Asha said: ‘When will they leave, these Britishers?’
‘We have no one to lead us in the fight against them. Do you see? Gandhi-ji has abandoned us. Nehru-ji and the rest are slippery creatures. They think only of themselves.’
He stayed quiet for some time, reflecting. ‘I thought freedom would come in my lifetime, little sister. Now I do not think so.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps it will come in yours.’
He started to cough and the breath cracked and splintered in his chest. She pulled the blanket more tightly round his shoulders.
‘Sleep a little,’ she said.
He closed his eyes and she fell to stroking his cheek. A strange calm crept over her. Perhaps this is what it means to be happy, she thought. If I could stop time and have only one moment, maybe this is the moment to keep. She stared into the crack of light, bright now in the rock. It bounced with rising spray and mesmerised her.
Something cold touched her foot. She woke with a start, pulled up her knee. Beside her, Krishna-ji stirred. Cold water soaked her toes. She blinked. The air was stiff with salt. Water trickled down into the cave, splashing over the rim of the rock with each rising wave.
‘Krishna-ji. Quick. We must go.’
She turned to shake him awake but his eyes were already open. His skin was grey but his look was calm.
‘The tide is rising,’ she said.
He stretched out his hand and touched her face. The tips of his fingers were hot. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse.
‘You must be brave, little sister. Very brave. Can you do that for me?’
‘Of course.’ Something in his face frightened her. ‘But we need to go. Come on.’
She got to her feet, tried to pull him up by the arm. He smiled.
‘I am dying, Asha. Don’t you see?’
She shook her head. ‘You need rest. And a doctor. We’ll look for one. Maybe our friends—’
He lifted his hand to silence her. ‘It’s too late for that.’ He patted the ground and she sat reluctantly. He wasn’t thinking clearly. It was the fever. A fresh wave set a surge of water sloshing round her feet.
‘I told you about my baba, remember?’ His face shone pale and sickly in the half-light. ‘I wanted so much to save him because I loved him. I couldn’t bear to live without him. His passing left the world too small a place.’
She frowned. ‘That was a long time ago.’
‘You are young, Asha. They are not hunting you. Only me. You must leave me now.’
‘Leave you?’ She wanted to hit him, to scream. She would rather die with him than leave him here to drown. She pointed to the slit in the cliff, flowing now with seawater. ‘You can do it. Please. I’ll help you.’
‘I have decided.’ He sounded stern. ‘Listen. I’m too weak. If we both try to flee, they’ll catch us both. What’s the sense in that? You must go alone and go quickly. Go back to your mistress.’ He watched her closely. ‘Does she suspect you?’
She shrugged. ‘She thinks I’m a child only.’
‘Good.’ He nodded. ‘I have a plan. Will you listen and do as I ask?’
She turned her head away. The cave walls shimmered.
‘Don’t cry, little sister.’ He squeezed her hand and released it, then turned her shoulders so she faced him, his dark-brown eyes inches from hers. ‘Listen and listen well.’
He spoke his instructions clearly, even as the waves broke over the rocks and poured in runnels down the slope to their feet. The effort seemed to spend the last of his strength. When he finished speaking, he sank back, exhausted and closed his eyes.
‘Wait, then.’ Her fear made her sound impatient. ‘I’ll get help. You hear? I’ll soon be back.’
She waded through the gathering cold water and pressed herself out through the narrow walls into daylight. She stood for a moment in the brightness, blinking, her face wet. The rocks below, where they had climbed during the night, had already been swallowed by the rising tide.
She pulled her dupatta round her head to shield her face and climbed, stumbling and crying, between the boulders. When she reached the summit, she set off at a ragged run into the jungle, heading back the way they had first come, racing to find help.
Somewhere in the jungle, a pack of dogs snarled and barked. Birds rose cawing and squawking and wheeled over the canopy. She stopped, panting, to listen. Men cried out, one to another, as they beat their way through the jungle, searching for Sanjay Krishna. They were already close.
