The Maharajah's Monkey (15 page)

I couldn't hold my tongue. “We must try and catch these people,” I declared. “After all, they are kidnappers, would-be assassins, murderers.” Turning to the boy king I pleaded, “Will you help us?”

The Maharajah made a gesture with his hands: “Anything! For Waldo the American who saved my life—and Kit who saved my—how you say—” he tapped his head.

“Wits?” I offered.

“Yes, wits. Awful Spraggs made my head boil. Take all you need. Horses. Foods. Tents. Best guides.”

My father and aunt still looked gloomy and I understood from their faces the enormity of the challenge facing us. How would we ever find our enemies in the wildest mountains in the world?

“Do not despair,” the Dewan said softly. “The game is
not over and we have the trump card.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“The Dalai Lama does not allow foreigners into Tibet.”

“Who is the Dalai Lama?” I asked, reddening a little, for I was ashamed of my ignorance.

“He is a monk king. He rules Tibet and allows no one inside his high mountain kingdom. Not the Chinese, not the Russians. Certainly not you Britishers, for he fears you wish to steal his country away from him.” He stopped a moment and grinned at us: “After all, you
are
known for stealing other people's countries.”

My aunt painfully forced down a biting retort.

“No one can get inside Tibet, it is too dangerous,” the Dewan went on. “There is no pleasant way to put this. If the guards find you they will kill you—slowly and painfully. They will roast you alive, or pull the nails out of your fingers, one by one. You will need the right guide to stand any chance. You understand me—there are only a few men in the world who can take you to this place.

“But these are only practical things. Really, the journey to Tibet and its most sacred place, Shambala, is a voyage to your soul. Only when you journey inside yourself will these holy mountains share their blessings with you.”

I stared at him. Many Indians, I noticed, could not speak plainly. They would use flowery phrases or talk in riddles, when a straightforward explanation would do. Their words created more fog than light! “Journey inside yourself” indeed! I am a girl, not the Great Indian Railway.

“Open your mind to India,” he said, smiling.

“If I open my mind any wider my brains will drop out,” I said. The Maharajah tittered and my aunt frowned at my impertinence. But even as I spoke, my map, folded near my heart, whispered its own rebuke.

Don't mock what you don't yet understand
, it murmured.
Listen and you will find a way. Go. Go. Hurry, now—because time is fleeting
.

“Is this really necessary, Aunt Hilda?” I wondered, looking at the mounds of luggage heaped on the station platform. There were mosquito nets and khaki drill tents, walking boots and mountaineering ropes, tinned meat and vegetables, dry biscuits and dates. Rifles were stacked besides glittering ammunition belts. Of course, we had brought my aunt's favorite explorer's staple, that stomach-turning concoction of lard and potted meat called pemmican. My aunt—never one to face hardship without as many home comforts as she could manage—had really outdone herself this time. There were at least five pairs of socks for each and every one of us.

“Surely all this luggage will weigh us down,” I added.

“Pish-posh,” she replied briskly. “Better late in this life than early in the next.”

“Pardon?”

“It is an old Indian saying. It means go slowly and be
prepared. This is no picnic we're embarking on, my dear Kit. We are going to one of the most dangerous places on earth. I, for one, would like to have several pairs of woolly socks when my toes threaten to drop off with frostbite.”

She was right. I gulped down further protests.

The Maharajah had made good his promise and with incredible speed all the necessities had been assembled for our journey to the Himalayas. The royal carriages had been freshly washed, so you could actually see the Maharajah's crest—a prowling tiger. As we spoke, the steam train hooted, calling us to our epic journey—across the deserts of Rajasthan then on to Simla, in the foothills of the Himalayan mountains.

The Himalayas: the first step into the unknown.

The Maharajah had come down from the palace to bid us farewell, as had the Dewan. Part of me was sad to be leaving Baroda, for we had been showered with kindness here. I had become especially fond of Sonali, the elephant, and went to see her in the stables every day. I loved her wrinkled skin and tender eyes. I had even grown used to her attacks of wind, which were unbelievably foul smelling! Most of me, though, was thrilled to be off. But my poor afflicted father, whose stomach had been playing up ceaselessly, was very pale and I feared that Rachel was equally wan. The Minchin, in a
faded frock she had buttoned up wrongly, was the most subdued. Her eyes were red and puffy and tears had left visible tracks amid the thick powder on her cheeks.

