by Cutter, Leah
“Of course not,” Betty said, confused. What had she done wrong? She would have helped carry their things if they needed. Or was it one of those Indian things she’d never understand?
“We must go now,” Shalini said.
“But—” Betty started. She really wanted to go get some lemonade from a shop near here.
“Now,” Abhya said, looking over Betty’s shoulder.
The merchants had gathered closer.
“Don’t worry. I’ll protect you,” Betty said, reaching out for Abhya’s other hand.
“Not for much longer, English,” muttered one of the nearby merchants.
Before Betty could make any remark in return, Freddie was suddenly there. “We need to get home, Miss,” was all he said.
No one looked away or sat back down. Betty suddenly realized that just as her cousins had started walking taller, so had the rest of their countrymen.
Betty nodded and followed Freddie out of the marketplace, letting him push through the crowds of staring Indians, clearing the way for all of them. She kept her head high, her expression, stern.
Yes, the British would be leaving India soon.
Good riddance.
# # #
A tendril of shadow followed Betty into her dreams that night. She stood in a cave dark enough that she needed a torch to see. The walls reflected back yellow and gray, with hidden water dripping behind her. The smell of dust and long-dried bones tickled her nose. Under her feet, the path was covered with fine dirt that puffed up as she walked and muffled all noise.
In the absolute darkness, Betty could follow the shadow more easily. Here, in her dream, she could tell just how different it was from the surrounding blackness. It moved like an eel, swimming upstream against the currents of air.
Betty followed it, further under the mountain. She knew (as one does in dreams) that she was the only person to have ever been there. No intrepid explorer had ever dug down into these depths. No other eye had beheld the graceful dripping of rock, like artful chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, or the subtle colors, layered like a sunset, red, yellow, and white.
The path led to a large, open cavern in the heart of the mountain. Shadows churned in the center of the wide open space, boiling up like a fountain, then falling back down again. The walls sweated with the effort of the shadows, smelling like sweet incense burned in sacrifice.
But this wasn’t what the tendril of shadow wanted to show Betty.
It led her around the frantic clouds to a side corner, where a thick, still pool gathered at the foot of the rock. It looked like crude oil, midnight black and sticky.
The tendril of shadow urged Betty forward, wanting her to step into the pool.
For the first time, Betty resisted. The darkness of the pool seemed complete and overwhelming; if she stepped into it, she might never get clean again. The shadows here were angry and chaotic—they moved outside of human purpose, like a wild beast, unknowable and not moved by reason.
The little shadow reared up in front of her, changing form, its head flattening out like the snakes Betty had seen performing in the marketplace, fangs extending.
It was still just a wisp of a thing, not truly deadly. Still, Betty retreated, and her tiger soul pushed forward, taking over.
The cave grew brighter and the shadows lost form and density, becoming more like mist or fog.
However, the pool gained depth, as well as a telltale shimmer.
Magic, thick and potent, floated there.
Betty suddenly understood: Stepping into the pool would meld her own meager magical abilities with those of the shadows. The further she submerged herself, the stronger she would grow magically.
Betty’s tiger soul hissed, backing away from such a change. She didn’t trust it. She leapt up, the shadowy mist unable to hold her, pushing her way higher and higher through the air until they flew out of the mountain.
The land below was no longer India, but Betty’s beloved England. Sparkling green fields dotted with lazy sheep spread out in all directions below her, while hedges covered in fragrant pink roses divided the green into neat, orderly squares.
The brightness of the sun warmed not only Betty’s back, but her soul. It made her tiger soul playful as it never was awake. They landed softly on a hill, pink petals floating up. Her tiger pounced on the petals, capturing them in gentle paws, then rolled in the sweet grass.
Something made Betty turn and look back.
The towering mountain loomed behind them, dark and powerful, its shadow growing.
Betty gave a loud, body-shaking roar, but it sounded like a kitten’s squeak in the face of such might.
# # #
“Stay inside today,” Father ordered, showing up as Betty ate her breakfast alone in the room adjacent to the kitchen; too lowly to call it a dining room, and too homely to be called a breakfast nook. The walls were painted a drab brown, the table in the center taking up most of the space.
Betty tried to convince herself that she was like the lady of the house, sitting alone and having her tea and toast, but she was actually lonely.
“Why?” Betty asked, not because she cared, but because she hated the idea of being stuck anywhere, at anytime.
“The Muslim leadership is calling for a general strike—some sort of day of direct action.”
“Abhya and Shalini left this morning,” Betty told him. “They were heading back home, by train.”
“Hmm,” Father said, obviously worried. “I’ll send some guards to the station, pick them up if the trains aren’t running.”
“Thank you,” Betty said. “Where will you spend today?” she asked, just to keep him there a bit longer.
“I’ll be in my office all day,” Father said.
He looked so dashing in his uniform, with his finely trimmed mustache and twinkling green eyes. Betty had always thought he looked like the epitome of a British officer.
