A Mosaic of Wings

by Kimberly Duffy

  “I’ll still be here when you’re better.”

  He smiled, and then his eyes dipped closed, and she resumed her vigil.

  The lush scent of rain swept into the tent, and Nora looked over her shoulder. Swathi stood in the doorway. “May I come in?”

  Nora motioned toward Owen. “He’s sick. I’m not sure what it is—malaria or an infection of some kind.”

  Swathi’s thin shoulders rose. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve survived worse.”

  Nora crossed the tent and dragged another chair to the bedside. “Sit here beside me. Did you travel in the rain?”

  “I got here the moment it began. It’ll stop in a couple of hours.” Swathi settled into her seat. “I heard about the illness that’s visited your camp, and I wanted to make sure you hadn’t become ill.”

  Nora shook her head. “No, I’m well. First it was Leonard and William, then Frederic, and now Owen.”

  Swathi’s shoulders relaxed, and the tightness in her jaw eased. She released a heavy breath. “I’m so glad. I was worried. India is hard on Europeans.”

  Nora glanced at Owen, who had tossed his arms and legs akimbo, restless and uncomfortable. “Hopefully he’ll recover quickly. He’s strong.”

  “What are the symptoms?”

  “Vomiting, lethargy, dizziness. They’ve all complained of aches and pain.”

  Swathi’s face drained, and she stood. With nimble fingers, she undid the buttons of Owen’s shirt and tugged down the collar. She sighed and sank back down into her seat. “There is no rash.”

  “No. None of them have had a rash.”

  “I’m glad. It was one of the first symptoms Lukose and I had with typhoid.” She shook her head, clearing the shadows that had curtained her eyes. “How is your little friend?”

  Nora cupped the back of her neck and twirled the stray curls escaping her knot. Owen had fallen ill two days prior, and she’d told Pallavi to let Sita know not to come until he was better. She didn’t want Sita exposed to whatever had felled three grown men. She didn’t want Sita around Frederic without her protection.

  “She is in the same situation as before.” Nora shook her head. “Actually, I believe she may have drawn the attention of someone who means her no good.”

  An agonized expression flitted across Swathi’s face. “I cannot bear the thought. Have you considered finding her a safe place to live until she is ready to go to Madurai?”

  “I haven’t thought about it. Where would she go?”

  Swathi glanced around, though no one but Owen was present, and he slept as deeply as a pupating moth. “I’ve talked to my husband about her, and we are willing to offer her a home for as long as necessary.”

  There was a desperation in Swathi’s hurried words and grim expression. And a small flicker of hope, as well. Her eyes flamed with something Nora understood well—the need to be useful. Appreciated. Needed.

  How much more difficult was it for a mother without a child?

  She took Swathi’s hand. “Thank you, my friend. I will keep that in mind. It sets my heart at ease that, if necessary, Sita will have a safe place to live for a time.”

  Swathi opened her mouth but quickly snapped it closed again, her teeth clicking against each other.

  “Is there something you wish to tell me?” Nora asked.

  Her friend’s eyes glittered with unshed tears. “I only want you to know that I will see to her needs—physical and emotional. I have so much love to give, and no one to lavish it on.”

  Swathi’s eyes strayed toward Owen, and she clasped her hands in her lap. Nora wondered if Swathi and her husband were exactly who Sita needed.

  It was already obvious that Sita was exactly who Swathi needed.

  Chapter

  Twenty

  Nora, her arms wrapped around a cotton terry towel, tiptoed from camp, the stars her only witness. For four days and nights, she’d sat near Owen, wiping his face and offering him tepid cups of water. She’d felt his brow a thousand times and reassured him she didn’t mind a thousand more. Then, yesterday, he’d felt well enough to sit up on his own and read through some of the books Frederic had brought from England.

  Sure that Owen was on the mend, and having had enough of hasty sponge baths and the prickly feeling of unwashed skin, Nora had decided to find the spring Owen had told her about.

