My Lady of the Bog

by Peter Hayes

  “Marla White,” she informed me briskly, holding out a large, nicotine-tinged hand. When I showed no signs of recognition, she said, “Marla White-Strugnell. And you are . . . Donne.” She made it sound less like my name than condition.

  “How do you do? Funny, I was only recently speaking with your husband.”

  “Very. As my husband’s dead. You were speaking with my son.”

  I must have looked as surprised as I felt, for she raised a brow.

  “. . . I . . .thought you were . . . deceased!”

  She barked a laugh that managed to sound both decadent and proud. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  I started to say, then caught myself.

  “Well, I suppose we should get down to it. I came here, you see, to ask that you stop interfering in Wooland’s affairs.”

  “How so?”

  “You’ve upset him terribly.”

  “I have? And did Wooland ask you to tell me this?”

  “Of course not.” Her mouth and chin were like a marionette’s, with deep grooves and hidden hinges.

  “Then what makes you think that, Mrs. Strugnell?”

  “I prefer White. Because he was doing far better before all this began.”

  “All this?”

  She started to answer, then stopped and studied me anew with an aversion that almost approached admiration, the way you appraise a wonderful monster. “You’re a smooth one.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You can’t gull me.”

  I could see him in her now: the same oversized frame and rampant energy. “Pardon me, Mrs. White, but your son must be . . . forty—and it will be his decision and mine to terminate our friendship, should we so decide.”

  She glared at me. Then her eyes rolled weirdly upward, her pupils grew, and for an instant that was almost one instant too long, some ferocious old intelligence looked out at me. I saw it see me—and I saw that it saw I saw.

  Then like the spectacle lids of a snake, her pupils shrank, the presence vanished, and the horrible old Englishwoman reappeared.

  “You’re a very disagreeable young man!” she pronounced as if it were official. “Good day.” And lifting her umbrella, she opened it with a threatening thwock, raised it like a banner, and marched off into the rain with that heads-up, eyes-straight, forward-leaning bearing with which the British once subdued the world.

  The message light on my answering machine was blinking, and hoping they were calls from Vidya, I played them back. The first was from Rumple, announcing my suspension from the Royal Commission until my legal status was “resolved.” Until that time, my access to commission files and materials was, he said, “rescinded.”

  The second was from my department head, who wanted to talk about my “affiliation with Exeter,” though we both knew what he meant by that was my soon-to-be “non-affiliation” with Exeter.

  And that, as far as I could see, was that: the beginning of the end of a once-promising career in the field of anthropology.

  “Fuck ’em,” I said, “if they can’t take a joke.” But the joke, quite clearly, wasn’t on them.

  That night I hit bottom and almost drowned. My long-held belief I would prevail against whatever life threw at me was trashed so completely by my depression and pain that I could taste on my tongue the sickening blackness I had tasted first at fifteen. The darkness came in drips—and waves. I writhed on the couch, unable to find a physical pose or mental posture that was bearable. A poisonous worm ate at my heart. Though its bite had never been so sharp, it was chillingly familiar, as though I’d carried this parasite around with me forever.

  For the pain was mine. The shocks I’d endured—Jai’s death, Vidya’s confession, the collapse of my professional hopes and dreams—had only caused the wound to throb. But the wound and its pain had been there in me for as long as I could remember. All I’d done was manage it, like a man beneath an onerous burden, who continually shifts it from shoulder to shoulder and from hand to hand, yet never once, even by mistake, thinks to set it down.

  It was then, on touching absolute bottom, that something inside of me let go. In the course of a week, I had lost it all. And if the fellowship went, so would my home, as the cottage came with it. Yet, even then, after all these subtractions, something remained intact and whole: and that surprising something was me. I felt like an author whose characters rise, rage, love, win, lose and die—and yet, throughout, remains, at heart, apart and unaffected. Student, anthropologist, American, prince, Indian, warrior, lover. All these were roles, costumes I wore. And suddenly I was naked—and free.

