Jani and the Greater Game (The Multiplicity Series Book 1) (8 page)

A stooge called out, “But how do you know this?”

Das silenced him with a stare. “I know this because my great-grandfather was a holy man in the village of Lokhara in the year of 1875. I know because my grandfather told my father, who passed down the story to me... There was no British prospector scrabbling greedily in the foothills of the holy mountains. In 1875, my friends, the goddess Kali came to Earth and conferred upon my great-grandfather the wisdom of the gods and bestowed upon him an amulet of such power that only the holiest of the most holy of men might be blessed with its safe-keeping. However, the perfidious British soon learned of Kali’s coming, and her great gift, and wrested it from the possession of my great-grandfather. From it they extracted the means to enrich their nation, and power their evil ways – and concealed it beneath the lie of Annapurnite!”

He smiled to himself as the crowd digested this, and outraged comment passed back and forth. Of all the lies he had told today, oddly enough, this was the one that most nearly conformed to the truth. The truth, if he told it, would not be believed – it was beyond the grasp of these simple people; and if the British got wind that he knew the truth, then he had no doubt that they would arrange for his swift despatch. The crowd would have to make do with metaphors, which, after all, had always been the way that holy men and great seers had made the unbelievable believable.

He stood and addressed them. “We live in the Age of Kali, my friends, my people, my brothers and sisters. We live in the Age when Kali will again set foot upon the hallowed soil of our great nation and help us drive from our land the despicable foreigners who rule us with such disdain. Kali will rain destruction upon those so deserving, but from that destruction I tell you that renewal will come to pass.”

Someone shouted, “But what can we do about this evil, baba-ji?”

Durga Das smiled beatifically. “We bide our time, we defy the British, but peacefully. We give them no reason to kill even more of us. To the peaceful and the patient comes the just reward. We it is who will reap the benefits when Kali once again walks the Earth.”

A great cheering roar went up, started and stoked by his stooges, and Durga Das turned, sweeping his robes about his considerable bulk, and was led by his minions down a street to a waiting car.

Minutes later he was in the flat, arid countryside north of Delhi and approaching the oasis of his ashram, surrounded by tall poplars and fed by a small stream. As the car swept into the lawned grounds, where sprinklers cast diadem fountains across emerald grass, Durga Das grunted to his driver, “My dak, and I want no interruption. At six bring a meal to me, ah-cha.”

“Very good, baba-ji.”

The car crawled around the main building, where his disciples queued for their evening meal, and along a track towards a small, whitewashed building set amid long grass and shaded by plane trees. This was his retreat, where he studied, meditated, took his meals alone, and, once a week, commenced his devotions to his goddess so that he might be blessed with her manifestation.

He eased his girth from the car and dismissed the driver with a wave, and as the car pulled away he waddled up the path and unlocked the door. He lit a lamp to illuminate the cool, darkened interior, and moved to a small room which was his sanctuary, spread with rush matting and decorated with hand-painted scenes from the Upanishads. Against the far wall was an altar with a figurine of a dancing Kali.

Grunting, Das lowered himself to the floor, bowed his head and murmured blessings. He lit three incense sticks and inhaled their perfumed fragrance. He felt the tightness of anticipation in his chest, the weight of expectation. He felt light-headed. Soon would come the time he had awaited for so long. Various auspices had convinced him that Kali would manifest: the moon was full – and his father had told him that Kali had last showed herself on the night of a full moon – and just that afternoon he had witnessed two holy cows kneel before a clay statue of Kali in the Delhi square.

Cross-legged, he pulled up the material of his robe, exposing a slab of thigh and his bulging belly. He kept a folded square of silk on a cord about his groin, and he pulled it from the sweaty fold between his belly and upper leg, rearranged the robe over his knees, and carefully – murmuring prayers all the while – unfolded the moist silk.

The coin sat on the material, glinting silver in the lamplight. He stared at it, open-mouthed – as ever, in its presence, reduced to a state of awe. The coin had been passed down through his family, from holy man to holy man, since the gods had bequeathed it to his great-grandfather almost fifty years ago.

He picked up the disc with trembling fingers, raised it to his eyes and stared at the words spiralling from the coin’s edge towards its centre. The words meant nothing to him, but thirty years ago his father had pronounced the sounds and told him, “Recite this mantra when the moon is as full as a pregnant belly, and, when the time is auspicious, then Kali will come forth...”

Durga Das closed his eyes and, from memory, recited, “
Anghra dah tanthara, yangra bahl, somithra tal zhell...
”

For thirty years, on the occasion of every full moon, Das had sequestered himself and chanted the holy words, praying that one day his devotion would reap dividends.

His father had told him, “Kali came to Earth and bestowed upon my grandfather the gift of the coin, and explained its significance. It has been in our family ever since. The coin is a
tithra-ku
n̄
j
ī
, a holy amulet that allows access between Heaven and Earth, and when the time is right, Kali will step forth.”

