This one surprised him, though. He’d seen train avatars many times, but never something moving along the road like this. He’d heard stories of the marvellous machines back in Rajthana, but he’d never known whether to believe in them. Whatever the case, it looked as though the Rajthanans were bringing in their most powerful devices now.
The rebels didn’t stand a chance.
A Rajthanan officer riding nearby stopped his horse for a moment, closed his eyes and made a small gesture with his hand. The avatar shuddered and groaned, then began to creep forward again.
None of the onlookers seemed to have noticed the man, but Jack knew he must be a siddha – a ‘perfected one’. Only a siddha could command an avatar like that.
The siddhas were yogins who, after long years of practice, had developed one or more of the miraculous powers. It was the siddhas who created and controlled the avatars, studied the yantras and learnt to smelt sattva. But they guarded their secrets closely – few Europeans, or even Rajthanans, knew much about them.
Jack, however, knew more than most. After all, he was, in a sense, a siddha himself.
The avatar grumbled past, the scent of coal and sattva wafting about it, the chains along its sides snapping tight as it hauled a covered wagon. Soon it disappeared into the grainy murk up the road, the wagon trundling behind.
A bank of grey cloud rolled across the sky. Raindrops began to spatter the ground, the cart, Jack’s head. Jack stood and leant against the mound of cabbages as the cart bumped along the road. Ahead, through the thickening drifts of rain, he saw the wall of the Goyanor estate. The red towers at the top of the house peeked out above the dark-green trees surrounding the property.
The cart pulled up at the gate and he jumped to the ground. His tunic was wet and heavy, and the wound in his chest ached. All he could think about was crawling into bed.
He banged on the gate.
The slot opened and Edwin’s face appeared. ‘Who’s there?’
‘It’s me – Jack.’
‘Well, now. Could be an intruder. How can I be sure?’
‘Open the gate, you bloody idiot.’
Edwin swung the gate open and stood there in a long cloak, his hair drenched and coiling into his eyes. He smiled cheekily. ‘Afternoon, Master Casey.’
Jack sighed and smiled back. Edwin wasn’t a bad lad. He would come right in the end.
And suddenly Jack found himself hoping for the best for the boy, hoping for his safety in a future that seemed to be darkening every day.
2
Jack sat cross-legged in his small room, staring straight ahead. A couple of sticks of incense burnt in a holder on the floor, the smoke filling the room and making his head swim. Morning light slipped under the door and through cracks in the walls, but otherwise the room was in fuzzy darkness.
He took a deep breath. His thoughts were racing today.
‘Your mind is like a rippling pool.’
Basic yoga training. He remembered sitting with the other men on the parade ground as the drill sergeant took them through the meditation.
‘Sit down, men. Cross your legs. Back straight. Hands on knees. Focus on the standard.’
The regimental standard – three red lions running in a circle on a blue back ground – was always strung up before them during yoga practice.
‘Focus on the standard, men. Don’t let anything else into your head.
‘Now close your eyes. Keep them shut. Anyone opening their eyes will be on the end of my boot.
‘Keep the standard in your mind. Keep every detail of it there. Don’t let your thoughts jump.
‘Your mind is like a rippling pool. Still it.’
But today Jack found it hard to calm his thoughts. He tried to concentrate on the standard, but images and memories flickered in his head . . .
Elizabeth standing in the snow last Christmas, waving goodbye as he pulled away on the back of the cart . . .
Elizabeth, as a child, running towards him across a meadow, her long dark hair flowing behind her . . .
And then Katelin, his wife, on her deathbed, her face glistening with sweat as the fever took hold, her skin so pale he could see the blue veins clearly beneath. Her Celtic cross necklace rose and fell with her slight breathing. She reached out to him with skeletal arms and the feeling of her fingers on his cheek was like the chilling touch of death, as if she were already gone, calling to him from the spirit world . . .
He snapped his mind back to the standard.
He breathed slowly and felt his heart beating, beating, each beat telling him he was still alive.
