by John Masters
Jason paddled furiously towards the bank. The farther he went the greater would be his danger, because the bow chaser would soon be able to bear--but he could not stay where he was, or they’d bring out the firelocks and shoot him with those.
The first four shots missed him. Ten seconds more and he’d be on the bank. The fifth shot hit the stern of the log boat. The boat flew to pieces, the logs kicked out of the water, catapulting him high in the air. Among logs and rope and flying paddle he fell back into the river.
He struggled quickly through waist-deep water to the bank. A cannon-ball showered him with mud, and he broke into a gasping run. He glanced back once. The ship’s longboat, full of Dutch soldiers in armour, was rowing towards the shore, directly behind him. He ran now along the river bank, past the square, towards the sea. They could not see him from the square because the bank sloped down sharply to the river.
What was the use of running? Why didn’t he take his sword --he had it in his hand--and go and kill the king? The king would be guarded. The Dutch longboat reached the bank. The chamberlain shrieked and yelled. Four horsemen broke loose from the king’s bodyguard and began to force their way to the river bank, where they could run him down. Jason reached the end of the square, ran behind the house where he had spent the night, and plunged into the alleys of the city.
After a moment he untied his cummerbund as he ran, and threw it away. Then the pink sash for the sword, then the sword itself and its encrusted scabbard--he threw them away. Exultant crowds shrieked in the streets. The four horsemen followed him, but he could move faster than they among the press of the people.
Six more cavalrymen rode out of a side alley in front of him. His pursuers, signalling over the heads of the crowd, made the new arrivals understand that they were to let no one pass them. Jason hurried on, untying the strings of his money bag. When he reached the line of horses across the street he threw gold and pearls, diamonds, pieces of eight, rubies, and gold mohurs into the dirt at their feet. The crowd saw and dived for the money. The soldiers saw and rode their horses together, flung themselves down and joined the mad, fighting mob on their knees. Jason slipped through among them.
He ran into a courtyard and saw a fat woman cooking at her fire. He tore off the rest of his clothes, grabbed hot ash from the fire and dust from the earth, and rubbed them over his dripping body. He pulled at his hair and ran filthy fingers through it and down his face. The fat woman screamed and screamed beside him. He shouted, ‘Quiet!’ climbed over the back wall, picked up one of the hundred sticks and staves lying in the street, and slowed his pace.
Now, stark naked, smeared with ash from head to foot, his hair matted in front of his face, the long stick in his right hand, he strode south. He shouted angry gibberish as he went, which might have been the challenges and exhortations and holy texts of a fakir, but was not, for it was English blasphemy and cursing against God. People who saw him coming stepped hurriedly out of his way with a prayer and a joining of the hands. He was holy of the holiest, drunk with holiness, because he owned nothing in the world beyond a stick. Wild and filthy, he strode past the soldiers and out of the booming city.
The pearling fleet was preparing for sea. Jason stood among the men on the sand, clean again, and wearing a loincloth Simon had given him when he arrived in the middle of the night. The pearlers had been celebrating the Dussehra then, and had paused only momentarily to greet him and help him to a hut, before returning to their jugs of toddy. He had slept, but now, in the early morning, by the scattered wood ash and the broken jugs and the man lying stretched face down on the dry mud above the creek, he knew they had kept it up all night. Simon’s eyes were bloodshot, and the women looked worn and dishevelled.
Simon stood in his log boat, his wife patiently holding the boat steady with the paddle, and said, ‘Are you sure you will not come to sea with us, Jason? You will bring us luck.’
‘No,’ Jason said shortly. ‘I must get ready to move on. At any moment the king may send men to find me.’
Simon said, ‘Do not fear. You are born to be a great man. It is in your eyes. What has happened ‘ He stretched out his arms. ‘It has happened. Give us a blessing, please, if you cannot come with us.’
Jason hesitated--but, damnation, what did he care? He raised his hand and murmured, ‘Abracadabra, ding dong bell, pussy’s in the well.’ Simon made the sign of the cross, kissed both lingam and crucifix charms. His wife began to paddle, and the boat gathered way.
