Danger at Dahlkari (7 page)

“Slow down, you rogue! What is this, a five-mile sprint? Watch that branch, Miss Lauren. I'm a game girl, but enough is enough! I might as well save my breath,” she groaned. “He's a thoroughly heartless brute any way you look at it.”

We finally stumbled into a tiny clearing in the middle of the jungle, not even as large as the one with the idol had been. Limbs stretching overhead formed a rustling ceiling, tree trunks and flowering vines closing in on every side. I could hear a pleasant gurgling noise in the distance, the sound of running water, and realized there must be a stream. The native motioned for us to remain here and then, pushing back a curtain of vines covered with scarlet flowers, led the horse out of the clearing and toward the sound of water. Sally and I crumpled to the ground. It was surprisingly soft and spongy, covered with a mossy grass. It was sheer paradise to be off our feet.

Both of us were too weary to talk. Sally looked like a battered doll with brassy hair and nervous, exhausted features, a smudge of dirt on her cheek. Her once bright yellow dress was in deplorable condition, covered with dirt and stains, the bodice ripped. My own white muslin was in an even worse state, the skirt torn in several places, one sleeve hanging down sadly. A few fading rays of sunlight streamed through the rustling leaves to make flickering pools on the grass, and to the monkeys peering at us from the trees we must have looked like two ragged nymphs. It seemed an eternity ago since we had left Delhi, I thought. I leaned back on the grass, closing my eyes, and when I opened them the clearing was brushed with hazy silver, shadows spreading over the ground.

Sally was still fast asleep. I had no idea how much time had passed. It was cool now, much cooler than it had been the night before. I shivered, wondering where our guide was. The jungle was silent, the monkeys asleep, the birds still, faint rustles and crackles only intensifying the silence. Sally groaned in her sleep and turned over on her side, her head cradled on her arms. Stiff and sore, my bones aching, I stood up and stretched, beginning to grow alarmed. Where was the native? What had happened to him? Surely … surely he wouldn't abandon us?

It was then that the curtain of flowering vines parted and the native stepped into the clearing, the carcass of some small animal slung over his shoulder. I gave a little cry, startled, and he shook his head to indicate I shouldn't be afraid. I wondered where the horse was. He had probably left it tethered nearby after feeding and watering it, I reasoned. He slung the animal to the ground, squatted and took out a long, sharp knife that gleamed in the moonlight. Ignoring me completely, he began to skin the animal, and I turned away, repulsed by the grisly sight. I had no idea what kind of animal he had killed, and it was probably best that I didn't. At least we were going to eat tonight, and at the moment I would welcome anything.

Animal skinned and spread out on some leaves, the man used his knife to dig a small hole in the ground. He circled it with stones, filled it with wood and then thrust two Y-shaped sticks in the ground, on one either side of the hole. Reaching inside his robe, he withdrew a flint, and in a moment the fire was burning pleasantly, bright orange flames driving the moonlight away and filling the clearing with dancing shadows. Spearing the remains of the animal on a long stick, he placed it across the fire, letting the homemade spit rest on the two upright sticks. Flames licked at the meat, and soon grease was dripping and popping and the meat crackled as he squatted beside the fire and turned the spit. He had not looked at me once. I might not even have been there.

Sally awoke with a start, sitting up abruptly.

“Is that
meat
?” she exclaimed.

“Of sorts,” I said.

“I was having this glorious dream—I was dreaming of a fat roast pig, all pink and juicy, stretched out on a platter with an apple in its mouth. It was so real I could
smell
it. What's he cooking?”

“I don't know, but I doubt that it's pig.”

Whatever it was, it was absolutely delicious. When the meat was done the native cut it into sections, placed the sections on leaves and handed Sally and I each a serving. Then, squatting on the other side of the fire, he took a meaty joint between his two hands and began to eat with considerable relish. Sally and I exchanged glances, and then, shrugging, she took up her section and imitated the native, as did I. Sitting with our legs folded under us, skirts spread out, we ate in a most undignified manner. We each had a second helping and finally, tossing the last bone into the jungle, wiped our hands on our skirts and drank from the canteen the native tossed over to us.