  She crept down a small slope and found the stream hidden behind a huddle of myrtle and mahogany trees. Dawn’s pale peach light pierced the fog-enshrouded hills rising around her and offered Nora a sense of solitude. No one would bother her except the singing cicadas and ancient shola, which grew thicker the deeper she plunged into it.

  Less than a quarter of a mile from camp—too close to society for tigers to prowl, but far enough away that she was promised privacy—she came to a tangle of stunted trees, stepped through a thicket, and entered a fairyland.

  Sunlight streamed through the canopy and dappled the pool, which was fed by a small waterfall not much taller than she was. Foamy water spilled over rocks made smooth by years of current. The sound of it was gentle, nothing like the great crash of Cascadilla Falls. Vines crawled up the trees, heavy with a flock of amber birds, and sent their roots into the moss-covered ground, providing a carpet that begged the traveler to nap.

  Nora imagined herself shut off from the rest of the world. She wouldn’t be surprised if she met a yaksha, wide-hipped and languid, lying on a bed of Persian violets.

  Of course, Nora didn’t believe in such spirits, and she only met a cloud of Mycalesis oculus, which flew a hairsbreadth from her face when she startled them.

  She made quick work of her clothing and then slipped a sliver of rose-scented soap from the folds of her towel. She dipped her foot into the water, which came only to her knees, before sitting.

  Nora rubbed the soap over her arms, chest, and belly, then splashed herself, ridding her body of a week of stench and itch. Bubbles coated the water streaming around her, carrying the scent of illness away.

  She stood, lifting the curtain of hair off her back, and turned in a slow circle, surveying her sanctuary. She would return here. In the still hours before the sun rose above the hills, before the men woke and Pallavi began her rhythmic pounding of spices and laundry, before she saw Owen and spent the day splitting her thoughts between him and the butterflies she continued to draw, she’d creep back to this spot. It was a nicer way to get clean than rubbing her skin with a damp flannel cloth.

  A smacking sound drew her attention to the branches above her head, and not six feet away, a bonnet macaque flipped its lips and watched her holy moment with heavy-lidded eyes.

  Nora resisted the urge to cover herself—it was only a monkey, of course—and tucked the memory away. Her morning date in a secluded fairy pool with a monkey whose wrinkled brow put her in mind of a scholar.

  The crashing sound of something stumbling toward her bathing spot spurred Nora from the water. She grabbed her towel and wrapped it around herself, the wise little monkey forgotten.

  “Akka! Akka, where are you? I need you.”

  “Sita?” Nora called.

  Sita burst through the trees, and her pale, tearstained cheeks sent alarm through Nora. Sita ran toward her, arms outstretched, and buried her head into the softness of Nora’s towel.

  “Darling, what’s wrong?”

  On the tail end of a hiccup, Sita said, “My bleeding has started, and I’m to begin my work next week.” She looked up at Nora, her plump cheeks drawn inward. “And I know a man who wants me.”

  Something churned within Nora’s belly. “Not Frederic.”

  Sita’s brows pinched. “No, Frederic hates me. Why would he—”

  “You were so angry about the butterflies we found, I thought he must have done something terrible to warrant such a reaction.”

  “He has done something terrible. He got my older sister Madhavi pregnant. Madhavi thought he would marry her, but he wouldn’t. The baby was born a month before you came.” Sadness, which went
deeper than Sita’s own future, filled her eyes, and tears clung to her lashes. “I brought the baby to him, but he turned his face. My father left her to die in the forest. She was so beautiful, Akka. Her skin golden and so many black curls on her head.”

  When Nora’s father fell into the falls, her entire body had frozen, causing momentary paralysis. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. That was how she felt now.

  Frederic had allowed his child to be killed.

  And poor Sita had tried to stop it.

  Nora pulled her in again, wrapping her arms around Sita’s shuddering form and resting her chin on her head. “I’m so sorry. So sorry.”

  They wept, Nora forgetting that she rarely cried. Something about India drew every suppressed sadness, every long-buried heartbreak, from her and yanked it out until she was forced to face it.

  To experience it.

  And for once she wanted to embrace her sorrow. She wanted to grieve the injustice of a world where loving fathers died in front of their children, neglectful fathers failed to save their babies, and desperate fathers offered their daughters up to gods who turned them over to depraved men.

