Tiger Claws

by John Speed

  “You talk as though your guru is your enemy,” Shivaji says.

  “What do you know of it?” Maya flares. “She taught me to dance and then deserted me! I was young, alone, driven into slavery, turned into a …” Again the word is hard for her to say. “ … a whore; a rich man’s whore. She could have saved me. She had the means.” Shivaji moves to comfort her, but she shrugs him off.

  “But look how much she has given you—”

  “She doesn’t give; she takes! She smiles and smiles, and steals away everything I love. I hate her!”

  “But what has she stolen? I don’t understand.”

  “She’s stolen you!” Maya cries out. “She took away hope … my hope of you.” Again she laughs, cold and bitter. “You don’t know what she’s done to you, do you?”

  “What has she done?”

  “I don’t know, not all of it. But I know enough … I know she’s cut off from you that part that once belonged to me.”

  “I never—”

  Again she lifts her hand, stopping his words. “I know what I know.” How different she feels now when she looks at him. She starts to cry again, to mourn the loss of what she never had.

  “Did she tell you she was doing something to me?”

  Maya turns away, disgusted. “She said you would awaken.”

  “Anything more than that?”

  “You heard her! She said you should remember why you’re here.”

  He seems to consider this; his eyes are veiled and thoughtful. “Why do you think I’m here?” he asks at last.

  She sighs. “You wanted to get me away from your house. And you couldn’t go to Welhe; all those soldiers from the fort got there first. You’re …” But she stops as she sees a strange expression cross his face.

  “Yes,” he says, his dark eyes gleaming. He tosses back his flowing hair. “Yes, that’s it. That’s why I’m here!” Already he’s heading for the door.

  Wait,” she calls. Shivaji turns and looks at her. Such a beautiful smile, she thinks. And then he’s gone.

  Tanaji feels someone shaking him. He opens his eyes and sees sunshine. Sunshine, after more than a week. He sits up, ready to be glad.

  “Hello, uncle,” Shivaji says cheerfully.

  “You’re up!” Tanaji says. But no one seems to listen.

  There are others standing around the bed. Hanuman, Lakshman crouching near his shoulder. Beside him sits Iron, looking thoughtful.

  “What is this, a war council?” Tanaji says, making a joke. He glances at Iron, who merely nods his head noncommittally. Tanaji looks from face to face. “Wait, what’s going on?” he says.

  “Father, Shahu has a plan,” says Hanuman.

  “I can’t think when I first wake up. This is well known, Shahu. I need to piddle. I need some breakfast. Then I can think.”

  They continue to sit in silence as Tanaji takes a third idli. Though he knows something’s up, Tanaji won’t ask, and the others know it’s impolite to interrupt. But the quiet doesn’t last.

  “We’re taking the fort,” Hanuman blurts out.

  Tanaji gawks at Hanuman, the cup of sambhar and half-finished idli motionless in his hand.

  “Maybe you’d better let me put these things down,” he says, “before I hear this bright idea.”

  Hanuman and Lakshman unveil the plan. There are only six or eight men guarding Torna fort. It’s a rotation; four men get sent back every day; four from the fort come down. They’ll waylay the rotation, and go in place of the four-man guard sent up today. Once inside, they’ll overpower the current guards, and take the fort. Simple.

  As he listens, Tanaji’s frown gets deeper. He squints from time to time to Iron, but Iron simply grunts and looks away.

  With Hanuman interrupting, Lakshman takes charred stick and draws on the courtyard tiles: roads, gates, walls, cannons; black lines on the gray tiles. Tanaji looks on, weighing what he sees. “Can this be done?” he asks Iron when the twins have finished speaking.

  “Yes,” Iron says after a few moments. “Maybe.” He looks at Shivaji, then the sooty drawing, then back to Tanaji. “With the right men.”

  “Your men?” Tanaji asks.

  Iron seems to think this over. “Maybe,” he answers, hoping Tanaji will understand, one grown and wiser man to another.

  “Say you take Torna,” Tanaji says, turning to Shivaji. “Then what?”

  “Then it’s ours, father,” Hanuman exclaims.