She changed direction and started to run again, skirting the jungle now and racing along the edge of the cliff. Far below, the sea crashed and swirled against the rocks. Every time she looked, the waves were higher. She imagined the rising water pouring into the cave where he was trapped, flooding it. Someone must help him. Someone.
The raucous barking became suddenly louder as it broke free of the jungle. She stopped, a pain sharp in her side, and looked back. Men, reduced by distance to the size of children, swarmed out from the canopy and ran along the cliff edge. It was a confusion of movement, backwards and forwards along that same spot where she had been, directly above the mouth of the cave. The dogs, tails wagging, ran back and forth at the men’s heels, noses to the ground, searching for a way down.
She fell to her stomach and crawled to the very edge to look. The water had risen quickly. She tilted her head and strained to see along to the bluff where the entrance to the cave had been. It was no longer visible. All she saw was light, sparkling across a mass of surging, foaming waves.
She buried her head in the grass and wept. She should have stayed with him. She tore at her dupatta with wet fingers. She should have drowned at his side. She opened her mouth to scream and tasted grass and dry earth. She never even said goodbye.
She lay prostrate for a long time, without hope, without the will to move. Her mama was taken. Then her baba. Now Sanjay Krishna too. She had nothing and no one left to love.
A thought broke over her, bringing a fresh wave of grief: he knew. He knew this desperate nothingness would engulf her when he was gone. What had he said? I wanted to save my father because I loved him, because his passing left the world too small a place.
She stretched out her arms, pressed her face into the earth and wept.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Isabel
Weeks passed. Isabel lost herself to the steady rhythm of each day. Her body became brown and strong. She taught the children, swam, helped the women to cook, looked always for Edward. She exiled thoughts of Port Blair, of Jonathan, of the day she must finally return, of time itself.
One morning, she was collecting her belongings after class when Edward stepped without warning into the clearing.
‘A steamer’s due in two days’ time.’ His tone was brisk and impersonal. ‘It’s going to Calcutta but puts in at Port Blair on the way.’
Her eyes turned to the ground and the scuffs in the dry mud made by the children’s feet and hands.
‘It’s dropping off supplies,’ he went on. ‘I’ve told them you’ll join it.’
‘So soon?’ Her stomach was suddenly cold, her chest tight. She couldn’t leave.
‘I think it’s time.’
She shook her head. The jungle swam in front of her eyes. ‘Have I done something? We should talk …’
His body was tense, twisted away. He paused, as if he were summoning strength. ‘It’s been six weeks now. There mightn’t be another ship for a month or more.’
She took a step towards him. ‘He doesn’t want me back.’
He didn’t look her in the eye. Her breath became short.
He said: ‘They’ve started to talk.’
‘Who has?’
He shrugged. ‘Everyone.’
‘We’ve nothing to be ashamed of, Edward. Nothing. What have we done?’
His voice stayed resolute. ‘It’s time, Isabel. Time for you to go.’
He turned and walked out of the clearing, taking the path that led further into the jungle, away from the Miss
ion where the women, even now, were preparing lunch.
That evening, they ate at the Mission without him, for the first time since she arrived. She sat alone, outside the circle round the cooking fire, until the glow died almost to nothing and the Nicobarese began to disperse, climbing the rickety wooden ladders to sleep.
He’s avoiding me, she thought. He wants me gone.
She sat, wretched, waiting for him to return. One by one, the last figures rose. The fire turned to ash and the clearing became dark. The only noises were the crashes and snuffles of wild boar in the jungle around her, the clatter of insects in the undergrowth.
When she finally climbed up into the women’s hut, she hunched into a ball. She thought of her bedroom in Port Blair. She wrapped her arms round her body for comfort.
She once longed to know what Edward’s life on Car Nicobar was like so she could picture him clearly when he was far away. Now she knew. Every person, every smell, every sound of this place was embedded in her and losing it, losing him, was more than she could bear. She trembled, thinking of the sadness of the following day, her last, and straining to hear Edward return.
