The Far Pavilions (107 page)

‘No. Leave them.’ Ash got to his feet as slowly and stiffly as though he had been an old, old man, and reeling to the pool, sank down by the edge to plunge his face into the water and gulp it down in great mouthfuls like a parched animal, drenching his head and neck and washing away the dust and the tears and the dear, familiar smell of Dagobaz. His thirst quenched he arose, dripping, and shook the water out of his hair and eyes. Anjuli was already seated on the pony, and Bukta turned without a word and set off up the steep hillside in the gathering dusk.

Ash's foot touched something and he looked down and saw the empty water-bottle – and would have left it, because after this he would never be able to drink from it again without remembering all the fleetness and beauty and strength that had once been Dagobaz. But there would be no more water until they reached the spring among the trees, and that was many miles distant. Juli would be thirsty before then. He picked up the bottle and refilled it, and slinging it over his shoulder, followed after the others without looking back to where Dagobaz slept his last sleep among the shadows.

By the time they reached the ridge the stars were out, but Bukta hurried them on and only stopped at last when Anjuli fell asleep in the saddle and would have toppled out of it if they had not happened to be on a level stretch of ground. Even then he had insisted that they camp for the night among a number of large boulders that formed a rough circle in the centre of a wide fall of shale, though it had not been a particularly comfortable spot or one that was easy to reach.

‘But you will be able to sleep in safety here,’ said Bukta, ‘and with no need to keep watch, for not even a snake could approach without setting these stones aslide and rousing you with the clatter.’

He had coaxed the pony across the treacherous, shifting surface, and having tethered it on a grassy slope on the far side of the shale, returned to clear away the larger stones and loose debris from between the boulders to make a sleeping place for Anjuli. That being done, he had produced food for them all: chuppattis that he had cooked himself that morning, and
pekoras
and cold rice and
huldoo
that Sarji had purchased in the city and hurriedly transferred to Bukta's saddle-bags when it was decided that he and Gobind would stay behind to act as rearguard.

Neither Ash nor Anjuli had eaten anything that day, but both were bone-weary and too exhausted by mental and physical stress to have any desire for food. But Bukta had forced them to eat, saying angrily that they would need all their strength if they hoped to make good progress on the morrow, and that to starve themselves would be the height of folly as it would only weaken them and thereby assist their enemies: ‘Also you will sleep all the better for a little food, and awake refreshed.’

So they had eaten what they could, and afterwards Anjuli had curled up on the saddle-blanket that Bukta had spread for her, and fallen asleep almost immediately. The old
shikari
had grunted approval, and having urged the Sahib to follow her example, had turned to go away. ‘Do you go back for them now?’ asked Ash in an undertone.

‘What else? It was arranged between us that they would await me near the top of the nullah, and that I would set out as soon as I had placed the Rani-Sahiba and yourself in this spot, which is as safe a one as any in these hills.’

‘You are going on foot?’ asked Ash, remembering that the pony was tethered on the far side of the shale.

Bukta nodded. ‘I shall go quicker on foot. If I rode I would have to wait until the moon was up, as it is still too dark for riding. But the moon will not rise for another hour, by which time I hope to be within eye-shot of the nullah. Moreover a man cannot lead two horses in these hills, and it may be that either the Sirdar-Sahib or the Hakim has suffered a wound or is over-wearied, and if so I can lead while they remain in the saddle. All being well, we should be back before midnight, and on our way again by first light. So sleep while you can, Sahib.’

He shouldered his rifle and went away, walking gingerly across the shale that clattered and slid under his hard, bare feet. The stone-noises stopped when he reached the grass, and a moment later the grey starlight had swallowed him up and the night was quiet again, and nothing moved in it but the wind and the pony cropping the sun-dried grass of the hillside.

