Children of the Wolf (7 page)

Taking the ice from me, Mrs. Welles spoke to the three of us, her former mood of self-condemnation gone. “Mohandas, you must go outside and do what you can to comfort that child. She knows something is wrong, though I doubt she understands. Rama, you must run into town and fetch Dr. Singh. Hurry! David, my dear, I will need your help. We must bathe her with ice to bring down the fever until the doctor gets here. She is burning up. And we must get liquids down her, too. Barley water will be best.”

No one moved.

“Now!” said Mrs. Welles.

Rama leaped away, and I, with a backward glance at the huddled figure in the crib, pushed through the knot of children at the door.

“Is she dying?” asked Indira, her eyes glittering.

I did not answer her with words; my look was enough. She scattered the others with the same sounds and hand movements she used to chase the guinea fowl from their eggs. I ignored them and went outside.

When Kamala saw me coming, she scampered back to her hut and was quiet for a moment. Then, when she realized I did not have Amala with me, her howls began anew, and I felt, with a longing so intense it burned in my chest, that I wanted to howl along with her.

D
R. SINGH CAME AND
stayed all night, and Mr. and Mrs. Welles kept watch with him.

As the oldest boys, Rama and I were ordered to take turns being the runners for whatever the doctor might need, but Rama, after waiting up the first hours, woke me and spoke urgently.

“I will help those evil creatures no longer,” he said. “She whimpers like a dog, and the other one howls.” His eyes looked haunted.

I stared at the floor as I answered him. “I will do it all.”

He had the good grace not to thank me.

And so it happened that I was the only child who kept the long vigil. Twice I was actually sent to fetch something—once for a fresh basin of water and once for more ice. The rest of the time I crouched, unnoticed, in the corner of the sickroom and watched while Dr. Singh bent over Amala, ministering to her. She lay knees to chin, sweat beading her body. Mrs. Welles bathed her frequently with the ice water, and Mr. Welles read psalms from the Bible and begged God not to let the little miracle die.

Occasionally Amala convulsed, her arms and hands and legs reaching out in shaking spasms. Then it took all three of them to hold her. At each convulsion, Kamala outside the sickroom window set up a tremendous howling, and I, too, shook in response.

Mr. Welles said sharply each time, “Go to her, Mohandas. Keep her quiet. Her howls are frightening this little one,” although it was quite clear by then to all of us that Amala was long past caring or hearing.

I ran outside and sat as close to Kamala as I dared, crooning, “It will be all right, Kamala. It will be all right. Mohandas promises, everything will be all right.”

But it was not all right. Amala died before dawn.

Dr. Singh’s pronouncement was cold and clinical. “Worms,” he said. “And dysentery, which has led to dehydration. Possibly nephritis as well. And goodness knows what else.” He wiped his hands on a towel as he spoke, then rubbed sleep from his eyes. His pointed beard waggled as he talked.

The incense burning fitfully did little to disguise the smell of sickness and death or the sharp odor of disinfectant in the room.

The other children were up and crowding into the doorway. Indira and Veda cried noisily, and Preeti, head cocked to one side, sniffled. Krithi and the other little ones merely stared. Rama had no readable expression on his face. But Cook, who bullied her way into the room, looked slightly pleased, as if to say, “I told you so.”

“And the other one?” Mr. Welles asked, gesturing outside with his head.

Kamala would not let the doctor near her until Rama held her legs and I her arms. Dr. Singh examined her teeth and her throat and listened to her chest.

“Remarkable,” he said. “Remarkable,” though he did not say why. He left sulfa powder for the worms.

“I would bury the child’s body as soon as possible because of the danger of infection. And away from here,” he said, looking pointedly at Kamala.

“Oh, yes, yes,” Mrs. Welles said to him. “She digs up the dogs’ buried bones, you know.” Then, as if shocked at what she had just suggested, Mrs. Welles held her handkerchief to her mouth and sobbed.

“We will bury her in the churchyard,” Mr. Welles assured him.

They left the house and walked Dr. Singh to the gate under the protection of umbrellas. It was like a small funeral procession, the nodding black canopies marking the pace.

