by M. M. Kaye
If only he could have buried them –! Or burned them, as Shushila had burned, so that their bodies like hers could have become clean ash instead of tattered flesh and reddened bones…
Absurdly, it was this thought that hurt most. It seemed in some way a final betrayal that the headless body of fat, faithful, heroic Manilal should be left lying out in the valley, a prey to the corruption and the kites; and that all the strength and grace that had been Dagobaz should be torn in pieces by jackals and carrion crows. Not that Dagobaz would care. But Manilal…
If Fate had permitted Manilal to return to his home in Karidkote and to live out his life there in peace, he too, when he died, would have been taken to the burning-grounds. And afterwards his ashes would have been cast into a mountain stream that would carry them down to the Chenab River, and from there to the Indus – and so at last to the sea. It was not right that his corpse should be left to rot in the open like that of an ownerless dog.
As for Dagobaz – But he would not think of Dagobaz. There was no point in looking back. What was written, was written. The thing to do was to look forward and make plans for the future. Tomorrow… tomorrow they would reach that small green oasis among the barren hills and camp there for the night. And the next day they would be among the jungle-clad foothills, and after that it would not be too long before they reached a made road; though the return journey would be slower, for they could not all ride now that Dagobaz…
What was Bukta doing? The moon had not yet risen when he left, but now it was sinking again, and the breeze that blows steadily between sunset and the small hours was already dwindling down towards the lull that lies between night and morning and ends only with the rising of the dawn wind. He should have been back hours ago. Unless… A cold, unpleasant thought slid into Ash's mind and made his skin crawl.
Supposing Bukta had met with an accident on his way to the canyon…? Supposing he had missed his footing in the dark and slipped and fallen – as Dagobaz had done? He might even now be lying stunned and helpless at the foot of some precipitous slope, or creeping painfully on hands and knees up a stony ridge with his ankle broken. Almost anything could have happened to him in these treacherous hills, and as the others would not dare to start without him, they would still be somewhere in the canyon, waiting for him. But how long would they wait?
That faint pulsating glow in the sky above the valley showed that their enemies were still camped there in force, so they would have to leave before the dawn broke, because as soon as it was light enough someone was going to discover that the entrance into the canyon was no longer guarded, and within minutes a hundred men would be on their trail again. If Bukta had met with an accident…
‘I ought to go and look for him,’ thought Ash. ‘If he is hurt, I can always come back for the pony and put him up on it. And after all, I've been over that ground twice now, so there is no reason why I should lose my way.’
But he turned to look at Anjuli again, and knew that he must not go. He could not leave her here alone, for if anything happened to him – if he missed his footing on a steep path or lost his way among the hills, and if Bukta were never to come back – what would become of her? How long would she be able to keep alive if she was left to fend for herself among this maze of parched and desolate hills?
She did not even know in which direction Gujerat lay, and could easily wander back into the valley, where she would be captured and almost certainly killed. He could not take the risk of leaving her. He would have to stay and possess his soul in patience, and pray that Bukta and the others would appear before morning.
The hours that followed had seemed interminable. The shadows lengthened as the moon moved down the sky, and when the breeze died the night became so still that he could hear the sound of Juli's soft breathing and from somewhere very far away the faint, faint howl of a jackal pack; but though he strained his ears to catch the click of hooves on hard ground or the murmur of men's voices, he heard no other sounds. The silence had remained unbroken until at last the dawn wind began to blow, softly at first, and then gathering strength as it swept across the hills, flattening the grass and displacing small stones that went clattering down the gully.
It drove the night before it as a housewife drives dust with her broom, and as the moon paled and the stars vanished, the dawn broke in a flood of yellow light along the eastern horizon – and Ash saw a small dark figure appear on the crest of the ridge, to be briefly silhouetted against that saffron sky before it moved downwards, slowly and tiredly towards the gully.
