by Joan Aiken
“But why is she so quiet and stupefied?”
“I believe it is that drink they have been giving her, it is charas, wine made from hemp seeds. It induces that kind of dreamy stupor. Poor girl, it is very hard,” Miss Musson said, sounding riven with sympathy, despite her own advice to Scylla. She added, however, “I daresay it is for the best. The opiates will dull her grief and help her to forget what she has undergone.”
Scylla was not so certain. When the women attending Dizane were not close by, she noticed the girl glance swiftly around her, then pour the contents of the horn beaker among the thick sheepskin rugs on which she sat; this done, she resumed her limp, stupid attitude, allowing her head to fall forward and her hands to lie loosely in her lap.
A moment came when all the women, dissatisfied with some item in Dizane’s costume, had hurried off in a chattering group to ransack yet another treasure chest of silk and velvet garments. Miss Musson had taken her way downstairs. Scylla, with her bundle of belongings open, was kneeling by little Chet, wrapping and pinning him more securely in his woolen nightrobe, for as soon as the sun went down the air turned bitterly cold. Suddenly she became aware that Dizane had moved, had sprung up and crossed the room in two lithe, silent strides and was now kneeling by her, pouring out a stream of imploring words. Her words were incomprehensible, but their meaning was clear. She fixed her great urgent black eyes on Scylla’s face and made a gesture with her hand—the gesture of one who drives a knife into his own heart—then clasped her hands together again, repeating the gesture and the words that evidently meant, “I beg you, I beg you!”
Next, turning to Scylla’s bundle, not urgently but a frantic speed, she rummaged in it, searching, feverishly searching—turned in disappointment, made her gesture again—“For God’s sake, by all that you hold sacred—if you have one—give me a knife!” Full of anguish and pity, Scylla began to shake her head, opening her hands helplessly to show she had no weapon. At this Dizane frowned as if in perplexity, perhaps disbelief that any person of sense should lack this piece of vital equipment; then suddenly her eyes flashed and fixed: half wrapped in a woolen hood she had glimpsed the stock of the pistol that Cal had lent Scylla. Silent, swift as a panther, Dizane swooped on it and dragged it out. With one imploring look at Scylla—“You must permit this—you must!—my need for it is greater than yours!”—she concealed it under her jacket. Kneeling, she pressed Scylla’s hand to her forehead, then quickly kissed Scylla; two seconds later she was back in her place, seated, with shoulders drooping and head bowed among the discarded finery. In another moment the women of the castle had returned with a great gold-embroidered black shawl which they wrapped around Dizane with exclamations of self-approval; then they gently raised her up and led her away.
The subsequent feast was a nightmare to Scylla. Almost mechanically she ate what she could of lamb flavored with garlic and coriander, heavily spiced smoked mutton, and dishes made from rice, raisins, and pistachios, and sweetmeats and cakes of pulverized mulberries, drank tea and, later, tiny cups of coffee. She looked in vain for Dizane among the ladies; the girl did not seem to be there. Perhaps the weapon had already been discovered? Perhaps she had been thrown into some dungeon? Or perhaps she was feigning sleep or sickness, so that she might avoid the feast; or had really succumbed to the drugged wine.
Over and over again Scylla asked herself what she ought to have done, ought to do now. Tell Miss Musson? Tell Cameron? Have him warn the Bai? She did not even know if the pistol was loaded; though she assumed that it was. She remembered Cal’s half-laughing caution: “Remember it throws to the left.” Suppose that Dizane, instead of using it on herself, which had plainly been her first intention—suppose she decided instead to revenge herself on the author of all her misfortunes and shoot the Bai? Numb with horror, Scylla could see Khalzada’s prophecy fulfilling itself on the same day that it was uttered. And, if the Bai were killed, what would become of Cameron and his party? Their lives would not be worth a pinch of snuff. It would be only too plain where Dizane had obtained her weapon.
Besides, did the Bai deserve to die? He had only been asserting his feudal rights.