I went back to the sickroom. Amala still lay on the crib mattress. Some part of me had been sure she was still alive, but she had not moved. She lay straight in her death as she had never lain in her life.

I heard footsteps behind me as I began to cry. Turning, I saw it was Mr. Welles.

“Perhaps,” I said, stumbling over the words, “we should never have taken them from the jungle.”

“Nonsense, Mohandas,” he answered sternly, his voice slightly ragged with emotion, “they are humans, not animals, and therefore possess a soul. It is our duty to see that their souls glorify God.”

I looked over at the pathetic corpse laid out in the crib. I saw no glory there.

Amala was buried by the carters at noon, and none of us was allowed to witness it.

Though Kamala’s face was devoid of emotion, she spent the rest of the day ranging through the compound in obvious distress, sniffing places that her sister had frequented. When Mrs. Welles served her food, she only picked at it, though she drank the barley water, which Mrs. Welles had liberally laced with more of the worming medication. By evening she had stomach cramps and sat with her arms cupped around her belly, moaning. The next morning she passed a great mass of wormy stool with large red roundworms as thick as my little finger.

Mr. Welles rejoiced at that. He called us out to inspect it.

“Look, children, she is expelling her animal nature. Soon you will see a great change in her.”

Exhausted by crying and by the continual pounding of the rains, I went to sleep that night much earlier than usual, but I was awakened around midnight by a strange, forlorn sound. It was not the sound of
dholes
, the wild dogs, on the hunt, though it had that same eerie quality. It was Kamala crying as she had done the first few nights after she had been brought to The Home. The sound went on and on and on.

I tried putting the pillow over my ears, but managed to muffle the noise only slightly. I wondered that she had not awakened the entire household. At last I got out of bed, climbed over the windowsill, and dropped into the compound.

The rain had stopped for a while, leaving an uncomfortable heavy mist and the profusion of flower smells. A thin, pale moon shone down.

As my feet touched the ground, the clock in Mr. Welles’ study started chiming the hour.

Kamala lifted her head at my coming.

I stopped several feet away from her and squatted, waiting as usual for her to become used to me before venturing closer.

No sooner had I settled on my heels than she crawled toward me and laid her head on my knees, making a sound somewhere between a moan and a sigh.

Very slowly I reached out and patted her head.

She did not move away.

I let my hand rest on her head for a minute, counting the seconds under my breath. Then I moved my hand to her shoulder. Her skin trembled under my fingers.

She breathed loudly once more, then suddenly sat up and stared at me, not into my eyes but taking in my face and body with a long glance.

I did not dare move, but I could feel the tears once again welling up in my eyes as I thought of little Amala lying dead in the crib.

Kamala’s face was in shadow, though I could see the blue glint of her night-shining eyes. The moon lit my face, and the tears must have glistened on my cheeks.

She reached up a hand to my face; one finger rested curiously on the tear. Then she put that finger in her mouth, tasting the salt.

“Mohandas.” I whispered my ritual, touching my chest. Then I reached out toward her, but before I could say her name, she put that same hand out again and touched me on the collarbone. “Mmmmdah,” she stammered. “Mmmmdah.” For a moment I was stunned. In the silence I could hear the sound of the cuckoo singing
piu-piu-pee-pee-piu
, and the
pick-buzz
of insects. Then I exploded, “Yes.

Yes!
Mohandas. Mo-han-das!”

“Mmmmdas,” she said, poking me hard in the chest. Then she put her head back and howled, a mournful farewell.

T
HAT DAY AND ALL
the days that followed, Kamala grew and changed. At first she seemed to search for her sister, pacing back and forth along a specific trail as if casting for Amala’s scent. But at last she gave up and focused on me instead. No longer did she hunch beside the wall, scuttling over to her food dish and then back again. Instead, whenever I appeared, she would pad alongside me, sniffing at my heels or trying to hold onto my hand.

“You have become her brother, Mohandas,” Mr. Welles said with approval, rubbing his glasses with the handkerchief and nodding. “It is time now for her to take her next step up the species ladder. As Mr. Darwin has taught us, man has ascended from apes, not descended from angels. Let us help lift our little miracle higher. Otherwise why has God sent her here to us?”

