Her full skirt wafted, and I saw a slice of the white of her petticoats and then the scissoring of her legs. The whole image of her flying into open air was like a pantomime, a yellow and white spinning disk, and then she was gone from my sight. I closed my eyes in horror, and in the same instant a terrible pain exploded in my shoulder.
The Pathan thundered down upon me, my legs gave way, and I fell like a broken doll in that meadow, an odd screaming echoing in my head. In the next instant I realized the scream came from my own mouth, a long and terrible cry, because I knew that something disastrous had just occurred, and whatever happened next could only be worse.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I WAS ON THE SHIP THAT HAD BROUGHT ME TO INDIA, IN MY SLING bed, being tossed in a storm. All my bones ached. From the passageway outside our cabin I heard voices calling something unintelligible. There was a pounding from under me as if great boulders were hitting the hull; I feared they would break through and I would be drowned. I tried to hang on to my bed, but my left arm was somehow pinned; it wouldn’t work. The waves were relentless in their rocking rhythm, and my ribs banged painfully, driving the pain back to my left arm and up to my shoulder. It was difficult to breathe; my face pushed against the unyielding surface of the bed. I struggled to lift my head and fresh cool air stung my cheeks. I opened my eyes, seeing my left arm hanging oddly above my head as if I were suspended.
And then it grew clear. The pounding rhythm was the beating of horse hooves; I was thrown over a horse’s back and saw the ground rushing by. There was nausea from the sight and from the growing intensity of the pain in my shoulder; I turned my head to the side, and my nose pressed against something warm and hard, moving with the rise and fall of the giant animal. It was a leg.
I looked up at the broad chest and carved face of the Pathan and the last terrifying image of Faith flying out into the air came back to me. Faith. Perhaps my eyes had tricked me. Perhaps she landed before the rocks, on the grass of the meadow. Perhaps she hadn’t intentionally committed the act I thought I saw, perhaps she wasn’t . . .
I couldn’t even think the word. I had to go back and find her. I struggled, kicking my legs, and there was a stinging lash against my calves. And that made me more distressed and furious; I must get away, must go to find Faith. I lifted my chest, pushing under me with my right hand, but the Pathan lifted his own hands—which I saw were bound together with thick, frayed rope—and slapped my head down as effortlessly as one swats absently at a mosquito, and I heard a popping noise as my nose smashed against the horse in a shocking burst of pain. And then something warm and sticky ran into my mouth. I felt I would smother; I couldn’t breathe, my nose and mouth filled with blood, and once again, I fell into rocking blackness.
I WAS SHAKEN into consciousness as I was dragged off the horse. I opened my eyes but all was dark, not even the hint of a shadow. The Pathan held me against him, his tied hands in front of my face, one arm over my mouth. His body was so still and hard that if it hadn’t been for his heat and his heavy breathing in my ear I might have been leaning against stone. I heard the horse beside us, its own breath whistling and wet. As we stood there, I eventually made out a thin strip of faint light far ahead of us; from the smell and dankness I knew we were in a cave. The filtered light came from an opening in what must have been heavy bushes that hid the high entrance. The horse let out a low whinny, and the Pathan took his arm from my mouth—to soothe the horse, I suppose—and I took the opportunity to try to struggle free. I know I shouted. But the Pathan yanked me back against him, his arms crushing my ribs, and then he slapped his joined hands over my mouth, bumping my throbbing nose, and there came a rush of fresh blood. The horse now wheezed softly, and the Pathan quietly hissed; it fell silent. I breathed through bubbles of blood in my nostrils.
Hoofbeats thundered by, and that bit of light at the entrance was cut off abruptly. There was a second of light, then another shadow. I counted seven shadows; there were seven men after the Pathan. I made a growling, deep in my throat, as if trying to call out, knowing, as I did, that it was as useless as the buzz of a fly. Finally there were no more hoofbeats, no shadows.
We continued to stand motionless for so long that I lost track of time. And then the Pathan took his hands from my mouth and I slid through the circle of his arms, to the ground, my legs useless as pieces of stretched India rubber.
