Dream Thief

by Stephen Lawhead

  Lifting his eyes from the grizzly memento he saw the lions.

  There were two of them—a male and a female, both wet and bedraggled by the rain. The big male was tearing at a carcass splayed in the center of the road while the female sat on her haunches waiting her turn to feed. The carcass had been worried beyond recognition—as had the others he now saw littering the area—but Spence, with a sudden sickness in his stomach, knew what they were. The shreds of clothing, the shoes and sandals, hat and gun told him all.

  The lion, sensing the intruders for the first time, glared up defiantly and loosed a snarl that turned blood to water. Simba stood her ground, raising her trunk high overhead and in a tight curl. The lion growled more fiercely and then seized up the carcass with a snap of its jaws and dragged it off across the road into the forest. The tawny lioness followed with the miffed air of snubbed royalty.

  “That was close,” said Spence. He grimly looked around the scene of carnage. “I thought they were going to challenge us.”

  “Lions are cowards,” remarked Gita, “though I was feeling none too brave myself. Still, not many will go against an elephant. We must be near Jaldapara.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Many, many years ago there was a great wildlife sanctuary called Jaldapara. I have heard that there are still lions there.”

  “Apparently they abound.”

  “This is what is left of the governor’s party,” observed Adjani. “I don’t see anything to save. We’ll have to report this to the authorities in Darjeeling.”

  “I wonder if there were any survivors.” Spence urged the elephant onward, stopping only once to direct her to retrieve an official cap which had been worn by one of the governor’s aides.

  “The goondas probably did not leave any survivors,” said Gita. “The only reason they allow the merchants to live is because they want them to go back and amass their goods so they can rob them another time.

  “But this—” Words failed him. He shivered. “Merciful Father, protect us!”

  They resumed their trek through the scene of ambush. Spence saw things lying in among the bushes on either side of the road, but he did not peer too intently lest he discover what they were. He had seen enough.

  THE NEXT DAYS WERE indistinguishable one from another—much as the towns and villages they passed through.

  They rose to swollen skies and rain soon after dawn. The rain continued until midday whereupon the sky cleared and the sun burned with vigor to turn the road and surrounding forest into a steamy, smothering welter.

  The landscape changed little, offering only hills and more hills, some with spectacular gorges and deeply cleft valleys between, but after so many of these impressive sights, the travelers grew numb to such profligate magnificence. India, the Country of Too Many—too many people, too many languages, too many religions, too many customs, too many problems—had too many wonderful sights as well. The effect was to deaden, as all the rest deadened, too, in this strange land.

  But as they began to ascend the final climb up to the high hills of Darjeeling, Spence noticed that the forest thinned and became scrubby. The trees were shorter and the hills more pronounced and steeper. Twice they crossed ancient suspension bridges whose cables had rusted—many had snapped and now dangled uselessly into the cataract below—and the missing steel plates formed open trapdoors to be cautiously avoided.

  Once they met a dozen or so pilgrims, Buddhist priests, who were making a pilgrimage to Buddh-Gaya to the south. They wore bright yellow dhotis bedecked with garlands of white magra flowers that looked like little bells, and waved their prayer flags at the elephant as it passed, murmuring and chanting as they went along.

  Not more than fifty meters away from where they passed the happy pilgrims, they encountered a beggar squatting in the road. Spence could see the man’s leg outstretched beside him and he whined piteously as the elephant approached, flinching away from it, but making no move to scuttle out of its path. The wretch raised imploring eyes to the travelers, and Spence looked down as the elephant deftly stepped around the human lump in the road.

  Then Spence saw the man’s leg curled beside him in a grotesque and inhuman curve. He stopped Simba and slid down from his perch; Adjani and Gita quickly followed. The beggar, seeing this response, went into wild and fearful lamentations, afraid that the travelers would beat him and steal his pittance, yet wanting their help anyway.

