Wind in the East

by Steve Turnbull

  “The same place?”

  “The Lady Lansdowne Hospital in Madras,” said her aunt.

  Maliha shook her head, not understanding.

  “The British Queen sent her servants to better the medical services for the women of India. It is a hospital they built.”

  “But Madras? Was there not one closer?”

  “It was thought best.” Her aunt’s reply was curt.

  Maliha returned to the earlier issue. “But the astrological signs did not predict what happened at the wedding.”

  Auntie’s face fell at the reminder. She shook her head and took another drink from her cup.

  “You would think something so catastrophic would show up in the chart.”

  Her aunt did not answer but her grip on the cup had tightened with each word.

  “Who was she, Auntie?”

  Aunt Savitha held her hand up to ward off Maliha’s question and looked away from her niece. Maliha put down her cup and got to her feet. Just as she had with her grandmother, she knelt down in front of her aunt.

  “Grandmother has a lot to say on the subject of shame, Auntie,” said Maliha quietly. “She blames me for everything bad that happens in the family. I would not be surprised if she blames me for what happened at the wedding.”

  “No, Maliha, that shame is not yours.” Then, as if she were forcing the words out through sheer will power: “That fault is mine.”

  Maliha had had enough experience with people confessing their deepest secrets she knew that now was the time for stillness. The truth would come. She could almost see the desperate need to speak wrestling with the shame of the words to be spoken. Aunt Savitha glanced up at her face and looked away again when she saw Maliha looking at her.

  “It is my shame, Maliha,” she said finally, the words coming out in fits and starts then all in a rush. “I am not the wife your uncle wanted.”

  “Uncle takes pleasure in beating women.”

  Savitha jerked her head up and looked at Maliha, almost as if she was going to deny it, but then she bowed her head and nodded. Maliha studied her aunt’s shoulders and realised her blouses always covered her entire back. Maliha had not noticed before because that was the way it had always been.

  Without asking permission, Maliha reached up and lifted her aunt’s blouse away from her neck. She slipped her hand beneath it and ran her hands across her aunt’s skin and felt the scar ridges.

  Tears ran down her aunt’s face and fell to the floor.

  “You let him beat you—for how many years?”

  “Always.”

  “Why?”

  “If I had not he would have beaten another, perhaps Renuka, or Parvati, or Purvaji. I had to protect my daughters,” she said.

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  Her aunt hesitated, she glanced at Maliha. “I...I don’t know. At first I did it because it was my duty—”

  “Duty?” Maliha could not keep the outrage from her voice.

  “I was young, Maliha. I did not know about men, about life, about husbands. And after a while, I came to believe I did like it. It gave my husband pleasure, and is that not what a wife must do? Give her husband what he desires?”

  Maliha bit her tongue on what she wanted to say, instead she said. “What happened?”

  “It was an accident. He struck me and something broke, inside.” She held her hand to her midriff. “The doctor came and said I had an internal injury. That it must stop.”

  “The doctor knew?” But, of course, how could he not know? That explained why Aunt Savitha had travelled to Madras to bear her children, otherwise too many people would find out.

  “My shame is beyond all, Maliha.”

  “So Uncle bought a slave that he could beat instead.” She did not hide the contempt in her voice. But her aunt shook her head.

  “No, he did not.

  Maliha frowned.

  “You must understand, Maliha, he would have beaten my girls. He would have done it to Renuka.”

  Maliha blinked. “You bought the girl.”

  Savitha hung her head. “And now I must let him beat me again, otherwise he will do it to Parvati. She is only ten years old, Maliha. I cannot let him do that. You see that.”

  “No.” Maliha stood up, shaking her head. “No, I do not see that, Auntie. This is madness. It is you who does not see.”

  Maliha looked down at her aunt. She seemed so tiny, and shrivelled up, as if she had no substance. Nothing like the woman who used to fill the house with her presence.

  “It is Uncle Pratap who must stop. He is the one who carries the shame, not you.”

  “I am insufficient as his wife.”

  “No. You are strong. You bore the pain all those years. You have committed sins, yes, but only to suit his perverted needs. He is the wrong that must be undone.”

  Aunt Savitha held her head in her hands. Her voice was hoarse with crying. “There is nothing that can be done.”

  “If you let him beat you and he kills you, who will protect Parvati and Purvaji then?”

  “You must protect them, Maliha. You are strong.”

  “No, Aunt Savitha. I love you, and I love my cousins. But I will not let you sacrifice yourself because you think they will be protected. You must protect them; you are their mother. Not me.”

  Maliha turned away and went to the door. She paused and looked back.

  “Did she have a name?”

  The tear-stained face of her aunt looked up in confusion.

  “The girl, did she have a name?”

  “She said her name was Riette.”

  Maliha pursed her lips and nodded, then without another word, she left the room. She had not lied, of course, only implied she would not step in. If her aunt died at the hands of her husband, no force upon the earth would stop Maliha from avenging that death as well. Her cousins would be completely safe.

  iv

  “I’m sorry, Grandmother, I will not be available.”