WHEN A DIM LIGHT hit my face, I sat up, shakily, the moving of my left shoulder making me cry out. The Pathan, who was standing so that his body held back the bushes that covered the doorway, gnawed at the knotted rope that held his wrists together. He looked at me and uttered a few terse words.
“I can’t understand you,” I said. Then I repeated it in Hindi, and he responded in kind.
“Come here.”
“No.”
He stormed toward me and pulled me up by my hair.
“Let me go. Take me back to the meadow. I need to find my friend.” I twisted under his grip, my scalp burning.
“Untie this rope,” he said, taking his fingers from my hair and holding his joined hands toward me.
I looked at them and saw that his wrists were chafed and bleeding.
“Untie it,” he said again. When I still stood, unmoving, in front of him, he said it a third time.
His voice was not the voice of a madman, a murderer or rapist. It did not carry the superiority of Somers’s voice or the threatening tone of Ram’s growl. It was simply a man’s voice, raspy with exhaustion. Besides, did I have a choice? I worked at the knots, although my left hand refused to obey properly. Finally the rope pulled free.
He breathed deeply, rubbing his wrists, then led the black horse to the entrance. He pulled out long handfuls of the grass that grew there, and rubbed down the horse with them.
“My friend,” I said. “My friend . . . I must go to see what happened. Just let me go now.”
“We cannot go now. The ferenghi still search for me.”
“But I’m no use to you. Let me go,” I begged.
“You would lead them to this spot.”
“I wouldn’t.” I grimaced and looked at my shoulder, and in the light saw blood, too much blood, both dried and fresh, covering the blue calico of my dress.
“Their bullet hit you,” he said, glancing at me, his hand, filled with the sweat-soaked grass, still for a moment. “They shot at me but hit you.”
I looked at him. “Why did you take me? Why didn’t you just leave me there, in the meadow?”
He rubbed again. “I thought you might be of use to me.”
“Use?”
“For a bargain. If they caught up with me. And your friend is dead.” He murmured to the horse, and it stamped its front foot.
“Dead?” Why did my voice shake with such horror, such surprise? I think I had known, from the minute I saw Faith heading toward that rocky outcrop, rising in her saddle, what she was about to do. Perhaps I had known, for an even longer time, that what Faith suffered from had no cure. “But are you sure?”
“I am sure. There is only rock there. It is a long drop to the stones below, an empty riverbed.”
“Let me go now, then.” My voice was weaker than I wished it. Faith. Why didn’t I tell you I had begun to think of you as a sister? Why didn’t I do more to comfort you?
“Not yet. When I know they have returned to Simla, then you can go. It will take you most of a day to walk back. I will be too far by then for you to help them.” Dried blood flaked around his ear and down his neck. His earlobe was torn where there had been an earring.
How had he escaped, I wondered. “I told you. I wouldn’t help them. I know you didn’t do it. What they said you did.”
He turned and we looked at each other for the first time. He had been beaten; one eye was swollen shut in a puffy purple pouch and his bottom lip was split. His shirt was torn down the front, and there was a cluster of dark bruises on his chest. I saw the glint of the gold hoop, still in his other ear, through his hair.
“I know you didn’t do it,” I repeated. “I know.” Why was it so important to me that he understood this?
“How do you know what I have done or not done?”
“I know the woman created a story to save herself and her cowardly lover. I went to the jail. I told the soldier there. I told him you weren’t guilty.”
The Pathan turned back to his horse, and I lowered myself to the floor, leaning against the wall. Finally he threw down the wet grass and let the bush close over the opening. “It grows late. We will stay here tonight. In the morning you will go back to Simla.”
I turned away. The pain in my shoulder grew to a steady pitch. Faith. Oh, Faith.
I REALIZED I HAD cried out. I opened my eyes to see the Pathan kneeling over me. He held a small branch, its end flaming, in my face. I turned from the heat. One small corner of my mind wondered how he had made fire. The floor of the cave was damp and cold.