  “Oh,” said Gita, looking at the man’s leg. “It is not good at all. It is very far gone.” He lifted the filthy, rain-soaked rag that covered the man’s frame and Spence saw the hideous sight. The leg was a festering mass of green-black flesh, ulcerated and oozing pus and blood.

  “What can we do for him?” asked Spence, turning away.

  “Nothing,” said Adjani. “He is beyond our ability to help. He’s dying.”

  The cloudy eyes, the listlessness Spence beheld in the beggar’s slack features confirmed Adjani’s diagnosis. But he refused to accept the injustice of such a hopeless pronouncement. “We’re going to help him,” he said tersely. “If not to live, then we’ll at least help him die like a human being.”

  Adjani gazed at his friend with ‘wonder. “You are right, Spence. It is the least we can do.”

  Spence turned to view the chanting pilgrims as they hurried away, their song still hanging in the air. “Is your god deaf and blind?” he shouted after them, venting his outrage. “Doesn’t he care? Is he even there at all?”

  Spence picked the man up—he seemed to weigh nothing at all—he could feel his bones hard through their paper-thin covering of skin and rags. Adjani held the injured leg gently as they moved him to the side of the road. The beggar regarded them with scared, feverish eyes and whimpered with pain at being moved. “He has probably been sitting there for days,” muttered Adjani. Spence looked at the place in the road where the man had sat. It was dry, and the footprints of the Buddhist priests in the mud passed mere inches away from where he had been.

  Gita produced his medicine sack and began assembling some articles which might be of some help. He also brought the man a drink of water and some of their store of mangoes and pears. The man drank thirstily, but refused to eat a bite of the fresh fruit. He continued to watch them with mute suspicion as they exposed his leg and set about cleaning it.

  The sight was almost more than Spence could stand, and the stink of it brought tears to his eyes. The foul limb had rotted away to nothing resembling a human appendage. Using a collapsible canvas bucket they found in Simba’s howdah he fetched water from a nearby ditch running with clean rainwater. A few curious crows who had been watching the beggar from a, distance now assembled on the branches of a nearby tree for a closer look.

  Gita and Adjani delicately picked up the leg, which by the look of it had been crushed in an accident—perhaps when he had dived in front of an oncoming vehicle for some scrap of refuse someone had tossed to the ground. Spence began pouring the water over it, bathing it and washing away the filth and ooze.

  This exertion started the blood flowing freely again over the gangrenous flesh and the gentle flooding of the water dissolved the decaying skin and muscle. Flesh and bones dropped from the leg as the water splashed down. The limb split and the stench of putrid flesh overcame Spence. The bucket dropped from his hand and he turned aside as the contents of his stomach came surging up.

  Spence wiped his mouth on his sleeve and grimly picked up the bucket, but before he could begin again a crow from the tree above fluttered down and seized a small bone with a morsel of flesh still clinging to it. The bird snatched up its prize in its yellow beak and jumped back into the air and away.

  “They’re hungry, too,” said Gita. “Do not blame them.”

  Spence, tears brimming in his eyes, raised the bucket and poured the rest of the water over the leg. They then tore up one of Gita’s muslin sacks to use as a bandage; they wrapped what was left of the limb carefully and neatly in the dry cloth. They started to strip the soppi
ng coverings from the beggar to clean him up, but he clutched at them so furiously that they let him keep his rags.

  Gita offered more fruit, speaking softly in the man’s tongue, explaining that they were not going to hurt him and did not expect to be paid for their kindness. The beggar gingerly accepted the fruit and opened his mouth, full of blackened, rotting teeth, to eat.

  He took two or three mouthfuls and then lay back, still watching them as if he expected them to pounce on him at any moment. He closed his eyes and, with a long whimper and a violent shake of his bones, he died.

  Spence could not understand why the beggar died so suddenly and so quietly. He looked at the still body in amazement, and then turned abruptly away.

  “Spence, it’s all right,” said Adjani, coming close to him. “We did the right thing. We did what we could.”

  Spence shook his head sadly. “It was not enough.”