  Tanaji’s dark eyebrows knit tight. “I’m asking him.” He turns back to Shivaji. In the window the sun has moved behind Shivaji, and the sunbeams dance amidst the stray hairs of his head, sparkling so it seems he has a golden halo. It’s a lucky thing I’m not a superstitious man, Tanaji thinks. “I asked you a question, Shahu. What happens if you take it?”

  “Take it back, you mean, uncle.”

  “After all,” Iron puts in, “it’s his fort, isn’t it? Wasn’t that why Shahji fought, Tana? For his son? Isn’t that why we fought beside him? For a kingdom? A succession? Wasn’t that the point?”

  “But are you prepared to die for it, Iron? Are the rest of you?” As Tanaji asks this, he sees the grim darkness of Iron’s tiny eyes, the clinched muscles of his broad face. And his sons, their faces beaming. And Shivaji, glowing like a god.

  You’re grown now, Shahu, Tanaji thinks. Today I set aside my promise to your father. I can’t keep you from pursuing what you want. And my sons are in love with the thought of conquest. You don’t know what you’re asking. But you, he thinks, looking at Iron, you know my heart too well. If only Dadaji were here, I’d know better what to do!

  “Let’s find out what Bala has to say,” suggests Tanaji.

  They’re still discussing the plan when O’Neil comes up to see Shivaji. Shivaji comes away from the circle. O’Neil lifts his hands politely. “Hey, Lord Shivaji, I hear you going fight soon.”

  “Lord?” Shivaji replies. “Where did you hear that, Onil?”

  “About fight is everywhere. All say fight come very soon.”

  “It’s not certain yet. Not sure, you understand? It must be legal.” O’Neil strains to understand that word, and Shivaji tries to explain its meaning to him.

  “Lord, you must be joking. Legal? It must be the strong man that takes that fort. Strong man takes what he wants. Legal … No legal.”

  “Maybe,” Shivaji replies, amused.

  “Sure, sure, maybe. But I think maybe yes, lord. So why I come. I wish to ask you a par-tic-u-lar favor.” He sounds out the syllables carefully.

  Shivaji’s eyebrow shoots up. “A favor, Onil? A particular favor?”

  O’Neil grins. “You like that? I learn Balaji. He good teacher. He speaks very good Persian. Smart man, Bala. Good man.”

  Shivaji agrees, nodding. “What is your particular favor?” He tries not to enjoy the word too much.

  “Lord, at the edge of your jagir is a forest of teak. I say right?” O’Neil says. “This teak is a particular favorite of our ship makers. Farang men make big boat, you see? Ship men liking this wood, very good. This forest of teak would be most valuable to the farangs, particularly the Portuguese and Dutch. You understand, Portuguese and Dutch? Means farangs, yes?”

  Shivaji’s amusement and curiosity show. “You’ve been practicing this, haven’t you, Onil?”

  O’Neil’s spotty face glows red. “Bala help me get good words. You like my good words, lord? These particular words?” O’Neil laughs. “Listen, lord, that tree place very good, very good trees. Long, you understand? Very long, means very good. Much gold for long trees. I get this gold for you. You give me trees, I give gold.”

  “Wait, Onil: those trees aren’t mine.”

  O’Neil listens carefully and seems to think over what Shivaji has said. “Sure, I understand. But Bala say, sure, trees belong you. You are the true and rightful owner of that land, that Bala say. I say this right?”

  Shivaji looks behind him, to Bala who at this moment is arguing with Tanaji, then back to O’Neil. �
�Maybe,” he says.

  “You want gold? You want gold for trees?” O’Neil asks, his pale eyes glowing.

  “No,” Shivaji replies. O’Neil’s face falls. A peal of thunder comes from far away, shattering the morning calm. Shivaji looks steadily at O’Neil. “No, you misunderstand. I’ll give you trees, but not for gold.

  “Bring me guns,” he whispers.

  Jyoti finds Maya in Gungama’s old room, her arms curled around a pillow. Thunder is rolling down the mountain, booming and cracking wildly.

  “Mistress,” Jyoti whispers. Maya’s eyes open so quickly the maid realizes that she wasn’t really asleep. “Your girls are waiting, mistress. Your chelas, mistress. They’re in the dance pavilion, waiting for their guru. For you, mistress.” Maya sighs, as if her doom is sealed. “You should be happy, mistress. You will be a great guru.”

