The Eden passion

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

  "John Murrey Eden."

  "How many fingers?"

  John looked up at the fat hand. "Three."

  "Where are you?"

  "Delhi."

  "Who is on the throne of England?"

  "Victoria."

  "Who is the consort?"

  "Albert."

  "How many royal children?"

  John hesitated. The old doctor grinned down on him. "Oh, never mind. I couldn't answer that one myself. The royal womb is fertile, even if the royal brain is not."

  He beamed at John, then leaned close, as though for a confidence. "I don't suppose you'd care to tell me what you were doing inside the palace walls, would you?"

  John decided to feign that obstinate egoism peculiar to sick persons. He said nothing.

  The doctor smiled. "No, I didn't think you would. I would advise against further adventure, however. Another blow like that and someone will be able to pick the sweetmeats of your brain."

  As the old man leaned forward, John was aware for the first time that his head was heavily bandaged. He felt the pull this way and that as the man unwrapped the dressing, was aware of Dhari watching, her lovely dark eyes filled with concern.

  As the last bandage fell away, he saw the expression on her face and needed no mirror. The doctor confirmed the worst. "You're going to carry quite a scar on your forehead, Mr. Eden, for the rest of your life. You can tell all it's a battle wound. Choose your own battle. It makes no difference."

  As he commenced rewrapping the bandage, he asked considerately,

  "Are you feeling any discomfort? I have innumerable elixirs in my bag in the carriage, designed to numb the senses."

  John muttered, "No," then, because it was beginning to bother him, added, "I. . . can't see very clearly."

  The man exploded with a hearty laugh. "No damn surprise. Your eyes probably rattled about like marbles during the assault. I think they'll clear, though. Don't overwork them, and draw that damn blind."

  As he pointed toward the small window on the far wall, Dhari lowered the blind.

  In spite of his initial aversion to the man, John was beginning to soften toward him. "Thank you," he began weakly, and was immediately relieved of the need to say anything else.

  "Don't thank me," the doctor snapped. "You'll pay before you're done by coming to Sunday dinner as soon as you're able. My wife adores young men, particularly prime specimens such as yourself. I try to deliver as many as I can to her. For myself, as you can see, a conventional marital bed no longer suffices."

  John looked about at the other faces around the bed, wondering if any were embarrassed or offended by the man's bluntness. Apparently not.

  "So, Sunday lunch, it is." The man grinned. "Just as soon as you're able. I'll send my carriage for you and introduce you to a bevy of English beauties who will feed on your masculine charms and wear you out in the process. So, get your cock ready, and I've seen it, and a gorgeous cock it is, and soon you'll learn why the average Englishman has no desire to return to England."

  John felt the heat of new embarrassment on his face, and wondered why no one else displayed the slightest discomfort at the man's crude ways.

  Now to Dhari Taylor commanded, "Feed him anything he wants and as much as he wants. The man will need all the strength at his disposal."

  John saw the man's watery blue eyes focus on Dhari, moving from her face in an appreciative line to her breasts.

  "If you're in a thanksgiving mood, Mr. Eden," he said to John, though not looking at him, "give thanks to that nigger there."

  Shocked by the designation, John looked toward Dhari, surprised to find her serenely smiling back at the doctor.

  The man was caressing his belly below his waist in a vulgar, sensuous gesture. "They have a magic touch, the niggers do." He smiled,

  still devouring Dhari's breasts with his eyes. "And that one hovered over you long after Fraser and I both said give up. Isn't that right, Fraser?"

  Jennings nodded. "Correct." He smiled, apparently not offended by anything that had been said the last few minutes. "Dhari has an incredible faith," he went on. "She has sustained me on more than one occasion."

  Then the examination was over. From the door the doctor looked back toward the bed. "Welcome to the living, Mr. Eden," he said, his voice suddenly sobered. "Fraser tells me you're a gentleman recently come from the Crimea. Do come to Sunday dinner, and I'll fight off the ladies and keep you all to myself. You've no idea how weary I get of women and niggers and soldiers."

