The Weeping Ash (46 page)

For a moment, leaning against the stone gatepost, she turned sick and faint.

Numbly, she allowed Cal to lead her toward the castle. He would have taken little Chet from her, but she hugged the baby tightly, murmuring:

“No—no, let me hold him. Besides—they would all laugh—those men—if they saw you carrying a ch—carrying a child.” Her teeth began to chatter. She felt suddenly chilled to the bone.

“No, I don't think they'd laugh at me too much,” Cal said with a certain satisfaction in his tone, which his sister noticed, even in her state of distress.

“What do you mean, Cal? Why not?”

“Because it was my spear that killed the leopard!”

She stared at him in amazement, thinking how much younger than herself he sometimes seemed, despite his gifts of intellect and poetic creativity—or perhaps because of them. Overflowing pride in his exploit could still occupy his mind at such a hideous moment. To be sure, it was a very astonishing feat for Cal to have killed the leopard—usually he was wholly uninterested in deeds of sportsmanship, especially if they involved killing something.

“Do you think Sripana will come to hear about it?” he went on eagerly; and then she understood. Poor boy, he thought of himself as a knight-errant, performing feats of valor to impress his lady love.

“I am sure she will. The Bai will probably give her the skin to make herself a cloak—he is so devoted to her, he is always giving her presents.” Cal's face fell a little at this. Scylla went on, “Cal—if
you
killed the leopard, you will be in good standing with the Bai—he must be grateful to you! Do you not think you could ask him to allow that poor girl at least to return to her father's household? I—I cannot
bear
to think of her being kept a prisoner here.
Do!
Pray try!”

Cal's face fell even more. He said doubtfully, “I am not sure if Rob would think that wise. He says that what he has done is quite within his rights as chieftain of the district. And
nothing
is going to bring back that girl's husband, after all.” He added uncomfortably, “Perhaps she may prefer it here to her father's household. I daresay the Bai is not such a bad old fellow. Or one of his sons may have her. She may settle down here tolerably well.”

Scylla flashed him a glance of indignation, almost hatred.

“How
can
you talk so? It is all very well for
you
.” Then, seeing his hurt look, she recollected herself and muttered, “Oh, I am sorry! But pray, Cal,
do
ask Colonel Cameron if nothing can be done. I cannot bear it—that girl's look haunts me.”

“Oh—very well,” he said. “I will ask Rob. But do not you be doing anything foolish, now, Scylla! Mind! You have seen what happens when the Bai is crossed.”

He left her to return to the courtyard, and Scylla went on up to the room she shared with Miss Musson, feeling sick at heart. Mechanically she set about the task of washing and feeding little Chet; not until this was completed did her mind revert to the strange scene with Khalzada. Now the old woman's words—“I see trouble for my grandson the Bai—he is hurt and suffers”—came back to her more forcefully. Vindictively, she thought, I wish I
could
hurt him. Why should he be permitted to abduct that poor girl and kill her husband?

When Miss Musson reappeared, Scylla poured out the whole story. The older woman, too, was troubled but, like Cal, thought there was probably nothing to be done. “You must remember, my dear, that this is the custom of the country. The girl herself must have been aware of the risk when she plighted herself to an outlander. And, in her present circumstances, doubtless she has more resignation than you give her credit for.”

Scylla doubted this. She remembered the desperate scream—the struggle over the knife at the castle door.

“Oh, I wish we could leave this hateful place,” she muttered.

“Well, very likely now the Bai has received his taxes, he can pay Rob what is owing, and we may take our departure,” Miss Musson said, but that only exacerbated Scylla's distress.

“
We
brought on that wretched girl's tragedy! It was to collect money for
our
needs that the Bai summoned his vassals. It is blood money!”

“Come, come, child!” said Miss Musson almost sternly. “There is no purpose in working yourself into high fidgets over the matter. Firstly, there is nothing to be done, and, secondly, the marriage would have been discovered sooner or later in any case. Now I do not want you worrying Colonel Cameron about this, pray! He has enough to concern him as it is, in getting us away from here without disturbing the Bai's touchy notions of honor. And this castle has unhappy memories for him too, do not forget. So show a cheerful face at supper, if you please!”

