The Tiger's Lady (17 page)

Waiting patiently in the night.

As deadly as the jungle itself.

Less than a mile away, atop the crest of a small hill, a thin line of smoke trailed skyward, invisible against the darkness. Before the fire sat a thin brown man in an undyed, homespun loincloth. His eyes, focused on the dancing flames, were the color of sun-dried coffee beans.

Coffee.

The devil’s drink. The commodity that had spelled the death of his beloved island.

Mumbling hoarsely, the shaman sat forward and peered into the snapping flames.

In their big ships the foreigners had come, darkening the harbors like evil birds. First the Dutch and now the English carried their bright gold guineas to lure his people into clearing the
sal
trees and burning the sweet, screening bamboo.

All so that the English could plant more of their devil crop.

With money and honeyed promises they had seduced his people into forsaking the old ways. With their clever words, they made the Sinhalese forget the old gods, the old legends.

His beloved island had changed completely. All its people could see now was the flash of yellow gold. All they could think of were the toys and cheap trinkets that the blue-eyed
Angrezi
used to seduce them.

Anger swept across the old man’s gaunt face. Silently he reached into a pouch at his hip, removing a handful of white powder, which he sprinkled over the flames.

Instantly the fire erupted with angry sparks.

The chief of the ten tribes looked up from the blaze, well content with what he had seen there.

Soon the white man would meet his match, the flames foretold. Every day the leaf weakness grew, choking the devil plants. Soon there would be none left untouched.

Then the shaman saw something else in the white-hot embers—small circles, lined up like the pugmark of a tiger.

His eyes blazed, triumph coursing through him. So the time had come at last for the summoning of the tiger, just as the legends had foretold! Now the white king would drive out the foreign invaders and lead his people to reclaim their sacred homeland.

Behind him a bamboo began to shake, whispering of future glories. The shaman’s eyes took on a glazed, faraway look.

Even now the great beast waited. He could feel it out in the steamy darkness, blue eyes burning, great chest heaving. Midway down the hill it crouched beneath an ancient
sal
tree, panting in the heat.

But there was something else…

The old man peered down into the flames again, his gnarled hands scattering another handful of powder.

From the hissing flames a pair of shining eyes gleamed back at him. Brave eyes, with the changeable hue of peacock feathers.

Desperate eyes, he saw now. Eyes that had looked into the blank face of night and been blinded by loss.

Empty
eyes.

The shaman’s breath caught sharply. A woman, by the great Kali! A woman from the city of fog in the
Angrezi’s
devil land.

Murmuring the words of an ancient and very secret chant, the old seer focused on that image, willing it to grow and take on clearer lines. As he watched, the log hissed, then burst into flames and collapsed in upon itself.

The old man’s heart thundered in triumph. All praise to Shiva, Creator and Destroyer! All praise to his consort, the all-seeing Kali, Mother of Time and savior of her faithful!

The
Angrezi
woman changed everything, of course. Now the contest could begin in earnest.

The shaman smiled, tasting the sweetness of revenge. With a final prayer to Shiva for his merciful intercession, the old man rose sinuously to his feet and started downhill, barely checking his stride to accept the ivory walking stick one of his followers held out, head bowed.

At last the time had come.

The shaman quickened his pace. He would have much to do before the sun climbed next from the molten silver sea.

Minutes passed.

Or perhaps it was hours.

The pounding began in his chest and hammered out through his whole body until Pagan thought he would be torn in two.

Sick again
, he thought. Cursed
malaria…

The cinchona drink was right there on his campaign desk.

Why the hell hadn’t he taken it?

Around him the jungle lay in unnatural silence. Only the bamboos moved, rustling in the wind.

Like a warning.

Pagan frowned, fingering the butt of his rifle, wondering where the white devil was hiding now. His hands slipped in his own sweat, and he cursed. From behind him came the crunch of palm fronds and he spun about, his eyes focused on the dark, restless dance of the jungle.

Nothing. Only shadows. More bloody shadows…

The tiger could appear anywhere, the Englishman knew, usually from the place one least expected.

Pain slammed into him, driving shard-sharp into his brain, destroying his thought and will.

Bloody damned malaria.

“You’ll not have me!” he shouted to the waiting darkness, to the restless bamboos.