I moved my head slightly and, as usual, he took it as yes and so went on speaking.

“Mrs. Welles will continue to give her daily massages with mustard oil to strengthen her legs, but you must encourage her to stand upright. For only in that posture can she fully praise the Lord.”

I refrained from mentioning the many people who bowed to their god, as I had read in the books in Mr. Welles’ own library. Instead I began to envision how I might get Kamala to stand. She could run faster than I on all fours, but it was a strange, low maneuver.

“Perhaps,” I said, remembering the dogs prancing on their hind legs before animal trainers at the
hâts
, “with a bit of food above her…” And there I faltered, my imagination having gotten me so far and no further.

“Excellent, Mohandas,” Mr. Welles said, patting me on the head. “Try it at once. Now.”

In the kitchen I begged a few pieces of uncooked chicken—a wing and a piece of skin. Cook gave them to me reluctantly, guessing that they were for Kamala. But as I had Mr. Welles’ permission, she did not dare deny them to me.

I went outside, and Kamala came galloping up to me, sniffing the air eagerly with her broad, flat nose. She pawed at my leg.

“Look, Kamala,” I said. “See what Mohandas has brought you.” I held the chicken wing out above her head.

She spoke her one word. “Mmmmdas.” Then she tried to take the chicken from me.

I held it higher, dangling it just out of reach.

She tried desperate little lunges at it, and at each movement I placed the chicken higher still.

At last she put her hands on my legs, then my waist, and pulled herself up, standing very uncertainly and clinging to me.

I put my arm around her waist, steadying her, and placed the chicken wing to her mouth.

She snapped it up and fell away from me, back onto all fours, scurrying to the corner of the compound where she ate her meals.

When she finished the little piece of chicken, she was back, begging for more.

I showed her the bit of skin I had, holding it above her. This time there was no hesitation. Using me as an ape would a tree, she stood and grabbed for the meat. I let her fall and kept the chicken.

“You must stand, Kamala,” I said. “Try again. Come. Come to Mohandas.”

But she returned to the corner to sulk.

I walked over to her, for the lesson had only begun.

“See the chicken, Kamala,” I said. “You know you want it. Come. Come to me.”

It took almost five minutes more before greed won over pride, but at last she came, crawling over, whimpering piteously, her head lowered. “Mmmmdas,” she cried. “Mmmmdas.”

I bit my lip and reminded myself to be stern. I held the chicken up.

One hand on my leg, she raised herself and stood, holding out her hand.

I put the chicken skin in her mouth, but before she could drop down again, I grabbed both her hands in mine and forced her to stand upright.

“Come,” I said. “Walk, Kamala. Walk.” Then I stepped backward, forcing her to come toward me.

She hopped awkwardly.

“Good, Kamala. Walk,” I said again, taking another step backward.

Again she hopped.

Ten steps later I stopped, for it was obvious she was tired and cranky. I let her hands go, and she dropped down on all fours at once. I patted her on the head. “Good Kamala,” I said. “Good girl.” And so ended our first lesson in walking.

By the end of the monsoon season, in September, after many more such lessons, Kamala could walk upright, though never without food for encouragement and always with some pain, for her back was slightly bowed and so were her legs. But Mrs. Welles continued the mustard oil massages, which Kamala seemed to enjoy, and which seemed to ease the worst of the aches.

Once Kamala started walking on two legs regularly, Mrs. Welles insisted she had to wear a dress. And to tell the truth, I was glad of that, for as she ate more—vegetables and rice were added to her diet—she had grown healthier, and she began to fill out. No longer did her skin pull so tightly over her bones that one could discern the skeleton beneath. And too, with health came the early signs of her womanhood. It was an embarrassment to be with her if she went unclothed.

But she did not like her dress. The first time she was forced to wear it, she tried to tear it off again, pulling at the neck with frantic fingers, and growling.

“No!” I said sternly, slapping lightly at her hands.

She thought that a great game and pawed at me, the hated dress forgotten for the moment.

“Mohandas says
no
!” repeated, holding her hands at her sides.

“Mmmmdas,” she imitated, ending with a grunting sound. She did not struggle.

“Good girl,” I said, though I did not let go of her hands to pat her on her head.