Earlier I had tried to curl up into myself, tried to find a level spot, but the pain in my shoulder was unbearable. A sickness came over me, a heat and thirst so strong that I couldn’t stop the small sounds that came from my lips. I sat up at one point but sensed I was alone in the cave. It was too dark to make out any form but I couldn’t hear breathing from either man or horse. Had he left already? I heard my teeth chattering; in spite of the heat from my body, I shivered. And then he was there, with his flaming branch.
“Water,” I said, in English, but there was no water, only a tugging on my left shoulder, and the sound of tearing fabric, and a strange sizzling, and then it was as if a huge beast had attacked my shoulder, and I screamed as it tore and chewed at the flesh, and the flame grew brighter and brighter until I was lost in its light.
“COME. YOU MUST awaken now,” I heard, and opened my eyes. There was a smoldering pile of twigs in the cave, throwing off a dim light.
“It is almost morning. I must go, before they begin to search for you again,” the Pathan said.
I stared at him, unable to focus, partly because of the near darkness, but also because my eyes wouldn’t work properly. I kept blinking, trying to clear them, but the lids were weighted. They closed.
“I removed the small ball from the back of your shoulder. It will heal.”
I opened my eyes again, turning my head to look at my shoulder; even that slight movement brought a fresh pain, but not the same burning of the night before. A muddy poultice was smeared on my bare shoulder, front and back. My sleeve hung in torn strips.
“Come,” he said, and led his horse out of the cave.
I followed him, stumbling. I put my hand to my face and felt dried blood. The sun hadn’t risen, but the sky had lost its blackness. “You must walk that way,” he said, pointing. “Your people will find you.”
He leapt onto his horse with one easy movement. “There is a stream, not far from here. You will come to it if you stay in the direction the sun moves.”
I nodded, my head so heavy that even that slight movement was difficult, and walked away from the Pathan. It was difficult to keep my balance.
“No,” he immediately called. “Look at where the lightness comes into the sky. You go in the wrong direction.”
I looked back at him, trying to understand where he wanted me to go, but in the cold dawn he and his horse shimmered as if underwater, or being consumed by flames. I saw the ground come up to meet me. Time buzzed in my head, the noise finally receding as the Pathan lifted me, putting me on his horse as easily as if I were a child. My skirt bunched up about my thighs as my legs stretched wide over the bare back of the black Arab. I grabbed hold of its thick mane, the hair coarse in my fingers. And then the Pathan swung up behind me, his arms, on either side of me holding the rope tied through the horse’s bit, prevented me from sliding off.
WE RODE AT A STEADY gallop for what felt like hours. I was so relieved to be taken back to Simla that I allowed myself to relax against him, squinting against the burning light of the rising sun, which cast an orange light over everything as we rode. My head was strangely light and yet so heavy it was an effort to keep my chin from falling toward my chest. And the thirst was worst of all; my tongue was too dry to even lick my lips. I tried not to think of Faith, tried not to think of how all this would be talked of back in Simla, or worse, of Charles, who had trusted me with his wife. I grew aware of wetness on my cheeks, and I wondered at this. Tears? I didn’t cry. I disgusted myself with my feebleness and closed my eyes tightly, willing myself to be strong. You have survived worse than this, Linny. Much worse.
And then we stopped, and I opened my eyes, expecting to see the familiar landscape around Simla. Holding me by my right upper arm, the Pathan slid me off the horse. My legs were wobbly, and there was a painful numbness between them.
We were in a long, lush valley. Flowers bloomed everywhere—wild tulips, purple and white irises, yellow mustard. The mountains, enormous and powerful, rose beyond the pine forest at the border of the meadow. And a narrow strip of river lay in front of us, glimmering in the sun. I walked unsteadily to it, falling to my knees on the muddy bank and scooping water into my mouth with my right hand. When I had drunk as much as I could, I gingerly patted water around my tender nose, flaking away the dried blood. Then I bent lower, wanting to wash the cracked poultice off my shoulder.
“No. Leave it,” the Pathan said, leading his horse to the water. “It will heal faster if covered.”
