The Eden passion

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

  Worse than that, all night long he'd observed the red glow which had filled the night sky in the direction of Delhi. All hope of a quick military put-down was lost, as was the hope of returning and seeking medical aid for Dhari. There was only one safe direction now, and that was south, either to Bombay or Calcutta, a torturous journey he knew well from experience, made doubly impossible now by the fact that he was traveling with a child, a seriously ill woman, no food, no blankets, no money.

  All at once the bleak inventory blended with his fatigue and his sense of horror at the various atrocities he'd witnessed firsthand, and he stumbled on a protruding root and went down on his knees. As he fell, he heard a curious clinking sound inside his pocket and with a strange listlessness reached inside with one blood-caked hand and withdrew three gems: one a ruby about the size of his thumb, another slightly larger, and one emerald of equal proportion. He stared at them, at first unable to identify them.

  Slowly he sat upon the ground, remembering all. Why had she gone back inside the palace? For these? Suddenly he enclosed the stones in an angry fist and looked up toward the crude pallet of banyon boughs less than ten feet away, an equally crude coverlet of reeds and brushes covering the two small figures, both of them sleeping soundly despite their makeshift bed.

  He'd have to awaken them soon. They must put distance between themselves and the burning city, the possibility that the sepoys would change their minds and come after them, for he was certain now that they had been allowed to escape. On whose orders, he had no idea. Perhaps her grandfather's, or a sympathetic cousin's. Or per-

  haps they had been permitted to escape because the rebel sepoys had known that they would never make it to safety, that a prolonged dying on the road would be more agonizing than a decisive thrust of a sword.

  The sun was climbing. It was time to move. They must find food before too long. He was aware of the gems still clutched in his fist. Curious, these had been his purpose for coming here. Now they were of no value to him whatsoever, and willingly he would have given them all over for transportation away from this place of danger.

  He heard a soft moan and looked toward the pallet. Dhari was stirring, one hand lifting as though to fight off unseen assailants. He hurried to her side and knelt down, held her hands between his own until the tenor of her nightmare passed, until she found the courage to face the terror of the day.

  Close beside her, Aslam was still sleeping. Carefully John drew back the covering of boughs and lifted her in his arms, noting an increase in the bruises and swelling about her face.

  Gently he carried her to the banks of the stream, went down on his knees with her in the mud, lifted the dried cloth which had fallen onto her breasts, soaked it with water and applied it to her bruised lips.

  Once she'd had her fill of water, he moistened the cloth again and tried to cleanse her face, aware of her eyes upon him. He found himself praying for both their sakes that she did not try to speak again. The sound he'd heard her make the night before still echoed in his ear. Silence was better.

  "We must travel today, Dhari," he began. "Are you strong enough?"

  She nodded.

  "We'll go slowly," he promised. "Has the bleeding stopped?"

  With her head pressed against the trunk of the tree, she opened her mouth as though for his inspection. The small cavity was dark, but he saw the severed ends of the tongue, the jagged tissue white now, the bleeding stopped.

  Gently he leaned forward and kissed her. He reached down for her hand and placed the three gems in her palm. "I'm afraid the rest spilled," he said.

  She looked down as though in surprise, and returned them to him, her lips moving in that same low monotone. She tried to form words and failed, and as her frustration mounted, he drew her close, her sobs filling his ear.

  "Don't, Dhari, please," he begged, knowing what she had wanted to say.

  The gems were his. She'd gone back. For him.

  "I'll never leave you," he whispered. "You'll be with me always. Do you understand?"

  He held her face between his hands, needing her reassurance that she understood. Slowly her sobbing subsided, and with one hand she reached out to him, caressed his forehead as though he were the one in need of comfort.

  At first her recovery and their progress had been nothing short of miraculous. But ten days later, as they were approaching the outskirts of Mirzapur, she fell forward across the horse in a faint, and John, walking ahead, was summoned by Aslam's cries. Running back, he caught her before she dropped to earth, lifted her down into his arms, felt her brow on fire and saw a black foam issuing from her lips.

