by Gay Courter
The little blue engine began to pant and sputter as it warily pulled us forward and upward and into the sky.
After the first hour, I became more confident the perambulator-size wheels could support the carriage. Then two men who sat on a small platform on either side of the engine's prow began throwing something onto the tracks. “What are they doing?”
“Spreading sand on the rails for better traction.”
“Will we ever speed up?”
“No. It chugs along at about ten miles per hour, but remember, we are gaining a thousand feet an hour.”
“How many miles will we travel?”
“Fifty.”
I calculated how long the trip would continue: three more hours. Sighing, I settled back and watched as the long views across the yellow plains to the shining Teesta River became lost in the hazy distance. Soon a jumble of paddies and palms and banana forests surrounded us.
“We are entering the Terai,” Silas said in an irreverent tone. “Here they grow inferior grades of tea.”
The higher we climbed, the more the vegetation became unfamiliar to me. There were the monstrous leaves described only in fairy tales, undisciplined bushes as high as trees, huge stalks of tufted grasses, stands of yellow straws that bent over the tracks and rudely flicked our arms as we passed by. Banks of ferns lurked in the crevices of the moist rocks. And over everything, luxuriant creepers knotted the jungle as though weavers had competed to cover every last inch of soil.
“The higher we climb, the smaller the leaves become,” Silas commented as we passed under a bower of purple bougainvillea and chugged along beside the scarlet blossoms of a tulip tree.
The sturdy train bored through the greenery like a resolute mole. Suddenly it lurched around a curve so tight I could look back into the next carriage. Silas reached out and plucked a fat pink hydrangea from an embankment. He handed it to me as the train stopped dead.
“What is happening?” We started to zigzag backward.
“Now you see why the wheels are so low.” Silas explained how the switchbacks enabled the train to gain height efficiently. “My mother never trusted the train,” he said softly.
Just then the train jerked and heaved. “I can see why,” I replied, thinking: This is the first time Silas has mentioned his mother. “You know something?” I struggled to control my voice. “I have no idea whether my mother ever was on a train.” I thought about this for a few seconds. “She must have been . . .” I swallowed. “But when?”
“Do you think people who have lost their mothers are different from others?” Silas asked in a thin voice.
“I do,” I responded without elaboration.
“Me too.” With a fingertip he touched the tear that formed on the inside corner of my eye, and in a most remarkable gesture, he pressed the moisture to his lips.
The train gave another tremulous shudder that echoed my jumbled emotions. We were clamoring across a bridge above a point we had passed half an hour earlier. I leaned against Silas while the train twisted, backed, circled, and dodged in a crazed attempt to inch higher and higher, as though it were unwinding a tangled skein whose beginning was lost somewhere between where the snows left off and the clouds began.
“Here it comes, the Batasia Loop, perhaps the most famous phase of the trip.” I held on tightly while the train appeared to be a snake tying itself into a knot, its engine whistling impatiently for its own guard's van to clear the track. After two complete spirals the train continued on the last leg into Darjeeling.
Sinking clouds shrouded the town. Vapors trailed into the valley as though they were flowing into a cup. Peeking through the veil, I could see scattered settlements perched on ridges enfolding a large basin. A slate sheet moved ominously in our direction, threatening to drench us.
Gulliver commandeered a whole line of tongas, brightly painted carts, to transport my tin trunk, two canvas hold-alls, three dressing bags, two tiffin-carriers, a teapot in a basket, a tin bonnet box, and six large crates. Silas lifted me into the first tonga and vaulted in beside me. The driver raised the hood over the tiny pony-cart. With a sprightly gait we trotted up a steep road, harness bells clanging.
“I should have arranged to be met at Ghoom. The road to Tiger Hill is closer from there, but I wanted you to see Darjeeling properly for the first time. I apologize, since it was hardly worth the trouble today.”
I was about to say something consoling, but a sneezing fit caught me by surprise.