Jason watched with sullen hostility as the little craft rippled out into the turquoise sea. Simon had been responsible for his present troubles, by lying about the Dutchman. Everyone had lied to him, but, by God, he had tried to help Simon and his miserable pearlers and this was how they repaid him. He turned back and walked up the beach towards the huts. The drunkard had roused himself and staggered into his hut to sleep it off. Two old women and a crippled man squatted in a group under the largest palm tree, but the mud bank was deserted, and there Jason sat down and put his chin in his hands and thought.
The king knew now that he had tried to prevent the massacre by the river yesterday. The king was a contradictory little man and might not be very angry, since the massacre had succeeded. But it was not safe to assume that. The king also knew that the pearlers were Jason’s friends. But he would be busy now. And he would think, perhaps, that Jason was trapped in the kingdom by his own actions, and that there was therefore no reason for haste in catching him. Certainly there would be no shelter in the three neighbouring kingdoms, because he had been the treacherous envoy who had beguiled them into destroying themselves. Then there were the Dutch for the king to deal with, and some enemy soldiers would be hiding in the city and would have to be ferreted out; and there were six more days of the Dussehra.
He was probably safe here for a day or two yet. Then he must go. He needed money and a good horse. With them he could leave the kingdom, cross Ponpalamai, and reach Madura. He needed a sword and a dagger. He needed clothes. Above all he needed money, at once. Well, he could get that easily enough. He knew the ways of Coromandel now. Some of the people who looked poor were in fact rich. Women carried their wealth about on them in the form of gold bangles and ornaments.
One of the old women under the palm called, ‘A stranger is coming.’
Jason stood up, his heart beating painfully. But, peering through the reeds, he saw that it was only one person coming down the path. It was a woman. She walked slowly with a big square bundle on her head, one arm uplifted to hold the bundle, and the other swinging wearily at her side. She wore nothing above the waist. Her breasts were small and high, and her belly flat; her cotton skirt swung with the movement of her hips. Jason started forward. It was a red skirt with yellow and black designs. Parvati had sometimes worn a skirt of that colour and pattern.
The high sun hid the woman’s face in the shadow of the bundle. For a moment he could not be sure. Then he saw. It was Catherine d’Alvarez.
He stared at her naked torso as she came close. He had seen a thousand Indian women like that since he landed in Coromandel--but this was the Portuguese grandee’s daughter, who wore high-necked dresses and long sleeves.
He relaxed with a frown. She was not really pretty, and he disliked her. She came to a stop near him. Her dark eyes glistened for a moment, seeking his own, then slowly she leaned forward and fell face down in the mud. The bundle burst open and scattered its contents around her. Jason stared down in disbelief at a necklace, his Wiltshire poaching knife, a blanket, Voy’s shoulder sack, her wooden spectacle case, his books. Among the books his map fluttered in the small wind.
The old woman said, ‘Aren’t you going to help her? Is she an enemy?’
Jason started, hurried to the stream, filled a pan with water, held her sitting upright, and dashed the water in her face. After a moment she shook her head and opened her eyes and said,
‘They murdered my father and the housekeeper and Father Felipe.’
Jason gasped. ‘Murder
ed them! But--‘
She said, ‘You murdered them, Jason. My father warned you. I warned you.’ She burst into a torrent of weeping. ‘Thank God I could not see. But I heard. They chopped them with axes and swords in the big hall, and Father Felipe in the orange garden.’
Jason said tensely, ‘It wasn’t my fault. How was I to know they would attack you? I risked my life to stop the massacre by the river.’
‘No, you didn’t,’ she said. ‘You only cared about turning the tables on the king. You weren’t thinking about saving anyone’s life.’ She stood up and leaned heavily on him for a moment. ‘Where is my bundle?’
‘Here. At your feet.’
‘Everything that we need is here. Parvati gave me this skirt and dyed me. Parvati got your books and the map and the rest from the palace. She risked her life. Let go now.’
She stood away from him and turned her head slowly round and whispered, ‘The sun is shining. I can smell mud and seaweed. They have been drinking toddy, and now there is food cooking--fish.’