  John heard loneliness in the man's voice. "Dr. Taylor?" he called out with effort. "Are you . . . with the military?"

  The man looked surprised. "Of course. What did you think? A forty-year veteran I am." A light dawned on his face. "Oh, of course. No, no uniform." He smiled, holding up the tail of his coat. "I outgrew the largest years ago. Besides, none of us are too spit-and-polish in this godforsaken outpost," he added. "And why should we be? We have niggers to do our work for us. Very little is required of an Englishman here, Mr. Eden, except that he devise a way to retain his sanity."

  With that, he led the way through the door, Jennings following after him. A few moments later, Rosa appeared with a tray.

  Dhari returned to the bed, a bowl in her hand, a spoon lifted toward John's lips. He swallowed several spoonfuls of the rich broth, felt them resting uneasily in his stomach and said, "No more, please."

  "You must," she insisted. "Dr. Taylor said you—"

  He looked up at her, bewildered by her serene acceptance of everything. "Why did he call you. . .nigger?"

  She sat on the edge of the bed. "I am," she said. "At least that's what the British call us. Any flesh darker than theirs is nigger."

  "Why don't you object?"

  "Why should I? What would it gain me?"

  "Does he come here often, Dr. Taylor, I mean?"

  "Oh, yes, they're good friends. Dr. Taylor sees to the children once a month. Sometimes Reverend Jennings can pay him. Most of the time he cannot. But he comes anyway. He's a good Christian."

  Since there was still an air of bluntness lingering in the small

  room, John heard himself speaking bluntly. "The first night I was here/' he began, "I went to the stable to check on my horse—"

  "Oh, he's well. The stableboy is taking good care of—"

  "And I happened to pass near the rear of the compound. I saw into Jennings' bedroom. . ."

  He looked up, afraid he'd said too much. Instead he found her smiling as placidly as ever, a quizzical look on her face as though she was not quite certain of his point.

  "I . . . saw you," he went on, "with Jennings. You were . . . bound . . ."

  "Loosely, yes," she admitted. "I could have freed myself at any moment." She shook her head as though experiencing a bewilderment of her own. "It brings him pleasure," she murmured, "and it doesn't hurt me."

  Apparently she saw the confusion in his face, and with her fingertips commenced stroking his brow. "Is it so wrong to give pleasure?" she asked. "I've been taught since I was a little girl that my only purpose is to bring pleasure."

  "Do you . . . love him?"

  "Of course," she said without hesitation. "I love all men who possess kind hearts and generous spirits. If it weren't for Reverend Jennings, countless Indian children would be dead now, including myself." Shyly she looked up at him, the beauty of her face so near. "I have been blessed," she began softly, "with the gift of giving pleasure. Why should I withhold it, or deny it, or limit it?"

  He had no answer, was capable of giving none. Her hands were moving across his chest, pushing the coverlet down. "How many times," she said, "I've bathed you, and wondered about . . . that." She pointed to the small scar just above his right nipple, an ancient wound which once had fascinated another, a half world away. Thinking on Harriet and his awareness for the first time of his nakedness caused a strange sensation.

  "I. . . don't know," he murmured, concerning the scar.

  "Of course you do." She laugh
ed. "Children are not born scarred. Someone did that to you, although I can't imagine why."

  Her hands continued to stroke his chest as she moved closer, her long black hair falling forward, partially obscuring her face.

  It occurred to him that perhaps she should cease. Just then she leaned down and kissed him, a sweet harmless intimacy that stirred him and set him thinking on that distant bedchamber where another had so effortlessly taken control of him.

  "Dhari. . ."

  He must stop it. There would be no hope for control past a certain point. Still she prostrated herself over him, edging down the side of the bed, her hand covering him.

  Upon the instant of intimate contact, he felt a curious lassitude in his arms and legs, as though all the energy and heat in his body had been drawn to one point. He shut his eyes, feeling no need for vision. The sensations were clear.

  He felt the skin of his upper legs tighten, felt her lips on him. She was whispering something, but he couldn't hear.