He ran out to meet it, stumbling across the shale and calling out, lightheaded with relief and careless of how much noise he made; and it was only when he was half-way up the grassy slope that he stopped, and a cold hand seemed to close about his heart. For he realized that there was still only one figure. Bukta was alone; and as he came nearer Ash saw that his clothes were no longer dust-coloured but hideously dappled with great dark stains.
‘They were both dead' – Bukta's voice was flat with exhaustion and he dropped down wearily and without apology, hunkering on the grass like a tired old crow. But the dried blood on his coat was not his own, for he had, he said, arrived only after it was all over.
‘It was clear that some of those sons of dogs had climbed up into the hills, and coming down from behind had taken them by surprise. There had been a fight in the nullah and their horses too were dead – and I think very many of their enemies must also have died, for the ground between the rocks and in the nullah was red with blood, and there were many spent cartridges – so many that I doubt if they left so much as one unfired. But by the time I came, the Bhithori dogs had taken away their own dead and wounded. It must have taken many men to carry them back to the city, as only four men had been left behind to keep watch by the entrance to the nullah…’
A flicker of a smile showed briefly on Bukta's brown, nut-cracker face, and he said grimly: ‘Those four I slew with my knife. One after the other, and without noise; for the fools slept, thinking themselves secure – and why not? They had slain three of us five and must have thought that the other two, one of whom was a woman, would be flying for their lives and far away among the hills. I knew that I should have come away then. But how could I leave the bodies of my master the Sirdar-Sahib, and the Hakim and his servant, lying there unburned at the mercy of wild beasts? That I could not do, and therefore I carried them out one by one to a disused shed that stands near the bank of the stream, making four journeys, for I could not carry Manilal's head and body at one time…
‘When at last I had brought them all, I pulled down the old, dry thatch and made a great pile of it, and placing the bodies upon it, each a little apart, strewed them with powder from my cartridges, and then cut down the roof-poles and supports so that these fell inwards. When all was done I fetched water from the stream and said the proper prayers, and taking flint and tinder, set fire to it and came away, leaving it burning…’
His voice died on a sigh, and Ash thought numbly, ‘Yes. I saw it. I thought it was camp fires. I didn't know –’ It appalled him to think that he had actually seen that pulsating glow and had not known that it was Sarji burning… Sarji and Gobind and Manilal…
Bukta said tiredly: ‘It burned very fiercely, the wood being old and dry. And it is my hope that when it has burned out the wind will carry the ashes of the Sirdar-Sahib and the others into the stream which is hard by, and thus by favour of the gods will they be taken onward to the sea.’
He glanced up at Ash's stricken face and added gently: ‘Do not look like that, Sahib. To us who worship the gods, death is a very little thing: a brief halt only on a long journey during which birth and death are succeeded by re-birth, and again death; and thus on and on, until at last we achieve Nirvana. Therefore why grieve that these three have completed another stage on that journey, and may even now be embarking on the next?’
Ash did not speak and the old man sighed again; he had been greatly attached to Sarjevar. He was also very tired
. The night's work had involved enough gruelling labour to have exhausted many a younger man, and he would have liked to stay where he was and rest awhile, but that was not possible.
Had all gone well he and his companions would by now have been many miles away and no longer in fear of pursuit. But things had gone ill, and to make matters worse he had killed the sleeping sentries and removed and burned the bodies of Sarjevar and the two others, and by doing so, ensured that before long the chase would be taken up again – though probably not before sunrise.
The flames of the pyre he had kindled would have been clearly visible in the city, but he did not think that anyone would have been sent to investigate, since it would be thought that the men who had been left on guard had set fire to the abandoned shed for sport, or to scare away jackals and other night-prowlers who would have been attracted by the scent of blood.
But with the dawn it was certain that many men would come, this time bringing experienced trackers, so that they might be able to follow the trail of the Rani and her surviving rescuers into the hills; which would have done them little good had all gone well, as he had fully expected to be far on the way by this time – too far to fear pursuit. As it was, when the enemy returned in strength they would find the four who had been left on guard lying dead, and the bodies of the three strangers gone; and would know by this that their quarry could not be far off.
