Hot Winds From Bombay

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “I realize that,” Persia answered, near fury by now from the frustration of trying to deal with the stubborn girl. “I also know that Sister Hannah died of what may have been a contagious illness.”

  Indira’s black eyes grew wide. “No, it was the fire! God burned her for her sins!”

  “Who told you such rubbish?” Persia demanded. “God doesn’t go around punishing people by burning them up when they’ve done wrong. Besides, I thought Sister Hannah was a good woman. You seem to have cared a great deal for her, Indira.”

  The pretty Indian nodded vigorously, but the look of fear remained frozen on her face. “She is always good to me. I love her. But he said—”

  Her words stopped abruptly when Cyrus called from outside the door, “Indira, when you are through, I’d like a word with you.”

  She looked doubly frightened as she scurried from the room.

  Persia took the silver brush and, without the slightest hesitation, removed Hannah’s hair and dropped the soft ball into the waste basket. Then she washed the boar bristles thoroughly with strong soap. Satisfied that she would inherit nothing deadly from her predecessor, she proceeded to brush her hair with long, even strokes.

  Supper, an hour and a half later, proved a lavish affair. Indira, aided by three other women, spread an Indian feast before Reverend and Mrs. Blackwell—seafood curry, fruits, jams, and rich breads sprinkled with sesame and poppy seeds. To Persia’s complete astonishment, they ate off English bone china with coin-silver forks while they sipped their iced tea from frosted crystal goblets. She had expected no better than wooden troughs, tin cups, and bone spoons. The tea, seasoned with jasmine and cooled with some of the very ice the Madagascar had brought from New England, completed the meal. When Indira brought in a silver bowl of ruby-red Baldwin apples—apples from Persia’s own backyard- she nearly lost her grip. Her eyes filled with tears of homesickeness. Cyrus put one on her plate. She forced herself to smile.

  “You live well, Brother Cyrus,” she commented wryly. “The Missionary Society of Quoddy Cove must have been most generous of late.”

  He smiled back. “Brother Osgood felt badly that he hadn’t been able to provide me with a virgin bride. He urged his congregation to do what they could to make up for your lack of purity.”

  Persia’s cheeks flamed. It seemed the man delighted in bringing up her less-than-innocent state at every opportunity. Even though he spoke the truth, she would have appreciated a bit more sensitivity from her husband.

  “Generous of them,” she said. “Although I hate to speak ill of my old neighbors, they generally keep a rather firm grip on their purse strings. And it hardly seems that the purchase of china, crystal, and silver would go very far toward converting the heathen or feeding the starving natives.”

  He laughed aloud at her sarcastic words. “You’re right, of course, my dear. And actually, the Missionary Society’s money bought none of this finery. It belonged to my sister. When Birdie passed away, I had it shipped out here. It has been stored until recently. I thought it would make a nice wedding gift for you. Are you pleased?”

  Persia looked down and toyed with her snowy Irish linen napkin. Birdie Blackwell had died years before. Why had he stored his inheritance?

  “You mean Sister Hannah never used these things?”

  “She refused to use them. I built this fine house for her, but she wouldn’t live here. She insisted upon staying in that dismal little hovel where she died. She said it was home, and she wouldn’t feel right in a place like this.” He gave a grim laugh. “I can hear her now saying, ‘Let your next wife enjoy your mansion. Home is good enough for me!’ Prophetic words, eh? But Hannah was like that. She came from a completely different background from yours and mine. She had no notion of gracious living. She would have been uncomfortable amidst such luxunes.

  Persia thought of the silver brush and started to ask if Hannah had been uncomfortable using it. There was something very strange about Hannah Blackwell—her life and her death. But Persia decided not to pursue the matter at this moment.

  “I would appreciate it, Brother Cyrus, if you would send to Bombay for my things. This gown is a bit too tight, as are all of your first wife’s clothes. And it would be comforting to have familiar belongings about me.”

  Blackwell’s eyes caressed the straining gray cotton of Persia’s bodice with an appreciative gaze. “I find that frock quite becoming. It never looked so well on Hannah. But then she was not nearly as well endowed as you, Persia dear.”