  No sooner had she closed her lips about him than the tension crested, and he pressed backward against the pillow, a tremor of vast proportions, reminiscent of Eden and Harriet. Long after the actual moment passed, he felt his eyes fill with tears, thinking on how innocently she had performed, without shame, as though in sequence she had given him food and water and herself, a natural healing progression.

  For a moment he fought a silent battle with his pride, remembering what she had said about loving all men.

  "How do you know," he began, still not fully recovered, "that I have a kind heart and a generous spirit?"

  She laughed, the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. "I think you do," she said simply.

  If it had been left to him, he would have been more than content simply to lie beside her for the rest of the evening. He had not dreamed that such effortless satisfaction was possible.

  Then she was scrambling off the bed, causing him to look up in alarm. "Don't go," he begged, "please . . ."

  "I have duties," she said. "Reverend Jennings needs my help with evening prayers. Sometimes we have quite a large gathering in the evening. The children bring their parents." Again she bestowed on him that warm smile. "What fun it is to see the child instruct the adult in the ways of Christ."

  He held her hand a moment longer. Perhaps if he could get her talking again. "Do . . . you really believe in Christ, Dhari?" he asked softly.

  She seemed surprised at the question. "Of course I do," she replied, "and so do you, though you won't admit it. You're like Dr. Taylor, perhaps one of God's most blessed children, yet full of denial."

  She drew away from his hand and walked to the door. She looked back. "May I ask a favor of you?" she inquired.

  "Of course."

  "May I bring Aslam in to see you for a moment? He's quite worried about you, has come daily to see you during your long sleep." She looked self-conscious. "He's fascinated by you, by your . . . youth. All he sees here are old men."

  "It would be my pleasure." He smiled, drawing the coverlet up.

  A moment later the little boy appeared, his dark eyes wide, dressed as John had seen him that first day. "This is Aslam, Mr. Eden," Dhari murmured.

  "Aslam," John repeated, and lifted his hand to the boy.

  Grinning, the child took it, his dark smooth face a miniature of his mother's. "I was afraid you would never wake up," the boy said soberly. "Everyone said you wouldn't."

  "Well, we proved everyone wrong, didn't we?" John said. He saw that the boy was clutching a slim red book in his hands. "What are you reading, Aslam?" he inquired.

  "Mr. Shakespeare," the boy said.

  John looked up with interest. "And what is your favorite?" he asked.

  "This," and proudly the boy thrust the volume forward. "Hamlet" he added. "I like the ghost on the battlement."

  Apparently Dhari saw John's increasing fatigue and placed a restraining hand on her eager son. "Not now, Aslam," she counseled. "Come, we're both late for prayers, and Mr. Eden needs to rest."

  At first the boy objected, more than willing to initiate a new thread into the conversation. "May I ride on your horse one day, Mr. Eden? I'm helping the stableboy to look after him."

  John nodded. "Take good care of him for me, Aslam, and as soon as I'm able, we'll ride him hard."

  At last the maternal voice won out, though the boy moved close to John's pillow before he was again turned away. "I'm glad you're here," he said with sweet simplicity.

  In the distance, John heard the strains of a pump organ wheezing out a melancholy hymn. Dhari heard it too. "Come, Aslam, we're late."

  Without a word she ushered her son out of the door and closed it behind her.

  John closed his eyes. What series of blunders had led him to this helpless predicament? Even if he were well and able, would he want

  to leave here? And where would he go? Back to England? Penniless as always. . . .

  He turned his head too suddenly and for his efforts suffered a pain across his forehead. Soon enough he would have to rise and make a decision and choose a new direction.

  But for now the distant hymn of the children kindled thoughts of his own childhood, of the Ragged School on Oxford Street, the presence of many children, his father . . .

  For several minutes he enjoyed memories he'd long since forgotten, and realized now that he'd missed them.

  Four weeks later, John sat on the cool veranda of Dr. Taylor's bungalow within the British Cantonment, drinking tea and looking out at the parade ground where the Thirty-eighth Native Infantry was performing regimental drills. Dr. Taylor had promised him that it would be quite a spectacle, with a grand finale, and well worth waiting for.