Bukta struggled to his feet and said hoarsely: ‘Come, Sahib, we are wasting time. There is far to go and great need of haste; and from now on you and I must both go on foot, for there is only the one pony.’
Ash had still not spoken, and now he turned without a word and together they went back down the hillside in the growing light.
44
In the end it had been Bukta and not Anjuli who had ridden the pony.
Anjuli had been aroused by the noise of Ash's tumultuous departure, and when the two men returned they found her awake and waiting. Her eyes widened at the sight of the shikari's blood-stained clothing and she looked at Ash's haggard face and drew her own conclusions. The little colour that a night's sleep had brought to her cheeks drained away and left her looking paler and even more drawn, but she asked no questions, and would have fetched food for them if Bukta had not refused to let them wait. They could, he said, eat later in the day, but now they must leave at once and press on with all the speed they could muster, for there would be men on their trail.
He shouldered the saddle-bags, and Anjuli followed him across the shale to where the pony was grazing placidly on the far slope. But when it had been saddled and Ash told her to mount, she refused to do so, saying that anyone could see that the shikari was exhausted, and if speed was essential they would make better time if he rode; she herself was well rested and could easily walk.
7 Bukta had not bothered to argue. He was too tired and too anxious to waste time over something that was, after all, only sensible. He had merely nodded and said that they must watch to see that he did not fall asleep, for if he should do so, the pony, being surefooted, would choose its own path and might lead them badly astray. The Rani-Sahiba must walk beside him so that she could hold onto a stirrup-leather on the upward slopes.
Ash, who was still numbed by grief, had agreed, though he was less anxious than Bukta. He thought their lead was sufficiently great and did not see how their pursuers could overtake them when they did not even know the road and so must move slowly, searching the ground for signs that would show them which way the quarry had gone.
But Bukta knew that a woman who had spent the last few years penned up in strict purdah, and an elderly shikari who for the moment at least was physically exhausted, would never be able to match the speed of angry men who were rested and well fed and burning for revenge. He was also well aware that as soon as the sun rose and the kites came for Dagobaz the men on their trail would see the birds dropping down out of the sky, and so be led to a spot that was no great distance from the gully in which his companions had spent the night.
Therefore he hurried them on, and only when the full heat of the morning was beating down on them, and Anjuli showed signs of flagging, did he pause to change places with her, declaring himself sufficiently rested to go forward on foot. But he would not let them stop, except for a short time at mid-day when they ate a frugal meal in the shade of an overhanging rock and he slept for a space.
That brief cat-nap ended, he urged them on again, plodding steadily forward, and turning whenever they crossed a ridge to look back and search for signs of pursuit. But nothing moved except the landscape, which appeared to quiver in the dancing heat, and in the brassy sky behind them a handful of dark specks that wheeled round and round and told their own tale. The kites and vultures had been driven from their meal by the arrival of men – probably a good many men – and were circling overhead waiting for the intruders to leave.
‘They have found the pool,’ muttered Bukta, ‘and now they will know that we have only one horse between the three of us and must keep to a foot's pace. Let us hope they will take their time drinking the water and quarrelling over who shall have your saddle and bridle.’
Perhaps they had done so. At all events, they did not succeed in coming within eye-shot of the fugitives, and by the time the sun was low in the sky and the parched hillsides were once again streaked with violet shadows, it had become clear that they would not do so now. So clear that when at last, and by starlight, they came to Bukta's old camping ground in the little tree-filled valley, he felt secure enough to light a fire in order to cook chuppattis and discourage any prowling leopard from approaching. And also to wash his blood-stained clothing and spread it out to dry.
