Further exploration disclosed a whole series of caves: Buddhist shrines constructed more than two thousand years before. Unlike those of Ellora, these were tunnelled into the heart of the mountain, and their rocky walls were ground smooth and covered with elaborate, highly-coloured and sophisticated paintings. Unfortunately, exposure to the air, without sufficient protection, had caused many of them to crumble and disappear before the Indian Department of Archaeology came to the rescue. But those that were left were a unique example of ancient art, and showed a three- dimensional quality that had not been found in any painting of similar age anywhere else in the world.
As Abby's tour of the caves began, it soon became clear that Giles had been here many times. He knew the best caves to see, as well as the history of each painting depicted, and explained them concisely yet lucidly. Abby felt as if she were looking at Persian prints enormously magnified, for many of the paintings had the same vivid colours and plethora of detail. But unlike Persian art, where people were all given blank expressions, these showed various emotions.
Walking from cave to cave was tiring, for not only were there a great many steps to climb, but there were also people, so many that they were sometimes forced to wait outside a cave until a group of tourists had left and they themselves were allowed, in. By noon Miss Bateman admitted herself beaten, and announced she was going to have a rest.
'But don't let that stop you two from exploring. I'll sit in the shade and wait for you.'
'We can all do with a rest,' said Giles, and promptly perched on the edge of the wall which had been built along the outside of the steps, a necessary protection to prevent people falling down the ravine.
Abby joined him by the wall, but was careful to keep her distance from him as she peered over the edge. Far below, the heavy undergrowth had been hacked away and a small garden cleared, and here she could make out Indian children lolling on the ground as they waited for tourists to come their way, when they would immediately resume their begging.
With a sigh, she sat on one" of the steps and stared at the cave in front of her. Its entrance was protected by a wooden door, which was locked at night to prevent vandals destroying the paintings and statues. Alongside the door small niches had been dug out in the rock, each one barely big enough to hold a man. In these, thousands of years ago, Buddhist monks had kneeled in prayer, some of them remaining in the same position for days at a time. It was a religious devotion to which she herself could never have aspired: even the thought of it was so emotionally claustrophobic that she quickly averted her gaze and stared at the winding path, thick with slowly moving sightseers. There were not many foreign tourists, but Indian ones too, which surprised her until she remembered that for many of them, coming here was a religious experience. Ahead of her, among the sea of dark heads, she saw one that had a burnished glint, and with a sense of shock she recognised Vicky Laughton; so the girl had persuaded her husband to come to Ajanta after all! Next to her, Abby heard Giles' sharp indrawn breath, and knew that he too had seen the woman.
'Vicky and her husband are here,' he said casually to his aunt. 'She arrived in Aurangabad last night.'
'That doesn't surprise me,' Miss Bateman snorted. 'Considering she flew six thousand miles to see you again, a little journey from Bombay wouldn't deter her.'
'I'm beginning to see where Abby gets her bias,' he said so dryly that his aunt looked at Abby in surprise.
'Have you been trying to make Giles see reason too?'
Abby coloured. Having the question put to her so bluntly made her see how impertinent she had been to proffer her opinion to a man she barely knew. No wonder he had been angry!
'So we meet again!'
Vicky's light voice carried across the warm air as she came gracefully down the steps and stopped in front of them. In pale silk dress and matching low-heeled shoes, she looked unaffected by the exertion or the heat, though her husband was red-faced and puffing, which made him look every one of his twenty senior years. No wonder Vicky preferred Giles!
Abby looked out across the ravine and pretended to concentrate on the view, but she was painfully aware of the rise and fall of Vicky's voice and the deep tones of Giles' laugh. She wished she were a million miles away, and was so intent on this that she jumped visibly when Giles spoke to her.
'I think we should start moving again, Abby.'
She stood up, conscious of Vicky's scarlet-tipped hand resting on his arm.
'I'm sure Miss West would prefer to go with Aunt Mattie,' said Vicky. 'I know Tony will. He hates walking fast.'
'I've no intention of walking fast,' Giles stated. 'And it's much better if we all stick together. But if you and your husband want to go at your own pace…'
'Of course not,' Vicky smiled. 'I'm sure you'll be a much better guide than Tony.'
Keeping a firm grip on his arm, she moved ahead with him, and Abby, seeing the scowl on Miss Bate- man's face, knew her employer was angry at the way in which her nephew had allowed himself to be commandeered. But what was the point of anyone trying to come between Giles and his ex-fiancée? If Vicky had made up her mind to leave her husband and return to him, he alone was the sole arbiter of whether or not she succeeded. And from the way he was behaving, it was hard to doubt that she would.
Involuntarily Abby looked at Anthony Laughton. He was walking beside her but watching his wife with the look of a hurt dog. Abby wanted to shake him. Didn't he know that the only way to hold someone of his wife's temperament was to be forceful and vigorous, and that to look so vulnerable would only be interpreted as weakness?
'It seems you're stuck with me, Miss West,' he said, as Giles and Vicky were soon some ten yards ahead of them.