Gradually, he tamed his mind. He bent all his thoughts towards the standard, suppressed anything else. He saw every detail of the three lions: the open mouths, bulging eyes, twitching tails, extended claws.
His spine tingled, warmth pulsed in his forehead and energy trickled over his scalp. Sattva prickled his nostrils. He was touching on the spirit realm now, the realm of heaven, of God . . .
A loud knock on the door snatched him out of the trance. He sat still for a second and composed himself.
Another knock.
He opened the door and saw Sarah standing there in a blue dress and a white bonnet. The rain had cleared during the night and the day was bright and warm. He squinted in the sudden glare.
‘There you are,’ Sarah said. ‘The master wants you. There are some people – they’ve come to see you.’
‘People?’
‘Army, I think.’
Jack frowned. Why would anyone from the army visit him? He’d had nothing to do with the army for nine years.
He walked with Sarah to the opening in the wall bordering the servants’ compound. Before he went through, she tugged his sleeve and looked at him with concern. ‘What did the doctor say?’
‘Nothing. I’m fine.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘You didn’t go, did you?’
‘Of course I did. Really. There’s nothing wrong with me.’
She smiled. ‘Thank God.’ Then the smile slipped from her face and she looked away. ‘I was worried about you.’
‘Don’t you worry.’
He considered patting her on the shoulder, but decided not to and instead stepped out into the garden, where a pair of peacocks strutted across the lawn.
Shri Goyanor was standing near the stone bridge, fidgeting. His spectacles flashed as they caught the light. ‘There are some army officers here. They need to speak to you.’
Jack nodded and followed his employer into the formal garden. He heard birds chirping in the trees and smelt the steam of the drying earth. Water burbled from fountains and shivered across ponds.
‘Look, Jack,’ Shri Goyanor said. ‘You’re not in any kind of trouble, are you?’
‘No, sir.’
Shri Goyanor nodded. ‘Of course not. Good.’
They came to the gazebo – a circular, wooden structure with a thatched roof and trellis walls covered in jasmine vines. The jasmine leaves bobbed as bees flitted from flower to flower. Two Indian men sat cross-legged in the shade. Jack stopped and blinked in surprise.
One of them was Captain Jhala – commander of his old army company, and his guru.
Jhala stood and smiled.
Jack instinctively did a deep namaste, going down to his knees and prostrating himself for a moment, before getting back to his feet. You had to show proper respect to your guru. Jhala was the siddha who had given him the secret training.
Jhala put his hands together and bowed slightly. ‘Namaste. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Jack.’
Jhala had aged a great deal since the last time Jack had seen him. Although he would only be in his mid-fifties now, his face seemed to hang from his scalp, giving him a slightly morose appearance. His cheeks were jowly and he had large purplish bags under his eyes. What was visible of his hair – poking out from under his red and white turban – had gone silver, as had his eyebrows.
He’d always been a strong man, but he’d suffered from occ
asional bouts of a fever he’d caught in Rajthana when he was young. Jack recalled him being confined to bed with it on several occasions. Perhaps the illness had caused this premature ageing.
‘Captain Jhala, I don’t know what to—’ Jack began.
Jhala smiled again and tapped his turban. Jack noticed the golden braids woven into the material.
‘Forgive me, Colonel Jhala.’
‘And this is Captain Sengar.’ Jhala gestured to the other officer standing beside him.
‘Namaste.’ Sengar spoke with a strong Indian accent. He looked a little younger than Jack, perhaps mid-thirties. His thick moustache was waxed into curls at both ends, and his face was angular and handsome. His green turban indicated that he was an officer in a French regiment of the European Army. Like Jhala, the sun-clan insignia was embroidered on the left side of his tunic.
‘He’s a good boy,’ Shri Goyanor said in Rajthani, wringing his hands as he stood next to Jack.
‘Of course,’ Jhala said. ‘He’s one of the finest army scouts I’ve ever met.’
