As the sun was sinking, they started home. Persia’s head was filled with the sights she had seen and the people she had met. She was beyond conversation, lost in thought, but Cyrus was still going strong.
“Have you heard about the sacred caves of Elephanta?” he asked.
“I don’t believe so.”
“Well, they are truly something to see! They were carved out in ancient times by some long-vanished Hindu sect. The Great Cave is the most spectacular. The Trimurti is there.”
“The what?” Persia asked, her interest piqued in spite of her weariness.
“It’s a huge carving—nineteen feet high—displaying the three faces of Siva; as Rudra the Destroyer, Brahma the Creator, and Vishnu the Preserver. Gigantic fluted columns support the overhanging cliff, and the cave itself runs back underground for over one hundred feet into the hill, with twenty-six columns supporting the roof, each twelve to twenty feet high and intricately carved. A magnificent sight!”
“Oh, I’d love to see it. When can you take me?”
Cyrus’s face darkened, reminding her that he was not always such a pleasant companion. “I didn’t mean you could go there. It’s a very dangerous place. I only thought you’d be interested in hearing about it. Promise me you won’t do anything so foolish as to try to find the cave alone, Persia. I forbid it!”
“Oh, very well. I promise. But I wish you hadn’t told me about it, if I can’t see it.”
As they wandered up the path to the bungalow, her thoughts continued to dwell on the fantastic images his description had put in her mind. Suddenly, as she neared their compound and heard Hannah’s bell chimes tinkling in the breeze, fear gripped her. It was almost dark. Supper would be ready when they arrived. After that, he would expect her to go to bed. And then what?
Then nothing! Persia Blackwell’s husband left her uneasy sleep uninterrupted for the next four nights. But on the fifth he appeared again in the darkest hours before dawn—half-drunk, foul of tongue, and quick of punishing hand. He took what he came for, then left her to her unhappy tears and thoughts of nights with Zack. More and more often, she began reaching back into the past, wishing she could recapture what she and Zack had once shared. It was clear she would never find love with her husband.
Cyrus’s unwanted visits formed no pattern. Sometimes he would come two nights in a row or twice in one night. At other times he would stay away as long as a week. Consequently, Persia was always on edge, never sure what might happen or when. She slept fitfully when she slept at all. Dark circles appeared under her eyes. Her appetite left her. She began to lose weight. It became all too clear that Elephanta Island was in no way paradise; that the road to salvation was not going to be an easy one.
To combat her fears, Persia forced herself to form her own daily routine. She spent her mornings and afternoons in the village, caring for a tiny sick child named Sindhu. The girl told Persia that she had been named after the river near which she’d been born. But her family were very poor. Sindhu had heard her parents talking one night when they thought she was sleeping. They needed more food for her brothers. They had two choices: drown Sindhu in the yellow water of the river or sell her into slavery. Sindhu had not waited to hear their decision. She’d run away. When Brother Cyrus had found her wandering the streets of Bombay, she had been near starvation. She was recovering now, but slowly. Persia grew to love the bright-eyed child. Their hours together were happy, carefree times.
But Persia’s nights were far different. The moment she awoke to find Cyrus beside the bed, she would block out everything but the sound of Hannah’s bell chimes. In this manner she learned to withstand the uncertainty and the unpleasantness of her husband’s midnight visits. But her very salvation turned on her. Before long, the sound she had used to soothe her fears began to work against her. Any time the windchimes rang, a deep, soul-chilling fear would grip her, even if it were the middle of the day. She grew to hate and fear the sound of bells.
She managed to do a little exploring on her own, usually on days when Cyrus was away from the island. She discovered that his “happy natives” were a strange tribe indeed. In out-of-the-way places, she happened upon pagan altars etched with the hood of the cobra and odd hieroglyphics. She might have been fooled into thinking these were relics from ancient times, had some of the altars not held the bloody, partially charred remains of recent sacrifices.