After we pulled off the narrow trail, I thought we were heading up an even more remote mountain lane, when the tonga halted at the edge of a forest. Huge cryptomerias dripped in the rain and shrouded the dark wood of a mysterious structure. A man in a bright robe appeared to emerge from nowhere. I stopped sneezing long enough to see he was opening a wooden gate set between the trees. A covered porch jutted out to the path like a long wooden tongue. Silas hustled me into the shelter. A high, thin door opened at our approach. The man dressed in the saffron cloak bowed.
“Welcome to Xanadu Lodge, Mrs. Luddy,” he said.
My response was a renewed volley of sneezes.
“Thank you, Euclid,” Silas replied for me. When we had stepped inside, he said, “Welcome home, Dinah,” and swept his hand to reveal the most astonishing room I had ever seen.
We had entered on a higher level, then stepped down into a room sixty feet across and twenty feet wide. The far wall, which vaulted up to a thirty-foot peak at that end of the house, was a succession of arched windows the full height of the room. At the base of the high center windows were veranda doors. In the center of the room, a fire in a round stone hearth blazed out on three sides. Semicircular benches covered in red and purple cushions surrounded each of the fire beds. The mullioned panes were splattered with rain that reflected the tints from the flames inside.
Silas steered me in front of the crackling logs in the hearth. Gulliver removed my cloak and wet shoes. The man in the strange robe had disappeared. Numbly I sat down on the thick, soft cushions and gazed out the window wall. A gust blew the fog aside and revealed the pointed top of a Japanese cedar, then closed it off as though snapping a curtain into place. “What is out there?”
“The whole world,” Silas offered with a self-satisfied smirk. He must have noticed I was too tired to joke with him, so he backpedaled. “You must wait to see it for yourself. My description might destroy what you have come so far to view.”
The mountains, I supposed, and let it rest, since I had already had several views of the peaks that day. “What are those?” I pointed, to a sheaf of thunderbolts carved above each of the arched windows.
“Darjeeling means 'place of the thunderbolt.' “
“Oh, yes,” I exclaimed, recalling the crest on his stationery. Once again one of Silas' details impressed me. Even as weary as I was, I realized a man of talent had designed this house. Knowing nothing of architecture, I could not decide what it was about the room that made it special. There was a satisfying balance between the height and the width, something about the proportions of the hearth, the line of the windows, the contrast between dark wood and bright cushions, even the hue of the young man's saffron robe and Gulliver's snowy jacket, that fit like pieces of a puzzle.
Gulliver carried in a silver tray and laid it on the table beside us. As he began to ladle soup into lacquered bowls, Silas asked, “Will you have some of this? It's gya tuk, a Tibetan noodle soup.”
“Later perhaps.”
“You need to warm yourself from the inside out.” He handed me a bowl. “Besides, your ayah would want you to.”
I managed a few sips before my trembling increased. I put it down before I spilled it.
“A mountain chill sets into your bones. Perhaps you should have a bath. I do not have any women servants, but the cook's wife has agreed to tend to you for the next several days. She's a simple woman, and not as accomplished as someone in your home in Calcutta, but she has a good nature and will try to see you are comfortable. The season here e
nds in a few days, and after that you will have your pick of the girls. Until then I hope you will manage.”
“Thank you, Silas. I take care of most of my own needs anyway.” I tried the soup again. Tasting of egg and garlic and vinegar, it was too spicy for a tender stomach that had not yet settled from the poundings inflicted by three trains, a steamboat, and a pony-cart.
“What else would you like?”
“I'm mostly sleepy.” I yawned, but the strain caused a pain somewhere deep in my chest. I gasped for air, and when I could not draw a nourishing breath, felt frightened.
“You are at over eight thousand feet. The air is thinner. Everything, even standing and walking, will seem difficult until you are acclimated. In a few days you'll be romping the hills like a native.” He looked at me tenderly. “I think you should have that bath and rest as long as you like. There will be plenty of time later to see the house and also to . . . to become better acquainted.”
I smiled in gratitude, and he called to Gulliver. “Have Seneca's wife come up.”
“Seneca?”
“My name for the cook. I prefer three syllables, remember?”