Shri Goyanor’s eyes widened. He glanced at Jack. ‘Yes. We’re very lucky to have him. I’ve always said that.’ He switched to English, seeming to forget Jack could largely understand Rajthani. ‘Haven’t I always said that, Jack? We’re very lucky to have you.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Jack replied.
‘Thank you for letting us speak to him,’ Jhala said.
‘No problem at all. Would you like chai? Sweets?’
‘No, thank you,’ Jhala said. ‘We’ll be fine.’
‘Good. Excellent.’
‘Shri Goyanor, would you mind if we spoke to Jack in private?’
‘Oh. Of course not. No problem at all . . . well, then. Just send for me if you need anything else.’
Jack glanced back to watch Shri Goyanor make his way to the house. He could see many of the servants, including Sarah, standing about not even pretending to work, peering to make out what was going on in the gazebo.
Jhala and Sengar sat again.
‘Sit down, Jack.’ Jhala gestured to an ornate cushion-seat. ‘Relax.’
Jack removed his boots and lowered himself tentatively. He’d never sat in the gazebo before. He smelt the warm fragrance of the jasmine and heard the hum of the bees. Greenish light found its way through the vine leaves and speckled the floor.
As his surprise wore off, Jack realised how pleased he was to see Jhala again. Jhala had been more than a commander and guru to him – he’d been a friend, if such a thing were possible between European and Indian. They’d served together for fourteen years, in France, Macedonia and Eastern Europe, as well as in England. They’d been through the fire of the Slav War and the gentler times of the quiet posting in Newcastle. You couldn’t go through all that without a close bond developing.
‘How many years is it?’ Jhala asked.
‘Nine.’
‘Amazing. It goes so quickly, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘The regiment’s much the same. Chimney Pot’s long gone, of course.’
Jack smiled. ‘Chimney Pot’ was the nickname the troops had given to old Colonel Hada, who’d puffed on a hookah so much he was constantly surrounded by clouds of smoke.
It said a lot about Jhala that he knew this nickname. It showed how close he’d been to the men, to the point where he could share their jokes. He’d always kept a certain distance, of course – an officer had to – but he’d been closer to his troops than any other officer Jack had ever met. Perhaps part of this was due to his expert knowledge of the English language and culture. Jhala had actually taken it upon himself to study the English people. In his spare time he would read books and monographs on the subject. He could speak English better than many natives, and his knowledge of English history was extensive. In fact, much of the English history that Jack knew he’d learnt from Jhala.
Jack still distinctly remembered Jhala telling him the English were a ‘special race’.
‘You have a proud heritage,’ he’d said. ‘Never forget that. Your knights were the only ones in Europe to expel the Mohammedans. You overthrew them, just as we did in India. We’re alike, you see, the Rajthanans and the English. And both strong with sattva.’
Jhala shifted on his cushion-seat. There was a scraping sound nearby as one of the gardeners pushed a wheelbarrow along a gravel path.
‘Where are you posted now?’ Jack asked.
‘Here, in Poole. You know the barracks?’
‘Yes.’ Jack had seen the sprawling military compound from the road many times. It lay a few miles to the north-east of the city. But of course he’d never actually visited it, having left the army so long ago.
‘Been there for about a year now,’ Jhala said. ‘You should come by sometime. You’d be most welcome.’
‘Thank you, sir. Can I ask something?’
‘Of course.’
‘How did you know I was here? I mean, working at this place?’
‘It was just a stroke of luck. You remember you saw Sergeant Kershaw a few months ago?’
‘Yes.’ He remembered now. He’d bumped into David Kershaw, one of his old colleagues from the regiment, in Poole during the winter. They hadn’t spoken much – Jack had been in a rush to complete an errand for Shri Goyanor. He hadn’t even realised at the time that Kershaw and the regiment were now based in Poole.
‘Well, Kershaw happened to mention it to me,’ Jhala said. ‘He told me you were working as a guard around here, so I looked you up in the register.’
All guards were required to register with the local sheriffs, who kept a logbook containing the names and addresses of everyone working in security in the area.
