Jack took the bottle, examined it for a moment, then put it in his pocket. He was getting better medical advice these days than he’d ever had before.
Kanvar gave Jack a final stare with his pallid eyes, then left abruptly and walked across to his horse.
‘Strange one, that.’ William cocked his thumb at Kanvar. ‘Useful, though.’ He put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. ‘I’m going to have to leave you here. I’m sorry about your daughter. If there’s anything I can do for her, I’ll do it. I promise.’
Jack saw Elizabeth in the cell for a moment and he swallowed hard. ‘William, why?’
‘Why what?’
‘The mutiny. You were a good soldier.’
William snorted. ‘A good soldier. Yes, I did as my masters told me. And where did it get me?’
‘You took the oath.’
‘You still believe in that?’
Jack recalled sitting cross-legged before the regimental standard, staring at the three red lions running in a circle, repeating his oath of loyalty to the army.
His heart beat faster. Jhala had betrayed him. He’d followed his commander without question all those years, but that seemed to have counted for nothing once the mutiny started.
He didn’t know what he believed in any more.
‘I know in your heart you’re with us.’ William dug his hand into the dry soil, raised it and let the grains run out between his fingers. ‘This is our land. The land of our ancestors. The Rajthanans have taken it from us and we have to get it back.’
Jack watched the dust spirit away on the wind. William’s goal was a dream that would never happen, but still, the slight tremble in his voice made Jack pause. William had always known how to inspire the men, encourage them when they were broken with tiredness and the task before them seemed hopeless. He was a good sergeant major.
The dust vanished and the breeze tugged at Jack’s hair. He thought of Elizabeth again and it felt as though the ground were slowly sliding out from under him. William was leaving for London, and with him went Elizabeth’s last chance.
‘Well, you take care of yourself,’ William said.
Jack couldn’t speak. He was failing Elizabeth. He tried to move, but the pain in his side was too severe.
‘You’ll probably want this.’ William took out Jack’s knife, spun it in his fingers and dropped it, tip first, into the soil, where it quivered, catching the light. He then handed over a few dry rations wrapped in a cloth. ‘You’re going to have to walk back to Poole.’ He motioned to the path running into the forest. ‘That’s the quick way back to the camp. Keep going straight. Ignore the turn-off. I’m sure you can find your way.’
William stood and turned to leave, then changed his mind. ‘I’ll look for you when all this is over. We’ll have an ale or two.’
Jack nodded. He couldn’t think of anything except Elizabeth. But as he watched William walk away, he realised it might be the last time he ever saw his friend. He wanted to call out something, but there was nothing to say.
The rebels filed past and William glanced down once, before leading his men away into the forest.
Harold looked down as well, shaking the hair out of his eyes and giving Jack a toothy sneer. ‘Traitor.’
Soon they were gone.
Jack shivered. When he sneezed, a shock of pain crossed his chest. He leant against the rock, the sun on his face and the wind hushing the grass. For a moment the fight that had just taken place, the mutiny, London all seemed like a strange dream. But the thought of Elizabeth brought him back to reality.
He retrieved the knife from where it stood like a tiny burial cross, then climbed, wincing, to his feet. He found he could walk – he didn’t feel as bad as he’d expected – but every time he turned his torso, even only slightly, his fractured rib lanced him.
He went up to the path and looked out across the endless, rolling green of England. The sky was deep blue with a range of white cloud far off to the north. The land of his ancestors. William had spoken well, as always, but it was just words. Empty words. William and the other rebel commanders were leading England towards a disaster. Thousands would die. Elizabeth would die.
He walked stiffly along the path in the direction William had taken. After a couple of minutes he stopped again. Bodies lay scattered a few feet down the slope. The French were on their backs, some with their mouths open and brows twisted, statues of pain, while others appeared to be sleeping peacefully. Lefevre looked calm, despite the jagged holes in his neck and chest.
Kansal and Sengar lay beside each other. Kansal had a dark-red wound in his stomach and his youthful face was pale. Sengar had no obvious injuries, and it was unnerving to see him lying there with his eyes open, as though he were still alive.
Jack tried to summon some satisfaction at seeing Sengar dead, but he felt nothing. What had Sengar said? I’m not going to rot in this place. It seemed, after all, that he would.
Jack crossed himself and walked on. He didn’t know what he was doing or where he was going. Everything was pointless now that he’d lost his chance of saving Elizabeth.
He entered the cool forest and staggered downhill, tripping on tree roots. A stream bubbled beside the track and he stopped to drink. The water was icy, fresh and he drank for a long time. When he went to fill the water skin, he found he’d lost it at some point.
He stumbled on. After twenty minutes a path split off from the main track and headed east, the rebels’ trail turning down this new route.
He paused. He could either walk straight along the main track, going back to the camp, and from there begin the long hike to Poole, or . . .
Was there really a choice? How could he even think of following the rebels? They were on horseback and riding as fast as they could to London, through wild and largely uninhabited countryside. He would never catch up with them. And even if he did, what was he going to do? Fight all of them single-handed? Capture William?