  Maliha sat at the table with her grandparents. The sun was low in the sky and its light angled through the windows throwing long bright patches and wide shadows across the tiled floor.

  “What do you mean?” snapped her grandmother. “The Nayyars are a prestigious family and their son is very handsome. They are doing us a very great honour by ignoring the trouble you’ve been.”

  “Yes, and I’m sure they are thinking of a considerable dowry to compensate.”

  Maliha glanced at her grandfather but he was studiously ignoring the conversation around him. He was a good businessman, and as such he knew when to keep his nose out of a conversation.

  “I am going to Madras for a few days.”

  “Madras? Why? How will you get there? You promised you would make yourself available to interested in-laws.”

  “As to why, Grandmother, I am investigating the girl’s death, as you know.”

  “In Madras?”

  “Wherever it takes me.”

  “So your promise means nothing?”

  Maliha bristled. “I will keep my word. But you will have to rearrange the meeting for when I return.”

  “It will take you a week to get there and another week to return,” said Grandmother. “Unless you plan to take that monstrous carriage of yours.”

  Maliha smiled. It would take a week if she was walking, and the steam carriage would have problems since the roads were not built for a heavy machine like that.

  “I’m flying,” she said, and enjoyed the silence. “I’ll be back in three days.”

  * * *

  Amita rode in the back of the carriage as usual; it was preferable. When her mistress had driven the vehicle on to the ferry, scaring goats, children and some adults, Amita had prayed the brakes would work. She knew that her fear was not the fault of her mistress, who seemed to have excellent control. But that was the difficulty: Her skill meant that she had no fear, and she was quite incautious.

  It reminded Amita of the way she had been after flying in Valentine’s air-plane. A
mita thought of him as Valentine, though it was very presumptuous of her. But it was only in her mind, as long as she never addressed him that way. But her mistress loved to fly; it made her so happy.

  Now they were approaching the air-dock. The second time for Amita, though this time she was not wearing rags and was unlikely to be mistaken for a whore.

  She hoped they would not encounter Valentine, after seeing her mistress kissing the French girl—and Amita suspected they had been kissing again when they went to the girl’s house and the two of them had disappeared for a considerable time. Her mistress had returned with a slightly breathless air. Valentine was still very unhappy about what had happened, that much was clear, and if Maliha had found someone new? No good would come of this.

  That they were now going to fly did nothing to settle Amita’s mind. She had heard the phrase butterflies in the stomach, now she understood it. It was not as pleasant as the words might suggest.

  Maliha brought the vehicle to a rumbling halt at the gate of the air-dock and conversed for a few moments with the uniformed guard who directed them along a road that ran parallel, but inside, the fence that enclosed the air-dock.

  There was a large Zeppelin tied down on the main field. The skin of its envelope rippled in the light wind. Amita had seen her mistress with the captain of the Hansa. It was a huge vessel that plied the passenger routes from Indonesia to Germany. And at the Fortress there were the British liners and military vessels with their huge rotors. This Zeppelin was not as big as any of those.

  They passed behind a warehouse and the next gap revealed a set of smaller ice cargo ships, they all had the same colours painted on them so must belong to one company. Again her view was blocked. At the next junction Maliha turned right towards the airfield. They came around the end of another building and stopped.

  In front of them was a machine that looked like a huge bird, with a chimney emitting wisps of smoke. Amita did not have time to stare. Her mistress disengaged the Faraday and normal weight returned. Amita opened her door, jumped lightly down from the carriage and opened the door then took Maliha’s hand to help her descend.

  While Maliha no longer needed her walking stick—the strange encounter with the guru had improved her injury in some fashion—there were still situations in which she was awkward and getting down from the carriage was one of those. Amita glanced at the metal bird. It rested on three wheels and there were steps up to the entrance. Maliha would need help there as well.

  Françoise came around the front of the carriage. She wore a practical dress with a corset, entirely appropriate for travel. Her mistress was travelling light but Miss Françoise had four large pieces of luggage.

  Maliha strode off across the grass towards the winged air-plane. Amita studied it, the resemblance to a bird was not just passing, as it even had feathers. The wings were folded back with the ends resting on the ground, but at the rear it had propellers.

  Three men emerged from the building. Amita was pleased to see they were all Indian. There was something satisfying about having her people in command, instead of the British—or French.

  Amita unloaded the luggage from the carriage as her mistress and her friend spoke to the men. There was lots of smiling. She saw Maliha gesture in her direction and one of the men broke away from the group and came over.

  “Namaste,” he said, and pressed his palms together. She nodded and copied him. She turned away to hide the smile she couldn’t keep from her face. He was a handsome and strong fellow. “Which of the bags shall I take?”

  Amita could barely get over the thrill of being spoken to as a person. The gardener was nice but even he had a certain superior attitude in the way he spoke with her.

  She indicated several of the bags, the ones belonging to Françoise. He managed to get them all, with one under each arm and one in each hand. Maliha had a single large case and a small one for extras, while Amita just had the one. She did not own a great deal—though even what little there was was far more than in her past.

