Chainbreaker (Timekeeper)

by Tara Sim

  Akash took a moment to think this over. “Did you know that diamonds were first discovered in India?”

  Something soft pulled her lips upward. “No, I didn’t.”

  “There is a symbol here called the diamond throne. It is a symbol of infinity, the meditation spot of the Buddha himself. It is thought to be the center of the universe, where things are quiet and enlightenment may come.”

  “That sounds nice. I could use some enlightenment at present.”

  “That may be true of everyone. You’re ahead of all of us, I think.” Ever so lightly he brushed a fingertip over her tattoo. Daphne flinched and he lowered his hand at once. “I-I am sorry, Miss Richards. I’m sorry if I touched you inappropriately. Please forgive me.”

  She almost wanted to laugh. If that was inappropriate, she’d hate for him to know where else men had let their hands wander. “I just wouldn’t like to be touched right now.”

  He ducked his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right.”

  The sun was setting and clouds rolled in from the plain as they continued to walk. Daphne wondered if Partha had looked in on her only to find her gone.

  “What did you mean by needing enlightenment?” Akash asked. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  She hesitated. As much as she wanted to figure out Narayan herself, she was coming to realize she couldn’t do it alone.

  Daphne swallowed her pride. “If I tell you what I’ve seen at the clock tower, will you keep it secret?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  So she told him of Narayan and her promise to return. She wanted to know more about the tower and what the spirit had seen. Akash listened, his eyebrows drawn into a V as if he was struggling to decide if she was joking or not.

  “What do you mean by spirit?”

  “They’re the forces that keep the clock towers attached to time. In a sense, they’re a manifestation of the clock, but they appear as humans, like us. I spoke to a couple back home, and so has Danny. Hasn’t Meena mentioned them before?”

  “A couple of times, but only in stories.”

  “Will you come and meet him with me tomorrow? Will you act as my translator?”

  “I wish I could, but they won’t let me in the tower.”

  “Even if I say that it’s all right for you to join me?”

  “Even then,” he said. “Though I would gladly be your translator, the ghadi wallahs will chase me away.”

  “Has that happened to you before?”

  “Meena has always dragged me to clock towers. Sometimes I’ve been lucky enough to see her work. Other times, I’ve been smacked or shoved out. Once, I was chased away with a broom.”

  Daphne’s mouth twitched. “Well, that’s too bad. I hoped you would be able to tell me what he’s been saying.”

  “Why not use one of the other ghadi wallahs?”

  “They don’t trust me. And, to be honest, I don’t trust them either.”

  A grin spread lazily across his face. “I am glad to hear that you trust me.”

  Her blush was almost painful. “Er … good.” She cleared her throat. “Could you teach me some phrases in Hindi for tomorrow, then? I’d like to ask the spirit a few things.”

  They spent the walk back to the billet repeating Hindi words, continuing to draw stares. But Daphne tuned them out, focusing only on how Akash shaped the words on his lips and the way his voice resonated on each vowel.

  Back at the sandstone building, Akash showed her how to use the low-hanging awning of the next building over to jump onto the roof. She followed him across and dropped down at her open window. Daphne looked inside, but the room was dark. She had half-expected Lieutenant Crosby to be waiting for her with teeth bared and whip in hand.

  Akash dropped down next to her. After she climbed through the window, they stood staring at each other, their hands resting on the sill. One white, one brown, only six inches away from touching.

  “Akash?” Daphne had to swallow; all that talking had dried out her throat. “Tomorrow afternoon … come back to my window?”

  He smiled slowly. “Haan, Miss Richards.”

  Someone screamed in the darkness. It struck Danny like a lightning storm, but a barrier stood between him and whoever was in trouble, gray and impenetrable and terribly familiar.

  Who was crying for him? Danny banged his fist on the barrier and shouted back. He told them to wait, that he was coming, that he would save them.

  “That’s a laugh,” drawled a voice above his head. He turned to find the man with dark-tinted goggles leveling a gun at his head. “You can’t even save yourself.”