  She looked down, blushing furiously. What kind of a man was Cyrus Blackwell? One moment he was the stern and pious missionary, ranting against sin and extolling the virtues of salvation. The next he was like any other lusty man, measuring the worth of a woman only by how well she could fill out a bodice. And if his first wife had been an ill-bred prostitute, looked down upon by the very man she married, why, then, was everything she had ever touched held sacred by her husband? Even the charred ruins of the house where she had died had been turned into a shrine to her memory.

  “I’m afraid it will be quite impossible to bring your things here, Persia. I had them disposed of,” he answered in a flat tone.

  “Disposed of?” she said, shocked and furious. “You had no right to do that! Those trunks contained everything I own in the world—everything that meant anything to me!”

  He nodded toward her, unsmiling. “I know. And now you will begin your new life as you should, with no earthly possessions to shackle you to the past. Besides, I had every right. As my wife, you and everything you own are now mine. At any rate, as a missionary’s wife you won’t be needing ball gowns! And, I assure you, your belongings went to a good cause. Your gowns were sold at auction this morning.” He laughed and slapped the table. “You’ll be amused by this, I’m sure. The Maharajah of Gwalior bought the Whole lot for a king’s ransom, which will go to feed the poor of India.”

  Persia wasn’t amused. “Why on earth would a man who dresses in cloth of gold and precious jewels want my modest gowns?”

  Blackwell chuckled at her bewilderment. “I suppose he bought the gowns because he couldn’t buy you. He’ll dress his concubines in your frills and, with the spiritual aid of his opium pipe, convince himself that he’s taking you when he beds one of them.” He gave her a sly smile. “So if the maharajah appears in your dreams some night, you’ll understand what is happening. I’m sure that when next he thrusts his great golden jewel, he’ll be imagining, happily, that it is penetrating your pale and trembling lotus, my dear!”

  Persia gasped, shocked by her husband’s outspokenness and at the thought of her gowns being put to such a use.

  “That fiery-blooded young nobleman was quite smitten with you, Persia. He wanted you all right—offered me more money than I’ll ever see in a lifetime and his best elephant! Don’t look so shocked. Wife-selling, after all, is a perfectly acceptable practice in his region. Aren’t you impressed with my devotion, that I turned down his more than generous offer?”

  “Not particularly,” she said under her breath.

  “I suppose you’re afraid that I’m going to demand you repay me in a different tender for what I gave up to keep you out of the maharajah’s harem. Well, I am!”

  Persia stared at him, aghast. She had known his demands would come, and she fully intended to fulfill her wifely duties. But she had prayed he would give her more time. If she could put him off for only a day or so, she would be granted an extra week’s grace when her monthly flow began. But tonight there was no reasonable argument she could use to stop him.

  He reached across the table and grasped her hand, pulling her toward him, as he said in a fierce tone, “You will repay me for rejecting his offer by showing me that you can be the kind of wife I need. You will be faithful to our marriage vows in thought and deed, obedient to me at all times, and you will work hard to make our task of salvation a success, for God’s sake. And for your own!”

  The edge of the tab
le was cutting across her breasts, and her fingers were going numb in his hard grip. She struggled but could not pull away from him.

  “Cyrus, you’re hurting me! Please!”

  “Pain is nothing,” he said in a strangely intense voice. “Physical pain is merely something of the moment. We can endure that. It is the pain of eternal damnation that cannot be endured. Pray with me, Sister Persia!”

  Persia closed her eyes and bowed her head. She had little choice. Cyrus still gripped her hand, making her remain in the same intolerable position. Her breasts ached and her fingers burned as if they were caught in a vise, while on and on his voice rose and fell, pleading with heaven for her forgiveness, her salvation, her very soul.

  “And let this woman’s womb be cleansed and made ready for the worthy seed of her husband. For the time of planting is nigh, and the field must be pure and fertile so that a good harvest is assured. Amen!”