  Gita, standing over the body with outstretched arms, said, “See how he died. Spencer Reston? This one of the streets who in his life never knew a moment of compassion or concern knew both at the moment of death. He ate and drank and was bandaged and someone knew of his passing.”

  Spence looked at the body for a long time, trying to comprehend the life this discarded bit of human litter must have known.

  He could not—any more than he could imagine exchanging places with a jellyfish. The gulf between their respective worlds was just too great—light-years apart.

  But Spence, in an effort of pure, selfless compassion, had tried.

  They wrapped the body with the governor’s flag which they found rolled into the howdah and carried it a few meters into the trees beside the road. They laid it in a hollow beneath a tree and with their hands covered it with rain-damp earth.

  “Father,” said Adjani as they stood over the grave, “receive one of your own.”

  They climbed silently back onto the elephant once more and rode on into Siliguri.

  16

  EVERY TIME AUGUST ZANDERSON looked at his daughter he saw the image of his insane wife. Ari had grown by degrees more listless and confused as the days passed and she continued to follow Hocking to their secret rendezvous. Each time she returned just a little more forgetful, a little more vague, a little less Ari.

  She did not eat well and had grown pale and hollow-cheeked. She now slept a great deal, and even when awake seemed lost to the material world. It was as if the young woman was turning into a ghost before his eyes.

  He had argued in vain for her to stop meeting Hocking, but he had no control over her. Every time Hocking came she was ready and waiting for him, though he came at odd times of the day and night.

  Zanderson had threatened Hocking—also in vain—and had offered himself in his daughter’s place. This had brought nothing but mocking laughter and derision. But seeing his daughter wither before his eyes made him determined not to let her go without a fight. He planned to confront Hocking next time he came. He had broken a chair leg and hidden it close to hand in case his point needed driving home with extra persuasion.

  Now, as Ari slept like one of night’s children, he paced before the door waiting for the summons he knew would come in time. When he heard the rattle of the bolt in the lock of the huge heavy wooden door, Zanderson squared his shoulders and took his place just inside the entrance.

  Hocking swept into the room and at first did not see that his way was barred by the form of the director. But their eyes met and Hocking seemed taken aback somewhat, though he recovered instantly, saying, “Get out of my way. Get back.”

  “Ari’s staying here, Hocking. Leave her alone.”

  “Get away, you fool! I’m warning you.”

  “And I’m telling you it’s over. You’re not taking her away from here any more. I won’t let you.”

  Hocking’s features sharpened at the challenge. “What will you do. Director? How will you stop me?”

  “Don’t force me to defend myself. I will.” Zanderson’s voice rose with anger. “I’m warning you. Get out of here and leave her alone.”

  “Stay out of this. You don’t know what you’re doing. I’m only trying to help you.”

  “Help me? Ha! Look at her!” Zanderson waved his hand wildly toward Ari’s form. “She’s been sleeping all day! She’s exhausted. If this keeps up you’ll kill her!”

  Hocking glared at the man before him. His hand flattened on the tray of the pneumochair. “I’m telling you for the last time to get out of my way.”

  The director stepped slowly aside. Hocking moved forward to pass him and quick as a flash Zanderson’s hand snaked out and snatched up the club. He swung it full force at Hocking’s skull.

  The move was not fast enough. Hocking’s finger twitched on his knurled tray at the same instant and the improvised club bounced in the air a bare centimeter from his head and fell away.

  Stunned amazement blossomed on the director’s face as he watched his well-aimed blow go awry. Hocking’s eyes narrowed and his lips drew back in a snarl of rage. “How dare you assault me!” His voice crackled over the chair’s audio system.

  Zanderson, his determination evaporating, raised his weapon once more and brought it down. He felt the chair leg meet a resistant force which deflected it from its target. At the same moment he felt his fingers tingle and his hand grow numb. The club grew heavy and fell from his hand. The next thing the director knew he was on his knees, his hands clamped over his ears as a high-frequency sound burst through his brain. The sound drained all strength from his body and he toppled heavily to the floor.

