, covered with a mossy grass. It was sheer paradise to be off our feet.

  Both of us were too weary to talk. Sally looked like a battered doll with brassy hair and nervous, exhausted features, a smudge of dirt on her cheek. Her once bright yellow dress was in deplorable condition, covered with dirt and stains, the bodice ripped. My own white muslin was in an even worse state, the skirt torn in several places, one sleeve hanging down sadly. A few fading rays of sunlight streamed through the rustling leaves to make flickering pools on the grass, and to the monkeys peering at us from the trees we must have looked like two ragged nymphs. It seemed an eternity ago since we had left Delhi, I thought. I leaned back on the grass, closing my eyes, and when I opened them the clearing was brushed with hazy silver, shadows spreading over the ground.

  Sally was still fast asleep. I had no idea how much time had passed. It was cool now, much cooler than it had been the night before. I shivered, wondering where our guide was. The jungle was silent, the monkeys asleep, the birds still, faint rustles and crackles only intensifying the silence. Sally groaned in her sleep and turned over on her side, her head cradled on her arms. Stiff and sore, my bones aching, I stood up and stretched, beginning to grow alarmed. Where was the native? What had happened to him? Surely … surely he wouldn’t abandon us?

  It was then that the curtain of flowering vines parted and the native stepped into the clearing, the carcass of some small animal slung over his shoulder. I gave a little cry, startled, and he shook his head to indicate I shouldn’t be afraid. I wondered where the horse was. He had probably left it tethered nearby after feeding and watering it, I reasoned. He slung the animal to the ground, squatted and took out a long, sharp knife that gleamed in the moonlight. Ignoring me completely, he began to skin the animal, and I turned away, repulsed by the grisly sight. I had no idea what kind of animal he had killed, and it was probably best that I didn’t. At least we were going to eat tonight, and at the moment I would welcome anything.

  Animal skinned and spread out on some leaves, the man used his knife to dig a small hole in the ground. He circled it with stones, filled it with wood and then thrust two Y-shaped sticks in the ground, on one either side of the hole. Reaching inside his robe, he withdrew a flint, and in a moment the fire was burning pleasantly, bright orange flames driving the moonlight away and filling the clearing with dancing shadows. Spearing the remains of the animal on a long stick, he placed it across the fire, letting the homemade spit rest on the two upright sticks. Flames licked at the meat, and soon grease was dripping and popping and the meat crackled as he squatted beside the fire and turned the spit. He had not looked at me once. I might not even have been there.

  Sally awoke with a start, sitting up abruptly.

  “Is that meat?” she exclaimed.

  “Of sorts,” I said.

  “I was having this glorious dream—I was dreaming of a fat roast pig, all pink and juicy, stretched out on a platter with an apple in its mouth. It was so real I could smell it. What’s he cooking?”

  “I don’t know, but I doubt that it’s pig.”

  Whatever it was, it was absolutely delicious. When the meat was done the native cut it into sections, placed the sections on leaves and handed Sally and I each a serving. Then, squatting on the other side of the fire, he took a meaty joint between his two hands and began to eat with considerable relish. Sally and I exchanged glances, and then, shrugging, she took up her section and imitated the native, as did I. Sitting with our legs folded under us, skirts spread out, we ate in a most undignified manner. We each had a second helping and finally, tossing the last bone into the jungle, wiped our hands on our skirts and drank from the canteen the native tossed over to us.

  “It was probably jackal or something,” Sally said thoughtfully, “but I’ve never enjoyed a meal more.”

  “Nor have I.”

  “We—we’ve been very lucky, Miss Lauren.”

  “I know that.”

  “I keep thinking of—what happened, can’t help myself. I keep thinking of Ahmed, that poor, beautiful boy.” She paused for a long moment, peering into the low-burning flames. “We—we just missed them, Miss Lauren. They’d been in that clearing with that horrible idol, perhaps just moments before we arrived. They slipped through the jungle another way, moving toward the campsite as we entered the clearing. If—if they’d gone by way of the path we took they’d have run right into us.”

  I nodded, trying not to shudder.

  “It’s a wonder they didn’t hear us crashing through the jungle,” Sally continued. “Some special providence was looking out for us. We had a very close call. I’ll be so glad when this night’s over.” She glanced around at the dark, encroaching jungle. “The way I figure, I figure if they don’t come back by tonight, they won’t come back at all.”

  Our guide stood up abruptly and stepped toward the curtain of vines, lifting them and disappearing. I could hear the horse neighing nearby, hear his voice low and melodic as he soothed the animal. He returned a moment later with two rather mothy looking blankets he’d taken out of the saddle bags. Dropping them in front of us, he moved to the other side of the clearing and stretched out on the ground to sleep. Sally and I examined the blankets with dubious expressions.

  “Probably full of fleas,” she remarked, “but they’re better than nothing, I suppose. It’s already chilly, and the fire’s almost burned down. I don’t fancy I’ll be able to sleep much.”

  “We might as well try,” I told her.

  The night air was indeed chilly, and the blankets were snug and warm, smelling of horseflesh and leather and perspiration. The jungle was still, so still I could hear the soft buzz of the insects and the sound of the stream. The fire was a heap of glowing dark orange coals, gradually dimming, dark shadows spreading over the clearing like heavy black veils. The moonlight was thin, only a few pale rays sifting through the treetops, emphasizing the darkness. I could barely make out the form of the native stretched out across the way, his burnoose a faint blur in the dense darkness. I tried to sleep, but it was a futile endeavor. I kept listening for the sound of stealthy footsteps. At least an hour passed, perhaps two, and still I was wide awake.

  “You can’t sleep either,” Sally whispered.

  I gave a little jerk, so startled that I almost cried out.

  “You’re a bundle of nerves, just like me,” she said. “I’ve been tossing and turning for hours—this mothy old blanket doesn’t help, nor does this lumpy ground.”

  There was more moonlight now, or perhaps my eyes had just grown accustomed to the dark. The fire had completely burned out, and there were shifting pools of pale silver on the ground, shadows moving as a very faint breeze caused leaf and limb to sway gently. It must be well after midnight by now, I thought, wishing the night were over. Faced with stark, shattering reality Sally and I had both acted with admirable calm, but now, in the dead of night, in the middle of a silent, menacing jungle, our nerves were taut, both of us on edge.

  “It’s the not knowing,” she said. “I keep—waiting, not knowing if they’ll come or not.”

  “Perhaps those five men never mentioned us.”

  “Perhaps not, but if they did, those fiends will know for sure the bodies of two English girls weren’t thrown into that grave. They couldn’t afford to let us live.”

  “There was no sign of of them all day long. Perhaps—”

  “The men might not have mentioned us until say, lunchtime. They would have sent someone back for us immediately, and it would take them at least half a day to come back and find us. That—that’s why I’m so nervous tonight. This would be about the right time.”

  “Let’s don’t talk about it, Sally. Let’s—try to forget it.”

  “I only wish I could.”

  “The native looks very capable. He—”

  I cut myself short. Sally gripped my arm. Both of
us heard the noise at the same time. A twig had snapped in the jungle, snapped loudly. In the silence the noise was almost like a gunshot. There was a rustling sound now, as though someone were pushing aside a branch. Sally and I both stood up, tense and alert. The native sprang to his feet. He stood very still, listening, peering into the jungle, and then he turned to look at us. The clearing was bathed with a faint, pale silver now as the moon came out from behind a bank of clouds, thin, luminous beams streaming through the leafy canopy above. I could see him clearly, see his grim expression, his tight, resolute mouth.

  “He—he heard it, too,” Sally said.

  The native put his finger to his lips, warning us to be silent, and then he moved across the clearing and disappeared into the jungle, seemed to melt into it as if by magic, making not a sound.

  “It’s them,” Sally said. Her voice was flat.

  “Perhaps it was just—just some animal.”

  “It wasn’t. It’s them. I can feel it in my bones.”

  Several long minutes passed. I wondered why I was so calm. I should have been trembling with fear, my pulses leaping, my knees weak, yet I felt none of the things I should have felt. It was as though I had no feeling whatsoever. I stood motionless, hardly breathing, cold, so very cold, and I was as calm and clear-headed as I had ever been in my life. Sally was motionless, too, a hard, determined expression on her face. The jungle was still, silent but for the faint rustle of stiff leaves and the pleasant gurgle of the stream. Perhaps we had been mistaken. Perhaps it had merely been some animal after all.

  Then we heard the cry and the sound of scuffling.

  It was difficult to tell where it came from, near or far, in front or behind. There was a violent thrashing of leaves, the loud, popping crackle of branches snapping, footsteps shuffling, a dull thud as something heavy hit the ground. Two men were in mortal combat, each fighting for his life, a loud groan now, another crash. After a long, tense moment of silence there was a shrill, piercing scream that ended in a hideous gurgling sound, then another, louder thud. Was it the tall native? Had he been strangled to death by one of those deadly yellow rumals? Was the Thug even now on his way to the clearing?