The Weeping Ash

by Joan Aiken

  “Oh, botheration! It was nothing—the merest trifle! Do not be boring on about the confounded business, my dear.”

  Questioning, however, elicited the fact that he could recall nothing at all of the circumstances of his seizure or how it had come about; could not, indeed, remember anything much about the visit to the fortune-teller.

  “There was a skinny blind fellow in a loincloth, calling on Tazreel and Bezroth and a whole lot of other djinns and demons—it was a decidedly tedious occasion, if the truth be told; oh, yes, and a girl was playing wearisome stuff on a flute; I think I must have fallen asleep.”

  “But do you feel in good health now, Cal dear?”

  “Lord, yes, never better! In perfectly plump currant. I’ll take you riding to the Great King’s tomb, if you wish!”

  “Do not be absurd! It is by far too hot! But tell me, love—has this ever happened before?”

  Intensive questioning elicited the reluctant answer that he had had one or two minor seizures of a similar nature in the last few months—generally when something had occurred to startle or trouble him, or sometimes, as a result of external physical circumstances, such as dazzling or flickering lights. These brief attacks had passed over as swiftly as they had come, and seemed no more than a momentary spell of oblivion, an “otherwhereness” as he put it.

  “But, gracious heavens, Cal! Supposing such an attack were to occur while you were on horseback, miles from the town!”

  “I do not think it would,” he replied, after considering the matter. “I feel almost certain that such attacks do not occur while I am mentally or physically occupied. They seem to accompany inertia, not activity. Now pray, Scylla dear, do not plague me about it anymore—if I do not trouble my head about it, why should you? I have a great notion for a section of my poem about the olive—the sacred tree of Athens—and how Alexander brought it, or the legend of it, to India, and it became transformed into the sacred tree of the Hindu scriptures—so, please, leave me in peace, will you, like a sweet girl, and let me work?”

  “But if your attacks come as a result of immobility,” said his exasperating sister, “should you not be up and about, taking exercise?”

  “Which is the more important—my poetry or a few trifling physical symptoms?” he demanded. She was obliged to agree that his poetry was important.

  “Oh, by the by, Ram says that dentist fellow, Wharton, has been seen in the town. Why do not you occupy yourself by writing a letter to our cousin Juliana?”

  “You think you can fob me off. Oh, very well, I will leave you in peace!”

  Scylla made her way to the hospital, intending to ask Miss Musson’s opinion about Cal’s state. She found that lady very preoccupied and worried, however, over the case of little Bisesa, the cook’s daughter, who acted as maidservant and ayah in the bungalow.

  “It came on so suddenly! I cannot decide what ails her. It is not prickly heat—nor mango rash—and although the symptoms, thank heaven, do not seem those of smallpox, the poor girl is in great distress—none of my remedies, at present, seem to help at all. She was perfectly well at breakfast time—then a couple of hours ago her father brought her here in such a state—I devoutly hope that it is not some infection that will spread like wildfire.”

  Scylla went in to see the girl, for whom she had a great affection. Bisesa was only fourteen or so, a slender, pretty creature, slim as a gazelle, with enormous, velvety eyes. Normally her skin was a pale smooth brown, but now it had become thickly covered with tiny angry blisters; the chief areas of infection were her shoulders, arms, and upper torso, hips, thighs, the sides of her neck, even the top of her head under the hair, the irritation from the blisters was so excruciating that Miss Musson had bandaged her hands, in an attempt to prevent the poor girl rubbing her skin or scratching it—but the bandages were of little avail, she lay frantically rasping herself raw with her bandaged fists and weeping with agony, calling on her dead mother to come and cure her.

  “I shall have to give her a dose of opium,” said Miss Musson, much perturbed, and did so. “Now stay with her, Scylla, talk to her and soothe her until it takes effect; I have sent for her sister Ameera to come and be with her.”

  Scylla sat with the poor child for several hours, gently preventing her from scratching herself and trying to distract her, talking about her forthcoming wedding and all its ceremonies, singing lullabies, until at last the opium acted and she fell into a troubled sleep. Miss Musson and Scylla covered her with lotions, but these, usually efficacious in cases of prickly heat, seemed slow in having any beneficial result.