Ash had never felt less like sleeping, but he knew that Bukta was right and that it was only sensible to get what rest he could, so he lay down among the great boulders and closing his eyes tried to relax his tense muscles, and to make his mind a blank because there was so much that he could not bear to think of: Shushila and Manilal. And now Dagobaz – But he must have been wearier than he knew, for sleep overtook him before he was aware of it; and when the familiar nightmare came on him and he awoke sweating with terror, the moon was high up in the sky and the hills were awash with silver.

Juli was still asleep, and after a time Ash abandoned his fruitless survey of the empty hillside, and turning to look at her, experienced none of the emotions that he would have expected the sight and the nearness to her to arouse in him.

She was here beside him, freed at last from her bondage to a hateful husband and an adored sister, and he should by rights have been light-headed with joy and triumph. Instead it was as though all feeling and emotion had drained out of him, and he could only look at her dispassionately and think ‘poor Juli' and feel sorry for her because she must have suffered so much. But then he was sorry for himself too. For having had to kill little Shu-shu, and for his part in bringing about the deaths of Manilal and Dagobaz, whose mortal remains would soon be mangled and made hideous by jackals and vultures and other eaters of carrion.

If only he could have buried them –! Or burned them, as Shushila had burned, so that their bodies like hers could have become clean ash instead of tattered flesh and reddened bones…

Absurdly, it was this thought that hurt most. It seemed in some way a final betrayal that the headless body of fat, faithful, heroic Manilal should be left lying out in the valley, a prey to the corruption and the kites; and that all the strength and grace that had been Dagobaz should be torn in pieces by jackals and carrion crows. Not that Dagobaz would care. But Manilal…

If Fate had permitted Manilal to return to his home in Karidkote and to live out his life there in peace, he too, when he died, would have been taken to the burning-grounds. And afterwards his ashes would have been cast into a mountain stream that would carry them down to the Chenab River, and from there to the Indus – and so at last to the sea. It was not right that his corpse should be left to rot in the open like that of an ownerless dog.

As for Dagobaz – But he would not think of Dagobaz. There was no point in looking back. What was written, was written. The thing to do was to look forward and make plans for the future. Tomorrow… tomorrow they would reach that small green oasis among the barren hills and camp there for the night. And the next day they would be among the jungle-clad foothills, and after that it would not be too long before they reached a made road; though the return journey would be slower, for they could not all ride now that Dagobaz…

What
was
Bukta doing? The moon had not yet risen when he left, but now it was sinking again, and the breeze that blows steadily between sunset and the small hours was already dwindling down towards the lull that lies between night and morning and ends only with the rising of the dawn wind. He should have been back hours ago. Unless… A cold, unpleasant thought slid into Ash's mind and made his skin crawl.

Supposing Bukta had met with an accident on his way to the canyon…? Supposing he had missed his footing in the dark and slipped and fallen – as Dagobaz had done? He might even now be lying stunned and helpless at the foot of some precipitous slope, or creeping painfully on hands and knees up a stony ridge with his ankle broken. Almost anything could have happened to him in these treacherous hills, and as the others would not dare to start without him, they would still be somewhere in the canyon, waiting for him. But how long would they wait?

That faint pulsating glow in the sky above the valley showed that their enemies were still camped there in force, so they would have to leave before the dawn broke, because as soon as it was light enough someone was going to discover that the entrance into the canyon was no longer guarded, and within minutes a hundred men would be on their trail again. If Bukta had met with an accident…

‘I ought to go and look for him,’ thought Ash. ‘If he is hurt, I can always come back for the pony and put him up on it. And after all, I've been over that ground twice now, so there is no reason why I should lose my way.’

But he turned to look at Anjuli again, and knew that he must not go. He could not leave her here alone, for if anything happened to him – if he missed his footing on a steep path or lost his way among the hills, and if Bukta were never to come back – what would become of her? How long would she be able to keep alive if she was left to fend for herself among this maze of parched and desolate hills?

She did not even know in which direction Gujerat lay, and could easily wander back into the valley, where she would be captured and almost certainly killed. He could not take the risk of leaving her. He would have to stay and possess his soul in patience, and pray that Bukta and the others would appear before morning.