  I had made two vows. The first: to protect Vidya. And nothing removed could stop me from that. Whatever I’d lost, I could still keep my word.

  My second promise had been not to doubt her. And as I recalled it, I felt what Houlihan had stuffed into my pocket. It was two sheets of folded paper, the first, a badly copied fax of a page from the East African Standard.

  RUKMINI PATEL AND SIDDHARTH GAWANDE

  Dr Neelakantha and Shruti Patel of Kilifi have announced the marriage of their daughter Rukmini,28, to Siddharth Gawande. Mr Gawande, an electrical engineer, recently graduated from Rensselaer Polytechnic in Troy, New York, USA.

  Rukmini—“Bubbles” to her many friends—attended Mwakiwiwi Secondary School in Mgange and the Institut Monte Rosa, Montreux . . .

  I drew a breath. I wished them well. And that, at least, I thought, is that. On the second page was a note from Vidya. “Dearest Xan. Read the end of Chapter 23.”

  I knew the reference could only be to Sikandar, and so I opened to that chapter’s close and read: . . . dove I’d lent her flew in my tent. I picked it up and nuzzled the feathery shell of its skull, thinking I savoured the scent of her hand. From its ankle, I stripped a band. The message read: “Despite what they say, know I am true to you.”

  Relieved, I wanted to pour out my heart to her, to tell her I loved her, tell her I would protect her and keep her from harm. But such feelings would have hardly fit on such a tiny scrap of paper. And so I wrote, “And I to you,” and attaching my words to one of her pigeons, stepped from the tent, and let it go. It arose on high, circling the camp to get its bearings, then flew away in the direction of Indore like a tiny, silent shooting star. I watched it, a silver speck against the white desert sky, until it had merged with the bruise-coloured clouds of the steadily approaching monsoon rains.

  Chapter 33

  My brother wasn’t born depraved. On the night of his birth, no jackals howled, nor were inauspicious signs observed: the temple idols didn’t weep bloody tears, nor did stringed instruments play unbidden.

  On the surface, he was every inch a prince, with a marble coolness and rock hard beauty. He was tall and slim hipped like a panther, with a prognathous jaw that would have been ugly on someone else but on him gave a look of heroic determination. Yet sometimes, at his most unguarded, I beheld a ghost behind his eyes beyond all bounds of human reason and constraint. What could one say to such a thing? How could one appeal to it—except with violence . . . or love?

  Yet, when he appeared in public, surrounded by a magnificent cavalcade of soldiers, he had a light about him, a glittering charisma—even though it was the light of hell. And toward those in whom he saw no threat, he could be protective, kind and tender, even, and had often been this way to me.

  Yet, inside him was a growing horror. Just as a man in a burning building will claw and stamp his way to safety, stepping blindly even on the heads of children, so, too, he would do anything to get it out.

  And I listened as Sikandar replayed in his mind a conversation with Ghazil:

  “. . . three of the posts . . . sawn almost through . . . meant to pitch over in the first heavy gale.”

  “But who . . . ?”

  “You know as well as I. He must be cursing his luck. For by striking and missing, he has shown us his hand. We control the capital, the palace, the treasury and your late father’s guard and army. But our greatest
advantage is that we know what your brother is planning to do. Kill you.”

  Which is why we’d been contemplating the character of Jafir.

  It was lila gaddi, a game of thrones, to win which my grandsire, Bayazid, had exiled two brothers and blinded his son, and my father had imprisoned his own dear mother.

  Why should Jafir break with tradition? For it is said, “Ten poor men can sleep beneath a single blanket, but two kings cannot share the same kingdom.”

  “What are you doing?” Ghazil demanded.

  “Thinking.”

  “Think much longer and you won’t have a head to do it with.”

  I looked about us. Monsoon had renewed the desert. The hard gray pan had sprouted emerald hairs; cranes and flamingos flew about and the scraggly, stricken trees had flowered.

  “Listen well. The Commanders of Five Thousand are even now plotting to take your head!” Ghazil raised a cup to Sikandar’s lips. “Drink.” (It was a measure of his trust in Ghazil that he did—for it tasted like poison.)