  “I would have expected better of you, Director. Imbecile! I should squash you like the insect you are.” Hocking moved a finger on the tray and the director’s eyes screwed shut with pain, and then he rolled on his side and lay still, eyes staring vacantly at the great vaulted ceiling above.

  The white ovoid chair spun in the air and Hocking glanced up. Ari stood in front of him with a gentle, almost whimsical expression on her face. Her deep blue eyes seemed soft and unfocused. She looked like a little girl daydreaming.

  Hocking noticed that though she must have seen what had happened, Ari seemed not at all disturbed by her father’s demise. He quickly recovered himself. “Are you ready, Ariadne?”

  “Yes,” she said in a voice furred with sleep. “I’m ready. Take me to the dream machine.”

  “You know the way. You lead this time,” said Hocking. “I’ll follow.”

  DARJEELING WAS AS DIFFERENT from Calcutta as sea from sewer. Fresh, clean, sparkling with quickened vitality, it perched on a steep crown of hill at an elevation that made the visitor lightheaded. It was so far from the India Spence had thus far experienced that it might have been on another planet.

  Surrounded by imperial mountains—twin-peaked Kanchenjunga the foremost of these kings—and purified by the thin, sundrenched air, Darjeeling glimmered like a rare gem in Spence’s eye. A vast shell of blazing blue sky spread over all like a silk canopy, and everywhere he looked tiny blue birds flitted from rooftop to street to rooftop.

  The people of Darjeeling—Nepalese, Tibetans, Bhutias, Lepchas, and others of obscure origin—seemed sturdy and healthy and glowing with friendliness. Spence found the city nearly as intoxicating as the altitude, especially after the long string of lowland towns indistinguishable in their filth and misery.

  “Darjeeling—jewel of the Himalayas!” crowed Gita. “I never hoped to see it.”

  They climbed the nearly vertical streets of the carefully terraced city, drawing long gapes and shouts from the colorful inhabitants, many of whom wore centuries-old tribal costumes of silk and feathers and ornamental silver jewelry. Children, seeing the elephant, scampered after them laughing and pointing. Their ascent through the lower portions of the city to the upper brought them and their unofficial procession to the seat of the government. Climbing short flights of steps and landings which seemed to go on without end, they at last came to the handsome golden-domed Raj Bhavan, the Governor’s Palace.

&n
bsp; Immaculate emerald grounds were enclosed within white brick walls sparkling in the sun with flecks of mica. Hand-pruned miniature trees lined the broad drive leading to the palace itself, a living relic of the British colonial era.

  When the elephant arrived in the street before the palace, the guards at the iron gates took one look at the animal and the noisy crowd behind and ran to apprehend them with rifles lowered. They met them yammering and gesturing excitedly. Gita yammered back at them and kept pointing at the palace. After a quick consultation one of the guards ran away to fetch his captain.

  While this was going on Spence looked around him as one in a daze. The mountains, so close they seemed within reach, towered up on every side so that wherever he looked he saw a new and striking vista. From this spot on Bicth Hill, the government district, the rooftops of Darjeeling slanted away in descending ranks, giving the impression that one stood on the very roof of the world. The city’s busy inhabitants went purposefully about their business with rolling exuberance and toothy smiles in their broad faces.

  Spence was enchanted by all he saw and was content just to stare and drink it in.

  “The governor will see you now.” The words brought him out of his daydream. He turned around to see a short—all the people of this place were of small stature—but well-built man in a crisp green uniform standing before them. He smiled, showing a row of neat white teeth, but his snapping black eyes spoke of the turmoil their visit had plunged his staff into. “Follow me, please.”

  The scrolled iron gates creaked open and, with the captain at the elephant’s head, they began moving up the tree-lined drive. At the wide palace steps they dismounted and were ushered in through two huge bronze doors. Spence heard a loud trumpet behind him, turned and saw Simba, trunk waving in the air, being led away in the care of two keepers with goads.