I stood while his horse drank and he squatted and splashed water into his mouth and then over his neck and face and hair. Afterward he turned to the east and performed the prayers I had seen our Muslim servants carry out.
“How near is Simla?” I asked when he had risen, although instinctively I knew if we had ridden this far we would have been there by now. But perhaps the strange fever and unrelenting pain in my shoulder had confused me. Perhaps we had been riding for only a short time after all.
“I have not brought you to Simla.”
My legs would hold me no longer. I crouched on the hard, damp earth of the riverbank, closing my eyes. “Faith,” I whispered, rocking back and forth, closing my eyes. “Oh Faith, what have I done?” I sat, heavily, on my bottom, and put up my knees. I rested my right arm on them and lowered my forehead to it. “Where are we, then?” I asked, speaking to the ground.
“We are near Kulu.”
“Kulu,” I said, trying to remember if I had ever heard of it. But I realized my only knowledge of India this far north was of the Himalayas, the northwest frontier, and the Afghan border. “Is it still India?” I was whispering now.
“Yes,” he said. “Kulu is on the border of Kashmir.”
“Why have you brought me here?” I raised my head and looked up at him. The sun was behind his head, and I couldn’t make out his features.
He didn’t answer, and I lowered my head to my knees again.
“I know you speak the truth,” he finally said. “I heard your voice, while I was prisoner of the red-coated ferenghi, although I only understood some of your words.” He stopped, as if unsure of how to continue. “You tried to save my life. And so I could not be responsible for you losing yours.”
I looked at him again.
“I could not risk taking you any closer to Simla. But I could not leave you, so weakened and unable to help yourself. You need water, and you are ill from the injury caused by the bullet. If the ferenghi did not find you within a day, or perhaps two . . .” He brushed at his horse’s mane with his fingers. “So I will take you into Kashmir, to a camp there. We will ride the rest of today and tomorrow. At the camp you will gain strength, and I will arrange for you to return to Simla with someone who can lead you safely.”
I did not know what to say. Kashmir. What did I know of Kashmir? I could only think of reading of high, snow-covered mountains, of thick pine forests.
“You have nothing to fear,” he said.
“I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid of you,” I repeated, louder than was necessary.
He dipped his head, then l
ed his horse to a small thicket and secured the rope. I heard him call the horse Rasool. He disappeared into the bush, returning eventually with wild mushrooms and berries caught in the bottom of his torn shirt. I saw that the shirt, although torn and filthy, had been made with tiny, careful stitches. He wore a brightly embroidered open vest over it. The sash around his waist was thick, woven with bright red and orange threads. His full black trousers were tucked into high leather boots.
I considered not taking the handful of mushrooms and berries he held to me, his fingernails broken and dirty, the hands covered with scars, but then wondered why I would refuse. What good would arrogance, stubbornness, do me now? None. Better to drink water and eat what he offered, for I was far from anyplace safe and familiar, feverish and in pain. If I was to have any hope of returning to Simla, it would be because of this Pathan.
AFTER WE HAD RESTED and Rasool had grazed, the Pathan put his hands around my waist and swung me up again. This time he rode in front of me. As he urged Rasool to a gallop, I grabbed his sash, hooking my hands over it to keep from falling. I tried to look around as we raced through open fields and along gentle hills, but I had to concentrate on gripping my knees and keeping my fingers digging into the sash. Only my thin skirt and even thinner petticoat and lawn drawers were between me and Rasool. We stopped at rushing streams to drink every few hours, and I slid off the horse, walking a bit to try to keep my legs from stiffening. They were rubbery and uncooperative, my inner thighs chafed. Once I went behind a bush to relieve myself, not caring about the Pathan’s nearness.
Finally we stopped at the edge of a dark forest. The Pathan raised his chin at a huge conifer, and I sat under it. The moss was spongy and cool. I put my head on it and slept. When I awoke a fire crackled in the small clearing. The Pathan came to me, holding out a small steaming bird on a stick. It was well cooked, its skin brown and crackly.
The Linnet Bird: A Novel Page 35