Oh, what a fool I have been! Scylla groaned inwardly, clenching her hands together in her lap as she sat cross-legged among the Bai’s ladies. Beads of sweat lolled down her forehead and her nose; it was stiflingly hot in the hall, among the press of bodies and the burning braziers; with a detached part of her mind she noticed the coiling smoke from the fires, the incessant din from kettledrums, horns, and brass wind instruments, the dancing boys performing in front of the Bai; the discomfort from the ever present fleas in the woolen floor coverings, stirred to leaping, biting activity by the warmth. Scylla felt ill with anxiety and unwonted indecision. I cannot betray Dizane, she thought. There in the village, at that betrothal ceremony, I felt as if she were my sister; I feel it still.
The main part of the repast was already over. The men had finished eating and were drinking more and more koumiss and Kafir and Chitral wine; they were laughing and singing and shouting. Miss Musson, sitting not far away, caught Scylla’s eye and nodded, indicating that she thought it best to retire. Scylla half rose, then felt a numbing pain in her head; it seemed to sound in her ears like a gong. The pain passed, instantaneously, but in the same instant she realized that the sound she had heard was Cal’s voice, raised in an extraordinary cry, which sounded like a distillation of all the woe and dread in the world. She saw Cal beside Cameron, standing up with his arms extended waveringly; then he crashed to the ground as if he had been struck by a thunderbolt. The men closest around him gasped and rose to their feet in horror.
“Oh dear! The poor boy!” Miss Musson exclaimed with a prosaic normality that seemed fantastically out of keeping with the impact of this occurrence. “I did wonder if all this emotional excitement might not occasion one of his epileptic attacks! When I heard that he had killed the snow leopard, I suspected that it might overset him—an event like that, mingled triumph and guilt—for I know that he abhors killing—is just the kind of thing to throw him off balance. And in his present state too,” she added, glancing toward Sripana, who looked frightened to death at this mysterious affliction in the Angrezi youth—as were a great many others. The Bai himself had sprung up in horror, evidently suspecting poison or some terrible disease—until Cameron reassured him, quickly murmuring a few words in a low tone. Then all the men gathered around Cal—Scylla could hear them saying to each other:
“It is a djinn! He is possessed of a djinn!”
“Heat some yak’s butter in a pan and hold it under his nose,” said the Bai authoritatively. “That is a sure way to drive out a djinn.”
The butter was heated, while several of the Bai’s sons grasped Cal’s legs and arms, gripping them tightly, calling on the djinn to swear by the slipper of Moni the prophet that he would depart and never return.
A crowd of interested spectators pressed close around, and Miss Musson exclaimed:
“This is very bad! The boy will never come to himself in such conditions.” And she called over the heads of the crowd, “Rob, cannot you ask Mir Murad to have Cal carried to your chamber, or at least somewhere cool and quiet?”
“In a moment,” Cameron called back soothingly. “They must be allowed to try their own remedies first.”
To the stench of burning yak’s butter was now added that of singeing cloth, as charms were inscribed on bits of cotton cloth and, then burned close to Cal’s face. Scylla began to feel worse and worse. To a violent nausea was added a sensation as if a band of hot wire had been drawn tightly across her temples. Detachedly, with the lucid part of her mind that seemed able to stand aside and observe these symptoms, she wondered if she had been poisoned by something in the feast. Or—a likelier explanation—was her condition somehow connected with Cal’s seizure? They shared, occasionally, a telepathic sympathy; when one of them endured mental or physical pain, the other was liable to
experience equivalent sensations; but which way around had it worked this time? she wondered. Had her intense anxiety, sensed by Cal, brought on his paroxysm—or were his sufferings now contributing to hers?
“Ma’am,” she muttered to Miss Musson. “There is something urgent I must tell you—step aside here a moment. That girl—” She did not say the name Dizane aloud, because so many people pressed around them.
“Why, child! You are as white as paper! Here, quick, Colonel Cameron—she is fainting—”
Indeed, Scylla found that she could stand no longer. The light seemed darkened to her, black specks swirled in front of her eyes. She made a dizzy grab for Miss Musson’s arm, her legs gave way, and she would have fallen but felt herself caught and supported by several pairs of arms.