  At the very instant of his final word to God, Cyrus released Persia’s hand so suddenly that she fell back against her chair. She stared across the table at him, his ominous words about fertile fields and planting time still ringing in her ears. He looked like a man coming out of a trance. His face, although normally pale, was death white. His eyes had a glazed look. His thin lips trembled. And she noticed, too, that his hands were shaking.

  “Go to bed now,” he ordered. “You’ll be needing your rest. Tomorrow we have to tour the island so that you can meet my flock and see the task we have ahead of us.”

  “Cyrus, are you all right? You look ill.”

  “Never mind! Hannah always went to her room after supper. Just leave me now! Do as I say!” He almost shouted the words at her.

  Persia rose from the table and fled down the hall. She was both concerned by his erratic behavior and relieved that apparently he didn’t mean to force the “planting” tonight. How could she ever find any peace with this man if she didn’t know from one instant to the next what to expect from him?

  It was sheer relief to close the bedroom door behind her. One of the serving girls had been in to tidy up, and the room was immaculate. She had also turned down the bed and laid out one of Hannah’s linen nightgowns.

  Persia shed her clothes immediately but tossed the gown over the vanity stool. The thought of wearing such a heavy garment on a night as hot as this made her shudder. There was not a breath of air outside. Even the windchimes were silent. She collapsed onto the down mattress—thankful that it wasn’t an Indian-style bed—and fell asleep immediately.

  Persia had no idea what woke her or how long she had slept. She only knew that the room was still pitch black and that her naked skin was covered with gooseflesh. Trying not to make the slightest sound, she lay very still, listening. She thought she heard a rustle on the other side of the room. Or was it just her imagination?

  Feeling self-conscious suddenly, as if someone were staring at her through the darkness, she reached down and pulled the sheet up over her. Another hand gripped it and immediately yanked it away. Persia screamed.

  “How dare you?” It was Cyrus—his voice low with fury—standing beside her bed.

  “I don’t understand. What’s wrong, Brother Cyrus?”

  Even in her confusion and fear, she was coherent enough to feel relief that he hadn’t lit a lamp. In the dark he couldn’t see that she was naked. She was sure that had he known, it would have been occasion for another of his long-winded prayers for her deliverance from sin.

  “You know very well what’s wrong! When Indira cleaned the room earlier, she found this.”

  Persia felt more than saw the shadow of his arm pass above her. A moment later, something soft and fuzzy fell against her breasts. Again she screamed, remembering the crawly creatures that had made her bedroom at the India House their own. She scrambled about the bed, trying to knock it way, but it clung tenaciously to her damp flesh. She was sobbing, clawing at her breasts, yelling for Cyrus to get it off her.

  There was a phosphorescent flash, then the glow of the coconut-oil lamp bathed the room in soft yellow light. Persia, hunched against the cool bars of the headboard, stared down at her breasts and the dark ball clinging there. With trembling fingers, she flicked the thing away.

  Cyrus had been staring at her, his eyes wide and reflecting the light. But the moment the thing fell, he immediately bent to retrieve it from the floor. When he brought it close to her face again, Persia, still thinking it was some sort of insect, shrank back, crying, “No! Keep it away from me!”

  “You’re asking me to put it back in the trash where you deposited it?” he hissed at her. “Indira told me what you wanted her to do. She also told me she refused. So, you did it! You may be my wife now, but Hannah was my wife first! I forbid you to destroy any memory of her, no mater how small it may seem to you!”

  Suddenly, Persia knew what Cyrus was cradling sc gently and lovingly in his palm. It was neither scorpion nor centipede, but a ball of his dead wife’s black hair. By the light of the lamp, she could see tears streaking his cheeks.

  “I’m sorry, Cyrus.” She could hear her own voice quivering. “I didn’t know.”

  He turned his gaze on her. His eyes were wild and accusing. “Do not lie to me, woman! You knew what you were doing. You came here to destroy her memory… to destroy me!”

  “No, Cyrus! I had to use her brush. There was no other. It hadn’t been cleaned since—”

  Suddenly he was upon her, pinning her shoulders to the mattress, glaring down into her face. He lashed out as he had done the night before, slapping her hard across the mouth. “Liar!” he screamed at her. “Cheat! Wanton! Slut!”

