Danger at Dahlkari (2 page)

“Not in this area,” Sally retorted. “Oh, that Captain Sleeman has done a lot, true, but the Thugs still exist. This area is the last great stonghold of their cult. Ahmed said so. He knows all about it. Sleeman hasn't a clue about their activities here.”

“Ahmed's just trying to frighten you.”

“He's worried, too. Hasn't been himself all day. He keeps watching, expecting them to attack at any moment.”

There was an excited tremor in her voice, and she seemed quite taken with the idea. I smiled, putting the whole thing down to her inordinate love for drama. She scurried off to seek Ahmed, and as I stood there in front of our tent I thought about what she had said. Nonsense. Of course it was nonsense. Even if the Thugs
were
still active in this area, they weren't likely to attack a caravan so large, with so many men. I looked at the five strangers huddled around their fire a short distance from the rest of the camp. It was nice to know they were with us, nice to know they had pistols and daggers. With these new arrivals there were a good twenty men. It was foolish to feel so apprehensive.

Yet I did, and so did the others. Fires burned low, glowing orange blossoms in the darkness, and tents flapped and billowed in the wind. The horses and camels stirred restlessly. A huge moon hung in the sky, gilding the sand with milky white light, intensifying shadows. Monkeys chattered in the nearby jungle. There was a rustling noise in the brush, a gentle cough. I knew the sound well from my youth. A leopard was watching us, and as I peered into the dense black jungle just yards away, it seemed I could see a pair of gleaming yellow eyes. I felt suddenly vulnerable, suddenly afraid, and not because of the leopard. He was merely curious and would go away eventually. I felt vulnerable because I was English, and female, because Sally and I were alone with strangers in the middle of a land that now seemed hostile and threatening.

Men spoke in low, subdued voices, all in their native dialects, and I wished they were English, wished they were hearty, jovial soldiers with polished boots and clattering spurs. I hadn't the typical English suspicion of “the natives”—I had been raised with them, had been devoted to my native ayah—but I was acutely aware that Sally and I were the “foreigners” in this camp, tolerated because we were white and therefore important, mistrusted for the same reasons. Though he had been exceedingly voluble, Yasmin Singh had maintained a certain reserve from the first. His men had been silent and withdrawn, pretending not to speak English. Only Ahmed had been friendly. As I watched the camp fires flickering red-orange in the dark and heard the soft flap of tents billowing, I wished I had listened to reason back in Delhi. We should have waited for Lieutenant Parks to recover. I had known that at the time, but my eagerness to see Dollie had blinded me to all reason.

As the turbaned guard moved nervously around the perimeter of the camp with rifle held against his shoulder, I thought about the Thugs and their dreadful cult. It had existed for centuries, like a great cobweb of horror spreading all over India, but it was only in recent years that it had come to the attention of the British. The Thugs believed that Kali had given the roads to them, that any traveler was their natural prey. Their victims were strangled with the rumal, a handkerchief or scarf they had been trained to use with great skill, the corpses broken and mutilated and buried, never a trace to be found. I had read about the Thugs and shuddered, as had all God-fearing Christians, for it was the horror story of the century. One Thug alone had calmly admitted to killing over eight hundred innocent people, showing no guilt, no remorse, for he had done it in the name of Kali, the sacred goddess of death and destruction. Men like Captain Sleeman and Captain Meadows Taylor had devoted years to suppressing the cult and breaking up their hideous bands. Captain Taylor's book,
Confessions of a Thug
, had appeared only last year. I wished now I hadn't read it.

Surely the roads were safe, I told myself. Surely Ahmed had merely been teasing Sally. I tried to put the horror out of my mind, but it was a futile endeavor. I slept little that night, and now, as the caravan moved slowly across the sand toward the black-green line of jungle on the horizon, I scolded myself severely and resolved to think of other things. The yellow heat waves shimmered. The puffs of dust rose and swelled and hung suspended in the air. I thought about Dollie and Dahlkari and the joys of reunion awaiting me there.

“You get the sunstroke, maybe,” Ahmed said.

I turned, startled to find him moving along beside me.

“Parasol not enough,” he said, “You get back in palanquin, yes?”