To the white death he felt watching from the top of the hill.

“Not me. Not Windhaven either!”

The branches of a nearby
sal
tree began to shake; high above, a myna screeched in terror.

But Deveril Pagan hardly noticed.

Lost in nightmare visions, the grim-faced Englishman clutched his rifle and stumbled blindly down the path toward the beach.

Pain, everywhere pain.

It squeezed her, choked her until she slipped in her own tears. Inside her head, across her shoulders, down her spine—always the pain.

No more!
a wild voice screamed. Not
her
voice, Barrett thought dimly. No creature could sound so desperate as that.

Suddenly she was falling, plunged into cool darkness. Somewhere far away she heard a muffled shout, followed by the thump of heavy feet.

Then she heard no more. Water gushed into her nose and mouth and lungs.

She gasped, tempted to give in. How sweet to sink into the darkness! How sweet to let the black wings gather her up until she felt no more.

No fear.

No pain.

No more gnawing horror of memory.

Feet pounded somewhere nearby. More shouting…

Cool waves in a black glass night.

And then that, too, was forgotten. By reflex, her hands reached out, clawing the glossy darkness until she sputtered up into cool, clear air. She threw back her head, gasping for breath.

High overhead, like diamonds flung across a black velvet cloth, the stars flashed back at her.

Water.

She must be floating at sea.
Where
at sea, she hadn’t the slightest idea.

Now all she could think of was finding the next breath, of churning her way over the black swells that never stopped coming.

Fight—must fight.

But every crashing wave made her weaker, until her arms shook and her lungs ached.

Trailing phosphorescence swept past her right shoulder, burning like pinpricks of flame.
Some small, wretched sea creature fighting to stay alive, just as I am,
she thought.

Although her legs were leaden, she attacked the waves anew, for in some way that faint shock had revived her and given her new resolve.

Slanting her head, she dragged in a ragged breath, at the same moment glimpsing a fuzzy orange glow to her right.

A fire?

Fire meant land, she thought dizzily. And land meant safety!

Gasping, she began to struggle toward the faint ember that glowed like hope against the night. Her heart racing, she fought her way through the cold waves.

Toward the far shore.

Toward safety.

Toward a place where pain and shame did not exist.

Behind her, all unnoticed, the past flickered and blurred, then winked out altogether, swept far away into the leaden darkness of the night, where it could not harm her.

With the first cool sweep of water, sanity returned—or partial sanity. Blindly Pagan waded out into the silver-webbed currents, feeling the madness loosen its chill grip.

The malaria was always close, one of his many mementos of India. Like the jagged scar that ran the length of his torso, the fevers were a legacy of the Great Mutiny—and of Cawnpore.

Cawnpore.
Place of madness and bloodlust. Place where death hung tangible and suffocating in the burning air.

At the memory, a chill swept over him. Only the water, Pagan told himself grimly.

But he knew it was a lie.

It was Cawnpore that made him shiver, Cawnpore that he would never forget. Someone needed to remember, after all.

Smothering a curse, he plunged cleanly into the silken darkness, letting the cool currents close over him. He stroked deeper, trying to forget those long weeks of fire and carnage when the Sepoy flames had swept across India.

In a week he had lost his house, in a fortnight all his carefully tended fields.

In a month he had lost his servants and all his friends. Dry-eyed, he had watched everything that he had ever worked for swept away in one great paroxysm of hatred.

Now eight years later here he stood, captive of a dream on an island that hung like a tear from the eye of India. And here he’d stay, his back to the mist-hung mountains, his face to the southwest monsoon, determined to fight, determined to hack a living out of the jungle.

And he’d bloody well succeed.

If the nightmares didn’t destroy him first. If somehow he could manage to forget Cawnpore…

Cursing harshly, Pagan lifted his powerful arms and stroked back up to the surface, water sliding from his head and shoulders like scattered diamonds.

He filled his lungs, treading water. Smoke mingled with pungent native herbs drifted down from somewhere on the ridge. More secret rites in the night?

He had threatened his workers with instant dismissal if he found them skulking off to worship the skull of Kali, but apparently his threats had failed. The native workers would do as they pleased, just as they always did.

Once more Pagan plunged down, throwing back his head and letting the cool water sweep over him.