'I'm sure you're every bit as knowledgeable as Giles,' Abby smiled, noticing the heavy guidebook he was carrying.
'What I lack in knowledge, I make up for in enthusiasm!' At her chuckle he brightened. 'Would you like me to tell you about each cave as we go along?'
She nodded, seeing this as one way of precluding any other kind of conversation, but was soon so genuinely interested in what he was telling her that she lost all self-consciousness with him. For the most part, the interiors of the caves were only faintly illumined, though usually one, and sometimes two walls were lit by arc lamps to show the paintings in fullest detail. Even so, it was not always easy to see them, so thick were the throngs of people around them.
'This next cave has a remarkable statue of Buddha,' Anthony Laughton told her, and guided her past milling tourists to the back of a vast cave where, in a small inner sanctum, was a large carved statue of Buddha, sitting cross-legged on a lotus flower.
'What's different about this one?' she asked. 'I've seen hundreds like it.'
'But not with quite such a serene face. Concentrate on it, Miss West, and you'll know what I mean.'
Abby did so, then moved closer to it. Her companion had stepped away and she was alone in the alcove. She looked up into die face of the statue, then moved a couple of steps round its side in order to look at the profile. From the corner of her eye she saw a blur of pale material and slender arms uplifted around a dark form. For an instant she hesitated, then swiftly drew back. But the picture of Vicky Laughton in Giles' arms was etched on her brain like ink on a printing block.
Unable to bear any proximity with them, she stumbled into the main part of the cave and moved blindly between the jostling people until, more by luck than judgment, she found herself standing beside Anthony Laughton and Miss Bateman.
'Have you seen anything of Giles?' her employer asked.
Unable to speak, Abby shook her head, then turned and pretended to look at one of the colourful scenes depicted on the cave wall above her head. Again she heard Miss Bateman speak and knew that Giles and Vicky had rejoined them.
'Why did you disappear and leave us?' he asked his aunt. 'I told you we should stick together.'
'In this crowd?' the old lady scoffed. 'The only sticking I'm likely to do is to my clothes!'
&
nbsp; 'Then I suggest we call it a day,' he said at once. 'You've done more than enough.'
'I agree,' came the rueful reply. 'You go ahead with Abby and I'll return to the car.'
'Why don't you all come back in our car?' Vicky suggested. 'We managed to get an air-conditioned one.'
The prospect of sitting in close confines with Giles and the woman he loved made Abby search for an excuse to refuse.
'I'd like to stay behind and talk to some of the artists who are working here,' she said, and pointed to a large wooden easel that was perched on a scaffolding. There was a half-finished painting on it, though the artist was nowhere to be seen.
'I doubt if he'll come back while the tourists are still here,' Giles informed her. 'They mostly work early in the morning and never do more than four hours at a stretch, because of the strain on their eyes. But if you're interested in seeing them work I can arrange it for you tomorrow.'
'I'd still like to stay on now,' Abby persisted. 'I can always get a lift back with someone from the hotel.'
Everyone moved towards the exit, except Giles, who lagged behind.
'What's wrong, Abby? You're annoyed about something.'
'No, I'm not.'
'You are.' His eyes glinted with anger. 'I suppose you think I arranged to meet Vicky here?'
'I've given up thinking about you and Mrs Laughton. What you do is your own business.'
'One day I'll shake you so hard,' he said with quiet vehemence, though anyone watching him, as Vicky was doing from the entrance, would have supposed him to be making a casual comment.
Abby watched him go and wished she was going with him. But it was too late to change her mind, and she continued her exploration, moving slowly from one cave to another.
Gradually the intricate beauty of what she was seeing began to calm her perturbed mind, making her realise how futile her problems would be a hundred years from now, as were the problems of these men who had laboured so hard to create this world among the rocks. Yet the men who had worked and died here had been Buddhist priests, loving only their religion and turning away from women; not for them the jumbled emotions of love and hate, ecstasy and pain.
Deeply depressed by the thought of her loveless future, she leaned against one of the niches carved into the wall. Perhaps lunch would revive her spirits. It was only then that she remembered her luncheon pack, left in the car and now speeding on its way back to Aurangabad. That meant she would have to go all the way down to the bottom of the ravine and the cafeteria that had been built there.
Yet she was too tired to face the climb, and she perched inside the niche to relax for a short while. The stone wall was cool against her skin and she folded her cardigan into a pillow and leaned upon it. She would close her eyes; it would help her energy to return more quickly.
A severe cramp in her legs brought Abby back to consciousness. Startled by the darkness, she did not know where she was, and it was only when she sat up straight and felt a hard knob of rock dig into her shoulder that she realised she was inside one of the small stone niches.
With a gasp of fright she rose. There was no one in the cave. She must have been sleeping for hours. She looked at her watch, glad that the hands were luminous, and saw it was seven o'clock. No wonder she was alone! She looked around her again, and knew it was true. There was not a soul to be seen, nor a light to be glimpsed. She was alone in a cave, high up in a mountain, without anyone around her except the ghosts of the past.