The next day, she told the schoolchildren that she was leaving.
They looked confused.
‘Where will you be?’
She clasped her hands together and smiled with false brightness. She drew in the mud a rough map of the islands, showing Car Nicobar here, and the Andamans, with South Andaman and Port Blair, over there.
They stared at the drawing, then again at her.
‘But why?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Everything has a beginning and an end, doesn’t it? We read about it in the Bible.’
The children shook their heads, puzzled, struggling to grasp her description of time.
She packed that afternoon, setting out her belongings in the scrub. Her clothes were in tatters after weeks of being washed by hand and dried in the sun. The children, gathered round, watched with solemn eyes. She looked at the lush jungle canopy. This is what she wanted to take, to preserve in Port Blair. She went across to a palm tree, trailed by the children, and picked up one fallen leaf, took it back and pressed it between her clothes.
That evening, her final one, Edward again failed to appear. Isabel sat quietly alone. She couldn’t eat. Perhaps he won’t come at all, she thought. Perhaps he’s arranged for someone else to take me to the shore tomorrow, to see me leave. The thought made her physically sick. The warm air murmured with the sound of women’s voices and, always on the breeze, the soft hush of breaking waves on the shore.
She must have dozed. She was jolted awake by a noise, the banging of a rhythm on wood, sounding insistently through the jungle. She sat up, alert. The noise rose, coming closer, solid and forbidding.
The women too lifted their heads to listen, then scattered the embers of the dying fires and gathered in a circle below one of the women’s huts, forming an open mouth. A figure appeared at the top of the ladder. Sami’s tall, lean figure began a slow descent. When she reached the ground, she stood, surrounded by the women, and reached her arms towards James. His eyes shone in the half-light as he watched.
A figure emerged from the shadows and came to stand by Isabel. Edward. His face was sombre. His eyes were on Sami and he spoke without looking at Isabel.
‘This is not our business.’
The jungle swayed and parted and a group of tribal elders, dressed in paint and finery and carrying sticks adorned with bundles of leaves, broke into the clearing, their chief in the fore. He led the men in a ritualistic figure of eight, which encompassed the local women, drawing them into its circles.
Isabel said softly: ‘What are they doing?’
‘They’ve come for James.’ His face was strained. ‘They want to test him, to see if he has special powers.’
Sami began to ululate, her head tossed back. As the chief approached James, the boy’s eyes widened with fear.
The chief led James to the centre of the circle and he sank to the ground. The villagers produced a skin of coconut toddy and poured it into shells, drinking and passing it round from one to another. After some time, when the onlookers seemed giddy with toddy, the wise men advanced, one by one, and took it in turns to brandish ceremonial sticks, garnished with leaf bundles. Each, with a cry, pulled a bundle open. A lizard fell from the first, lay stunned for a second by James’s foot, then scurried away. The crowd cheered. A shower of shells cascaded from the second, bouncing and rolling over James’s arm. Another cheer.
‘What are they doing?’
Edward leant close. ‘They’re drawing bad spirits from his body.’ He shook his head. ‘He needs to be strong.’
Women began to adorn James. They tucked coconut leaves in his hair and painted his pale face with streaks of ash. He lay unresisting on the ground, his eyes closed.
When the women finished, the tribal men lifted James into their arms. They stretched an awning over him, a cover of plaited coconut leaves mounted on a stick frame and studded at its corners with fresh flowers and young leaves, bright with sap. The chief banged his staff on the ground and the villagers formed into a ragged procession, led by the chief and the elders, then the bearers who supported James and finally the onlookers. Several men lit torches from the dying fires as they moved with purpose towards the far depths of the jungle.
‘I’m going too.’
Edward looked uncertain. ‘I’m not sure that’s wise.’
The jungle became increasingly dark. The smell of rotting fungus closed in. The moonlight was obscured, held off by the dense fingers of leaf and vine and the air thickened with the sickly smell of decay. They walked for some time, following the reflection of the torches. The only sounds were the chatters and screams of the night forest and the swish of bodies brushing against the foliage.