  Danny surged out of the dream in a sweat, the echo of a gunshot still ringing in his ears. His legs were tangled in the sheet; he had thrown the rest of the bedding off during the night. He’d squirmed out of his nightshirt as well, and was now lying only in his drawers. The arched window, open the whole night, had done nothing to lessen the heat in the room.

  He heard the scream again and sat up. He untangled himself from the sheet and hurried to the window. But the more he heard the cry, the more he realized it didn’t sound human.

  Danny leaned out and looked down the street. A bright blue bird, about as big as a pheasant, was strutting around in a pen. As it shuddered, its impressive plumage lifted from the ground into the air. A bloody peacock. Right on cue, the bird made its shrill cry, as if it knew Danny was watching and laughed for having tricked him.

  Grumpy, Danny dressed, leaving his shirt untucked. He examined himself in the mirror. His hair was a rumpled mess and the skin under his eyes was dark and puffy. Danny thumbed the scar on his chin. He looked tired. Haunted.

  As he tugged a comb through his hair, he wondered who had been on the other side of that barrier in his dream, that person he couldn’t reach. He immediately thought of Colton, and the resulting dread stole his breath away. Compelled by longing and something darker, he took Colton’s picture from his pocket.

  Looking at it was both painful and sweet. Over the last few weeks, Danny had taken to drawing inward, finding solace in his memories. As if, by standing still enough, he could feel Colton’s lips on the hollow of his throat, on the curves of his closed eyes. He would have given away all he owned for the sensation of Colton’s thumb trailing a path over his jaw, or the sound of his voice conjuring his name from the air.

  He missed his touch like a sky misses a firework, a spark as brilliant as it is brief.

  Feeling a little foolish, Danny put his lips to the charcoal ones on the page. Lord, he was losing it.

  A knock sounded at the door. He quickly stuffed the picture in his pocket as it opened to reveal Meena frowning in the doorway.

  “I thought you would look better come morning, but I don’t think that is the case.” She pushed the door open farther to reveal the breakfast tray she was holding. “I’ve already eaten, but I saved you some food.”

  “Oh, thank you.” He took the tray from her, placing it on the bed. There was fruit, a thicker bread than the chapatis he’d grown used to, and hard-boiled eggs. He reached for the tea first. It was not chai, but a full-bodied English blend, and he nearly moaned in appreciation.

  “How do you feel?” Meena sat on a chair beside the low wooden table where his water pitcher had been placed the night before.

  “I’ve certainly been better.” He downed the rest of his tea. “What about you? You were hit rather hard.”

  She touched her puffy lower lip. “Not as hard as you were.” The medic had insisted that Danny had a slight concussion. Meena had watched over him until she had started dozing on the very chair she sat on now, at which point Danny had kicked her out and fallen into bed.

  He touched the spot where the man on the train had smacked him. It was still sore, and he had the remnants of a headache.

  He could see a question forming in Meena’s eyes, but she was interrupted by another knock. Captain Harris greeted them when he opened the door.

  “Good morning
. I wanted to see how you were holding up.”

  “Well enough,” Danny said.

  “I’m glad to hear it. I still need to file an incident report for the major, so I need to go over the attack with you again.”

  Meena left nothing out, not even the use of her gun. Harris’s fingers twitched, but he otherwise masked his surprise well. “At least if this man tries to attack us next time, we’ll know a little more about how he operates.”

  “Do you think there’ll be a next time?” Danny asked, not bothering to hide the trepidation in his voice.

  “It seems this man wants you for some reason.”

  Danny’s earlier revelation coiled around his throat, constricting it. How much could he divulge? What if he was wrong?

  “He’s hurt, though,” Meena pointed out. “It may be a while until he strikes again.”

  “Maybe.” Harris gathered his notes. “Anyway, you two are due at the tower. Shall we leave in half an hour?”

  Meena stood. “May I make a request, Captain?”

  “Of course.”

  “I would like to visit the temple first. I must perform puja.”