“Where's Prinsep?” Rachel whispered to me. “Miss Minchin is terribly upset to be leaving. I wish she could stay with him.”

That would be wonderful, I thought. Every day, even during our voyage and our stay at the palace we had to take time off for “tedious lessons.” Only lately—as love had bloomed—Miss Minchin had become rather lackadaisical in her teaching.

Without waiting for me to reply Rachel muttered something and disappeared down the platform. Where was Prinsep? Did he really care for our governess so little that he couldn't even be bothered to see us off? I looked up and down the platform, but though the station was bustling with vendors of chai and nuts and sweetmeats, there was no sign of the gangling form of the Maharajah's tutor. Suddenly the whole affair became clear to me.

Mr. Prinsep was a cad!

He had been trifling with the Minchin's affections.

How dare he! Steam building up inside my head, I stamped down the platform looking for the Maharajah. It took me a few moments to find him, chatting amid the piled luggage, to my father and the Dewan.

“You must bid Mr. Prinsep goodbye. For I fear he has been unable to come to see us off,” I said crossly.

The Maharajah looked at me in surprise, but the Dewan was wiser. He smiled at me, as if highly amused. “Your kind heart does you credit. Though you do not always show it wisely,” he murmured.

“I should think those who do not bother to show loyalty to their friends are the most unwise,” I replied.

“I'm afraid it was not in Mr. Prinsep's gift to accompany us here. I have sent him off on an errand.”

“Oh.”

“I realize your little governess is er … a bit sad.” The Dewan turned to my father. “The Maharajah has a proposition which he wishes me to put to you before I ask her.”

“Pardon?” Father blinked. He is so clever but sometimes he fails to understand normal conversation.

“I wish to offer your Miss Minchin a position. If you agree of course.”

“A position?” Father asked. “She isn't qualified for government—”

“She is very well qualified indeed for this post,” the Dewan interrupted. “The Maharani, the Dowager Queen, has for a long time felt the need for a companion. She would like a genteel English lady, cultured in music and conversation, to teach her the ways of
Britishers. The Maharajah feels this would greatly aid the lady.”

Father blinked, uncertain, but my heart was singing. This was wonderful! No more Miss Minchin, no more Latin and grammar and tedious nursery tasks. She could stay in Baroda—and maybe one day, who knows, Prinsep's starchy baronet father would consent to their wedding. This was a boon from nowhere. Then I had a vision of the Minchin peering out through barred palace windows, like the dark-eyed beauty I had seen earlier that day. That awful Zenana. She would be forced to spend her life behind bars, like some creature in a zoo. Her face covered in a veil. Never able to visit the shops or stroll in the park. It would be intolerably harsh for someone who was used to her freedom. Why, she would not even be able to meet her admirer.

“She can't!” I burst out.

“I know how attached you are to your governess,” the Dewan smiled.

“I'm not,” I spluttered.

“Kit!” father objected.

“Sorry. I mean it's not that. Miss Minchin can't live in the Zenana. She would hate it. Not being able to go out by herself. Not allowed to—”

“It is hard to understand some foreign customs,” the Dewan said. “I think you will be pleased, Kit, to learn
that the Maharajah shares your poor opinion of the Zenana.”

“Yes,” the Maharajah burst in. “I am to end the Zenana. The Maharani will be first royal lady to give up purdah. Miss Minchin will not have Zenana.”

“Oh … in that case the position would be fine. I mean, we are very honored by the offer, Your Highness.”

“Shouldn't your father be the one to judge?” the Dewan asked.

“Er … yes, Miss Minchin can certainly come with us,” Father said absently, his eyes wandering away. I could see he hadn't been listening.