  The rest of the party made their way to the vehicle, as Amita drew near. One of the men wore a captain’s hat that had seen better days. He climbed aboard first. The other man handed Maliha and Françoise into the ship before climbing in himself.

  Her man had gone around the other side of the bird and was loading the luggage into a smaller compartment. She handed her items to him. His hand brushed hers and she glanced away demurely. It was only a game, but one that she was enjoying. She looked up and saw Maliha’s head through one of the wide windows forward of the articulated joint where the wing went into the body of the air-plane.

  There was a whirring as the propeller at the rear started up. It ran up to speed quickly and whined. The man grabbed her hand. She looked at him—there was too much noise for speech—he pointed round the front of the vehicle. He did not release her hand and they went at a run round the front. Then he handed her up into the interior. There was a short corridor. The sound of a whirring engine came from the right. He pushed against her as he climbed aboard, and she moved to give him space.

  He pulled the door shut and pointed forward. She took a few steps and went through into a cabin with four pairs of seats. Maliha and Françoise were sitting together at the front. Amita’s mistress was looking intently at the controls and talking to the pilot. It seemed to Amita that Françoise did not look comfortable perched on the interior seat, only able to see out of the front window.

  Amita sat at the back in the rearmost seat that backed against a wooden wall. She could feel it vibrating with the energies of the air-plane’s steam furnace and...whatever else it had to drive it.

  Her man was also a pilot because he took the second seat at the front. He took up a sheaf of papers with maps and many circular lines drawn on them: The navigator.

  The vehicle shuddered and a shadow went across the window. Amita jumped and looked out. The wing had lifted from the ground and was moving up and down. Practice flaps, she thought, to make sure it’s all working properly.

  Her navigator jumped out of his seat and spoke briefly to Maliha and Françoise. They looked to be doing something around their waist. She looked and saw there was a belt. She found the ends and buckled them, clinching it tight about her waist. The navigator came back along the seats to where she sat. He reached over and checked her belt, then saucily ran his hand along her leg.

  She looked at him wide-eyed as if she were horrified. He just grinned and winked.

  He turned away and she breathed out a shaky breath. She realised her hands were shaking and it was not because he had touched her. She was scared.

  The air-plane screamed and Amita jumped again, then realised it was just the steam-whistle. The Faraday was engaged and she lightened. While she was no expert this one seemed to be full strength; she was as light as she was on an atmospheric.

  The vehicle shuddered, the shadow crossed the window in the blink of an eye and the plane hopped. The propeller engine whined shrilly, the noise penetrating into their cabin. Another sweep of the wings and it jumped again. This time she was pressed back into her seat. She looked outside as the wings beat again and again. The ship surged on every stroke, the ground dropped away and slid backwards. The coastline came into view beyond the dunes and within moments they were crossing the beach and swooping across the sea.

  Amita realised she had been holding her breath and breathed out suddenly. She unclenched her hands. The wings ceased to beat and it was as if they were soaring gulls. Amita looked down. There were fishing boats on the water and she could see dark shapes beneath the waves.

  She looked up and forward, but could see only sky.

  Amita decided she did not like flying.

  * * *

  “Are you comfortable?” said her navigator as he sat down next to her. Maliha had moved up and was sitting in his chair at the front. The pilot was gesticulating and pointing at different controls.

  Françoise looked round and glanced at the navigator sitting next to her. It g
ave Amita a little burst of pleasure to think that Françoise was sitting alone, while she—the servant—was not.

  “No.”

  He smiled. “You would rather be on the ground than soar like a bird.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your mistress understands machines.”

  Amita shrugged. “She understands everything.”

  He nodded. “Her father was the engineer.”

  “Yes.”

  “The one that died in the fire.”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t say much.”

  Amita looked away and shook her head. She was holding her hands together tightly for fear they would tremble and he would see it.

  “You’re scared?”

  She looked down at the wooden floor, scuffed and dirtied by many feet. She felt his hand on her shoulder.

  “I have to go back up front in a minute. We’ll be landing soon.”

  She looked back at him. “Already?” She couldn’t keep the note of hope from her voice.

  “It’s only eighty miles, just a little hop for our bird.”

  She said nothing and his grip on her shoulder became firmer. He gained confidence as she had not stopped him.

  “Look, if your mistress does not need you. You could find me. She’s engaged us for three days so we’ll be doing nothing tomorrow. I could show you the whole ship.”

  “I don’t think...” She had been going to say that she had to stay with Maliha in case she was needed. But she glanced forward and saw Maliha squeezing by Françoise to sit down in her chair again. “I don’t know.”

  He gave her shoulder a final squeeze and stood up. He faced her for a moment. “If you can. I’ll see you in a couple of days anyway.”

  Amita smiled at him. He turned and went forward. She watched him climb into the chair.

  The vessel bucked. A wave of terror shot through her and she grabbed the back of the chair in front. The engine’s whine descended through the scales until it was a low hum, the wings arched upwards and the weight that remained in her stomach—after the Faraday had taken most of it away—tried to lift through her lungs.

  She felt sick, and through the forward window she could now see the coast line and the city of Madras. The ship rocked to the right and the horizon twisted.