And yet, Jhala had said the pardon would only apply if William were brought back, dead or alive. If Jack went to Poole now, Elizabeth would be hanged. There would be nothing he could do about it.
On the other hand, if he followed the rebels, there was still hope, although the most remote hope imaginable. Maybe, somehow, he would be able to bring William back himself. It was madness and the task seemed impossible, but he couldn’t give up on Elizabeth. He would rather die than give up.
He amazed himself as he turned to follow the rebels. But he also knew that it was his only choice, even though he was certain he would fail.
He walked all day without leaving the forest. He followed the horse tracks, as he’d been doing for days. The markings were emblazoned in his mind and even when he closed his eyes he could still see them.
The fever thickened within him, waves of hot and cold crossed his skin, and his broken rib sent lines of fire along his side. But at least the pain in his chest had receded to a vague heaviness.
As daylight faded, he tried to continue, using his power to follow the phosphorescent sattva trail. But he was too weak to stay in the trance for more than a few minutes. Finally, he slept in a hollow at the base of an ancient oak tree. In his dreams he walked on, following the trail through a dark and endless landscape.
He woke late, the sun already high in the sky. He was hot, far too hot. The fever made everything unreal and confusing, and for a moment he couldn’t remember where he was or what he was doing.
He trudged on. The tracks were still easy to follow – the rebels had stuck to the path as it wound between the hills. The land levelled out and he guessed he’d travelled so far east that he’d reached Salisbury Plain. The trees thinned and he could see the sun clearly between the branches.
Late in the afternoon, cloud spread across the sky and then it started to rain. Drenched, shaking from the fever, he staggered on.
As night approached, he spotted large forms brooding behind the trees. He stopped, swaying, and made out the high walls of a building. He couldn’t imagi
ne what kind of structure would be out in the forest, but he needed shelter, so he left the track and pushed his way through the branches and brambles.
An ancient, crumbling wall, several storeys high, loomed before him. It was made of pale stone and covered in vines, but in places he could make out the remains of blue, geometric mosaics. Above rose an ethereal dome, also half buried by vines, and four broken minarets. The building was a mosque, a remnant of the old Caliphate, which had been predominant in the south-east of the country.
He walked until he found a hole in the wall, pushed aside a screen of vines and entered what must once have been a grand chamber. The area was enclosed on three sides by walls covered in arches and niches. The fourth side was open to the forest, the wall having fallen long ago. The rain outside descended in a glowing curtain. He smelt moss and undergrowth. Birds flew about inside the dome, roosting amongst the intricate series of ledges.
He sat in a corner and leant against the wall, shuddering. His face felt swollen from the heat of the fever, his side ached constantly and his lungs were compressed.
A metallic flash lit up the inside of the building, followed by a solemn crack of thunder. The rain came down harder, a crushed roar. Water drooled down from a gap in the wall opposite and smashed on the floor, the droplets forming a fine mist that wafted through the chamber.
The ruined building spun slowly in front of him. Sheet lightning flickered repeatedly, sending the elaborate stonework rearing up before him like a divine vision. He slipped in and out of his dreams so often that eventually he couldn’t tell whether he was asleep or awake. He seemed to float in a half-lit world. Sweat snaked over his body and he trembled like a whipped animal as he coughed.
He could smell sattva. Strange. He wasn’t meditating and he wasn’t in a strong stream.
He drifted outside himself, as if in the trance. But it wasn’t the trance and he couldn’t see the glowing trails. At the same time, the smell of sattva grew stronger and his eyes and nose watered. His mind seemed to both spiral inward and expand out to engulf his surroundings. It was as though he were being enchanted by a strange mingling of sattva, the fever and his own dreams.
He was flying. The stars, the sun and the moon swirled within him. The world spun endlessly below: oceans, continents, mountains, forests, rivers, deserts, fields of ice.
He was outside time and could somehow see the grand procession of history, with its wars and empires and dynasties and kingdoms. From this great height it all played out in a moment. Cities rose from the dust and then crumbled back to the earth. Battles raged on torrid plains and were then smothered by green fields. Kings and queens ruled for a day, before they were sealed within tombs. Empires crawled across the world, then rotted away from within. All of it over in a fraction of a second.
He saw a succession of English rulers marching in a long line that stretched back into the darkness. There were the Romans, the men and women of that ancient empire that had once engulfed Europe, followed by the ‘savage’ kings of old England, then the Normans. The line was broken with the arrival of the Moors, then there followed caliphs in white robes and loose turbans, with closely cropped beards and ornate sabres. Then he saw King Edward V, with his simple crown, who had cast the Moors out of England and restored the royal line. And then came the monarchs of the last 200 years, through the blood-stained era of independence and then the peace of Rajthanan rule. And finally, the ageing King John III appeared, sitting on the throne in London, brooding over whether or not he would survive the coming onslaught of the Rajthanans.
Thunder burst straight overhead and the sound vibrated throughout the cavity of the mosque. He sat up with a jerk and opened his eyes. His heart thudded and his face throbbed with heat. The visions had disappeared and all he could see were the indistinct building and the silver traces of the rain outside the fallen wall.