Finally the group emerged into a small clearing. It smelt rancid. The tree trunks around it shimmered with blue fungus, which shed an eerie, other-worldly glow. Scraps of dirty rags, red, white and black, hung about the bushes and trees. The villagers stood in a close huddle. Women grasped at each other’s hands for comfort. Their faces were sharp with fear.
The chief gestured for James to be lowered to the ground. The wise men began to chant. It was a low hum that seemed to resonate through the jungle and vibrate through them all.
James stumbled, as if in a trance, to the edge of the clearing, pushed forward by the wave of chanting. He hesitated, his legs trembling, then, with several dozen pairs of eyes focused on his back, he was swallowed by the blackness.
Isabel gripped Edward’s arm. ‘Where’s he gone?’
Edward’s lips were white. ‘He’ll meet the spirits of his ancestors. That’s all I know.’
‘Will he come back?’
Edward’s eyes closed and his lips began to move as he prayed.
They waited in that strange clearing, clustered together in silence. They seemed balanced on a threshold between the world of the living and that of the dead. As they stood like statues in the dimness, waiting, time lost all meaning.
At last, a subtle shift in the darkness. A movement. Finally, it may have been minutes later, it may have been hours, James returned.
Isabel put her hand to her throat. The young man’s eyes were wide. Sweat ran in runnels across his forehead and cheeks. His limbs trembled so violently that he seemed on the brink of collapse.
The wise men rushed forward and hoisted him in their arms. The chief and elders marched out of the clearing, gigantic in the shadows of the fading torches. The villagers rushed to keep close.
When they reached the Mission clearing, the tension broke. James lay on the ground. His limbs juddered weakly against the earth. Sami sat beside him, stroking his face with the flat of her hand.
Isabel craned forward, trying to reassure herself that James was safe. A moment later, Sami let out a cry. She threw back her head and, eyes blazing, pointed an accusing finger at Isabel. Those around them in the clearing fell silent.
Strong hands grasped Isabel’s shoulders and pulled her away. She twisted to see. Edward half-guided, half-dragged her back towards the darkness of the jungle, even as faces turned to follow her. The eyes were hostile. Sami’s voice rose to a shout. She drilled holes in the air with a long finger.
‘Hurry.’ Edward turned her away and bundled her ahead of him into the trees.
Sami’s angry shouts pursued them. They stumbled on in the darkness, leaves brushing wet against arms and faces, Edward’s arm tight on hers. The creepers around them sweated with fresh sap and night heat.
They emerged at last onto the long beach where they had first come ashore weeks earlier. He pulled her across the cold sand to the cluster of low mud and wicker huts dotted there, prised open a loose section of the first and held it clear while she crawled inside, then followed her.
It was a cramped space, only just long enough for an adult to stretch out. She lowered herself to the dirt floor, and sat, blinking, her arms threaded round her knees as her eyes adjusted to the dark. Needles of light reached in through the wicker panels, pricking the blackness. The only sounds were the crash of the waves outside and Edward’s close breathing. The air was stale, acrid with the remnant of smoke, which lay over a sickly cloying sweetness.
‘She accused you of witchcraft.’ He spoke softly.
‘Witchcraft?’
‘Of trying to curse her boy. If the elders believe her, they’ll kill you. It’s one of the few things—’ He broke off.
Something scuttled across her arm and she jumped, brushed it off. She put her hands to her face, suddenly made nauseous by the sour-sweet smell.
‘What is this place?’
Edward hesitated. ‘A death hut.’
‘Death hut?’
‘They leave their dying here. They want to stop the spirits of the dead finding their way back to the villages, to haunt them.’ He paused. ‘It’s one of the few places they’re afraid to look, you see.’
‘The ship will come in the morning, won’t it?’ She strained to see his face in the darkness. ‘I can bear it until then.’
Daughters of India Page 19