  When they went home at dusk, leaving Bisesa in the charge of her sister and old Jameela, Scylla unburdened herself to her guardian about Cal’s disability. She found, as she had half suspected, that this news came as no surprise to Miss Musson.

  “He is of an epileptic constitution; I have apprehended as much for the last year. But do not be putting yourself in a pucker about it, my dear child; there is nothing to alarm you. Think how many great men have been similarly affected—Julius Caesar—St. Paul—indeed quite half the saints, I understand; it seems an affliction particularly disposed to single out those of a saintly disposition, or men of genius. If our boy is that,” she said, smiling, “we must not repine, should Providence think fit to touch him also with the accompanying weakness—perhaps as a reminder that no man can be expected to be quite perfect!”

  “No, ma’am, I see,” Scylla agreed, somewhat comforted. “Cal, certainly, is not perfect—I know that! What must we do, then?”

  “Why, try not to kick up a great dust about it—as Cal would say—but make sure, unobtrusively, that the dear boy has plenty of wholesome food, enough exercise, and—if possible—a calm, well-ordered life, without unsuitable excitement. Sometimes young men grow out of such disorders, acquired in the teens—the visitation may be an accompaniment of sudden late growth.”

  “I see, ma’am. Thank you. I will try—I will try to be sensible about it.”

  While Scylla was inwardly demanding of herself how such a well-ordered life as Miss Musson prescribed could be achieved among the unpredictable oriental ups and downs of their existence in Ziatur, they arrived back at the bungalow.

  There Cal, to be sure, seemed innocuously engaged on the veranda, ink on his brow, wreathed about with reams of scribbled paper and the dozen or so quill pens he liked to have by him when inspiration struck; he gave them a vague nod and returned without pause to his writing.

  Miss Musson and Scylla repaired to their respective chambers to wash and rest before the evening meal. In her room Scylla noticed with absent surprise that the rose-colored sari, Mahtab Kour’s gift, which she had left swathed in its muslin wrappings on top of her wooden chest, seemed to have been unwrapped and untidily tossed onto the floor. Perhaps gray apes had got in, as they were sometimes prone to do, from the loquat trees in the garden, to scamper about and make mischief; but it was odd that nothing else had been disturbed, Scylla thought, glancing around the room. It seemed almost as if someone who had a spite against her, who resented her having been sent the gift, had played this childish prank—but who could have done such a thing? The thought of the Rani Sada did just brush Scylla’s mind—but that seemed too improbable; besides, how could she, or any emissary of hers, possibly have had access to the bungalow? No, it must have been apes; if poor Bisesa had not been at the hospital, she would have picked up and refolded the sari, and its owner would never have known about the occurrence. Or no—she must have learned about it, Scylla found, picking up the garment and rather hastily and distastefully rewrapping it (she could not get out of her mind the notion that it was intended as a bribe for informing the Maharajah about Sada’s intrigue with Mihal). The accident could hardly have been concealed from her, for the choli was quite badly torn at the neck. Well, what does it matter, I should never have worn it, Scylla thought, bundling it all together inside the muslin; and, going to
wash her hands, she resolved to mend the choli as invisibly as possible and gives the garment to little Bisesa for her wedding—even torn as it was, with all those seed pearls it must be worth a handsome sum, and the child would have nothing else so fine; besides, she would certainly treasure it, as it came from the palace.

  They were just finishing supper—for which Cal had with difficulty been dragged from his writing—when Colonel Cameron was announced. He entered the room pale, dusty, and evidently laboring under very considerable distress. Miss Musson took one look at him and sent Habib-ulla for brandy-pani. When a large dose of this had been administered, “What is it, my friend?” she asked quietly.

  “The Maharajah is dead,” he said.

  “Oh, the poor man!” exclaimed Scylla. “How strangely sudden! Why, he did not look so ill this morning.”