He swallowed, wiped the sweat from his face and walked over to where the rainwater guttered down through the hole. He put his head into the cold liquid and let it run through his hair and over his face, then cupped his hands and drank several times.
He staggered back to the other side of the chamber and sat down again. The wind whined and blew icy kisses through the gaps in the stone. He closed his eyes and tried to rest, but he was afraid he wouldn’t survive the night. The miasma of fever floated around him. He wondered whether he would ever wake up if he fell asleep, but even as he was considering this he had already drifted off.
He woke with the image of Elizabeth as a child receding like morning mist. The rain had stopped and strands of sunlight stretched from tiny perforations in the walls and dome. The visions of the night before had gone and he wondered at what he’d seen. He wasn’t sure if he’d dreamt it all, hallucinated from the fever, or genuinely been able to see into the past through the power of sattva. No matter. It was the present that was troubling him.
Dazed and shivering, he left the mosque and walked back through the trees. When he reached the path, he stopped and darkness threatened to envelope him for a moment before he fought it off. There was no sign of the rebels’ tracks – they had all been washed away by the rain. He thought about using his power, but he was sure he would be too weak. Instead, he just set off along the path, assuming the rebels must have done the same.
Late in the morning, the way splintered into three separate trails. He searched the ground, but couldn’t see any indication of which way the rebels had gone. He sat down and tried to enter the trance, but he was too weak and the pool of his mind was turbulent.
He tried for half an hour but nothing happened. He lay on his back and let sleep engulf him.
He woke up, and could tell by the sun it was late afternoon. He was still at the fork in the path, and wild with thirst. He stood and chose the left-hand trail at random.
He woke up again, at night, lying next to a pool in a clearing in the forest. He couldn’t remember how he’d got there and he couldn’t see any sign of the trail in the dark. His body pulsed with heat and the ground seemed to circle beneath him. Could he survive another night?
He remembered Katelin lying on her deathbed, wilting with sweat, hair plastered to her scalp, skin so pale it shone in the candlelight. He must look like that himself now.
What about the jatamansi? He reached into his pocket and found the bottle still there. It was worth a try.
He was too weak to sit up, so he lay back and poured a drop into his mouth. It tasted slightly sweet and smelt of rosewater.
Nothing happened.
He waited a few more minutes and still nothing happened, although his chest did tingle slightly. The jatamansi was clearly useless – although that could be because it was a treatment for the heart rather than fever.
He shivered.
Then he had another idea. He knew he wasn’t thinking straight, that the idea was crazy, but what did he have to lose?
He would try the yantra he’d stolen.
He was supposed to know only the native siddha yantra – that was all Jhala had taught him. He’d asked to learn more, but Jhala had said Europeans weren’t mentally capable. Then one evening, about a year after he’d finished his siddha training, he’d been given a chance.
He’d stopped by Jhala’s office and been puzzled to find the door ajar, but no light inside.
He pushed the door open, blinked in the gloom. ‘Captain Jhala?’
Something rustled in a corner of the room, and when he investigated he found Jhala lying on a mat with cushions scattered about him. Jhala rasped and edged his head around to look up at Jack.
‘Sir?’ Jack crouched.
‘Fever,’ Jhala managed to say, his voice hoarse. He grasped Jack’s hand and his skin was ice cold.
Jack knew about Jhala’s occasional bouts of illness, but he’d never seen his commander so incapacitated. He immediately ran to the hospital and brought back a pair of orderlies and a doctor. They lifted Jhala on to a stretcher and rushed him away. Jack was about to follow when he noticed what look
ed like a small mat poking out from under one of the cushions. Something about the intricate design embroidered on the cloth intrigued him.
He glanced back at the open door. There was no one about, so he pulled out the cloth and held it up to the moonlight. He saw a complex, circular design.
A yantra. He was certain.
It was broadly similar to the native siddha yantra, although the minor details were quite different.
He looked at the door again. There was still no one in sight.
All yantras were supposed to be kept secret. If he were caught taking the cloth, he was sure he’d be flogged. Furthermore, what would Jhala think of him? Jhala had argued with Colonel Hada for Jack to receive the siddha training. How could Jack betray his guru’s trust?
But he wanted to try the yantra. One power didn’t seem enough, and here was his chance. It wasn’t like him to disobey orders, but he was young and reckless then.
He eased the door closed, hunted around the office and found a large sheet of paper, a pen and a pot of ink. By moonlight, he drew the yantra as carefully and accurately as he could. Every detail had to be perfect. Any deviation from the design would make the yantra useless.
He listened for footsteps, certain someone would come soon. But no one did.
He felt a twinge of guilt. Shouldn’t he be checking on Jhala rather than sneaking around? He would stop by the hospital as soon as he’d finished.
After half an hour he held up the paper and the piece of cloth, looking between the two. The copy was good enough.
He placed the cloth back under the cushion and slipped out of the door. No one had seen him.
Jhala recovered within two days, and Jack spent months learning the design in his spare time. He wondered what power the yantra would give him. Most yantras granted a single power – the native siddha yantra was unusual in that it provided different powers to different people.
Land of Hope and Glory Page 15