“It was probably jackal or something,” Sally said thoughtfully, “but I've never enjoyed a meal more.”

“Nor have I.”

“We—we've been very lucky, Miss Lauren.”

“I know that.”

“I keep thinking of—what happened, can't help myself. I keep thinking of Ahmed, that poor, beautiful boy.” She paused for a long moment, peering into the low-burning flames. “We—we just missed them, Miss Lauren. They'd been in that clearing with that horrible idol, perhaps just moments before we arrived. They slipped through the jungle another way, moving toward the campsite as we entered the clearing. If—if they'd gone by way of the path we took they'd have run right into us.”

I nodded, trying not to shudder.

“It's a wonder they didn't hear us crashing through the jungle,” Sally continued. “Some special providence was looking out for us. We had a very close call. I'll be so glad when this night's over.” She glanced around at the dark, encroaching jungle. “The way I figure, I figure if they don't come back by tonight, they won't come back at all.”

Our guide stood up abruptly and stepped toward the curtain of vines, lifting them and disappearing. I could hear the horse neighing nearby, hear his voice low and melodic as he soothed the animal. He returned a moment later with two rather mothy looking blankets he'd taken out of the saddle bags. Dropping them in front of us, he moved to the other side of the clearing and stretched out on the ground to sleep. Sally and I examined the blankets with dubious expressions.

“Probably full of fleas,” she remarked, “but they're better than nothing, I suppose. It's already chilly, and the fire's almost burned down. I don't fancy I'll be able to
sleep
much.”

“We might as well try,” I told her.

The night air was indeed chilly, and the blankets were snug and warm, smelling of horseflesh and leather and perspiration. The jungle was still, so still I could hear the soft buzz of the insects and the sound of the stream. The fire was a heap of glowing dark orange coals, gradually dimming, dark shadows spreading over the clearing like heavy black veils. The moonlight was thin, only a few pale rays sifting through the treetops, emphasizing the darkness. I could barely make out the form of the native stretched out across the way, his burnoose a faint blur in the dense darkness. I tried to sleep, but it was a futile endeavor. I kept listening for the sound of stealthy footsteps. At least an hour passed, perhaps two, and still I was wide awake.

“You can't sleep either,” Sally whispered.

I gave a little jerk, so startled that I almost cried out.

“You're a bundle of nerves, just like me,” she said. “I've been tossing and turning for hours—this mothy old blanket doesn't help, nor does this lumpy ground.”

There was more moonlight now, or perhaps my eyes had just grown accustomed to the dark. The fire had completely burned out, and there were shifting pools of pale silver on the ground, shadows moving as a very faint breeze caused leaf and limb to sway gently. It must be well after midnight by now, I thought, wishing the night were over. Faced with stark, shattering reality Sally and I had both acted with admirable calm, but now, in the dead of night, in the middle of a silent, menacing jungle, our nerves were taut, both of us on edge.

“It's the not knowing,” she said. “I keep—waiting, not knowing if they'll come or not.”

“Perhaps those five men never mentioned us.”

“Perhaps not, but if they
did
, those fiends will know for sure the bodies of two English girls weren't thrown into that grave. They couldn't afford to let us live.”

“There was no sign of of them all day long. Perhaps—”

“The men might not have mentioned us until say, lunchtime. They would have sent someone back for us immediately, and it would take them at least half a day to come back and find us. That—that's why I'm so nervous tonight. This would be about the right time.”

“Let's don't talk about it, Sally. Let's—try to forget it.”

“I only wish I could.”

“The native looks very capable. He—”

I cut myself short. Sally gripped my arm. Both of us heard the noise at the same time. A twig had snapped in the jungle, snapped loudly. In the silence the noise was almost like a gunshot. There was a rustling sound now, as though someone were pushing aside a branch. Sally and I both stood up, tense and alert. The native sprang to his feet. He stood very still, listening, peering into the jungle, and then he turned to look at us. The clearing was bathed with a faint, pale silver now as the moon came out from behind a bank of clouds, thin, luminous beams streaming through the leafy canopy above. I could see him clearly, see his grim expression, his tight, resolute mouth.