  Quickly he made camp, and as always sent Aslam on ahead into the village. He'd learned long ago that his white face would gain them nothing. But apparently no one could resist the beautiful little boy. Daily Aslam had done the scouting, had wandered into the village of the moment and had always returned with something, chup-patis, fruit and on occasion a roasted chicken. John had never quizzed the boy too closely on whether the food had been given or stolen.

  Now at midaftemoon, with Aslam still gone, he cradled her in his arms, fearing the worst. She'd not regained consciousness once. As he held her, he rocked gently back and forth, suffering that peculiar awareness that he'd lost a portion of his senses, that the events of the last two weeks had taken a toll from which neither of them would ever fully recover, hiding from black and white alike, for to the Indians she was traveling with the enemy, and to the whites he was traveling with the enemy.

  At last, though untutored and unskilled, he lifted his head and prayed to whatever god happened to be in the vicinity, tried to remember how Reverend Jennings had done it, what words he had spoken. But he could remember nothing that made sense, and settled at last for simply admitting to the green boughs overhead that he had done all he could do, and if there was any truth to divine intervention, he needed it now, for Dhari's sake.

  He closed his eyes and waited, sensing, in spite of his amateur's

  prayer, that no one had heard. It was while his eyes were still closed that he heard horses, looked up and saw a half dozen fierce-looking riders drawing near, their black robes blowing backward, their bearded faces obscured. And in the lead, as though that most horrible nightmare were being performed in repetition, he saw Aslam, his eyes wide with fear, held a prisoner by the lead rider.

  Hurriedly he placed Dhari on the grass and stumbled upward, and had taken only three steps forward when the horsemen surrounded him, their faces smeared with white dust, the leader grinning down.

  Frantically John turned in all directions, bitterly thanking God for his answered prayer. As he heard an outcry from Aslam, he looked back to see the rider holding a knife at the boy's throat.

  Then, because he could endure no longer, because he'd seen more spilled blood and mutilated bodies than a man could see and still survive, he lunged toward the knife-wielding rider, was just out-reaching to pull him down and wrest the knife from him when he felt a noose go around his neck.

  He struggled uselessly, then fell backward, seeing the sun explode into a thousand fragments overhead. As the earth rose up to meet him, he thought quite lucidly that this was for the best. At least he could die with Dhari.

  Compared to what he'd recently seen of living, death seemed a worthy alternative.

  He awakened to two companions: one, Kali the Terrible, Kali the blood goddess, consort of Shiva the Destroyer, naked, stuck all about with human skulls.

  And two, a fat, well-fed, massive black-and-white-striped cat who licked his face with a rough tongue and brought him back to consciousness. If this was death, he'd been here before.

  Slowly he raised up from the pallet and saw a third companion seated near his feet.

  "Aslam . . ."

  As the temple spun about him, he lay back, aware of the boy hovering over him.

  Not far away he heard the high chatter of men's voices raised in dispute. He looked in that direction, recognized the rider who'd held the knif
e to Aslam's throat. And another, an older priest with graying beard who seemed to be speaking with authority. He'd seen that face before as well.

  They were in the Thuggee Temple at Bindhachal. The old priest

  was the one who had adorned him, given him the gift of the rumal and the horse.

  The men saw him looking at them. Steadily they returned his gaze and came forward until they were standing over him. He was aware of Aslam's hand in his and thought with grief on Dhari.

  Laboriously the old priest squatted beside him, his leathery face a network of wrinkles. He said something and waited for an answer. Helpless, John looked to Aslam.

  The boy smiled. "He wants to know if you've made up your mind yet? Are you a white man or an Indian?"

  John failed to see the humor in the question. "Tell him I'm neither," he muttered. "Tell him at the moment I'm simply a lost man."

  As the boy repeated the message in his high clear voice, John raised himself to a sitting position.

  After the translation, the old priest laughed, and spoke again, his face growing suddenly sober.