  “If I have the qutba read in my name, there will be war.”

  “There is war already. Your brother killed your father. And he tried to kill you, too.”

  “I pray that isn’t so.”

  “Damn your stubbornness!” Ghazil exploded. “If you don’t care about yourself, think of me. How many hours do you think I will live once Jafir consolidates his power? And without a leader, our kingdom, which your father and grandfather cobbled together with threats and treaties and the blood of heroes, will break like bread into a hundred crumbs. Here,” Ghazil said. “This just arrived.”

  It was a scroll from Jafir, done up in the usual manner: sprinkled with gold dust while the ink was wet. I read:

  Unfeigned praise and pure thanksgivings are due to the sole object of worship, God. Our glorious Father—star of heaven’s arms, conqueror of Hind, adorner of the Kayani tiara, fitting heir to the throne of Chosroes, splendid nursling of the parterres of prophecy and saintship, cream of the Khilji dynasty, whose forehead bore the traces of bravery and ambition—all too soon hath quit his cage of clay and the bird of his soul escaped to roost in the cedars perfuming the garden of Paradise.

  (May God illuminate his tomb!)

  Since then, the young princeling, dearest brother, sweet Lord of Indore, father of the poor, slayer of Uzbeks, hero of Khadya, my loving Kando, hath without ground or reason engaged in disturbing the rose garden of love and brotherhood in which for long periods there has been no possibility of a breath of confusion. May the vernal flower of union and cordiality remain in bloom and by our solemn convocation, all efforts be made to strengthen the foundations of concord and cleanse the sullied fountain of our agreements . . .

  “What does it say?”

  “He wants to meet. And let me tell you now, he’s furious!”

  “He sends this, too,” Ghazil remembered, drawing from his sleeve a Cashmiri shawl.

  At the sight of it, my blood congealed. I put it to my lips and inhaled her sweet odour.

  Sending me it was a grievous error. For if my brother had not provoked me in this way, I might, indeed, have given up the gaddi and fled to Basra or Kabul.

  “Order the qutba read in my name. Have coins struck with my likeness on them. Send notes to our enemies, neighbours and friends proclaiming I have assumed the throne. Now, take me to it.”

  Well, all right! My own career may have been tanking, but Sikandar’s wasn’t. He was about to be King—an impressive promotion and position for a boy of nineteen years of age.

  The palace was captivating. The carpets were Persian and of museum quality. Several rough-looking fellows holding scimitars fell into step before and behind us; courtiers and servants bowed. And feeling not unlike a king myself, I walked along within Sikandar.

  Ghazil withdrew a large iron key and used it to unlock an immense wooden door. The throne of Hind was at the far end of a musty room in which pools of rainwater shone on the marble floor. The seat was sandalwood, inlaid with gems in the form of a peacock, a mayura. Sikandar approached it and dropped to his knees, speaking this prayer:

  This crown comes to me of its own will.

  I never wanted it.

  But the Lord of Life had other plans.

  Given that it finds me now,

  Let me wear it in all righteousness.

  Let me rule with selflessness and compassion, for

  “In the happiness of his subjects

  lies a king’s happiness;

  In the welfare of his people

  lies his own.

  A king’s good is not

  what pleases him,

  But that which benefits his people.”

  Then he added:

  All I ask is that you spare and keep her;

  Don’t let him harm her in any way.

  For she, too, is my kingdom.

  He bowed again, then assumed the throne. No sooner had he done so:

  . . . when all at once my heart began to ease, as though a majesty was descending on me, a stately station, a princely peace. A liquid bliss began to blossom in my veins and, like a flower made of blood and honey, scent my heart with a heavenly glee. I laughed with a joy I hadn’t felt in weeks.

  “What was in that drink you gave me?”

  “Opium.”