  “That can certainly be arranged.”

  She left to prepare, leaving Danny to frown quizzically at Harris.

  “Puja?”

  “A Hindu prayer ritual,” the captain explained. “Normally, they perform it with a household icon. The Hindu sepoys have their own icons. Partha keeps his in his room.” Harris froze, his grip tightening on his pen.

  Danny fiddled with a piece of bread, dropping crumbs on the floor. “I meant what I said earlier, Captain. I’m not going to tell anyone. You have my word.”

  Harris managed a small, tight smile. “I believe you, Mr. Hart.” He hesitated. “Partha and I … we’ve been worried, of course. About someone finding out. But if that someone is you, I don’t think we need worry.”

  Danny briefly thought about his conversation with Meena and decided not to remind the captain that she, too, knew his secret. “I’m glad, though. That you found each other.”

  There it was: a small flash of happiness, a glint of gold at the bottom of a riverbed. Harris looked at the floor, but the corners of his lips were still turned up. Danny also knew that slow walk to joy, how it turned his heart heavy and light in turns.

  “I don’t know how long it can go on,” Harris said, “but I plan to stay in India. With him.” He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair. “And you, Mr. Hart? Is there a certain someone?”

  Now it was Danny’s turn to examine the floor. “Yes.”

  “And it would be undesirable for someone to find you two together?”

  Danny nodded.

  Harris sighed. “It’s a strange world, Mr. Hart. I’ll always fight for the promise of an easier tomorrow. Right or wrong, selfish or not, this is what we want.” He nodded to himself. “And that’s enough. Whatever it takes.”

  “Whatever it takes,” Danny agreed, touching the cog in his pocket.

  The tonga stopped in front of a stone temple that bustled with colorfully dressed men and women in saris that ranged from canary yellow to cornflower blue. The street was clogged with worshippers and shoppers who flitted among the carts strategically placed around the temple.

  Meena hopped down and gestured for Danny to follow.

  Danny turned to Captain Harris. “Will you be coming with us, Captain?”

  “I wish I could.” Harris glanced sidelong at the escort of mostly British soldiers, some already sweating under their hats. “But I don’t want to cause a scene. You’re not a soldier, so they’ll be kinder toward you.”

  Since the captain seemed intent on waiting outside, Danny trailed after Meena. She’d changed into a freshly laundered sari of dark green before leaving her room. Even her hair was washed and had been wetly tied into its usual braid.

  “I didn’t bring any offerings, so we’ll have to buy some,” Meena explained. “Have you taken a bath?”

  “Er … No. Was I meant to?”

  She flipped her hand. “No matter, you’re a foreigner. Now you know for next time. Are you at least wearing clean clothes?”

  “Yes.” His clothes had been laundered just before leaving the cantonment.

  Meena steered him toward a fruit vendor who insisted that they buy his mangos. She bartered with the merchant, their voices rising until they came to some sort of agreement. She reached for her money, but Danny stopped her.

  “I want to pay,” he said, “since this is my first time visiting your gods and all.”

  She gave him a funny look, but allowed him to pay for a couple pieces of coconut and, just to make the man stop shoving them under his nose, a mango. The vendor thanked them, bowing his head a few times before turning to the next customer.

  “Are you planning to offer the mango, or eat it?” Meena asked.

  Danny slid it into his pocket with a sigh. “I suppose I’ll eat it later. I’ve never had mango before. Think I’ll like it?”

  “They’re my favorite fruit. You’ll love it.”

  They joined the queue leading up the stairs. Danny heard giggling and realized the women were laughing at him.

  Meena grinned. “You’re in the wrong line. Go over there.” She pointed to a line a few feet away made up of only men. Face burning, he made himself walk slowly to the end.

  “What are these for, anyway?” he asked, holding up the piece of coconut Meena had given him. It was sticky and warm from lying in the sun.

  “An offering to the gods. We don’t have time to visit all five, so we’re only praying to Shiva today.”

  “Who’s that?”