Das came to the end of the mantra, repeated it, then intoned the words a third time, still with his eyes shut tight. He felt a lightness of being, and something like a charge of electricity within the room.

He felt a source of heat before him, at the altar, and when he came to the end of the mantra for the third time he opened his eyes... and gasped. He wept in wonder and steepled his hands before his face in prayer.

A shimmering oval hung in the air a yard from his face, and within the oval, framed as if in a mirror, was the countenance he had dreamed of every day of his life and to which he had devoted his every thought.

The face was hazy – almost pulsing and fading from vision, then becoming stronger as it stared out at him.

He mouthed the words, “Oh, Kali...”

The face was blue, and he strained his eyes to make out the features. His heart beat fast and he willed himself to calmness. He saw a long face, a wide, inhuman mouth, and great slanting eyes – but it was the words that brought forth an amazed cry from his throat. The goddess leaned forward and spoke in Hindi...

“You will bide my words, my servant, and obey my commands. The time of change is upon us. The portal between the worlds will open anon. You will be called upon to leave your city and head east, into another country. You seek the second tithra-kun̄jī, and after that the third. You will be visited by someone with news concerning the second coin, and in your wisdom you must act upon it.” The goddess waited, staring out at him, and Durga Das could only weep at the import of the words as Kali continued, “The success of my coming to your world is entirely dependent upon the success of
your
actions over the course of the next few days. Do you understand?”

Das nodded, then found his voice and murmured that he understood, and the vision of Kali hanging before him gradually faded from sight, leaving only the fug of burning incense in the air.

Durga Das pitched forward in a dead faint.

CHAPTER

FIVE

Aboard the Peshawar-Madras Mail –

An interview with the Brigadier – Home at last –

“The answer to her prayers...”

T
HE TRAIN RACED
south.

From the foothills of the Kush, the Peshawar-Madras Mail tore through the northern plains like a scintillating silver lance. The pride of the Raj, it could complete the fifteen hundred mile journey in a little over twenty hours, powered by a great Annapurnite engine which hauled twenty passenger carriages and as many cargo containers. In terms of cutting-edge technology, it was second only to the famous London-Nairobi Bullet which, crossing the bridges at Dover and Gibraltar, made the journey to Kenya in just over two days. The Peshawar-Madras Mail, however, unlike its European counterpart, was equipped with armoured gun-carriages fore and aft, as defence against attack from Russian terrorists in the badlands of the border with Afghanistan.

The journey, on this blisteringly hot summer’s day in early July 1925, had passed without mishap, though the crack platoon of Gloucestershire Rifles was ever vigilant.

Pausing only for an hour to deposit and collect passengers at Karachi, the Mail began the central leg of its journey across the parched wastes of the Gujarati desert to the capital city of Delhi. The fourth carriage along from the hulking engine, bracketed by the buffet car and a first class compartment, was the hospital carriage, its cambered roof marked with a red cross.

Jani felt the comforting thrum of the engine and the cooling waft of the overhead fan as she lay in bed. Through the window she had a magnificent view of the rolling desert; to her right was a sliding door which gave onto a passage along which nurses in bright white uniforms bustled back and forth.

She recalled the crash of the airship and the chaotic aftermath, her meeting with the creature called Jelch and how it had saved her life.

She sat up. A passing nurse saw her and entered the room, smiling. The nurse wore a starched white pinafore dress marked with a red cross and a strange paper hat like an elaborate example of origami.

“So you’re awake at last, my dear. And you surviving that terrible bump, a little dot like you. Those Russians have a lot to answer for, and no mistake.”

“They have indeed.”

The nurse took her temperature and pronounced herself satisfied. “And how are you feeling? You have a bruised back and a swollen ankle.”

“My back is fine, thank you,” Jani answered. “My ankle...” She turned her foot under the sheets. “Only a little sore. Where am I?”

“You’re aboard the Peshawar-Madras Mail, my dear, and I’d guess we’re just a couple of hours from Delhi.”

My father, she thought. “What date is it? How long have I been unconscious?”

“It’s the 5th, my sweet. You were brought aboard just last night. Oh, you were delirious, I can tell you. But you don’t remember?”

“Not a thing. Delirious?”

“Raving and ranting about monsters and such, fair set my blood a-curdle. But after what you went through, I wasn’t a bit surprised. I gave you something to put you to sleep for a while. You must be hungry.”

“Ravenous. What time is it?”

“Almost twelve. I’ll go and fetch you some soup. Mulligatawny it is today, with freshly baked white bread.”

The nurse hurried out and Jani gazed through the window at the passing land. The desert was featureless, and the bright blue sky almost so, except for the cigar-shape of a small airship, its envelope marked with a bold union flag.

The nurse returned bearing a tray, and Jani struggled upright. The soup smelled wonderful. As the nurse was about to leave, she asked, “And my friend, Lady Eddington?”