The Dewan gave me a smile of sympathy, as if he understood how difficult it was for me to manage my father. I could see he was still chuckling as he strolled down the platform to where Miss Minchin was drooping by the luggage. Isaac and Waldo were in an excited gaggle besides her and my aunt was energetically superintending the travel arrangements. But my governess looked remote from the noise, heat and bustle. She was in a daze, floating amid her smashed dreams. I watched while the Dewan drew her aside and spoke a few words to her. Surprise chased bewilderment across her face. Then, finally, Miss Minchin understood what the Dewan was proposing. Forgetting all her manners, she threw her arms around the old man's neck. Radiant with delight.

Father was watching Miss Minchin, though I could tell he wasn't really
seeing
her.

“She's staying at the palace,” I told him.

“Er … is she? …” he muttered. “Rather a good thing all round.”

“Heaven sent,” I agreed.

“You could stay with Miss Minchin. Keep her company, along with your friends, of course.”

I looked at him aghast. “I don't think it's
my
company she wants!”

“No? Very well, just so,” he mumbled and strolled off, muttering to himself.

Rachel had materialized by my side and we watched my father amble away. Excitedly, I told her the news about Miss Minchin. We were free! Liberated from lessons, though I didn't expect my swottish best friend to see it that way.

At that moment someone brushed against my sleeve, it was Prinsep. He didn't bother to apologize, just flashed me a foolish smile and hurried on to the Minchin. He had plainly heard the good news.

“Isn't it wonderful?” I gushed to Rachel. “I suppose I can take the credit for finding Miss Minchin a husband after all.”

“
Well done
,” Rachel said. Her voice was just a little sarcastic. I stared at her, dumbfounded.

“Rachel?”

“Yes?”

“It was
you
, wasn't it?
You
suggested to the Dewan that Miss Minchin could stay behind.”

“I may have had something to do with it,” Rachel murmured, mysteriously. “Look, that coolie is running off with my bag. You there, boy!” She broke into an unladylike gallop after the man. “Stop!”

We traveled for three thrilling weeks after leaving the Maharajah's palace, chugging through the parched deserts of Rajasthan and up into the foothills of the highest mountains on earth. For Father, our journey was the purest misery. We were barely out of Baroda when his stomach began to gurgle. By the time we reached the Himalayas and shifted from train to swaying carriage, he was as pale as a lily, though sadly for the rest of us he didn't exactly smell like one. Poor Papa couldn't help noticing how we all tried to avoid sitting next to him. The rest of us sighed at the lovely scenery: snow-capped mountains, plunging hair-pin bends, forests clinging like cloudlets to tumbling precipices. Father spent the whole time staring at his shoes, when he wasn't stopping the carriage to vomit—or worse—by the wayside.

The only thing he was grateful for in the hills was the cool, fresh air. I breathed in lungfuls of the stuff, a relief after the stickiness of the stifling plains below. Simla was
a lovely sight: a town shaped like a crescent moon, perched amid rhododendrons and oaks, on the steeply terraced hillside. I spied graceful houses and Gothic churches. The perfect place to regain our strength, before pressing onward to the mountains just visible through the mist.

I was confident that Father would recover when we rented rooms in a small boarding house. But, poor thing, he actually seemed to get worse. Admittedly, our lodgings, run by a complaining Irishwoman, were rather gruesome. Stuffed dead animals were everywhere; looming over the dinner table as you gulped down the mulligatawny soup, leering from above the mirror as you washed your face. Mummified lions, tigers, cheetahs, leopards, hares. No wonder Papa had given up and retired to his bed.

The mummy of a tortoise, its nose poking out of its shell, was placed on the wall above father's sick bed. Father and the tortoise were strangely alike. Both gray, sickly-looking and wrinkled.

“Papa, do not be too brave,” I said. “Shall I call the doctor again?”

He groaned a refusal—but spoke no word. I wondered how much further he could carry on. Clearly he was going nowhere today. His only comfort was that he was not the only invalid. In the next room was Monsieur
Champlon, harrying the maids by ringing his bell every few minutes demanding more pillows or soda. I believe fear was behind his unreasonable behavior. He was scared the Baker Brothers would seek him out for special punishment, for, after all, he had defied their attempts at blackmail.