  “It was not illness.” Cameron pushed a hand over his dusty brow. Unobtrusively, Miss Musson refilled his brandy glass. “They will be crying it in the streets any minute now. I came to tell you so—so that you can be deciding what is best for you to do.”

  “Not illness?” Miss Musson queried. “Then—an accident?”

  He gave a grim snort. “No more an accident than the rising of the sun—if I am any judge.”

  “What happened?”

  Even Cal was attending now, having come out of his poetic trance to listen, though still with a somewhat disengaged air.

  “Why, we were returning from a review of the troops out on the plain—you were right,” Cameron said to Scylla, “it will take months of wear before the men become accustomed to those French breastplates—but the Maharajah was pleased with them and thought they looked very fine—he was riding ahead on his elephant, I following behind on another—as he went through the archway of the great gate, a huge stone became detached from the masonry and fell on him, knocking him off his beast.”

  “It could have been an accident, surely?” interjected Miss Musson.

  “What followed certainly could not,” Cameron said harshly. “He was lying on the ground—I had jumped down and was coming to his aid, and the mahout of his elephant was on the other side—when the beast shouldered past us; it knelt on him, carefully and deliberately, on his loins, his chest, his knees—I heard his bones crack, I heard him scream. Oh, dear God, I have seen plenty of deaths in my time, but none more horrible man that—”

  “Could the beast have gone musth?” demanded Miss Musson, looking very appalled.

  “No, ma’am, that elephant was not mad, it was as calm and collected as you or I. It had been trained to that little trick. And I—heaven help me—I should have seen this coming—heaven knows, I had clear warning—perhaps I might have been able to take steps to avert it—”

  “My dear man, how could you possibly have done that?” demanded Miss Musson. “You are not Providence itself, to be everywhere at once! There is not the least sense in accusing yourself so. Rather let us be considering what is best to be done next. You were very right to come to me at once—I must be off to the palace directly.”

  And she called loudly for Abdul.

  “Up to the palace? My dear ma’am—Miss Amanda—are you run quite mad? Why up there? The palace is the last place to be visiting just now—”

  “Of course I must go to the palace,” retorted Miss Musson, equipping herself as she spoke with her large hat, her burqa, and a copy of the Holy Scriptures. “If I do not go there instantly and apply all my powers of argument, that poor silly woman will be persuaded that she ought to commit sati, and probably a dozen others along with her!”

  And despite all Cameron’s arguments she brushed him aside and departed, urging him to remain in the bungalow and take some supper—“for I am sure you have had none”—and keep the twins company.

  As she rode off on her pony they could hear the wailing begin, high on the walls of the citadel, accompanied by the sound of drums and conches and the solemn boom of ceremonial cannon.

  Cameron sat unnoticingly gulping down the food brought him by Habib-ulla. He looked both sad and angry.

  “No doubt Mihal will arrange a huge state funeral now—just the kind of thing he would do, to display his pomp and wealth to all the neighboring princes—after having taken pains to arrange for the fatality—”

  “You think he did so?” asked Scylla uneasily. Not, indeed, that she had any doubts on the matter; she thought so herself.

  “My dear child, there is no possible question—What is the matter?” he broke off to ask. Scylla had been absently rubbing her hands together for the last few minutes as if they irritated or pained her; now she looked down at them with an exclamation of surprise and annoyance.

  “My hands—I was rubbing lotion on that poor little girl in the hospital and it looks as though I must have caught her infection—I do trust Miss Musson has not taken it too—”

  Scylla’s hands were covered all over with a close, thick sprinkling of little red, angry-looking blisters.

  Five

  For six weeks after her return from London, Fanny Paget was confined to her chamber. Thomas gave it out to the family and neighbors that she had been taken ill in London; the coach journey had been too much for her, she was to see no one, speak to nobody, not even her stepchildren. She herself seemed glad enough to accede to this prohibition.