These were strong words from Miss Musson, who hardly ever found it necessary to reprove her wards, and Scylla took them to heart. This recalled to her mind, too, the story of Cameron's tragedy, which she had been pondering, on and off, ever since Cal told it to her on the first evening. It was so strange—to think that he had been married here, that, ten years ago, he had lived with a wife and child in this very place. And they had somehow perished tragically. Would this be likely to make him sympathetic to that poor girl's troubles? No; Scylla was inclined to think that it might make him less so; she could imagine him callously saying, “Why should her problems touch me? How are they worse than any other?” Before this afternoon Scylla had been feeling deeply for the colonel, wondering if every corner of the castle, every crag of the mountain, did not carry painful memories for him; she fancied that she detected in his face a careworn, grief-stricken expression which made her heart go out to him; but, now, that sympathy was quite quenched; she thought, Among these savage companions, he has reverted to a savage himself. He is probably as ruthless and unfeeling as the Bai himself.

Armed by these feelings of hostility, she washed and robed herself for the evening meal, which was to be yet another feast in celebration of the successful hunt and the equally successful tax levy. The Bai's ladies were dressing themselves up in all their finery: long pleated skirts of shimmering, tissue-like material, and richly embroidered sleeveless jackets embroidered with tiny rubies and turquoises, thick with gold and silver thread; Miss Musson and Scylla were lent similar garments. Then, to Scylla's horror, the captured bride was brought in, her clothes were removed, she, too, was washed, anointed, and carefully robed in a pleated silk skirt, full-sleeved tunic, and embroidered green velvet vest. To all this she submitted limply, apathetically; she seemed to be in a kind of stupor. The women were not unkind to her; they patted her gently, as they were used to do with Scylla and Miss Musson; carefully dressed her long, beautiful black hair in two great plaits, which they wound into a kind of chignon, leaving loose curling locks to hang in front and frame her face, the expression on which was rigid, the calm of despair. She stared straight ahead of her, ignoring her surroundings.

“What can they have done with her?” murmured Scylla, appalled.

Miss Musson put some questions to Habiba, who was carefully draping long chains of gold and amber around the girl's neck. As she did so the girl raised her eyes and looked, briefly and incuriously, at Miss Musson and Scylla; then she dropped her head again, over the gaudy chains dangling on her breast. A horn mug of liquid was brought for her; with passive obedience she received and began to sip it.

“Her name is Dizane,” Miss Musson returned to say. “And she is sixteen years old.”

“But why is she so quiet and stupefied?”

“I believe it is that drink they have been giving her, it is charas, wine made from hemp seeds. It induces that kind of dreamy stupor. Poor girl, it is very hard,” Miss Musson said, sounding riven with sympathy, despite her own advice to Scylla. She added, however, “I daresay it is for the best. The opiates will dull her grief and help her to forget what she has undergone.”

Scylla was not so certain. When the women attending Dizane were not close by, she noticed the girl glance swiftly around her, then pour the contents of the horn beaker among the thick sheepskin rugs on which she sat; this done, she resumed her limp, stupid attitude, allowing her head to fall forward and her hands to lie loosely in her lap.

A moment came when all the women, dissatisfied with some item in Dizane's costume, had hurried off in a chattering group to ransack yet another treasure chest of silk and velvet garments. Miss Musson had taken her way downstairs. Scylla, with her bundle of belongings open, was kneeling by little Chet, wrapping and pinning him more securely in his woolen nightrobe, for as soon as the sun went down the air turned bitterly cold. Suddenly she became aware that Dizane had moved, had sprung up and crossed the room in two lithe, silent strides and was now kneeling by her, pouring out a stream of imploring words. Her words were incomprehensible, but their meaning was clear. She fixed her great urgent black eyes on Scylla's face and made a gesture with her hand—the gesture of one who drives a knife into his own heart—then clasped her hands together again, repeating the gesture and the words that evidently meant, “I beg you, I beg you!”