Then there were the ships. From the highest point on the island, she could see a natural harbor at the north end of Elephanta. The first time she spied a tall mast at anchor there, her heart pounded with excitement. She was sure it was the Madagascar and that Zack had come back to take her away.
She worked up the courage to ask Cyrus about the ship that evening. He gave her a cold look and said, “Do not meddle in what does not concern you, Sister Persia! Tend to your prayers and your ministering to the sick. You saw no ship. And you will not go to the hill again!”
Of course she went again, and of course she saw more ships. One day she took Cyrus’s spyglass along. Through its powerful lens, she could see that, under the watchful eye of armed guards, men of the island were unloading great barrels. Persia could think of nothing so valuable that it would have to be guarded here on this isolated island. Pearls, perhaps? She had heard of Oriental pearl pirates from her father.
Suddenly she took down the spyglass and blinked rapidly. No! It couldn’t be! But, alas, she knew it was all too possible. Her father had told her, too, about the opium trade with China. The strong drug was now an illegal import in India. But too many natives had become dependent upon it. Opium was a highly profitable black market commodity.
She scoffed at her wild imaginings. If illegal traffic in drugs was being carried on right here on Elephanta Island, surely Cyrus would find out about it and put an immediate stop to it. Then a colder hand clutched her heart. What if he already knew? If that were the case, she was in very real danger now. She hurried down from the hill. Cyrus must not find out she had gone back there against his orders.
When she returned to the bungalow, visitors were waiting: Mr. Cunningham, the ice agent, and his wife. Cyrus had returned, too. And although he treated her with the utmost kindness in front of their guests, she could see the cold accusation in his eyes.
“Mr. Cunningham and I will leave you ladies to talk now, my dear,” Cyrus said shortly after she arrived. “I want to show him some of the fine crops our people have grown. He’s promised to get us the best possible price at harvesttime.”
Persia felt flustered and uncomfortable in Grace Cunningham’s presence. She had not seen the plump little lady since the night of the ball at the Club in Bombay. Persia was sure that there had been much gossip passed around about her after that, thanks to the maharajah and his unwanted advances and to the fact that she’d arrived with one man and departed with another. But the gray-haired lady put her at ease immediately.
“My dear Mrs. Blackwell, you have absolutely biossomed in the past weeks. Your cheeks are so rosy! Life on Elephanta must agree with you.”
Persia knew the woman was only being tactful. She replied with an equally tactful answer. “Thank you, Mrs. Cunningham. It’s kind of you to say so.”
“Do call me Grace, Persia dear.”
Indira came in then with an elegant silver tea service. Persia poured with the innate refinement of a born hostess and handed one of the china cups to her guest.
“Oh, it is such a pleasure to see this place! I know Reverend Blackwell must be much more comfortable here than in that humble cottage he and Hannah occupied for so many years. It’s nice to see the dear man living so well.”
“Yes,” Persia answered. “He did go through a trying time when Sister Hannah died, I’m sure. The fire and all. It must have been dreadful.”
Mrs. Cunningham adjusted her wire-rimmed spectacles and peered hard at her hostess. “Fire, my dear? What fire?”
“Why, the one in which his first wife died. Didn’t you see the
charred remains of the old place when you came up the path?”
“Of course. But Hannah didn’t die in the fire.” Mrs. Cunningham saw Persia’s frown and added, “Did she? I understood that Reverend Blackwell had the place burned down after, for fear whatever strange malady took her might spread.”
Persia sipped her tea to hide the confusion she feared the other woman might read on her face. Why would Cyrus tell her his wife had burned to death if she hadn’t? And Indira had told the same tale.
“Grace, did you know Hannah well?”
“Oh, my dear, yes! Why, we were in school together. We were the best of friends even before she married. People used to say that the two ambassadors’ daughters—Hannah and I—were like peas in the proverbial pod. We were inseparable until her husband decided to move her here to this island. I missed her so after that!”