  She tried to block out his voice. The chimes! She could hear the chimes now. She strained to concentrate on that sound alone, but it was no use.

  Soon the intensity of his sudden attack began to diminish. With every foul name he called her, his hysteria subsided a fraction. His slaps turned to caresses. He leaned closer. By the time he whispered the epithet “whore,” his mouth was nearly touching hers. She could taste the bitterness of the word on his breath. She could also smell the strong spirits he had been drinking.

  His hot, trembling hands gripped her breasts while his tongue savaged her mouth. For a time, she tried to fight him. But it was no use. She knew in a sudden flash of painful clarity that this was her punishment. She must accept Cyrus Blackwell as her husband. She must endure his cruel lust along with his pious prayers. She lay very still beneath him, forcing herself to concentrate on the sound of the windchimes.

  For he was her husband, and the time of planting had come.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Persia awoke the next morning as if from a bad dream. For a time, she couldn’t think where she was. But her aching body reminded her quickly enough of what had transpired during the night. She was now Cyrus Blackwell’s wife by deed as well as by word.

  She lay on the hot, sticky sheets feeling drained and used. Still, she could be thankful for small favors. After his initial attack, Cyrus had not been brutal with her. There was certainly no gentleness in the man, no tender love as she had known from Zack. But the all-out rape she had expected had not come, thank God!

  Brother Cyrus had taken her as she imagined any man starved for a woman would have—forcefully, thoroughly, quickly, concerned only with his own needs. It could have been far worse, she told herself.

  Afterward, he had left her immediately, taking with him his dead wife’s hair, which she had so carelessly discarded. The thought made her shudder.

  She frowned, remembering the other odd thing he had done. He had never called her by her name. After he had run out of filthy epithets, he had murmured over and over again, “Hannah, my darling Hannah!”

  Persia turned her face into her pillow. She felt ill suddenly. How could she ever face him this morning?

  But face him she did. And she was more confounded than embarrassed. Cyrus Blackwell was all smiles and polite gestures. He made no mention of the
night before at all. It was as if nothing had ever happened. Could it be that he didn’t even remember coming to her room?

  “Ah, there you are, my dear,” he called with a sprightly wave as she came out of the bedroom. “I’ve had Indira pack us a picnic basket to take along. We’ve no time to dawdle this morning. Everyone’s anxious to meet you. Come along now. You have your parasol? The sun’s beating down already.”

  Persia hurried toward him, trying not to meet his eyes. Hesitantly, she took the arm he offered. He led her to the veranda. There an armed Indian named Jammu waited to escort them. Persia caught her breath, recognizing him as the same white-robed man she had seen in her first hour in Bombay. Cyrus explained to her that the man with the menacing-looking gun was there to protect them against the island’s many snakes and wild animals. But Persia realized that the silent Jammu at times also served as her husband’s spy.

  “Ah, I feel so refreshed this morning! I trust you had a good night’s sleep, too, Sister Persia.” Cyrus continued to be utterly charming as they set off down the road. “You’ll need all your strength today.”

  It was his Only reference all day long to the night before. She really did begin to wonder if she had dreamed the whole thing or if Cyrus, perhaps, was a lusty somnambulist. But no! She knew what had happened last night, and the bruises on her face confirmed it.

  They hiked for miles, visiting tiny huts and being greeted by appreciative smiles. They delivered food, tended sick babies, and saw to it that one old woman was comfortable. There was nothing else they could do for her. She would die soon, worn out by living over a hundred years.

  Cyrus laughed when one of the villagers presented him with a baby goat. He told Persia she could have it as a pet if she liked. From time to time, he patted her hand and asked if she was too tired to go on. She was tired, but she felt exhilarated, too. Cyrus Blackwell was, indeed, a different man this morning. He was a true man of God, the benefactor of the island’s population, her own loving and solicitous husband. Perhaps last night had been a fluke, a reaction to having a new wife in Hannah’s place. He had been drinking, too. That could account for his bizarre behavior.