Losing Gemma

by Katy Gardner

  I took one restrained step after the other. So, I’d run out of money and lost my ticket home, I told myself slowly, but the fact was that I was British. When I explained what had happened people would help. The world wasn’t bad—at least not for people like me—but basically benign. It was what I’d always believed, and now I repeated it over and over again like a mantra. By tomorrow—or at the very latest, the day after—this whole nightmare would be over. I swatted another mosquito away from my face and turned the final corner. I would go to the first respectable-looking house, I decided, and knock on the door.

  When I reached the bottom of the hill, I stood by the road looking around. The electricity must have failed again for the shops and houses were in darkness and above me a sagging cable fizzed disquietingly. From the trees on the other side of the road I could hear the chant of crickets; somewhere further up the hill a dog was barking. Unable to decide what to do I stepped off the sidewalk. I was unable to think straight, my thoughts skidding in a thousand directions at once. What I needed was some kind of sign, something to point me in the right direction. I glanced up at the sky. For a second all I could see was darkness then suddenly the clouds parted to reveal the large yellow face of the rising moon.

  The shrine. That was where Coral had said she was going to take Gemma. At the time I thought she was talking nonsense, but now, as I stared over the tops of the trees at the star-speckled sky, I suddenly remembered how she had said she would take her there for some kind of cure. “Transformation”: that was the word she had used. What on earth had she meant?

  Turning on my heels I began to run back down the road in the direction of the track leading to Pir Nirulla’s tomb. I told myself even if Gemma wasn’t physically there. I might discover some kind of clue. There was no need to be afraid; I’d been stoned before, that was why I’d found it so creepy. It was just a forest. And now, all I was going to do was run down the track and look for Gem. It would only take half an hour. What did I have to lose?

  Now that the clouds had drifted away the moon shone down with unexpected brilliance, its calm silver light illuminating every stone on the path, the trees and creepers and bushes as vividly as day. I bounded quickly down the hill, my footsteps crunching on the track as the dank foliage buzzed with invisible life. I was surrounded by a croaking, amphibious chant which seemed to rise with intensity with each step I took. I reached the first bend, the path suddenly narrowing and darkening with the shapes of overhanging trees. I was beginning to feel very afraid again, but this seemed like the only alternative left. Swallowing down my growing sense of dread, I turned the corner, brushing foliage and insects from my face. From the surrounding forest came strange cries and barks, the creatures that made them unseen and unknown.

  I hurried on, my breath coming in short, exhausted gasps, the wet mossy smell of the jungle rising up around me. Perhaps all this was happening for a reason, I thought wildly. The gods had led us here, after all, so now they would lead us back. I turned the last corner and finally saw the clearing, just as I’d remembered it, at the end of the path. I could hear the drumming again, coming from further into the forest.

  Swallowing, I walked toward the shrine.

  “Gemma?”

  The question was blatantly ridiculous. There was no reply, just the flap and squeak of the huge fruit bats which lifted from the trees into the air above and the endless singing of cicadas. I stepped into the pooled light, the silver rays of the moon pouring over my face. In their luminous glare I could see every detail of the shrine: its lichen-green stone and painted walls, the stars and crescent moons decorating the sides of the vault. On the other side lay the lily-covered pond with its sweeping steps and arching, elegant ring of coconut trees. The only evidence of the mela was a row of candles melted on the crumbling balustrade and a tinsel garland, placed on top of the tomb. Piles of dead flowers were scattered over the scuffed grass. I could smell jasmine, and just as before, a lingering trace of incense. The drumming had inexplicably stopped.

  I took another step toward the shrine. My heart was pounding so violently I could only take hasty, shallow breaths. I glanced quickly around.

  “Hello?”

  From the direction of the water tank there was a scuffle and the rustle of leaves, as if a person or animal were pushing their way through the bushes.

  “Who’s there?”

  A small creature scuttled across my feet, its body crashing back into the undergrowth. I gasped, my feet tripping on the root of a tree. Using the overhanging branches to pull myself up I walked slowly past the shrine toward the pond, my chest hammering uncontrollably. Someone was in the trees, watching me, I was sure.

  As I drew closer to the pond I could see that on the other side of the coconut trees another smaller track led further into the jungle. It was clearly little used, for thick creepers hung across it. Bashing a path through with my hands I started to progress up the track, calling Gemma’s name over and over again in the vain hope that she was somewhere near. Even now I don’t know why I thought she would be. There was certainly no rational reason; it was just something I could sense, a deep, swelling certainty. I’d been right, I kept thinking, Gemma had returned to the shrine.

  “Gemma? Are you there?”

  I took another few steps up the path. All around me, I could sense the shuffling, darting movements of animals, the secret cries of the trees. The drumming had started again, but the sound kept changing direction, as if carried on a faltering breeze. I was feeling increasingly panicked.

  “Gemma!!”

  I kicked down another branch and stopped. My skirt was entangled in thorns and from the cold sensation of water ebbing over my toes the track seemed to have disintegrated into a small stream. I leaned over, cursing as I pulled at the thin material. “Fuck it!”

  I gave the material a final vindictive tug and as it came away in my fingers I fell backward into the stream. My bottom splashed in the mud, my knee bumped against a tree trunk, and, my hands going out to break my fall, my fingers touched something soft and unexpectedly crumbly. Perhaps it’s a detail I’ve woven in over the years, but I’m sure I smelled burning, too, a sudden carbonic whiff of smoke, so sweet and strong it made my stomach turn. Even before I understood what it was I was touching, my bowels were turning to liquid. I remember it now in slow motion: me fingering the thing and then turning and groping through the leaves; it still not making sense, all those long seconds before my life was changed for good. Then finally me screaming and dropping what I’d been holding and leaping back.

  It was the ring that made me realize what I was holding. The thing I had touched, the thing which was so soft and pliable that its powdery substance was coming away in my grasp, was a charred hand. Most of the fingers were unrecognizable, the blackened stubs clumped together in a tight fist, but the middle finger was still largely intact. And there, at its bony base, its once silvery gloss black, were the twisted remains of the ring that Steve had bought for Gemma at Camden Market, the interlinked hearts melted into a grotesque blob.

  And of course the thing lying under the blanket of leaves, the twisted thing with its back to me, its one attached leg gently bent beneath the stumpy torso as if asleep, the other apparently melted into its flank, was Gemma’s body. Her head was turned away from me, as if in sleep. For those first few brief moments I was too numb to think or feel anything. Bending over, I peered at the corpse. There was nothing much to see: the skull was as empty as a Hallowe’en pumpkin, the flaky features burned away. For perhaps two seconds I thought it was a joke, some kind of macabre prank, then the words flashed into my mind and I knew it was not a joke at all but the dreadful, unbearable truth: Gemma is dead.

  I screamed, hurling the detached hand into the undergrowth and jumping backward. My legs were buckling beneath me, my stomach heaving with the odor of burned flesh. Then, doubling up, I vomited copiously onto the muddy ground. My vision kept tilting and tipping, the world around me spinning uncontrollably. I would collapse, I re
member thinking, and never wake up again. It was the end of everything.

  Eventually I managed to stand up, but my mind was still not functioning. All I could think was that I had to get help. The remains of two large candles were lying under a bush, close to where I’d been sick, I noticed blankly, the wax melted into a contorted gloop. I turned slowly around, trying not to look in the direction of the leafy mound where Gemma’s remains lay. It seems ludicrous, but I had an image of ambulances and doctors, as if she might still be saved. It must have been the shock, because despite an uncontrollable shaking, which was making it hard for me to walk, I now felt strangely calm. All I needed to do, I told myself, was get back to the village. Once I was there, people would help me. Perhaps I’d find out, after all, that it was a joke, and Gemma was not dead after all.

  I glanced up at the trees just as the moon drifted through a misty veil of darkness, appearing a few seconds later with a burst of light on the other side. For a moment, in the eerie brightness of the night, I saw what I assumed to be the track. I started to run down it. My arms and legs were moving but I felt nothing. Gemma was dead, I kept telling myself, but the words didn’t make sense. Above me the trees stirred in the breeze, the moon finally disappearing into cloud.

  Pushing aside the thick vegetation I ran faster, not noticing when my clothes ripped on the tangled, thorny thickets that sprang in my way. I hadn’t remembered so much mud before, but now my feet kept sliding in deep, squelching ruts, the stuff splashing over my legs and face. When my foot plunged into a sticky pool and I pulled it out without the accompanying sandal I carried on running, kicking the other one off as I went.

  The track was becoming increasingly impassable. I stopped, wiping my face with the back of my hand and looking around. Gemma is dead: I whispered the words over and over and over again until they stopped making sense. Gemma is dead. As I looked up I noticed vaguely that I was surrounded by tall trees which I didn’t remember from before. I peered up through the outstretched branches of the trees in an effort to locate the moon, but the sky was darker than ever. From far away, I could hear the distant rumble of thunder.

  The drums were louder now, and very faintly the sound of amplified singing or prayer was carried in fragments on the breeze. Turning in the opposite direction I began to bash my way back along the track I’d just come down. Suddenly, directly ahead, I saw the graceful shape of the coconut trees surrounding the water tank. I was back at the clearing. I stumbled toward the trees, the creepers and thorns gripping my bloodied arms. I must be approaching from a different angle than before, I thought, for now that I was almost upon them the trees seemed taller and more numerous. Gulping, I stepped through their shadows.

  There was nothing on the other side: no pond, no shrine, and no track to safety, just thick impenetrable undergrowth, which stretched endlessly ahead.

  “No, no, no!”

  Spinning around, I tried to get my bearings, but it was impossible. The drumming had stopped again, or—I realized with mounting horror—it had simply moved further away. All this time I’d been using the sound as an anchor when in reality it had never been fixed to the same place.

  I started to run again, the cold shock of the last five minutes giving way to molten terror. Gemma is dead: it was all I could think, and as I stumbled through the mud the dreadful image of her furnaced body was all I could see. She’d been set on fire, her head burned so savagely that her face had caved in like the beams of a blazing barn. And as for me, I was completely, utterly lost in a vast expanse of virgin woodland, the forest spreading across the hills for endless uninhabited miles. There were no roads, no villages, nothing; just me and whatever beasts hid in the darkness.

  I started to cry hysterically, the tears pouring down my face. I never wanted to hear them again, but still the words in my head went on. Gemma is dead and it’s all my fault. How could I have been so completely, utterly irresponsible? I’d left her in this hellish place with a stranger who wanted God knows what from her, and now she was lying under a pile of leaves, as burned and blackened as kindling wood.

  I was sobbing so violently I could no longer see clearly where I was going. Sometimes I slipped into mud up to my knees or my feet gave way beneath me and I found myself skidding down steep, unexpected slopes. All I could hear now were the shrieks and cries of animals, the steady throb of insects, and the desperate pounding of my feet on the ground.

  An hour passed, or maybe it was more. As I plunged deeper and deeper into the darkness, I began to lose track of time. From the stickiness of my legs, and the stuff smeared on my hands, I knew that I was bleeding; I was growing dizzy, too; my vision suddenly tilting, my head light. It was all over, I kept thinking. Gemma was dead and I would never escape. In the sky above, the moon did not reappear.

  My memory grows blurred. I remember thinking it was all a dream; any moment now I’d awake to find myself at home, the weak English sun filtering through the curtains. I think I stopped then, slumping to the ground as I slowly ran my fingers over my face. “My name is Esther Waring”; I can remember saying it out loud, my voice echoing in my head. It sounded surprisingly normal, as if nothing had changed after all.

  Perhaps I was feverish, for time was moving strangely; I kept thinking that only a few minutes had passed and then noticing that behind the clouds the sky had begun to lighten. The coconut trees were a distant memory and the long slope which I was battling against seemed to have gone on forever. If I climbed to the top, I might be able to see over the trees and find the path once more. Yet every time I progressed a short distance, my feet would slide on the loose earth and I slithered back to where I’d started. The sun was starting to rise now, the first weak rays pushing through the trees. More time passed. I remember feeling unbearably thirsty, and looking up as the sky glinted tantalizingly through the trees. If only I could reach it, I kept thinking, I’d be able to see where I was, but I was trapped: my past, my present, and my future slipping ever further away.

  Slowly the sun rose further in the sky. I kept forgetting where I was—I was at home, my mother’s fingers stroking my hair as if I was a small child in need of comfort. Then my eyes would jerk open and it would dawn on me that the sensation was caused by the overhanging tendrils of a creeper or the brush of leaves against my face. By now my feet were completely numb, my legs blazing red and raw.

  I must have still been trying to reach the top of the trees, for I was climbing a hillside so steep that I could only progress on my hands and knees. I grabbed at the roots that clung to the loose earth and swung my body upward, but they kept giving way and I hardly had the strength to move. I had to keep going; for my parents, for everything I had believed myself to be, but I knew that I was almost finished. My vision kept fading at the edges, my legs wobbling treacherously. Above me I could see the woody roots of a large tree which was growing vertiginously out of the hill. If I could just reach it, I’d have a stable base where I could rest.

  Clutching at the roots I made one last attempt to scramble upward, but my feet suddenly slipped and with a large crack the root snapped in half. I screamed and tumbled backward in a flurry of earth and leaves, landing first on my bottom, then rolling down so fast that all I could see was a kaleidoscope of leaves and earth and glinting, patchwork sky.

  This was it then. This finally was the end. When I stopped falling I lay for many long minutes listening to the shriek of the birds and the drone of insects around my face. I could taste blood and knew my legs would no longer move.

  “Forgive me, Gemma,” I mumbled. “I didn’t mean this to happen.” But my voice was too faint to hear.

  Perhaps it was justice, for if Gemma had died, so should I. I closed my eyes, reality dimming. I started to imagine Gemma was bashing her way through the jungle to reach me. I could hear the thwack of sticks against the bushes and then the sound of footsteps growing closer. Now I could sense Gemma’s arms around me and felt myself being lifted and lain down on the soft earthy floor. I could feel the warmth of
her body, the comfort of another heartbeat next to mine. What happened to us now no longer mattered, I thought as I drifted in and out of consciousness. Our fight was forgotten, I was forgiven, and here, under the endless outstretched trees, our bodies resting in the warm, dry leaves, we were together again.

  “Gemma?” I muttered, turning my head and finally opening my eyes.

  “Thank God, young lady, you’re alive!”

  I was lying on a makeshift stretcher and looking into the rounded face and shocked eyes of Mr. Sanjiv Chakrabarty, M.A. in archaeology, University of Calcutta.

  21

  Interlude

  SO there you have it: the story of my great disaster, the trip that changed my life. After Gemma died, I got lost and was found; it was as horribly simple as that. After that it’s all just noises offstage. I was blank, a nothing person in a nothing place, the only element to distinguish me from the beds I lay on and the walls I dumbly traced my fingers down was the roaring that now filled my head. It must have been a refracted memory, a piece of imagined history wedged inside my thoughts, for it sounded just like fire and no matter how hard I tried, I could not put it out.

  Of course stuff happened, how could it not? There were hospitals and inquests and funerals to attend. But what’s odd is how jumbled up they’ve all become. I passed through them like a shadow, like someone who no longer deserved to be there. And then, as suddenly as if those final, terrible weeks had been fast-forwarded into a blur of faces and voices and shifting, insubstantial scenery, I was back in my Hertfordshire bedroom, staring up at the ceiling and the roaring had stopped and I wished that I was dead.