The slim column of her neck fitted gracefully into her shoulders. The sheen of the sun touched the curve of her breasts. The long muscles of her belly ran down on either side of her navel. Jason looked away, flushing.
She said, ‘I want to sleep. How can I sleep? What I see is more than I can see, more than I saw. Jason, never, never forget what you have done.’ She spoke at him firmly and without anger. She said, ‘I know you could not help it, because you are you. But this was really not you. This happened because you had let yourself become selfish. You were thinking only of how you could be rich and powerful and ‘
‘Shut your mouth!’ Jason yelled. He hit her on the side of the head with his open hand. He was trembling violently. She stumbled and fell to her knees and stayed there on all fours, her head hanging and her hair trailing in the mud.
Cursing monotonously, Jason picked her up in his arras and carried her to his hut. Her body was warm and her face calm. She was already asleep. He laid her down and knelt beside her head, glowering bitterly at her dark eyelids.
She was helpless. She must have some money hidden away somewhere. She was in love with him, for all her abuse. By God, she spoke to him like a mother, or like Molly, telling him what he had done, what he must do. But by God, she was a slender figure of a woman, lying there in his hut. He was standing in a trance when the old woman shuffled in and said, ‘Let her sleep now. She’s a pretty one, isn’t she, but thin. Why is she so thin?’
Early in the evening the pearlers returned. Simon waved excitedly from the leading boat, and leaped out as soon as the craft reached the shallows, and ran up with his right hand tight shut and his mouth split in a wide smile. He cried, ‘Look!’ He held his clenched fist under Jason’s nose, then slowly opened it. Six big pearls lay on his palm. ‘It is not to be believed!’ he shouted. ‘There has never been such a catch! These will buy us food for weeks! Months! Even at the king’s price! And this in the Dussehra! Because of your blessing! Ave Maria, Ave Maria!’
He danced up and down the beach, singing and yelling. Jason smiled with his lips and thought: There’s my money. It’ll be easy. Then he told Simon of Catherine’s arrival, and they went together to the hut to see whether she had waked up.
She was sitting outside the hut, and the two old women were squatting in front of her, staring at her but not speaking. She stood up as they approached and said, ‘Take me to the sea, please, Jason. Isn’t there a sandy point across the cove?’
Jason said, ‘Yes, but why don’t you rest here?’
She said, ‘I want to bathe myself. And to talk.’ Her sleep had freshened her, and the mark on her cheek where he had hit her did not show. She held out her hand. Jason stared at it. God’s blood, he must guide her. He took her hand, not gently, and led her round the edge of the cove and across the dunes to the neck of the point.
She said, ‘Now I can hear the sea close, the real sea. Is there anyone watching?’ He glanced up and down in the twilight and said, ‘No.’ She took off her skirt and walked slowly towards the sighing waves. Jason sat on the dry sand and watched her. She knelt in the sea, washed out the skirt, rinsed it two and three times, carried it out, and spread it on the sand. Then she sat in the shallows and splashed water on her body and face, came out, put on her skirt, and at last walked slowly up the beach to him. It was almost dark. He held his breath and hoped that she would not see him.
But why did he want her to stand there, ten feet from him, the skirt clinging to her thighs and the blue hint of evening on breast and cheek? He could have her whenever he wanted to. He could keep his dislike for her. She was his slave, or she would not be here. She would not have stood naked so carelessly before him.
She said, ‘Why do you look at me? You know I love you.’ He started. How did she know he was there, and gazing? He must remember to find where her money was. She sat down near him and said, ‘I have washed most of it away--what I saw. It happened, and I remember it all, but it is cleaner now. I am glad you hit me, because I don’t think I could have slept otherwise.’
Jason said, ‘Don’t talk about it. I lost my temper.’
She said, ‘What shall we do?’
He said, ‘We?’
She said, ‘You are engaged to marry me.’
He began to answer with anger, but she moved her arms in a small gesture of embrace--not to him, but to the sea and the indigo sky and the whispering dunes--and the pectoral muscle stood out for an instant, pulling up her breast, and he thought: I will have her now.