  The lines moved, and they moved with them. “Shiva,” Meena explained, “is the Supreme God. He is the creator, the destroyer, and preserver of all, though other gods may play these roles as well, depending on which temple you visit.”

  “Sounds like a stressful job.”

  She glanced at him, unimpressed. “He is All. It’s simply his nature to be these things.”

  “But how can someone be both a creator and a destroyer?”

  “He dances.”

  Danny tried not to laugh, but it came out as a muffled snort. Meena scowled.

  “He dances the tandava,” she said, “which started the cycle of creation. When he dances it again, it will destroy the universe he’s built.”

  “But why? Why ruin everything you’ve created?”

  “Because everything that is born must eventually die,” she said simply.

  When they reached the main chamber, Meena took off her slippers. The other men and women were doing the same, lining their shoes up neatly across the stone floor. Danny pulled off his boots and padded into the chamber in his stockinged feet.

  The chamber was wide and drafty, lined with stone statues. Adorning the walls were murals in faded ink of gods and goddesses he couldn’t name. One of them rode a tiger.

  Beyond the lines, Danny could see an inner chamber where a stone idol sat upon a dais. His hair was long, his eyes closed, and his lips were turned up in a benevolent smile. This must be Shiva, the creator/destroyer.

  Bit cheeky for a bloke who’ll blow up the universe, Danny thought. The idol sat in a meditation pose—a rather uncomfortable-looking bending of the legs—with hands held open in his lap. Two snakes were wrapped around his biceps, and a larger one had wound itself around the god’s neck. His hair was piled atop his head like a hill, a crescent moon-shaped disc sticking out from one side. Beads hung from his neck, resting on his bare chest.

  An old priest dressed in an orange robe sat outside the inner chamber. Though bald, the hair near his ears was wispy and white. His shriveled lips curled into his mouth, making his chin jut out. At Meena’s instruction, Danny handed the priest his piece of coconut. The priest pressed his thumb into a copper bowl of vermilion and crooked a finger at him. Danny leaned down, allowing the man to draw a line between his brows with the red powder.

  Then the priest handed him four cashews. Since Dann
y hadn’t expected to be given anything, he said, “Thank you.” A few people turned to glare at him. The priest opened one eye, looked at Danny, then lowered his eyelid. Danny thought he caught a tremor of a smile pass over the man’s inverted lips.

  Sufficiently mortified for the day, Danny stuck as close to Meena as he could. When they approached the idol of Shiva, she nudged him.

  “Do this,” she whispered, putting her hands together in prayer. She bowed over her hands toward the idol. Danny followed her instruction as others kneeled on the floor and bowed to the god while they chanted in Hindi.

  Meena signaled with her eyes, showing Danny where to stand while she joined the devotees. Her voice rose strong and sure as she chanted Shiva’s name and the prayer that filled the inner chamber where the idol sat, smiling at his followers. There was something oddly peaceful about him, although Danny had to imagine that a god who could end the world came with a temper.

  Briefly, he thought of Aetas—and of Chronos, waking enraged from his sleep to slay Aetas for what he’d done. That had nearly been the end of the world. Maybe Shiva had danced then, and made the earth tremble.

  The earth was trembling now. Perhaps Shiva was beginning to dance again.

  When Meena was finished, she gestured that they could leave. Outside, they put their shoes back on.

  “You can eat the prasad now,” she said, and popped her own cashews into her mouth. Danny followed her example.

  “What were you saying back in Khurja, about the ash … ah … something about the Indian Gaian gods?”

  “The ashta vasus?”

  “Yes, those. Does India have its own story about how Aet—I mean, how Agni died?”

  “Not specifically, no. The story goes that all of the vasus were caught stealing a cow from Vashishta, a sage, who cursed them to be born again as mortals. They asked the goddess Ganga to be their mother, and to relieve them of their mortality as soon as possible. So Ganga Devi gave birth and drowned the vasus to free them of mortal life, so that they could return to the heavens. Only Dyaus survived in his incarnation, trapped as a mortal.”