  Again John was dependent upon Aslam, who relayed the message. "He wants to know where we have come from."

  "Tell him."

  John watched the exchange, trying to read the moods on their various faces. The talk was concluding now. The group of black-robed men standing behind the priest still glared down on both John and Aslam, as though they had been deprived of something.

  Sensing an impasse, John reached into his pocket and withdrew one of the gems. He handed it to Aslam and said, "Tell them that in exchange for food and shelter, we will give them this."

  Aslam looked at the ruby, then extended it toward the priest. Suddenly the men standing behind leaned forward.

  The old priest shouted them back, and with the cunning of a bargainer grinned slyly at Aslam.

  The boy translated. "He wants to know if you have more."

  John tried to stare the old man down, but realized ultimately they could take whatever they wanted, including their lives. Reluctantly he dipped into his pocket and produced the remaining two gems. Reverently the priest studied the stones. A broad grin cut across his face as he handed the emerald to one of the waiting men, kept the larger ruby for himself, and apparently suffering from some sense of fair play, returned the smaller ruby to John.

  The men drifted off, appeased, admiring their new wealth. Slowly the old priest stood. John started up after him, struggling to ask the

  most difficult question. "Dhari . . ." he whispered to Aslam. "Ask him about. . ."

  Drawing Aslam close as though for protection against what they might find, they followed the priest around the goddess Kali, down a corridor to a cell near the rear of the temple. The old priest pushed open the door, then stepped back, allowing them access to the room, to the low bed and the figure of the woman lying prone, another priest bending over her, applying what appeared to be a coating of moist red mud to the inside of her mouth.

  John moved to the foot of the bed and stared down on a glorious sight, Dhari alive, her eyes open, one hand lifting toward him.

  He knelt beside her while the priest applied the curious compound, which, up close, smelled of herbs.

  Suddenly he felt shy. Were thanks due? And to what god? Surely not to Kali, whose heritage was strangulation and death?

  Then who? Lacking an answer, he merely drew Aslam beside him and let their closeness and the fact of their survival suffice for prayer.

  Three weeks later, he stood on the crowded docks of Howrah outside Calcutta, with Dhari and Aslam waiting in the cart behind him, and tried to do business with Captain Lewis, whose sailing ship the Bluebeard would be the last to leave India for the next six weeks.

  "Full!" the old English captain pronounced. "Full, as you can see," he gumbled, motioning behind him to the stream of people filing up the gangplank.

  John saw all too well, had been watching for most of the morning the procession of women and children with meager belongings, all victims of the mutiny, whose carnage had spread, or so John had heard, as far as Cawnpore, where not one man, woman or child had been left alive.

  "Please," John begged, trying to keep his voice down, not wanting to alarm Dhari and Aslam. "We'll take any accommodations."

  The ruddy-faced man laughed. "Any accommodations," he parroted sarcastically. He pointed toward Dhari and Aslam waiting in the cart. "With garbage like that, even if I had room, I'd have to put you in the hold. No decent Englishwoman would want to breathe the air with the likes of them."

  John lifted his head and tried to look beyond the mean-faced old man to the ship itself. "The hold will do fine," he said. "Name your price."

  But the captain merely glared at John's persistence. Then some-

  thing crossed his face, the look of the predator. "Two thousand pounds," he pronounced flatly. "For the three of you, that is, for yourself and the garbage."

  John turned away. He'd hoped to make the transaction using the ox cart and two horses which the old priest at Bindhachal had given them.

  "Two thousand pounds," the man repeated, grinning.

  John looked over his shoulder toward the cart. Dhari gazed back at him, her beautiful face fully restored now, not one sign of her ordeal visible even to the most careful eye. But he knew all too well the full extent of her agony, the persistent difficulty in swallowing, the painful recuperation, and the even more painful acceptance that she was condemned to a life of silence. How often he'd found her kneeling in prayer in that small cell behind the pagan goddess Kali. Gradually her spiritual strength had returned, along with her physical strength, and both John and Aslam were becoming quite skillful in reading her eyes. Not since that first night had she made any sound at all. And John suspected that she never would again.