“The pistol—pray tell him that she has it. Indeed I could not refuse her.” Had she managed to say the words aloud? Her voice sounded hoarse and strange. Numbness and blackness closed in on her. Vaguely she felt herself being carried; then nothing more.
* * *
When she recovered—after an interval of not very long duration—it was to a fresher, cooler atmosphere and the sound of Miss Musson’s voice.
“Her eyelids are fluttering—there! I believe she is better. Drink this, child—” And a beaker of something warm was held to her lips.
“Not milk!” she muttered. “Not milk, pray!” Her nostrils still held a memory of the rank smell of burning butter.
“No, no, this is herb tea. What a pair you and Cal are, to be sure—a fine couple to escort through the wilds!” Miss Musson scolded affectionately. “Drink the tea while it is hot. Here have Rob and I been, scurrying from one to the other of you, not knowing which to tend first!”
“Indeed I am sorry, ma’am!” Scylla struggled up on to her elbow and took the horn beaker. “How—how is Cal? Is he better?”
She looked around her, trying to discover where she was. Evidently she and her brother had been carried to some chamber close to the banqueting hall. She could see Cal, propped against a pile of bolsters. Colonel Cameron was superintending the Therbah, who was bathing his temples with aromatic spirits.
“Is he better, ma’am?” Scylla repeated anxiously. Something else was troubling her—something at the back of her mind—what was it? She would remember in a moment.
“He will do famously by and by.” Miss Musson’s tone was reassuring. “You know his way. He takes time to come out of these convulsions—and this was a very severe one.”
Cameron walked over to look down at Scylla.
“How do you go on, now, Miss Paget? You and your brother have given us a fine fright! Indeed Mir Murad thought at first you had been poisoned—I had my work cut out to dissuade him from cutting off the cook’s head.”
His tone was friendly enough but Scylla thought she could detect a note of impatience in it.
“Truly I beg your pardon, sir—I hope I will not disgrace you so again.”
“Oh, young ladies are entitled to a few fainting fits,” he said lightly. “Or so I understand.”
“No, but I was very worried—there was something I had to tell you urgently—indeed, I was quite sick with anxiety—” What had it been? She searched her mind.
“Do not distress yourself. I daresay it can wait until you are better.”
“No, no. It was important. It was to do with that girl—”
“I expect, Rob, she means the village bride,” Miss Musson suggested in a low tone. “Scylla was horribly distressed about the affair, I know.”
“Oh!” Now he sounded really exasperated. “Yes, I am aware of the fact—Cal mentioned it—but what can I do? I am not a miracle worker, I cannot bring that wretched young man back to life.”
“No, no, it was not that! I remember now!” Scylla rose up to a sitting position. “It is worse—much worse! She has my pistol—” And, as Cameron looked at her with evident disbelief, no doubt under the impression that her wits were still astray, she explained, “The pistol that Cal gave me.”
“What?” He was still staring at her, with an expression of mingled rage and incredulity, when there came a patter of footsteps, and a soft voice inquired:
“Is it permitted to enter? I come from the lady Khalzada. She wishes to know if the afflicted persons are recovering.”
It was Habiba.
“Not a word about the weapon!” Cameron said urgently, and quitted the room at speed, leaving Miss Musson to reassure the Bai’s wife and express regret for the anxieties and suspicions that had been engendered by the sudden disturbing afflictions of her two young companions. But Habiba waved her apologies aside.
“It was a djinn. Who can prevent their comings and goings? Doubtless it was to warn of some coming disaster—some war or pestilence. Tomorrow the Bai will send offerings to the Holy Pir at Chaghlar—perhaps he may be able to do something to avert the trouble. Meanwhile the lady Khalzada wishes to know if you require any medicines or charms. If so her skills are at your service—though she is sure that your own arts are equal to any that she can offer—”
She broke off, turning pale. For at this moment a tremendous shrieking broke out somewhere in the castle; also a commotion of running feet, shouts, and, outside in the courtyard, the whinnying of horses.