Jhala coughed a few times and Jack wondered whether he was suffering from the fever at the moment. Finally, Jhala cleared his throat and looked around at the gardens. ‘It’s very pleasant here.’
‘Yes,’ Jack replied.
‘You like it, then?’
‘Shri Goyanor’s been good to me.’
‘Of course. I’m sure he has. But still, you must miss the old days sometimes.’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Ever think about coming back?’
‘No. I mean, I made my decision. I think it was for the best.’
Jhala looked up at the roof of the gazebo, as if there would be some sort of inspiration up there. ‘Never did quite understand why you left, Jack. If you’d stayed on you’d be ten years off getting your pension now.’
It was true. If he’d stayed on he would be closer to receiving the all-important, much-admired army pension, a smallholding where a man could live out the rest of his days in peace, if not actual luxury. It was what all soldiers dreamt about, after they’d served for a few years.
‘You’re right, sir, but I had that accident.’
‘The injury wasn’t bad. The doctor said you could stay on.’
‘Yes, sir. But . . . things changed.’
Jack’s fingers tensed around the corner of the cushion beneath him. The accident had been the result of karma and he’d vowed not to go back to the army after what he’d done. But he’d never spoken to anyone about this, apart from Katelin.
‘Well, I suppose we all have to make our choices in life,’ Jhala said. ‘But what would you say if I told you I could arrange for you to get your pension after all? Immediately.’
Jack’s heart quickened. Could it be possible? ‘Sir, I would be most grateful.’
‘Have to say, you’ve earned it. You were one of the best. I’ve got a lot to thank you for. All those times tracking the Slavs in the mountains. Never would have done it without you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘There is a catch, though. We need you to do something for us. A small mission.’
Jack paused. ‘I don’t want to cause offence, but I can’t join up again. Those days are over for me.’
‘You won’t need to join up. We just need your tracking skills.’
‘I’ve heard all a
bout your talent,’ said Sengar, who had been quietly observing the discussion so far. ‘I’m most anxious to see you at work.’
By ‘talent’ Jack assumed Sengar meant his power, his ability not only to track a quarry using the usual signs – footprints, broken twigs, grasses parted, droplets of blood – but also to follow the trail a person or animal left in sattva, a trail that was invisible to most, but impossible to erase.
The Rajthanan siddhas had all sorts of powers, but none of them could do what Jack could do. He was a so-called ‘native siddha’, one who had a natural, often unique, ability. He wasn’t a siddha in the proper sense – it took years of study and practice to achieve that – but he had an innate skill, bred into him through being born amongst the strong streams of sattva that criss-crossed England.
‘I know your injury is a problem,’ Jhala said. ‘But you’d only have to use your power briefly. I’ve known other men with the same condition who’ve done that.’
But Jhala didn’t know the wound had spread. For all Jack knew, using his power now might kill him. One more reason to refuse.
‘Sir, Captain Sengar,’ Jack said. ‘I appreciate your offer, but I can’t accept. I have my life here now. I can’t help you. I’m very sorry.’
Sengar sucked on his teeth and looked across at Jhala.
Jhala leant back against his seat’s bolster, folded his hands in his lap and stared straight at Jack. He sighed. ‘I’m sorry too. It’s this damn mutiny. Nasty business.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Don’t know what’s come over those English regiments. They’ve killed women and children – did you know that?’
‘I heard something about it.’
‘Never thought I’d see it. It’s a pity for all of us to be living in these days.’
‘Colonel Jhala, with respect,’ Sengar said in Rajthani. ‘We’re wasting valuable time here. He has to—’
‘He can understand you, Sengar.’ Jhala glanced at Jack. ‘Isn’t that right?’
‘Yes. I understand some. Picked it up in the army.’
Sengar breathed in sharply, nostrils flaring. He spoke to Jack with his voice clipped. ‘Very well, then. You might as well hear it straight – you have to help us. You don’t have a choice.’
Land of Hope and Glory Page 4