  It was an awesome sight, the row upon row of men, British-appearing from the distance, with their scarlet tunics and white shakos, though not British, as his present company had repeatedly told him all afternoon.

  He looked about at the others on the veranda with him. Dr. Taylor was there, of course, filling a wicker chair like an overfed Buddha.

  To his right was his wife, Violet, a harmless creature, as fragile as her husband was massive. After Taylor's initial words several weeks ago concerning his wife, John had come on guard. But she had been gracious to him during the meal and after. Now she presided over her tea table, looking like the displaced Englishwoman that she was.

  More threatening were the two ladies on his left, Mrs. George Smyth, Marjorie, as she'd informed him upon introduction, and Mrs. James Metcalfe, Hazel. Their husbands, both officers in the Thirty-eighth, were absent, in Nepal on a tiger hunt for the fortnight.

  Gazing out over the shimmering heat waves, John wondered why he had come. He'd known beforehand that it would be dreary, a small suffocating world struggling to keep up the appearances of England. But Reverend Jennings had insisted, pointing out that the doctor had saved John's life and at least John owed him the decency of "breaking bread with him." Even Dhari had joined the conspiracy, producing a decent Western suit of clothes for him from God knew where. Only little Aslam had protested, claiming that if John

  was well enough to go riding off in the back of a carriage, he was well enough to honor his promise of long standing to take him horseback riding.

  John closed his eyes to rest them from the glare of sun and the meticulous formation of marching men, thinking on the little boy with real affection. How many pleasant hours they had passed, Aslam perched cross-legged on the foot of his bed.

  Even more appealing than Aslam's company was Dhari's. Dangerous thoughts there. With his eyes still closed, he saw her so clearly, the most innocent, loving creature he'd ever known. The image that raced through his mind could not be borne in silence, and he must have made a sound, for at that moment Violet Taylor was hovering over him. "Mr. Eden, are you well?"

  He looked up, embarrassed, to see all eyes upon him. His embarrassment increased as he saw the two ladies on his left on their feet as well, their hands pressed against his forehead where a single bandage still covered
his head wound.

  "He feels feverish," one exclaimed. "I'm afraid you let him get up far too soon, Reggie."

  John tried to protest. "I'm . . . fine."

  "Of course he's fine," Taylor grumbled. "If all of you would stand back and give him air. . ."

  Reprimanded, the ladies retreated. Violet summoned a servant and ordered him to fan John.

  "No, please," he begged, shaking his head at the approaching boy. "It isn't necessary."

  Apparently the flurry of activity had roused Dr. Taylor out of his somnambulant state. To a nearby servant he bellowed, "Gin for two," and a few moments later, as the young dark boy served two appealing glasses of gin and lime, John sipped and felt the abrasive spirit cut through his earlier discomfort. As the ladies gossiped softly, he saw Taylor angling his chair closer, the lethargy of the afternoon apparently dissipated by the cool drink and the separation of the women.

  "Well, Eden, what do you think of our coloreds?" He motioned toward the dark-skinned soldiers.

  "Impressive," John said politely.

  Taylor nodded. "Damn right it is," he muttered. "Look at them. Who'd believe that two thousand niggers could be trained to those maneuvers."

  Beyond the man's fleshy shoulder, John saw a "nigger" fanning, listening closely.

  "They're children, you know," Taylor went on. "But if you keep a tight rein on them, they'll do all your dirty work and smile while they're doing it."

  John sipped his drink.

  "Of course, we've had our troubles with them in the past. Every now and then you have to hang one or two just to remind them who the master is. Actually they make better servants than soldiers." He drained his glass, burped pleasurably and immediately called for another. As the young Indian boy stepped forward, John caught a glimpse of his eyes, brooding beneath his tightly wrapped turban. Had he understood anything that had been said?

  As Dr. Taylor prattled on about the difficulties of Empire, John felt his mind wandering back to the mission school and took the first step in what he hoped would be a quick exit. "I really should be getting back to Delhi," he began.