“Hai! What can it be?” exclaimed Habiba. “Imra send that the disaster foretold has not already come to pass—”
She turned to leave the room and encountered Cameron returning.
“The Bai is hurt, Lady,” he informed her briefly. “His hurt is not serious, I am glad to say. However you had best go to him.”
With a cry of dismay Habiba hurried off, while Cameron strode across the room and stared down at Scylla. There was such fury in his face that, despite remaining traces of vertigo, she struggled to her feet to face him.
“You little idiot,” he said between his teeth. “How came you to do such a lunatic thing? I know you to be reckless and headstrong—but I would have thought even you might foresee the consequences of such a piece of frantic folly—”
“Rob, Rob!” warned Miss Musson.
“Hush, Miss Amanda!—Have you no thought for others at all?” he demanded of Scylla. “To furnish that distraught female with a weapon—and such a weapon! Have you run completely mad? What did you expect her to do with it?”
“It was not like that!” Scylla confronted him as best she could, though her face was quivering, her knees shook, and she felt weak and sick at the force of his rage.
“Rob, you must not!” muttered Miss Musson. “The child is ill yet—scarcely able to stand.”
“She is well enough to hear what I have to say! Thanks to you, Miss Paget, we are all in desperate danger.”
“What happened?” whispered Scylla.
“Since the banquet had been disrupted by your brother’s very regrettable seizure, the Bai went to visit the girl, who was shut up in a room somewhere.”
Guilty as she felt, Scylla could not withstand a prick of resentment at Cameron’s dry reference to her brother; poor Cal could not help his affliction, after all. But, eager to learn what had happened, she remained silent.
“She produced a pistol—the pistol that I gave Cal—and fired at the Bai. Luckily, even at close range, her aim was not accurate—” Scylla, with slightly hysterical amusement, recalled the pistol’s failing—how fortunate that she had not been able to warn Dizane of that. “The Bai was wounded, but only in the arm,” Cameron went on. “He has lost a deal of blood, but it is not serious. He and his sons have gone in pursuit of the girl.”
“What? She escaped?” Despite her disgrace, Scylla could not withhold a leap of the heart.
“While he was still faint from the wound—before he could call for help—she had somehow succeeded in making her way to the stables and abstracting one of the Bai’s best horses; apparently, on account of the banquet and the evening’s
various excitements, no proper guard was kept.”
“She has got away? Oh, I am so glad!”
“You little fool! How far can she get, with the Bai’s warriors in pursuit?” Cameron looked at Scylla almost with loathing. “You have no more sense than a baby—than little Chet! They will be certain to catch her—they will bring her back—they will question her—they will discover that you gave her the gun—what do you think will happen then?”
Miss Musson asked in a troubled voice, “What had we best do, Rob?”
“The only thing we can. Leave now, before the Bai returns.” He added impatiently, as they stared at him in astonishment, “Well, do you think I like it? Sneaking away like a thief from my old friend’s house? Of course I do not! But the alternative is being slowly disemboweled, or seeing you all cut in pieces, or both—I have no choice. Therbah, pack up our possessions—and be quick about it!”
“Yes, lord.”
“But the money he owes you—you will have to leave without it?”
He laughed harshly.
“I can hardly ask Mir Murad for money when one of my companions has just supplied a weapon to his would-be murderer! We must manage without.”
“But Cal—he is unconscious. How shall we manage?”
“I have thought about that. We shall take camels from the stable—we can say that we are going to help search for the girl.”
“Camels! But they are costly—two or three would be worth the whole sum of the debt.”
“You do not think I would steal Mir Murad’s camels?” Cameron said sharply. “I shall arrange to have them sent back. That is the only honorable thing to do.”
Scylla could not help being glad that she was not a man. Their code of honor seemed to add almost impossible complications to a situation that was bad enough already.
“Cal will have to travel in one of the saddlebags; they are fairly capacious,” Cameron went on. “Now, for your lives, make haste! Bring what you can, say not a word to anybody, meet me in the courtyard in ten minutes—not a moment longer.” He added callously, “We can only hope that wretched girl had sufficient start on them so that it will take the pursuit some time to come up with her.”