  “Do you like this temple, Jyoti? This room? I hope you do. This is our home, I guess, until we die.”

  Jyoti clucks her tongue. “You make it sound bad. I know what you would rather have, but no one gets every wish.”

  “What would I rather have?” says Maya, suddenly facing her maid.

  Jyoti avoids Maya’s eyes. “They’ll be leaving soon, you know. Hanuman came to tell us goodbye just a moment ago. They’re saddling the horses even now,” she says to Maya.

  “No!” Maya cries, standing up. Her hair cascades around her shoulders like a shawl. She runs to the door. A blast of thunder crashes through the tiny house as though the sky were breaking overhead. There in the courtyard Maya sees the men from Poona mounting their ponies. From beneath their cloaks she sees the gleam of sword and mace, bows and arrows with bright feathers.

  “Maya.”

  She turns. There he is, Shivaji, motioning for her.

  “Are you going away?” she asks. No matter how she tries, her voice is filled with anguish.

  “Not for long,” he answers. “I’ll see you very soon.”

  “But when?” She doesn’t care that people watch. The storm wind has started blowing now—it whips across the temple walls and gusts across the courtyard, shaking the trees, sending her sari fluttering. The wind is heavy with the scent of rain.

  “Soon. Very soon.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” she whispers.

  “A day or two, no more,” he laughs. Then he throws back his hood and points to his forehead. “I’ll never lie to you. I swear by this mark.”

  She’s surprised to see that he’s wearing a saffron-colored turban, the color that holy men and renunciants wear. “Oh, gods,” she breathes. The first great drops of rain begin to splatter from the sky.

  “Go now in peace.” His voice is far too fatherly to suit her. “Go.”

  “No!” she answers, standing by his pony, looking up into his face. A fat drop of rain smacks her cheek as she stares up at him.

  “Let’s ride,” shouts Tanaji, waving his hand.

  The rain now beats down heavier than ever.

  If she had looked behind her Maya might have seen her maid standing in the portico, following another horseman with longing eyes, with tears spilling down her round cheeks. As it is, Maya waits in the rain, her empty arms outstretched long after all the riders have gone, long after the temple gates are shut, until at last Jyoti comes and leads her silently inside.

  CHAPTER 13

  “It ain’t fair!” one of the Bijapuris whines. “I was just up there two days ago. Shouldn’t be my turn until tomorrow.” With the rain crashing down upon them, the cloaked soldiers ride with hoods pulled over their faces, two in front, two in back. Their horses pick their way along the mud-slick road that leads to the foot of Torna mountain.

  “Quit bellyaching,” comes a voice from beneath another wax cloth hood. “The cook up at the fort is sick. He needs to come down. It’s just the way the dice fell.”

  “Well, I’m sick, too,” the first man replies, kicking his horse’s flanks. “I’m sick of this shit. I miss my wife.”

  “Close your mouths, the both of you,” a third man says, lifting his hood just enough to show a pair of angry eyes. “Shut up and be like him,” the sergeant says. “He keeps his mouth shut and just rides.”

  “Maybe he’s dead,” the first man says.

  “Maybe he’s drowned,” says the second man. “Who’d know?”

  But before they can laugh at this wit, the trees on either side of the road begin to rustle. The sergeant pulls up, but before he can say a word, he sees a pony’s head emerge from the brush, and a bow and arrow pointed at his heart. In a moment a dozen bowmen on ponies encircle them.

  There was no sign, the sergeant protests silently, cursing Allah. They just appeared out of nowhere, he thinks, already preparing his excuses. It wasn’t my fault!

  Then it strikes the sergeant that a bigger problem requires his immediate attention. “Don’t shoot,” he says, raising his hands. Cold rain pours down his chest and arms, cascading over the edges of the wax cloth cloak. One of the ponies steps forward. The sergeant sees a nasty-looking mace hanging from the rider’s saddle.

  The man with the mace lifts his hooded head, and rain pours down the ends of his mustache. “How’d you boys like a little relief?”