Persia sat stunned. Hannah, an ambassador’s daughter? A well-brought-up and educated young lady? None of this made any sense. Cyrus had told an entirely different story. But why would he lie to her? On the other hand, why would Grace Cunningham?
“What’s wrong, Persia dear? You looked so strange suddenly.”
Persia tried to smile away her guest’s concern. “Oh, nothing! It’s just that I understood Hannah came from…” How could she phrase it delicately? “From humble beginnings.”
Grace Cunningham laughed. “Humble? My dear, you heard entirely wrong! Why, her parents, Lord Spencer and Lady Elizabeth, were true nobility! They were both mortified when Hannah announced she wanted to marry an American—one as poor as a churchmouse, at that. The life of a missionary’s wife was certainly not what they had planned for their only child. Why, there was even talk of an Austrian prince in her future!” Grace paused and nibbled at a tea cake thoughtfully. “I doubt seriously if they would ever have given their consent for Hannah to marry Cyrus Blackwell. In fact, on the very eve of the accident, they were making plans to send her back to England as quickly as possible.”
“Accident?” Persia said.
Grace shook her head sadly. “It was most tragic, my dear. Hannah’s parents had been to a house party at the old maharajah’s palace in the country—a ball, a tiger shoot, the usual. As they were being escorted home, their little caravan was set upon by bandits. Slaughtered! All of them!”
“And Hannah?” Persia asked, rubbing the gooseflesh that had risen on her arms.
“Cyrus saved her life. She was supposed to have been with her parents that weekend. But he’d begged her to stay in Bombay. She pitched such a tantrum that her parents finally allowed her to remain with the servants at home. She was supposed to spend that weekend packing for the trip back to England. But she never went back. It was only weeks after her parents’ funeral that she became Mrs. Blackwell. Everyone said what a godsend the missionary was during her time of mourning. Hannah had no one.”
“How horrible! Were the murderers ever apprehended?” Persia asked.
Grace shook her head. “The bodies of Lord and Lady Spencer’s chair-bearers were never found. That led the authorities to believe that they were the murderers—Thugees, the professional stranglers of India. For many years they have committed their heinous crimes in the name of religion.”
Persia was feeling more uncomfortable by the minute, but her curiosity demanded quenching. “I’ve never heard of these Thugees, as you call them, Grace.”
The gray-haired woman leaned closer and whispered, “Then you are fortunate, my dear. But you should be warned. These terrible men worship the goddess Kali at a Hindu temple known as Kalighat close by the great river at Calcutta. I’ve never been there myself, but I’ve heard of Kali’s hideous image—human skulls about her neck and what appear to be clots of blood oozing from her wide mouth. They say the courtyard of her temple is slippery with gore from the daily sacrifices of kids and goats.”
Persia shuddered, suddenly remembering the bloodstained altars she had discovered about the island.
But Mrs. Cunningham was caught up in her tale now and rushing on. “These Thugees, as I said, worship Kali. In the old days, they roamed about the countryside in huge bands. Their ranks are smaller now, but just as deadly. They pose as pilgrims or merchants and associate themselves on the friendliest of terms with their intended victims. Then, when the opportunity presents itself, they strangle their unfortunate and unsuspecting ‘friends,’ rob their bodies, then bury them in graves dug hastily with pickaxes.”
“How perfectly horrible!” Persia shuddered again. “But can the authorities be certain that Hannah’s parents were murdered by these Thugees?”
Grace nodded fiercely. “Oh, yes! There’s not the slightest doubt. You see, these murderers consider each crime a holy mission. One-third of their booty is always taken to the temple of Kali and left there for the goddess. Lady Elizabeth had worn her famous parure of black diamonds to the maharajah’s ball the night before. After the murders, the tiara, the earrings, and the bracelet were found in the temple of Kali, left there by the culprits. Her murderer had used the necklace to strangle her. The marks of the diamonds were imprinted on her throat when her body was found. But the necklace has never been recovered.”