  And with the sorrow came the bees. Buzzing and swarming so that she thought they might consume her.

  When Nora and Sita returned to camp, the sun was just tipping into the horizon. Snores still broke the silence, and Pallavi hadn’t arrived yet. Nora pinned up her hair as she approached Owen’s tent to check on him.

  He sat in bed, his Bible in his lap and color in his face.

  “You’re up.” Nora bustled toward him and pressed her hand to his cheek. “And you’re better.”

  Owen captured her hand against his face. “Thanks to you. I may have been delirious most of the time, but I knew enough that someone was with me.”

  She blushed and pulled away, but he pressed his lips to her palm, and she shuddered. She licked her lips, and his eyes fell on them.

  He couldn’t kiss her now! Not when she needed to get Sita out of camp before the men awoke and Pallavi trained her eagle eye on Sita’s movements. Nora sat on the edge of his bed. She needed an ally.

  “Did Sita find you?” he asked. “She was looking for you earlier and told her I’d heard you sneak out of camp not too long ago.”

  “Yes.” She swallowed hard. “When Frederic awakens, will you keep him occupied until he leaves? Don’t let him know I’m not here.”

  Owen’s forehead wrinkled. “Where will you be?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just not here. But I don’t want him to know.”

  “I won’t lie for you, Nora, as much as I—” his eyes darted away, and he swallowed—“care for you.”

  Contentment, heavy and pleasant, enveloped her. He cared for her, maybe even loved her—had he been about to say that?—and she wanted to sit beside him and bask in it.

  But no. Not right now.

  She stood. “Don’t lie. Just keep him distracted long enough that he doesn’t call for me. He won’t go to my tent.”

  “I wish you’d tell me what you’re up to. Maybe Frederic can help you.”

  She snorted, an action that would have horrified her mother. “Frederic is the last person I’d go to for help.” She leaned over Owen and tucked the blanket more tightly around his waist. “He didn’t do what I thought he might have.” She ignored his sigh of relief. “He did something else just as bad.”

  She let her fingers linger against Owen’s chest and then hurried from the tent, eager to get Sita to safety before Yellamma made her claim.

  When Nora and Sita arrived in Kodaikanal half an hour later, the town was just stirring from its slumber. Fruit sellers, with papayas and bananas piled onto rickety wagons, lumbered down the roads, calling their wares. Wiry men pulling two-wheeled carts hurried toward their destinations, and a pack of stray dogs yipped and snapped at passersby.

  At the end of the clamor, just off a quiet crape-myrtle-lined street, Nora found Swathi’s quaint house. Sita shivered beside her and pulled the end of her davani from her shoulders, draping it over her head.

  “It’ll be okay,” Nora said. “You’ll like Swathi. She’s very kind.”

  But Swathi didn’t answer the door. Mr. Davies did. His eyes slipped from Nora to Sita, and something like dismay passed over his face. “This must be the child Swathi told me about.”

  Nora nodded, hoping she hadn’t put Sita in an untenable situation. Mr. Davies didn’t look as though he shared Swathi’s desire to help.

  He sighed and held the door open. “Come in.”

  Nora followed him, and Sita followed her. He led them into a small sitting room across from the parlor, furnished with a fine gold and red rug and wicker sofas.

  Swathi jumped up from where she sat in an alcove tucked beneath a corner window and approached them. Nora introduced Sita, who shyly peered up at Swathi from beneath the fabric draped over her head.

  “Sita needs a safe place until we can get her to Madurai,” Nora said.

  Swathi held her hands out toward Sita, who took them, and bent to search her face. “Vanga vanga, ulla vanga.”

  At Swathi’s Tamil welcome, Sita’s face blossomed, and a string of words spilled from her lips.

  Swathi looked up at Nora. “She can stay as long as necessary.”

  “You’ll contact your acquaintance? I fear she will be found.”

  “Yes, when the time comes.”