“Reports and paperwork are the most exciting things I have to look forward to.” He paused, giving her a conspiratorial wink. “I think you should find your mother. She said something about making a tent…”
“Oh, yes!” Betty said eagerly. She would happily stay inside if Mother was in a playful mood.
Still…
“Be careful, Father,” Betty said. The air continued to reek of sickening fear and blazing anger.
“Don’t worry. I shan’t be faced with anything more deadly than a paper cut, I promise.” He leaned down to kiss her cheek. “You’ve grown,” he said softly. “I forget sometimes how old you are now.”
Betty sat up straighter, preening.
“Now, that’s enough of that,” Father said with mock sternness. “Go attend your mother. I’ll try to have lunch with you later.”
With that, Father strode from the room.
Betty hastily downed the rest of her tea, then went off in search of her mother. She found her in one of the long galleries that faced the garden, which had portraits of the King and other important leaders glaring down at them.
“Quick, quick!” Mother said, reaching for Betty’s hand, then pulling her along.
Mother was in native garb that day, a pretty pajama tunic made from plain white cloth, though the placket in the front, as well as the cuffs and hem, were decorated in black and gold. She wore a traditional shawl over her auburn hair, and nothing on her feet.
They raced the length of the gallery, Betty giggling as her mother tugged at her hand and urged her to go faster. They barely slowed going around the corner, then Mother led Betty to the corner study.
Mother had decided to play “tent” that day. Carpets and pillows lay heaped across the floor, while the walls were hidden by long, billowing strips of cloth, making everything seem soft, hiding the hard lines. The room had changed from drab brown to rich red, orange, and pink. Sweet patchouli burned on a low altar against the far wall, and candles were lit everywhere, hanging from the ceiling and lining the floor.
It was also stifling hot.
/> Betty paused by the door. She saw the distraction charms twinkling in the cardinal points, while enchantment dots wove their way between the soft silks.
It was a trick. A distraction. Mother and Father must have planned it together.
Father had lied. Something bad must be happening.
“No, no, nothing bad,” Mother reassured Betty, tugging on her hand.
Betty resisted, staying stubbornly on the threshold.
“It’s just—I know how much you hate being cooped up,” Mother confessed. “This was an easy way for us to spend the time.”
“I’m not a child,” Betty said. “You could have just told me.”
“Perhaps. But perhaps you wouldn’t have listened, either,” Mother said quietly. “And today, you needed to listen.”
“What’s going on?” Betty asked, risking a single foot inside the room.
The magical appeal of the room washed over Betty quickly, tempting her with unknown delights. It would be so easy to lose a day in there. But there was something she needed to do first, something she had to tell Mother.
“We don’t know,” Mother admitted. “There have been warnings. Not from the Indian government, of course. But others. We were supposed to have a visitor today, from the Americas. To bring us news. Of course, he was delayed. So we delay.”
“But Mother—” Betty knew she must tell her mother something about her cousins. She’d told Father, but it wasn’t enough, she knew it wasn’t enough.
“So come,” Mother said, drawing Betty all the way into the room. “I know you saw the distraction and enchantment charms, but what about this one?” she asked, pointing to the ceiling at a charm Betty hadn’t seen.
What a pretty charm. She sensed that it was more about light than distraction, though. “What is it?” she asked, the little niggling fear in the back of her thoughts disappearing.
The door closed silently behind her, swung shut by no human hand.
And Betty was entertained for the entire day.
# # #
Betty and Mother came out of the room, laughing. Betty knew she wouldn’t remember everything from that day—the distraction spells had been too strong. But she’d remember the magic Mother taught her: the protection spell, the light charm, and others.
The distraction spell had also lessened the hurt when Mother commented, yet again, on how meager Betty’s own magic was.
A soldier waited for them in the corridor, directly opposite the door. “The commander would like to see you,” he said stiffly, bowing.
Mother sniffed the air, then gripped Betty’s hand again and set off quickly.
Betty could smell it, too: The stinking fear that had invaded the city was now mingled with an undercurrent of spilled blood.
Father sat behind his desk. Instead of the order Betty was used to, the top was littered with reports, maps hung off the edges, and books were open facedown with other books crushing their spines. The cabinet in the corner had its drawers pulled out, papers and folders strewn across them.
“Are Abhya and Shalini with you?” Father asked at once, standing, looking worried.
“No, of course not,” Mother said. “I was training Betty all day.”
“I sent soldiers to the train station after the general assembly,” Father told Betty.
Mother looked at Betty.
“They decided to go back home this morning,” Betty told her.
“You should have told me,” Mother accused her, growing pale. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“How could I? You had me distracted from the moment I set foot in there,” Betty spat back.
“Distracted! Not addlepated!” Mother shot back. “You should have been strong enough to resist. At least long enough to have told me that your cousins had left the fort. This is all your fault!”
“I told Father,” Betty said.
“We couldn’t find them,” Father said. “And the leaders of the general assembly put forward a call for direct action. Many answered that call—now there’s rioting and mayhem in the streets.”
Betty could smell the small current of relief from Father—as least the mad bastards were only attacking each other, Muslim versus Hindu, not both of them against the British for once.