Persia was suddenly gripped by terror. She tried to tell herself her fears were unreasonable. But reasonable or not, the panic refused to go away. Cyrus had told her so many things that were untrue. How could she ever trust him again? She was confused. She felt helpless. She longed for escape… for Zack!
She forced a smile and a bright tone. “Grace, I wonder if you would do me a favor?”
“Why, certainly, Persia. Anything you ask.”
“I’ve been wanting to post some letters, to be taken back to America on the Madagascar. Could you, personally, see that they’re sent overland to Calcutta for me?”
“Of course. Do you have them ready?”
Persia felt a wave of relief. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll go to my room and get them.”
Luckily, she had written to her father and her sister the day before. She jotted a hurried note to Zack and sealed it. The gist of her message was simple and to the point: “Help!”
When she returned with the three sealed envelopes, she felt an explanation was in order about her letter to the Madagascar’s captain. With only a slight blush she said, “I’m afraid I forgot a few of my things on board ship. I’m hoping Captain Hazzard will see to having them sent to me.”
Grace Cunningham’s smile held only a hint of suspicion as she curled her fingers around the envelopes and replied, “I’m sure he’ll be happy to oblige, my dear.”
The rest of the day went quickly and well. Cyrus seemed in high spirits after his vist with Cunningham. All during supper, he chatted amiably about crops and prices and the new infirmary he planned to build with the profits. He inquired politely about Persia’s afternoon with Grace, but he did not press her for details of their discussion. She was relieved at that.
Persia longed to question him about Hannah and her death. He seemed in such a reasonable mood. What could it hurt? But something stayed her tongue. She was only too happy to excuse herself from the table as soon as they finished their evening meal. She needed to be alone so she could think everything through. She would have to be very careful with Cyrus until Zack arrived to rescue her. One slip of the tongue might give her plans away and ruin everything. She wasn’t sure how she knew she was in danger, but she was. There was no doubting it!
A tremendous sense of relief overtook her the minute she closed the bedroom door behind her. But her feeling of well-being lasted only seconds. Although, at first glance, everything in the bedroom seemed exactly as she had left it, one thing was different. Propped against her vanity mirror was a familiar sheet of vellum.
She moved toward it with dread. She picked it up, read it, and her eyes widened with terror.
Elephanta Island
May 10, 1847
Dearest Zack,
You must help me! Somet
hing is terribly wrong here. There’s no time to explain, just please, come for me!
My love to you always,
Persia
She stood staring down at her own handwriting until the paper shook in her hand and the words blurred and ran together as tears fell on the page.
“Cyrus knows!” she said in an icy whisper.
“Yes! I know!”
Persia whipped around to face him. She hadn’t heard the door open, and his voice nearly frightened her into a faint. He was smiling at her, but his face was contorted into an odd mask of warring emotions. He moved toward her slowly.
“What I don’t know, Sister Persia, is why you would ever want to leave me. I’ve given you this fine house. And you certainly can’t be lacking for love. Why, even Hannah never received my attentions so regularly. In fact, she sometimes complained that I spent too much time with Indira and not enough with her. But then I’d always thought that a well-bred wife appreciated a husband who satisfied his needs elsewhere. I was wrong, though. You’re my proof. Not once have you turned from me. Not until now. Your letter hurt me deeply.”
He was directly before her now. Persia was trapped. When his hands came up to rest on her shoulders, she winced at his touch and bit her lip to keep from crying out.
“You aren’t like Hannah, are you? She complained about Indira, but not because she wanted my love. Even when I offered her gifts, she refused me. She said terrible things to me. She accused me of lusting after far more than salvation.”
His slender fingers encircled Persia’s throat and he squeezed gently, then harder, cutting off her breath. He drew her to him and kissed her—a savage, wet, probing kiss. When he drew away, she was shaking, gasping.
Hot Winds From Bombay Page 35