The hours that followed had seemed interminable. The shadows lengthened as the moon moved down the sky, and when the breeze died the night became so still that he could hear the sound of Juli's soft breathing and from somewhere very far away the faint, faint howl of a jackal pack; but though he strained his ears to catch the click of hooves on hard ground or the murmur of men's voices, he heard no other sounds. The silence had remained unbroken until at last the dawn wind began to blow, softly at first, and then gathering strength as it swept across the hills, flattening the grass and displacing small stones that went clattering down the gully.

It drove the night before it as a housewife drives dust with her broom, and as the moon paled and the stars vanished, the dawn broke in a flood of yellow light along the eastern horizon – and Ash saw a small dark figure appear on the crest of the ridge, to be briefly silhouetted against that saffron sky before it moved downwards, slowly and tiredly towards the gully.

He ran out to meet it, stumbling across the shale and calling out, lightheaded with relief and careless of how much noise he made; and it was only when he was half-way up the grassy slope that he stopped, and a cold hand seemed to close about his heart. For he realized that there was still only one figure. Bukta was alone; and as he came nearer Ash saw that his clothes were no longer dust-coloured but hideously dappled with great dark stains.

‘They were both dead' – Bukta's voice was flat with exhaustion and he dropped down wearily and without apology, hunkering on the grass like a tired old crow. But the dried blood on his coat was not his own, for he had, he said, arrived only after it was all over.

‘It was clear that some of those sons of dogs had climbed up into the hills, and coming down from behind had taken them by surprise. There had been a fight in the nullah and their horses too were dead – and I think very many of their enemies must also have died, for the ground between the rocks and in the nullah was red with blood, and there were many spent cartridges – so many that I doubt if they left so much as one unfired. But by the time I came, the Bhithori dogs had taken away their own dead and wounded. It must have taken many men to carry them back to the city, as only four men had been left behind to keep watch by the entrance to the nullah…’

A flicker of a smile showed briefly on Bukta's brown, nut-cracker face, and he said grimly: ‘Those four I slew with my knife. One after the other, and without noise; for the fools slept, thinking themselves secure – and why not? They had slain three of us five and must have thought that the other two, one of whom was a woman, would be flying for their lives and far away among the hills. I knew that I should have come away then. But how could I leave the bodies of my master the Sirdar-Sahib, and the Hakim and his servant, lying there unburned at the mercy of wild beasts? That I could not do, and therefore I carried them out one by one to a disused shed that stands near the bank of the stream, making four journeys, for I could not carry Manilal's head and body at one time…

‘When at last I had brought them all, I pulled down the old, dry thatch and made a great pile of it, and placing the bodies upon it, each a little apart, strewed them with powder from my cartridges, and then cut down the roof-poles and supports so that these fell inwards. When all was done I fetched water from the stream and said the proper prayers, and taking flint and tinder, set fire to it and came away, leaving it burning…’

His voice died on a sigh, and Ash thought numbly, ‘Yes. I saw it. I thought it was camp fires. I didn't know –’ It appalled him to think that he had actually seen that pulsating glow and had not known that it was Sarji burning… Sarji and Gobind and Manilal…

Bukta said tiredly: ‘It burned very fiercely, the wood being old and dry. And it is my hope that when it has burned out the wind will carry the ashes of the Sirdar-Sahib and the others into the stream which is hard by, and thus by favour of the gods will they be taken onward to the sea.’

He glanced up at Ash's stricken face and added gently: ‘Do not look like that, Sahib. To us who worship the gods, death is a very little thing: a brief halt only on a long journey during which birth and death are succeeded by re-birth, and again death; and thus on and on, until at last we achieve Nirvana. Therefore why grieve that these three have completed another stage on that journey, and may even now be embarking on the next?’

Ash did not speak and the old man sighed again; he had been greatly attached to Sarjevar. He was also very tired. The night's work had involved enough gruelling labour to have exhausted many a younger man, and he would have liked to stay where he was and rest awhile, but that was not possible.