Her heart was beating fast and she drew several deep breaths and warned herself not to panic. Though the place was as quiet as the grave, it was not a grave; though it appeared to be in the wilds of the jungle, it was only a matter of miles from the nearest village. But she gained no comfort from these thoughts and told herself firmly that only a short while ago there had been hundreds of sightseers here and that there would be hundreds more tomorrow. But tomorrow was a long way off, and there was still tonight to live through.
She put on her cardigan, for the air had grown cool, and she knew that before long it would be colder still. Gingerly picking her way in the gloom, she reached the entrance. The door was closed and for one heart- stopping moment, as she turned the handle, she was afraid it was locked and she would not be able to get out. But the door did move, albeit creakily, and she found herself outside in the blessed fresh air. Gulping happily, she began to make her way down the long flight of rocky steps.
She knew that in the dusk it would take her more than an hour to reach the entrance, and she plodded on. Twice she lost her way, once ending up in a cul-de-sac and the other against a heavy wood door that looked as if it were the entrance to a cave that had not yet been fully reopened.
What an idiot she had been to fall asleep! Was it because she subconsciously wanted to block out the present and take refuge in dreamless slumber, where Giles did not exist?
Irritably telling herself not to waste time asking questions she could not answer, she negotiated a perilously steep flight of steps. The thin crescent moon was covered by a layer of cloud and, as the darkness intensified, an animal screeched somewhere in the distance. Nervously she wondered what sort of creature could be wandering on a mountainside at night. The officers who had first discovered these caves had been tiger-hunting. Yet there were no tigers in India now— or were there?
Something slithered past her in the blackness and she stiffened and peered through the foliage that bordered the steps. But there was nothing to be seen, and she was not sure if she had imagined it. Her nerves still jangling, she quickened her pace.
She was halfway down when the accident happened.
Grown careless by the ease with which she was managing to descend, she grew careless and did not grasp the side of the wall firmly. Her foot slipped on some wet vegetation and she tumbled flown three steep steps. Her legs buckled beneath her and she sprawled flat on the rough ground.
For several breathless moments she lay there, then muttering at her own stupidity she got up. At least, she attempted to do so, but the instant she put her weight on her left foot, the darkness around her became streaked with red as fiery pain shot through her ankle. With another cry she sank to her knees, and it was several moments before the pain eased sufficiently for her to become aware of her surroundings again.
Gingerly she put her hand to her foot, wincing as her fingers touched the ankle bone. It did not seem to be broken. Tentatively she wriggled her toes. The pain was bad but bearable. Perhaps if she rested it for a short while it would ease sufficiently for her to hobble on it. She lowered her foot to the ground again. The moment she did so, the pain became excruciating, and she knew it would not be able to bear her weight.
A nice kettle of fish this was! Like it or not, it looked as if she was stuck here until the morning, when the caves were re-opened. A sudden thought occurred to her. These caves were run by the Department of Archaeology, and it was logical to assume they had a night-watchman on duty. Lifting her head, she began to shout. Her voice did not seem to penetrate far and she knew that unless the watchman were close at hand, he would never hear her. Her only hope was to push on, however slow her progress.
Careful not to jerk her ankle, she slid from one step down to the next. Although it would take her hours to make any progress, it was better than sitting still.
An hour later found her only twenty yards further on. The slightest unwary movement sent such a fierce jab through her foot that on two occasions she nearly fainted, and now she was almost frightened to move at all.
Even when she reached the entrance she would still have the steep climb down the rest of the mountainside to the bottom of the ravine. It was here that coaches were parked during the day, and where some fifty stalls were erected each morning and set out with mounds of beads and bangles. But where did the stallkeepers go at night? At best the only transport they might have would be a bicycle, and some of them were too poor even to have that. Remembering how the beggars slept in Bombay, she decided there was a distinct possibility that
some of the stallkeepers made their homes on the bare earth at the back of their stall.
Encouraged by this thought, she inched forward again, only stopping as she remembered the Indian who had pestered her this morning as she had left the car, and whom Giles had briskly shoved aside. There had been something in the Indian's eyes that had frightened her, and suddenly her intention of seeking help resolved itself into a determination to stay hidden in one of the alcoves until daylight brought the guides and tourists.
Scrambling across the steps to the niche cut beside the door of the cave nearest to her, she crawled inside. Gradually her trembling ceased. In this same alcove, two thousand years ago, a Buddhist monk had lived, praying in the temple during the day and sleeping in this niche at night. The thought of him gave her comfort, and she relaxed.
Time passed slowly. Her limbs were numb. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep up her spirits and she silently recited all the poems she could remember. One of them remained with her more vividly than the rest, and she repeated it to herself continually. 'We are the music makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams.'
That's me, Abby thought dismally. A dreamer of dreams that will never come true.
An image of Giles flashed before her eyes and she lowered her head upon her hands and wept.
Something suddenly alerted her, and she stiffened and sat up, not sure whether she had imagined it. But no, the sound came again and she heard her name called.
Rachel Lindsay - Man of Ice Page 13