“I'm prefectly all right, Ahmed,” I informed him.

“English Missy stubborn,” he replied, grinning that charmingly boyish grin. “Our women, they wear the burka. It keeps out the sun and keeps the men from seeing what they should not see.”

“English customs are different, Ahmed,” I told him. “It—it isn't improper for a man to see a woman's face and—and shape in English communities.”

Ahmed nodded with mock severity. There was a mischievous gleam in his dark brown eyes, and I was very aware that my white muslin frock sprigged with tiny violet flowers was rather low cut, the waist formfitting, full skirt flaring over half a dozen ruffled petticoats. Hardly a suitable garment for traipsing in the desert, I thought, but at least the muslin was cool, and most of my other things had been shipped on ahead to Dahlkari two weeks ago. The matching parasol I carried warded off the fiercest rays of the sunlight.

“I shan't stay out too long,” I promised, “and besides, the sun has already started going down.”

Ahmed nodded. “Soon we camp. We camp at the edge of the jungle. They must like what they see, Miss Gray, the sahibs, I mean. You have a very pretty face.”

“Why—thank you, Ahmed,” I replied, a bit startled.

“Your complexion so creamy, soft pink at the cheeks like rose petals, yes? Your mouth is the color of coral, and your hair—it is, yes, I have it, it is the color of moonlight on teak.”

My hair was a rich chestnut brown, and in a certain light it did indeed have a silvery sheen. Moonlight on teak. Ahmed was most poetic, and rather too forward, I thought. While Sally might relish his flowery compliments, I found them a trifle irritating. I knew that I was exceptionally pretty with my high, sculptured cheekbones and classic features, but it was not at all important, not nearly as important as my intelligence. While I had no vanity about my looks, I was inordinately proud of my mind.

“You find husband in Dahlkari?” Ahmed continued.

“I—I'm not interested in finding a husband,” I retorted. “That's not why I've come to India.”

“No? All the other English missys, that's why they come—the ones not so pretty. They don't find a husband in England, they take the ship to India to marry one of the soldiers. English missys very smart, know the English men in India don't see many English girls, so even the not-so-pretty missys always get a husband. Is very smart.”

“You—you're very observant, Ahmed.”

“Me, I
like
the English. They my friends. I learn to speak the English well, no?”

“You speak quite nicely,” I replied.

“Is good for business,” he confided. “My father, he doesn't speak the English at all. Is bad. The English sahibs buy much silk for their women. Me, I do all the business with them.”

“Your father must be proud of you.”

“Is very proud, says Ahmed a shrewd fellow.”

Ahmed grinned, pleased with himself. I detected a touch of arrogance, a purposeful determination that wasn't at all in keeping with his affable façade. He was an exceedingly handsome youth, strong and virile, and if he swaggered a bit it was only natural. He walked beside me for a few minutes more, describing the ruined temple in the jungle ahead, then sauntered off to speak to one of the grim-looking natives who had joined the caravan. The two of them spoke in quiet voices, and once Ahmed laughed. He kicked at a pile of pebbles in the sand and paused to pick one up, scattering the rest in patterned disarray, then moved toward the back of the caravan and out of sight.

As we drew closer to the jungle, I could see huge gray boulders near the edge that looked for all the world like herds of gigantic elephants. As the caravan moved slowly on, the steel-gray sky gradually turned to yellow as the sun began to set. When we finally struck camp, the sky was a darkening yellow-orange, deep golden streamers on the horizon. The tents were pitched. Fires were started. Horses and camels were herded together in a makeshift rope corral. We were camped in a large clearing, the enormous gray boulders looming up on three sides, the jungle forming a fourth. The protective boulders afforded a sense of security missing on the open sands, and everyone seemed far more relaxed that they had been the night before. I was more relaxed, too, my fears quite forgotten.

“More curry,” Sally said, strolling over to join me in front of our tent. “What wouldn't I give for a nice slab of beef and some Yorkshire pudding.”

“I thought you adored the native dishes,” I teased.

“I do,” she retorted, “I do indeed. They're quite interesting, but seven days a week? I'm beginning to hate curry, Miss Lauren. I might as well confess it.”