“He—he heard it, too,” Sally said.

The native put his finger to his lips, warning us to be silent, and then he moved across the clearing and disappeared into the jungle, seemed to melt into it as if by magic, making not a sound.

“It's them,” Sally said. Her voice was flat.

“Perhaps it was just—just some animal.”

“It wasn't. It's them. I can feel it in my bones.”

Several long minutes passed. I wondered why I was so calm. I should have been trembling with fear, my pulses leaping, my knees weak, yet I felt none of the things I should have felt. It was as though I had no feeling whatsoever. I stood motionless, hardly breathing, cold, so very cold, and I was as calm and clear-headed as I had ever been in my life. Sally was motionless, too, a hard, determined expression on her face. The jungle was still, silent but for the faint rustle of stiff leaves and the pleasant gurgle of the stream. Perhaps we had been mistaken. Perhaps it had merely been some animal after all.

Then we heard the cry and the sound of scuffling.

It was difficult to tell where it came from, near or far, in front or behind. There was a violent thrashing of leaves, the loud, popping crackle of branches snapping, footsteps shuffling, a dull thud as something heavy hit the ground. Two men were in mortal combat, each fighting for his life, a loud groan now, another crash. After a long, tense moment of silence there was a shrill, piercing scream that ended in a hideous gurgling sound, then another, louder thud. Was it the tall native? Had he been strangled to death by one of those deadly yellow rumals? Was the Thug even now on his way to the clearing?

“Someone's coming,” Sally said in that flat, expressionless voice.

She took hold of my hand. That curious, inexplicable calm still possessed me, as though this were a dream and I knew it was a dream and therefore couldn't really be frightened. Stealthy footsteps approached. Someone moved slowly, cautiously toward the clearing. I stood stiff and rigid, frozen it seemed, unable to do anything but watch calmly as the curtain of flowering vines slowly parted. Sally was gripping my hand so tightly that it seemed she would crush my fingers into pulp. Neither of us made a sound as the tall Thug in white stepped into the clearing and stood there no more than five yards from us.

He stared at us. He wore a white turban, and his face, clearly visible in the moonlight, was dark like polished mahogany, a mask of evil, the thin lips slowly curling in a smile of anticipation as he pulled the yellow scarf from his waistband, catching each end and stretching it taut between his hands. Legs spread wide apart, sandaled feet firm on the ground, he popped the rumal once or twice, testing its strength, and then that horrible smile vanished and he glared at us with savage resolution.

“Kali,” he said, and then he screamed, “Kali!”

A muscular arm shot out from behind him, swinging around his throat in one rapid, brutal curl that crushed the scream abruptly. The robed native reared back, squeezing with all his strength, and the Thug dropped the rumal and thrashed about in frenzied panic, on his tiptoes now, clutching at that merciless arm as the native leaned back, applying even more pressure. Gasping, gurgling, fighting for his life, the Thug jerked about like a puppet gone berserk, his feet no longer touching the ground. Arm wrapped murderously around his victim's throat, the native reached under his robe with his free hand. I saw the knife blade flash in the moonlight as he raised it, saw it swing in the air for a split second before plunging into the Thug's chest. His body jerked convulsively as the native drove the blade in deeper, twisting the handle with a savage precision, and then the Thug fell limp, the native's arm still curled about his throat.

It was a grotesque tableau, not real at all, something from a nightmare, and I was far, far away, seeing it through the haze of moonlight and shadow, everything gray and black and soft silver, without color, without substance. The native let the body drop to the ground in a heap of tangled limbs, a puppet with its strings cut, broken, lifeless. The native casually wiped the blade of his knife on the puppet's white sleeve and then he caught both limp wrists in one hand and pulled the thing out of the clearing and into the jungle.

“It's over,” I said. I might have been telling her the hour. “There must have been just two of them. They wouldn't have felt it necessary to send more.”

“He was one of the ones who joined the caravan,” Sally remarked. “I recognized him. He was one of the ones talking to Ahmed night before last. I—I feel so strange.”