  The girls, wondering, intrigued, mystified, discussed the matter much among themselves—had Fanny somehow disgraced herself in London? Committed some extravagance? Made eyes at some young fellow? (This was Martha’s contribution.) Asked for some piece of finery? (This was little Patty’s idea.) None of them came near the truth. Kate, the housekeeper, who took Missus her meals, reported that she picked like a sparrow and looked like a shadow, hardly able to raise her head from the pillow. Indeed Dr. Chilgrove had to be called in and shook his head over her; he could not discover anything constitutionally wrong but said she was in a dangerously low state and prescribed port wine, nourishing broth, and cheerful company. Perhaps one of her sisters, he suggested, might be summoned, to be with her for a few weeks until the birth of her child, now some three or four months distant, and help raise her spirits?

  “Tush, sir, she may have plenty of cheerful company, as you call it, if she chooses to avail herself of it, in the persons of my daughters,” said Thomas, annoyed.

  “Yes, my dear sir, I am sure, but—her own family, you know—women at such times—not creatures susceptible to reason—I’ll ask her how she feels in the matter—shall I, eh?”

  And without bothering to wait for Thomas’s permission, he returned to the sickroom and said to Fanny:

  “How would it be, ma’am, if we were to fetch along one of your sisters to bear you company and sit with you—would that please you—hey?”

  It was amazing how the poor child’s eyes brightened.

  “Oh yes, Doctor, if you please,” whispered the threadlike voice from the bed. “If my sister Lydia—that is, if the others can spare her since poor Papa’s death—but they may be glad to find somewhere for her to stay—since they are all obliged to leave the Rectory—”

  For the expected news had come that Fanny’s father had succumbed to his long illness and the hard winter, and Fanny’s sisters must shift out of the house to make room for the new incumbent’s family, and go off to live with various harassed and unwelcoming aunts. The Rev. Theophilus must have been happy to know, as he died, that he had managed to leave at least one of his daughters safely settled. And now the thought that she might be able to offer a home to Lydia rejoiced Fanny’s heart.

  “Heaven only knows where we are to put her—she will have to go up in the attic!” exclaimed Thomas furiously when the doctor reappeared with the firm instructions that Lydia was to be sent for. And, when Chilgrove had gone, Thomas walked in to look at his wife with the usual feelings of baffled rage, thirst of unslaked curiosity—in a word, total frustration. For there she lay, weak as a
blade of grass, pale as a wraith, wholly at his mercy—and yet in no possible way, by no means of persuasion at his power, could he wring from her any information as to where she had been during those days in London.

  Whatever menaces he offered did not, apparently, seem any worse to her than her present state; she was invulnerable to him there. Physically, to be sure, he could still frighten her, and did; she shrank when he came into the room, and still more when he walked up to the bed; he took a certain pleasure in that; but mentally she had somehow escaped him and, whatever he might do, he could not come up with her.

  However this notion of Fanny’s sister visiting her could soon be scotched; and was.

  Thomas’s elderly mother, who had removed to the Isle of Wight upon her remarriage, and had continued there after the death of her second husband, living, upon the annuity he had left her, very modestly, in a small cottage, with a companion, was obliged, upon the death of the latter lady, to make some demands upon the doubtful kindness of her elder son. She would probably have avoided doing so if she could; there had been a total breach between them some years after her second marriage, due to Thomas’s detestation of his stepfather and half brother, but that was long ago; the old lady was now half blind and nearly senile, with nobody else to call upon; and so, very reluctantly, in her difficulties, she had recourse to Thomas. He, if differently circumstanced, would very likely have found it more convenient to house her in a tiny cottage, looked after indifferently, for a pittance, by some old sloven; but as things were he was glad to make a virtue of necessity and say to Dr. Chilgrove next day, with a clear conscience:

  “I am sorry to confound your plans, my dear sir, but it is quite out of my power to accommodate Mrs. Paget’s sister at present. I am obliged to take in my old mother to live with me. She is on the Isle of Wight, you know, and I cannot leave her there, with gunboats stationed at all the ports and invasion expected from week to week. And my mother will need an attendant with her in the house; as it is, I am forced to get rid of my good old housekeeper Kate and have a woman come in by the day instead, so that Kate’s room will be free for my mother’s nurse.”