  Then something most exquisite happened: a breeze arose inside of us, a breath of peace and utter freshness—blank, inarguable and true. It blew upon our consciousness the way a child blows on a flickering candle, and in that instant, seated on the throne of Chosroes, we nodded out.

  Chapter 34

  I came to upon my throne: an easy chair in my Dorset study. As I stood, I had again the clearest sense some part of Sikandar’s kingship had also been conferred on me.

  I lifted the machete now with a surprising, new confidence and ease, as if Sikandar’s swordsmanship had also come along. I tell you, that book was . . . well, enchanted! I understood then, as clear as day, that Vidya Prasad had not killed Jai. She had confessed only in order to free me. And since she’d saved my life already, and granted my freedom, the next move was up to me.

  I telephoned Strugnell. “What’s happening with the Henry Jones investigation?”

  “Stalled.”

  “Why?”

  “They searched his house and found nothing linking him to any of the murders.”

  “Did they search his truck . . . or car,” I added quickly. “I mean, whatever the hell he drives.”

  “Seems they can’t find it.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s not at his home. Nor in any of the usual impound lots. At least not any in Wiltshire. Or Surrey.”

  “Have they tried Dorset? The county line is just a few miles away. Look, Wooland. This is your domain. Call them up and ask if they have his car. If so, notify Lieutenant Houlihan. Believe me, pal, you’ll be a hero.”

  That was all I could think of at the moment. That and consulting Sikandar Shah to see how he had freed Mayura—if, indeed, he had. For Sikandar’s story might perhaps suggest the way to set her free.

  Jafir’s castle sat four hundred feet above the valley floor upon a pedestal of living rock. Corpses on gibbets lined its approaches, like stations in some processional of horror. Some were skeletons; others, swollen human balloons with protruding tongues and great, blunt fingers resembling knockwurst and who, filled with putrefying gases, seemed ready to sail away on the next strong gale like floats in some hellish Macy’s parade.

  As we neared, the great studded gates drew back on silent hinges, like doors that open in a vision or a dream, closing behind us with a definite thud—the way gates slam shut in certain nightmares.

  We crossed a moat filled with crocodiles sleeping in the sun and were guided up a long, spiral stairwell. The guide was required, as the stairs, I noted, forked in places: and while one tine led safely farther upward, the other ended in a leg-breaking pit at the bottom of which king cobras slid, or turned into a polished chute which, after a four-story
slide and the last ride of one’s life, deposited you in the moat below and the maw of some awakening beast.

  Eventually, we stepped onto a gardened terrace high, high above the world. Looking down sucked the breath from your belly. I could see the whole country laid out below us.

  Reclining in the shade of palms and mangos was Jafir . . . seated in the asana of kingly ease. Lightly bearded, puffing a hookah, he wore in his turban a yellow gem, and a hooded hawk was perched beside him. It was he who exhaled the nimbus of royal fortune while I, the king, stinking of horses and drenched to the skin, approached like a beggar.

  After the requisite gifts and formalities, they got down to business, Sikandar admitting he had “reached forth his hand” to take possession of royal territory. But, he assured Jafir, he had done so only to secure the crown and hold it for him, Jafir Shah, to whom he wished to hand it over now. As proof of this, Sikandar appeared before him today unarmed and unattended, his humble slave. And as he finished this declaration, Sikandar performed the “long-stick” pranam, extending himself on his belly fully so that his outstretched hands touched his brother’s toes.

  I don’t know who was more surprised: Jafir or me. Then Sikandar arose to his knees and, taking his brother’s hands, asked in return for one thing only: the Queen of Indore.

  At this, Jafir burst out laughing. “You give me your kingdom? For a widowed whore?”

  Sikandar admitted he was smitten. Besides, though giving up one kingdom, he was securing for himself another: for through marriage to her, he would rule the princely state of Indore.

  At this, Jafir visibly relaxed. Perhaps the opium in his pipe was working. “Her throne was stolen. She only just escaped with her life. She begged for my help in regaining her kingdom. And . . . once redeemed . . .” He paused to give his words their weight, “she would help me . . . to unseat you.”