“Who was the other man, the one in the robe, who greeted us?”
“Euclid. He's my assistant. He helps in the library and with the accounts. That's why I've given him a more mathematical name.”
“Not three syllables.”
“No. He's an educated man from a fine Bhutanese family. I could not classify him as a servant.”
“I understand. He's your babu—office clerk.”
“Not quite a babu, and please, for my sake, do not ever let him hear you say that word. It would insult him.”
The contortions of Silas' logic were not penetrating the fog of my weary mind. I'll sort it out tomorrow, I promised myself as a wide-faced woman with a ruddy Oriental face bowed to me and babbled something I didn't understand.
“She's from Sikkim,” Silas explained, “and mostly speaks Rong.”
“What's her name?” I asked.
“Don't know. Why don't you name her?”
Three syllables, I thought. The one that popped into mind came from Silas' first letter. “Lucretia, after Lucretia Mott. Is that all right?”
Silas nodded his approval. Gulliver came forward and spoke to the woman. She grinned at me, revealing a gold tooth between two gaps.
“Are you ready for your bath?”
I shivered.
“We don't take cold baths here. I'm sure you will find it will be most pleasant.”
“A warm bath, yes, and a bed—” I stopped. This would be our first opportunity to be alone together, and he had every right to join me in that bed. Still, I should not have been the first to mention this.
“We both need to sleep for a few hours,” he said, as though reading my thoughts. “I am planning to go to my own room and lie down. If you awaken, there will be a supper served in your room. If you do manage to sleep through the night, we shall meet again tomorrow.” He stood up. “Follow Lucretia—she'll show you the way.”
I faced him. “Thank you.” I thought I should have added something, but what? For marrying me? For bringing me here? For permitting me to rest?
He touched my cheek with the back of his hand. “Sleep well, Dinah.”
A cheerful, bowing Lucretia led me to a huge room at the southern end of the house, with four windows, which were actually doors, along the wall opposite the bed. “Pressing my face close to the glass, I could see they led out to some sort of veranda. Books from the floor to the ceiling lined the rear wall. A square that could have slept four people end to end or side to side was draped with a rose coverlet inset with what seemed to be two jackets embroidered and appliquéd in gold. The floor was first covered with a Tibetan carpet, then dotted with woolly white rugs. A collection of Indian paintings was hung across every bare space of wall. At my first glance, they blurred. I would have to ask Silas to tell me about them.
Lucretia opened a door at the far side of the room. I walked into a paneled chamber. A wooden tub brimmed with steaming water. Tins with additional hot water were set against the wall. On the side wall, a porcelain sink was flanked by baskets of vermilion poinsettias. At the far end was a. water closet set behind a frosted glass door. More small lamb's-wool rugs formed furry islands amid the sea of frigid tile.
Lucretia made motions indicating she would undress me. Nobody except Yali had ever done this since I had grown, but since I could not manage the buttons down my back alone, I gave myself up to her, and in a few moments I found myself soaking in the warmest, deepest water of any bath, dried with the largest, fluffiest towels, and tucked into the softest bed I had ever known.
Exhaustion fell upon me and pinned me down. My mind struggled to grasp where I was and what had happened. I was close to the top of the earth, far, far away from my family. I was married to a strange, unfathomable man, and as yet I had not shared his bed. Did he mean what he said about not coming to me tonight? Did men always do what they said? Maybe I had misunderstood him. The idea caused me to fight sleep like a victim of a drowning. What would I do if he did? Perhaps he would wait until tomorrow . . . perhaps he was as fatigued as I was . . . perhaps . . . I mused as waves from Morpheus engulfed me and submerged my cares.