There was a mournful note in her voice, and I had to smile. Sally was a delightful creature, not quite as tall as I and exceedingly well endowed, a fact her gold and brown sprigged yellow cotton dress did nothing to hide. Her full, rounded bosom strained against the low-cut bodice, and the snug fit emphasized her slender waistline. The full skirt cascaded over flaring cotton petticoats. With her saucy brown eyes and long tarnished gold curls, Sally was indeed a fetching sight, a bit too bold, a bit too earthy to be a suitable companion for Miss Lauren Gray of the Hampton Academy for Select Young Ladies.

“I suppose we'll get proper English food at Dahlkari?” she said.

“I should think so.”

“No more of those dreadful chapati, I hope, and I must admit I've had enough rice to last me a lifetime. Have you seen Ahmed around?” she inquired abruptly.

“Not recently. Not since we stopped, in fact.”

“I've been looking for him. Can't find him anywhere.”

“I wonder where he could have gone?”

“I don't know,” she replied wearily. “I wandered a bit behind the boulders, and—Miss Lauren, I saw the strangest thing. There was a gigantic hole, way over there, behind the largest group of rocks.”

“A hole?”

“It—it looked freshly dug. I thought it most unusual.”

“Why would anyone want to dig a large hole?”

“I don't know. It wasn't all that deep, really, not more than four or five feet, but it was very wide. An elephant could easily curl up in it. Strange—”

Sally shook her head, a slight frown creasing her brow. All around us there were sounds of camp. Small fires crackled. Pots jangled as the evening meal was prepared, exotic odors wafting through the air. Two bearers were feeding the animals, and in front of his tent Yasmin Singh was giving orders to his servants. The five strangers wandered around the camp separately, more friendly than they had been before. I saw one of them chatting with the men who carried my palanquin, another talking to a servant cooking rice in a bubbling pot. The sky was an ashy gray now, and on the horizon streaks of dark crimson-orange glowed fiercely, gradually fading. Twilight was beginning to fall, a slight blue haze thickening in the air, and the intense heat was, thankfully, over.

“Why were you looking for Ahmed?” I asked.

“I wanted him to show me those ruins in the jungle. There's a crumbling old temple, he said, all covered with vines and adorned with the most unusual carvings. There used to be a city there, hundreds of years ago, but the temple's all that's left now.”

“Ahmed told me about it. It sounds fascinating.”

“I had my heart set on seein' it,” she said, peeved. “Now why would he disappear like that, the rascal? Truth to tell, Miss Lauren, Ahmed's been acting a bit—well, cheeky of late. Like he can take liberties just because I'm
friendly
.”

“I expect you'd best watch yourself,” I told her. “Ahmed isn't like the others. He—he's not English. The natives have very definite ideas about women, about—”

“Don't I know it,” Sally interrupted. “He'd like to ravish me and toss me into a harem or seraglio or whatever they call 'em in India. It's quite exciting, of course, but, all the same, there's something a bit frightening about it. He does look a dream with those glorious dark eyes and that enchanting grin, but—” She paused, searching for words.

“Ahmed isn't quite the uncomplicated youth he appears to be,” I supplied.

“You got that impression, too, then?”

I nodded. “He makes me a bit uncomfortable.”

“That's it. That's it exactly. Oh, he's a marvel with words, a regular poet, said my hair was like liquid gold, my eyes like dark topaz, my body like—well, uh, he
is
poetic, but I have the feeling something savage is lurking just beneath the surface, ready to spring. It's most disconcerting.”

Sally reached up to brush a lock of gold hair from her temple, a troubled look in her eyes. The horizon was a blaze of crimson now, the ashy gray sky turning darker. The blue haze of twilight grew thicker. A camel squealed. Horses neighed. Tents flapped as a slight breeze swept through the camp. One of the bearers had begun to play a flute. For some reason I was restless, and I could sense that Sally was, too. She sighed and looked at the green wall of jungle, trees festooned with garlands of vines and exotic plants. The birds and monkeys had grown silent.

“I did so want to see that temple,” she said. “Ahmed said it was used for human sacrifice—Miss Lauren, let's go find it! It's just a short distance from camp, Ahmed said so. We could get there and back before it gets really dark.”