He put out his hand. She caught it and pressed it to her mouth. She said, ‘You must take me, Jason, because you need a guide as much as I do. I think I can lead you to where you want to be. We can go together, leading each other. I felt it the moment I heard you singing “Greensleeves.” ‘
He whispered quietly in her ear for a moment, talking of their first meeting in the orange garden. God’s blood, the poor soft thing really was in love--helpless, hopeless, melted with love. He could not wait a moment longer.
He put his left arm round her, eased her back to the sand, and brought up his right hand. He whispered, ‘I love you, dearest, I love you.’ His chest hurt, and he thought: I could, by God, I could--but this time I shall laugh last.
Her mouth softened under his. She said, ‘I will not lie with you, to make love, until you love me, dearest.’
He muttered, ‘I do, I do! Oh, darling!’
She said, ‘You don’t. I love you, that is all. Even when we are married I will not lie with you until you love me.’ Gently she put his hand away and sat up.
He said exasperatedly, ‘How in damnation are you going to know? I’ve told you, and you won’t believe me.’
She said, ‘I’ll know.’
He tried again, assaulting her slight body with kisses and hard arms. She did not turn stiff against him, and she did not struggle. She even kissed him, but he could not lie with her.
He shouted, ‘What do you want to marry me for, then?’
She said, ‘I’ve told you. Because I love you. To lead you. To be led. Take me back now, dear.’
Jason shouted, ‘I’m not going to marry you.’
She said quietly--but he heard the laughter in her voice--‘You must. You have taken my dowry, and spent it. Oh, Jason, I--‘
He bawled. ‘I haven’t spent it! It was stolen or lost. God’s blood, you know I didn’t mean it when I took it, and I said I’d never see you or speak to you after the marriage.’
She said, ‘Jason, you must take me with you, because you need me. You will never be happy without me, nor I without you.’
He bawled, ‘And lead you by the hand at a snail’s pace with the king’s cavalry galloping at our heels? I’ve got enough to do to look after myself.’
She said, ‘Take me back to the hut now, dear.’ She held out her hand. Jason walked away, leaving her there. After a moment he ran back, grabbed her hand, and dragged her to the huts.
God’s blood, he had wanted her for a mi
nute back there, but that was only because she was a woman and had had the obscenity to prance around undressed in front of him. He hated her. Let her laugh now, or smile, or so much as speak, and he’d strangle her. But she did not.
Only, just at the edge of the muddy stream, she stood on tiptoe and kissed his neck under the ear and whispered, ‘Darling Jason, do hurry and love me.’
He shrugged her off and wondered how soon Simon would be safely asleep.
Black as the Windline at new moon; past midnight--the drunken hogs of pearlers snoring beside their black sluts; the Portuguese girl deep asleep beside him; a wind rising in the palms. He took out Voy’s sack and put in it his knife and the handfuls of cold rice, wrapped in leaves, which he had taken from his bowl at supper. He backed out of the hut on hands and knees.
He crept into Simon’s hut. Simon always kept his pearls in a small box in a hole in the earth under the strewn palm leaves where he slept. Jason listened for the couple’s breathing. They slept heavily on opposite sides of the hut. They were childless. Gently he pushed Simon over and moved the leaves. He dug in silence with his fingers, for the earth was dry and friable. In a moment he came to the box, opened it, took out the pearls, and put it back in the hole. God’s blood! --they’d said it was due to his blessing that they’d found them in the first place.
He edged out of the hut and waited a moment beside the door. It had been easy, but his breath came fast and his hands were not steady. Now he was himself again. He put the pearls in Voy’s sack.
West was his way, west and south. He’d move fast till he came to the first jungle, then lie up till daylight, then go boldly out and buy a horse. Pearls, a steady hand, a gentle tongue, a sharp knife. He glanced at the sky, but clouds hid the Pole Star. The surf rolled like slow, heavy drums on the Coromandel shore, and the palms creaked and bowed under the wind.