I did not wake for supper. In fact, I did not move that night or, so it seems, the next morning. Sometime around midday I stirred and found my way to the bathroom. Perspiration soaked my gown and there was a painful contraction in my chest. I wiped my hands and face with frigid water in the basin, but found no relief from the heat that burned within. Staggering, I managed to get into bed before falling back into a tumultuous sleep. When I next opened my eyes, there was a ruddy glow in the room. My unsteady vision caught the movement of a person sitting by a fire. I opened my mouth to speak, but was overcome with uncontrollable spasms of coughing. The figure moved to my side and placed a cool palm on my forehead. She took my hands in hers and rubbed my knuckles as if she could divine a secret from the bones. A lamp was lit by my bed. A cup of syrupy tea was pressed to my lips. I tasted a bitter spice, but did not reject it since the effect was strangely soothing. I slept. I awoke and sipped more tea. I was fed cubes of tart melon. I was assisted to the bathroom and back to bed, but before I was covered, a hot compress was placed on my chest. I slept. I burned. In my dreams I steamed up the flood-swollen Ganges, climbed icy peaks, lay exposed on blistering plains, was surrounded by stinking tides, floated on airy clouds. . . .
I awoke. Shafts of light spread out across my coverlet like a blessing. I lifted my eyes to the windows. Shimmering glaciers appeared to lie just above the oaks and cedars. From my prone position the view was truncated, a tantalizing taste of what must lie even higher. With an effort I managed to sit upright. While I considered whether I had the strength to stand, there was a gentle tapping at my door.
“Yes?” I rasped.
The door opened a crack. “May I come in?”
Without considering my appearance, I agreed. Silas slipped through the opening and shut the door behind him. “Did you sleep well?”
“Very. I did not realize how tired I was. I suppose I missed you at supper last night.”
“And the night before that too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Today is Friday. You have been ill. The best course was to let you sleep it off. You do look so much brighter, even though Lucretia thinks you still have a touch of fever.”
“Friday!” My mind struggled to grasp where I had been. Tuesday . . . the wedding and starting the journey . . . Wednesday . . . the long night of travel, meeting the Darjeeling toy train in the morning, climbing all day, and arriving here in the late afternoon. That meant I had slept from Wednesday night through Thursday and into Friday. “I am sorry, I—”
He stepped closer to the bed. “No, I should never have attempted to bring you here in that horrid weather. Forgive my stubbornness in demanding to have events go my way.”
“You could not have know
n.”
“Even with the most favorable conditions, it is a grueling trip. I am accustomed to going without sleep for days at a time and to withstanding the wide shifts in temperatures and altitudes. I subjected you to this thoughtlessly when I might have—”
I raised my hand. “Please, Silas, I don't blame you. I feel so much better now, really I do. I will bathe and dress and be out in an hour. Then I hope you will show me the house.”
He backed away. “I'll send Lucretia in.”
The high steeping tub that surrounded me with warm water, from my toes to my chin, eased my aches. After drying and powdering me, Lucretia wrapped me in a long woolen robe and tried to untangle my hair. Realizing my usual upswept hairdo was too complex for her, I directed her to braid it in one long plait, just like hers. Giggling, she complied.
A tray set out on a table by the window offered a tempting array. The most appealing were various dumplings and a bowl of sliced fruits. Lucretia held up several of my frocks for me to choose, but she frowned at the thin fabrics more suitable for the heat of the plains than the changeable hill clime. I settled on a mauve skirt and matching three-quarter-length coat with wide revers and full sleeves over a linen blouse. Lucretia struggled with the unfamiliar buttons and hooks, then clucked her tongue as she felt the stiffness of the blouse's heavily starched collar. I smiled to myself as I wondered what she would think of Aunt Bellore's solution to the perennial limp collar. Determined to maintain a crisp appearance even at the end of a Calcutta afternoon, my aunt kept her collar erect by inserting a band of metal cut from a food can between her neck and the fabric. Horrified at the idea, I had hoped I would never be required to be as fashionable. Here in the hills, even the simplicity of my tailored outfit seemed out-of-place. I was anxious to meet other women in Darjeeling and see what they wore.
The effort of dressing proved to be almost too much. I had to take another cup of tea and splash water on my forehead and wrists before I dared join Silas. What would he think of his weak wife? He had been most considerate, but surely the delay of our honeymoon must have been disappointing. I wondered what I could do to make it up to him.