  Nora frowned, quite certain the time was now. Swathi led Sita by the hand to a sofa, and they settled onto its cushions. With their heads bent toward each other and Swathi whispering words of comfort, Nora thought they looked as though they’d spent a lifetime together, forging a relationship. Her stomach twisted, and she worried her lower lip.

  Mr. Davies came beside her. “We will see she is well cared for.” He watched his wife for a moment, and a cautious, thoughtful expression entered his eyes. “I’ll contact the woman who runs Malarkal Vitu—it means house of flowers—and let you know when Sita can be sent.”

  Across the room, Swathi held Sita’s hand and spoke of her garden back home where she’d grown orchids and flowering vines. She tugged a few jasmine blooms spilling from a vase on the table nearby and wove them into a crown. Sita tilted her face up toward Swathi, who placed it on her head.

  “Lukose was, and will always be, our only child.” Mr. Davies’s voice held a heaviness Nora hoped never to experience. “Having him nearly killed Swathi.”

  “It was the same with my mother.”

  Charan looked at her. “It must be difficult for her, you being across the world.”

  “She has her husband.”

  He shook his head and exhaled. “It’s not at all the same.”

  Chapter

  Twenty-One

  I do wish you’d come home, darling. I miss you.

  Nora reread the elegant, loopy words traveling across the lilac-scented paper. Her mother must have written it not long after Nora left. What would she be feeling now, almost three months later?

  Were Mr. Davies’s words true? Did her mother miss her as much as Swathi missed poor Lukose? Nora could return, though, and her mother knew that. Maybe that was consolation.

  She folded the letter in thirds and slipped it back into the envelope. She’d respond later. She planned to visit Sita and Swathi this morning after the men left and then spend the afternoon searching for the mimicking butterfly she’d discovered. She needed to study them before presenting her find. Before naming it. And she would name it, because she was certain no one had yet discovered it.

  The harsh sound of masculine shouting came from outside, and Nora dropped the letter and rushed from her tent. Pallavi gripped a man’s arm and spoke with whispered urgency. He pushed her off and yelled back, his hands making jerky circles, and the other men poured from their tents. Leonard and William flanked her, but Mr. Steed stayed back, puffing on his pipe.

  “Where’s Owen?” Nora asked Leonard, keeping an eye on the stranger.

  He shrugged. “What’s going on?�
��

  “I’ve no idea.”

  Frederic tossed aside the flap to his tent. He was dressed as relaxed as Nora had ever seen him, in a khaki shirt rolled to the elbows, but he blanched upon seeing the man. He swallowed, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing. “Muruga.”

  The man turned, and his face went red. “You’ve already ruined one daughter. Must you ruin my entire family?”

  Pallavi choked out a sob and began to screech and moan.

  Frederic sliced his arm through the air. “Silence, woman.”

  Pallavi crumpled to the ground, buried her face in her hands, and rocked back and forth. William went to her, knelt down, and patted her back. Nora was about to join him when she saw Owen slipping from his tent, his fingers making clumsy work of his shirt buttons. He stepped over the tent stakes, keeping his eyes on the stranger as he made his way toward Nora.

  “Do you know who that is?” he asked.

  She shook her head as she studied the man—his heavy brows, wide nose, and handsome bone structure—and awareness caused her to gasp. He looked like an older, angrier version of Sita.

  “What is it?” Owen asked.

  “I believe he’s Sita’s father.”

  Frederic’s voice rose. “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

  “Sita. She has been gone since Thursday morning, before anyone awoke.” Muruga stepped toward Frederic, and although he stood half a foot shorter, he was stocky and his glower threatening.

  “I have no idea where she is. I had nothing to do with her, except for having her join us on that one foray into the shola, which Pallavi said she gained permission for.” Frederic turned, his eyes searching until he found Nora. “Have you seen her?”

  Nora went hot then cold, and her hands grew clammy.

  Muruga stalked toward her. “Where is my daughter?”

  Nora pushed back her shoulders and raised her chin, but still she trembled. She searched Muruga’s eyes, hoping to see remorse, love, pain—anything to convince her she could tell him where Sita was—but all she saw was anger and fear warring for ascendancy. “I haven’t seen her since Thursday morning.”