  “Sounds great,” the first rider says.

  “Shut up,” growls the sergeant.

  “Put them over there,” Iron says, nodding to an empty stall.

  The four Bijapuri horsemen are led inside a dark stable, heads down and cloaks dripping. The sergeant sees that the stable is full of his men. Captain Hamzadin sits miserably against the wall, bound hand and foot. “What happened, captain?” the sergeant says. “Have they captured everybody?”

  Hamzadin growls, “We put up a fight. Did you?”

  “At least I won’t be the one explaining this to Bijapur,” the sergeant says. Hamzadin curls his lip and spits.

  “But I want to go,” Iron says. “It’s my right to go.”

  “A four-man job, uncle,” Shivaji answers. “Besides, you need to give a younger man a chance.”

  “No,” Iron rumbles. “This is my chance. You are my chance. I served your father. That fort belongs to you, Shahu. I want to get it back for you. It is my right to go, and my pleasure. You cannot deny me this, Shahu.”

  “He’s right, Shahu,” Tanaji says, coming up to join them. “He should go.”

  “Their routine is to rotate four guards—just four,” Shivaji replies. “So just the four will go. A fifth would be suspicious.”

  “But they know Iron, Shahu,” Tanaji says. “I was thinking about this. Who will talk to the guards up there? They’re not going to let us in like that, not when they’ve never seen us before. They know him, Shahu. They like him. Everybody likes Iron, right?”

  Shivaji simply closes his eyes.

  “Come on, you,” Tanaji says to Iron. “Let’s see if you remember how to fight.”

  There had been grousing when Tanaji selected the twins to make up the rest of the party. But the two of them are the best bowmen in Poona, and who can blame Tanaji if he wants family for a job like this? Still, what kind of father sends his children to face death?

  Iron lends his favorite old sword to Shivaji before they leave the compound. It’s a little heavier than Shivaji likes, but it will serve. Near the hilt the blade has twenty-nine notches.

  “I’m like your dad,” Iron says to the twins as they begin to ride. “I like a mace. Gives you a feeling of protection, a mace.” He pats the heavy weapon that hangs from his horse’s saddle. Iron’s mace has a hammerhead bludgeon instead of the knife-edged one Tanaji prefers. The twins wince at these old men who place such store in bashing their enemies’ heads. They’d rather slice a throat with a shiny arrow from a hundred yards away.

  Water cascades off the face of the mountain, spilling across the pathway.

  “Have they got guns?” Tanaji shouts to Iron as they slog up the narrow, winding path to the fort. The wind whips the rain right in their faces.

  “Sure, they’ve got guns,”
Iron shouts back. “But what good are guns in this weather?”

  Even nearly empty, even poorly defended, a fort is a force unto itself. Tanaji twists his head, peering into the rain sheeting from the gray sky, peering up at the fierce rock walls of Torna.

  Torna mountain is tall and narrow, thrusting like a knife blade from the plains. And even if the rain were less, it would be hard to tell exactly where the mountain ended and the fort walls began. The walls rise up in a smooth face that curves around the edge of the mountain’s knifelike peak.

  The road to the fort is a narrow switchback path, its surface left intentionally uneven, full of half-formed steps and potholes. It would be hazardous in sunshine, but rain-slick and blasted by the mountain winds, it’s terrifying. From hidden drains in the walls above them, cold rivers of rain arc through the air and crash to the winding road. They’re getting soaked.

  The first gate on the road—about three quarters of the way up the mountain—is open. The Bijapuris have no enemies on this side of Hindustan, and no one expects a move upon this small and insignificant fort. Why else would the captain feel comfortable leaving it all but deserted? “Eight men only up there, maybe ten at most,” Hamzadin had told them. He’d said the same even after they twisted his arms till he screamed.

  But as he waits for the others to gather beside him in the shelter of the gatehouse, Tanaji begins having second thoughts. Eight or ten men in this fortress, tiny as it is, could harry an attacking army. If the eight men were determined, if they could use guns. Their plan depends on surprise. He hopes surprise will be enough.

  Beneath an overhanging rock, Tanaji halts and makes them rehash the plan once more. Then he tells them all to pee.