  Yet, curiously, without speech she had grown more beautiful, her serene spirit more articulate than ever.

  "Two thousand pounds," the captain repeated. "Take it or leave it," and immediately he turned away as though certain that he'd closed the door.

  But John caught his arm and turned him back and reached into his pocket for the remaining ruby. He held it up for the man's inspection and saw the light of new interest spread on the corrupt face.

  "Ah . . ." He grinned. "You're taking more than garbage with you out of Mother India, I see."

  As he reached eagerly for the gem, John withdrew it. "Three beds," he demanded, "and three meals a day and transportation from Portsmouth to London when we reach England."

  "My Gawd," the man muttered, "do you want me to piss for you as well?"

  "Take it or leave it," John said, still holding the gem just beyond the man's reach.

  "Oh, I'll take it right enough." The captain grinned. "And do your bidding." He shrugged. "What's it to me what you take back with you?" He smiled and leaned close. "I understand the woman right enough," he whispered. "She'll bring you a pretty penny on the London market. But the boy, what in God's name do you plan to do with him?"

  John felt his right arm stiffen, felt that if he did not escape the man's presence soon, the Bluebeard would not have a captain. Yet, paradoxically, at the moment he felt the need to strike out, he felt equally old and tired, felt as though his shoulders were sagging, that if he were to walk away now, he would not be able to walk erect.

  "Then it's settled," he said, and thrust the gem into the waiting palm and hurried back to the cart. Without a word he motioned for Dhari and Aslam to get out. He nuzzled Black's nose and looked around the crowded dock. No one there was in need of a cart and three horses. They were all fleeing this place with the same urgency as was John. At the edge of the dock he spied an old Indian, footsore, his hand outstretched, begging.

  John brought the horses about and guided the cart to where the old man stood. He placed the reins in the man's hand, ignoring the surprised look in the face. Hurriedly he hugged Black one last time and ran back to where Dhari and Aslam were waiting, aware that they both had been closely watching.<
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  "Must we leave him?" Aslam begged.

  "We must," John said, wishing his voice had not sounded so sharp.

  With his arm around Dhari's shoulder, Aslam's hand in his, he led them toward the gangplank, where he was suddenly aware of white women drawing back, clutching their children to them.

  Well, at least they would be left alone, John thought grimly, and proceeded with head erect to the top of the gangplank, where Captain Lewis was waiting.

  Their accommodations were only slightly larger than a closet, with three hammocks and one washstand. But it was dry and private, and that evening as the Bluebeard set sail with the tide, they were on deck, John feeling the sea breeze, daring to relax for the first time in several long weeks.

  Homel The simple word resounded like a temple bell inside his head. London. Elizabeth. He hungered to see her, and warned himself that she must be allowed her life as he was his. He'd seen enough anger and hurt and pain and death. It was time to build bridges, design a future.

  Homel As the wind filled the sails, he felt his excitement increasing and drew Dhari and Aslam close beside him. He'd come to India for treasure, and unwittingly he'd found it.

  "Wait until you see London, Aslam," he promised excitedly.

  But as he looked down on the little boy, he saw tears in his eyes,

  and turning to Dhari, he saw the same expression, both of them looking out over the water at the dim outline of land slipping farther into the distance.

  He was going home. They were leaving theirs, and he tried to think of consoling words. But remembering the night he'd left Eden, he realized there was nothing he could say to ease their pain.

  "Come," he urged kindly, sheltering them against the cool wind and diminishing land, intent upon turning their eyes away from what was behind to what was ahead, hoping with incomprehensible need that it would be better, for all of them.

  London, December 24, 1857

  From his position near the wassail bowl, Andrew looked out over the crowded drawing room, amazed that there were so many lonely people in London. Elizabeth had warned him in advance. Only the lonely attended her Christmas Eve party.