They had all three been too exhausted to sleep well that night, and Bukta and Ash had taken it in turns to keep watch, for there were pug-marks in the damp earth at the water's edge and they could not risk losing the pony. By first light they were on the move again and, except that there was less sense of urgency and they did not pause so often to look behind them, the day was a repetition of the one before; though even hotter and more tiring. They rested only when Bukta permitted it, with the result that nightfall found them footsore, weary and parched with thirst, but among the foothills.
The old shikari had slept soundly that night, and so also had Anjuli, worn out by the strain of a long, hot day in the saddle. But though Ash too was very tired, he had slept only fitfully and once again his sleep had been troubled by dreams, not of pursuit or of Dagobaz, but of Shushila. The same dream, endlessly repeated, from which he awoke shuddering: only to dream it again as soon as consciousness slipped from him…
Each time he slept, Shushila appeared before him dressed in her bridal array of scarlet and gold, and implored him with tears not to kill her, but he would not listen and raising the revolver he pressed the trigger and saw the lovely, pleading face dissolve in blood. And woke again…
‘But what else could I have done?’ thought Ash angrily. Wasn't it enough that he should have to bear the responsibility for Sarji's death, without being haunted by the reproachful ghost of Shushila, whose end he had merely hastened as Bukta had hastened Dagobaz's? But then Shushila was not an animal: she was a human being, who had decided of her own free will to face death by fire and thereby achieve holiness; and he, Ash, had taken it upon himself to cheat her of that.
He had done more – he had interfered in something that was a matter of faith and a very personal thing; and he could not even be sure that Shushila's convictions were wrong, for did not the Christian calendar contain the names of many men and women who had been burned at the stake for their beliefs, and acclaimed as saints and martyrs?
‘ If I couldn't save her, I should not have interfered,’ thought Ash. But as he had done so and could not undo it, he decided that he must put it out of his mind for ever; and turning over, he fell asleep again – only to meet once more a girl who wrung her hands and wept, and begged him to spare her. It had been a wretched night.
By sunrise next morning they were
across the border, and three days later Ash and Bukta were back in Sarji's house, from where they had set out in such haste less than three weeks ago. But Anjuli had not been with them, for on their last night of the jungle Bukta had proffered some advice, waiting until she was asleep before doing so, and speaking very softly to avoid waking her.
He had, he said, been thinking of the future, and he had come to the conclusion that it would be better if they did not disclose the identity of Rani-Sahiba. She would get no sympathy, for not only did many people secretly approve of the old customs and would have every wife become suttee when her man died, but even those who did not tended to look upon a young widow as an ill-omened creature and little better than a slave.
Nor did he believe it advisable to tell anyone the true story of the Sirdar Sarjevar's death. It would be better for all if the Sirdar's family and friends were kept in ignorance of what had happened in Bhithor, as his identity (together with their own) could not have been known there; and in Bukta's opinion it had much better remain unknown, since there was no denying that they had all three entered Bhithor secretly with the intention of spiriting away the late Rana's wives; or that once there they had killed a member of the royal bodyguard, assaulted, gagged and bound a number of palace servants, and having abducted the Junior Rani, had opened fire on the local soldiery (who were very properly attempting to prevent their escape) and succeeded in killing a great many of them…
‘I do not know your mind,’ said Bukta, ‘but for my part, I have no wish to be haled before a Magistrate-Sahib and required to make answer to such charges, and maybe spend the rest of my days in gaol – if I am not hanged for the killings. We know that the Bhithoris would lie and lie, and that even if they were not believed, the Sahibs would still say that we had no right to take the law into our own hands and slay those sons of swine. For that we should receive punishment, and though yours might be no more than hard words from your elders, I am very sure that mine would be gaol; and also that if ever I were released, the Bhithoris would see to it that I did not live to enjoy my freedom for more than a day – which is yet another thing to be thought of, Sahib: we have blackened their faces by putting such an insult upon them, and they will neither forget it nor forgive, and if they were to learn the names of those concerned –’