“Come,” Mother said. She raced back to the corner study, plucking a wad of unspun cotton from the air, wrapping it in plaited twine. Then she spun the lure, muttering a seeking spell.
The lure flew in a direct path north, then abruptly stopped as if it had hit an invisible wall and fell to the floor.
Fear pounced on Betty, making her sway where she stood.
Someone else’s spell blocked them from finding her cousins.
“We must go get them. Now,” Mother growled, turning toward the door.
“No,” Father said.
Betty turned to look at him, surprised that he’d followed them into the room. Mother must have let down the guard spells for him to come in.
Or maybe she never blocked Father.
“It’s too dangerous,” Father insisted. “Listen to the city.”
Mother waved her hand and suddenly the far-off sounds were magnified.
Angry shouts filled the room, punctuated by the tinkling of broken glass. A terrified woman’s scream was suddenly cut off, followed by the cracking of out-of-control fires.
“But—”
“I cannot lose you,” Father said softly, moving forward to touch Mother’s shoulder.
Betty knew what always came next, and turned away. When she turned back, Mother and Father were in each other’s arms. At least they’d finished kissing.
“Those poor girls,” Mother murmured.
“It’s too dangerous,” Father repeated. “Even for you. Especially for you, if there’s another spell caster out there.”
Betty bent her head and looked at the ground. No one would save her cousins. Mother might have been able to do it, to push past the other’s magic, but Father wouldn’t let her go.
And Betty couldn’t do it. Her magic wasn’t strong enough.
Mother was right.
If her cousins were dead, it was all Betty’s fault.
# # #
That night, Betty kept vigil with her parents. Father sent a few scouts into the city, mapping out the worst of the fighting but not engaging.
His superiors had been very clear about that: The British forces weren’t to engage. Not yet.
They sat on the veranda overlooking the gardens, the night wrapped around them, each wrapped in their own thoughts.
Betty told her parents of the incident in the market. Father directed his spies there, but they found nothing.
The sounds of fighting in the far distance died as the false dawn crept in. Smoke and tears joined the other scents, the jasmine mingled with fear, hot, coppery blood with the roses.
Mother tried her finding spell again as soon as it was light enough. The blocking spell was gone. The lure flew freely around the still-tented room.
However, it landed upside down.
The fear that had settled in Betty’s gut rose up again, making her feel sick.
“Just past the market,” Mother hissed, giving directions. “Quickly.”
Then she took Betty’s hand and returned to the veranda, waiting.
The normal sounds of soldiers returned: muttered conversations, the clank of boots on concrete, shifting sounds of metal and uniforms. Cook had fixed porridge for breakfast, but both Betty and Mother had let it sit, not even tasting it.
Dread clenched Betty’s stomach. She told herself that the lure may have found clothing or bags belonging to her cousins. That was why it had landed upside down.
Not that it had found bodies.
Mother looked up when the Jeep returned. How she heard the single engine and identified it, Betty couldn’t be sure. Her own magic wasn’t strong enough. She could only follow Mother from the veranda.
One long wooden stretcher lay across the hood of the Jeep, while a second across the back. Even
as they entered the courtyard Betty knew they were merely corpses, not her cousins.
Mother gave a great tiger howl. Betty joined in.
Other women in the compound—natives—joined in their cry of grief, shattering all the activity around them, the soldiers freezing as the sound undulated.
The girls hadn’t been desecrated, at least not physically. No, it was much worse. They stank of putrid herbs and foul rites.
The damn native dhayana had stolen their tiger souls.
“Mother—” Betty said, horrified.
“We will deal with this,” Mother said, her voice like iron.
The tiger clan would get revenge on the witch.
Hurt one, hurt all…a recitation Betty was truly grateful for.
# # #
That night, the shadows brought a different dream. Betty strolled through the rows at a country fair in a mythical England, bright and green with soft air filled with the scents of new grass, spring tulips, and daffodils. She wore an old-fashioned frock made from frilly white lace that swept down to the ground, with matching white gloves and a pillbox hat.
Crowds of people stood in the distance, but whenever Betty approached them, they moved to the next spot, so when Betty arrived where they’d been, it was deserted. She knew they’d been there, however, because of the debris they’d left behind: half-eaten candied apples, torn tickets and wrappers, nuts and dried fruits stepped on and pushed into the soft ground, even a lone, gray silk glove.
Betty walked slowly past the carnival stages. One had a guessing game about the number of rusty horseshoe nails in a glass jar big enough to hold a person’s head. Another had a hoop-throwing game, where customers paid to throw brightly colored bracelets over wooden pins and win silly stuffed toys.
Then Betty came to the row of freak shows: the ancient blond man who had wings instead of arms; the fat female boar who rode a tricycle in erratic circles on the small stage; the ugly tattooed man with a huge, flat head and the eyes and tongue of a snake; the pathetic dog boy; and a scary Asian woman with a long snout and scales instead of skin.
The last stage held a mighty tiger who struggled against the shadows that had pinned down all four of her paws as well as wrapped around her muzzle so she couldn’t pace or roar.