Next, turning to Scylla's bundle, not urgently but a frantic speed, she rummaged in it, searching, feverishly searching—turned in disappointment, made her gesture again—“For God's sake, by all that you hold sacred—if you have one—give me a knife!” Full of anguish and pity, Scylla began to shake her head, opening her hands helplessly to show she had no weapon. At this Dizane frowned as if in perplexity, perhaps disbelief that any person of sense should lack this piece of vital equipment; then suddenly her eyes flashed and fixed: half wrapped in a woolen hood she had glimpsed the stock of the pistol that Cal had lent Scylla. Silent, swift as a panther, Dizane swooped on it and dragged it out. With one imploring look at Scylla—“You must permit this—you
mus
t
!—my need for it is greater than yours!”—she concealed it under her jacket. Kneeling, she pressed Scylla's hand to her forehead, then quickly kissed Scylla; two seconds later she was back in her place, seated, with shoulders drooping and head bowed among the discarded finery. In another moment the women of the castle had returned with a great gold-embroidered black shawl which they wrapped around Dizane with exclamations of self-approval; then they gently raised her up and led her away.

The subsequent feast was a nightmare to Scylla. Almost mechanically she ate what she could of lamb flavored with garlic and coriander, heavily spiced smoked mutton, and dishes made from rice, raisins, and pistachios, and sweetmeats and cakes of pulverized mulberries, drank tea and, later, tiny cups of coffee. She looked in vain for Dizane among the ladies; the girl did not seem to be there. Perhaps the weapon had already been discovered? Perhaps she had been thrown into some dungeon? Or perhaps she was feigning sleep or sickness, so that she might avoid the feast; or had really succumbed to the drugged wine.

Over and over again Scylla asked herself what she ought to have done, ought to do now. Tell Miss Musson? Tell Cameron? Have him warn the Bai? She did not even know if the pistol was loaded; though she assumed that it was. She remembered Cal's half-laughing caution: “Remember it throws to the left.” Suppose that Dizane, instead of using it on herself, which had plainly been her first intention—suppose she decided instead to revenge herself on the author of all her misfortunes and shoot the Bai? Numb with horror, Scylla could see Khalzada's prophecy fulfilling itself on the same day that it was uttered. And, if the Bai were killed, what would become of Cameron and his party? Their lives would not be worth a pinch of snuff. It would be only too plain where Dizane had obtained her weapon.

Besides, did the Bai deserve to die? He had only been asserting his feudal rights.

Oh, what a fool I have been! Scylla groaned inwardly, clenching her hands together in her lap as she sat cross-legged among the Bai's ladies. Beads of sweat lolled down her forehead and her nose; it was stiflingly hot in the hall, among the press of bodies and the burning braziers; with a detached part of her mind she noticed the coiling smoke from the fires, the incessant din from kettledrums, horns, and brass wind instruments, the dancing boys performing in front of the Bai; the discomfort from the ever present fleas in the woolen floor coverings, stirred to leaping, biting activity by the warmth. Scylla felt ill with anxiety and unwonted indecision. I
cannot
betray Dizane, she thought. There in the village, at that betrothal ceremony, I felt as if she were my sister; I feel it still.

The main part of the repast was already over. The men had finished eating and were drinking more and more koumiss and Kafir and Chitral wine; they were laughing and singing and shouting. Miss Musson, sitting not far away, caught Scylla's eye and nodded, indicating that she thought it best to retire. Scylla half rose, then felt a numbing pain in her head; it seemed to sound in her ears like a gong. The pain passed, instantaneously, but in the same instant she realized that the sound she had heard was Cal's voice, raised in an extraordinary cry, which sounded like a distillation of all the woe and dread in the world. She saw Cal beside Cameron, standing up with his arms extended waveringly; then he crashed to the ground as if he had been struck by a thunderbolt. The men closest around him gasped and rose to their feet in horror.

“Oh
dear
! The poor boy!” Miss Musson exclaimed with a prosaic normality that seemed fantastically out of keeping with the impact of this occurrence. “I did wonder if all this emotional excitement might not occasion one of his epileptic attacks! When I heard that he had killed the snow leopard, I suspected that it might overset him—an event like that, mingled triumph and guilt—for I know that he
abhors
killing—is just the kind of thing to throw him off balance. And in his present state too,” she added, glancing toward Sripana, who looked frightened to death at this mysterious affliction in the Angrezi youth—as were a great many others. The Bai himself had sprung up in horror, evidently suspecting poison or some terrible disease—until Cameron reassured him, quickly murmuring a few words in a low tone. Then all the men gathered around Cal—Scylla could hear them saying to each other: