The Adventures Of Indiana Jones (31 page)

“Hey, you take four,” Shorty protested.

“No, I did not take four.” Indy was indignant.

“Dr. Jones cheat,” he accused.

“I didn’t take any but I think you stole a card,” Indy countered.

Willie whooped at another rustling. She kicked an empty bush.

“You owe me ten cents,” Shorty demanded. “You pay money. You pay now.”

Indy disgustedly threw down his cards. “I don’t want to play anymore.”

“Me neither.”

“And I’m
not
teaching you anymore.”

“I don’t care. You cheat. I quit.” He picked up the cards and stalked off, muttering in Chinese.

Willie backed her way over to Indiana, still sitting by the fire. She was looking wildly in all directions. “We’re completely surrounded!” she choked. “This whole place is crawling with living things.” She shivered.

“That’s why it’s called the jungle,” he said drolly.

“What else is out there?” she whispered.

He looked at her, smiled.
Willie.
That was a funny name. He let it roll off his tongue. “Willie. Willie. Is that short for something?”

She stiffened a bit; she would not be ridiculed. “Willie is my professional name—Indiana.” She put the emphasis on the
ana.

Short Round, still sulking near his elephant, came to Indy’s defense. “Hey, lady, you call him
Dr. Jones.”
She was getting a little too familiar for someone Short Round had not yet officially sanctioned to be the object of Indy’s courtship.

Willie and Indy both smiled. He flicked a dime over to Shorty, to make peace, then watched Willie again. “That’s
my
professional name.” He turned a little toward her. “So how’d you end up in Shanghai?”

“My singing career got run over by the Depression,” she moped. “Some big ape convinced me a girl could go places in the Orient.”

He spread out a blanket near the fire, lay down on it. “Show business, eh? Any other ambitions?”

A terrible scream issued from the jungle. Feral, deathly. Willie tightened, drew closer to the blaze.

“Staying alive till morning,” she groaned.

“And after that?”

She smiled inwardly. “I’m going to latch onto a good-looking, incredibly rich prince.”

“I’d like to dig up one of those myself,” he agreed. “Maybe we do have something in common.”

“Huh?”

“I like my princes rich and dead, and buried for a couple of thousand years. Fortune and glory. You know what I mean.” He began carefully unfolding a piece of cloth he’d removed from his pocket—the fragment the child had given him last night in Mayapore.

Willie sat beside him, staring at it. “Is that why you’re dragging us off to this deserted palace? Fortune and glory?”

He showed her the relic. “This is a piece of an old manuscript. This pictograph represents Sankara, a priest. It’s hundreds of years old. Gently, gently.”

She took it from him to inspect more closely. It was a crude rendering, painted in faded reds, golds, blues. It was fascinating.

Willie touched its history, its arcane wisdom. Shorty wandered over to look, too; they were both getting genuinely interested, affected by Indy’s tone of reverence. It even drew the baby elephant’s attention; he sidled over beside Willie, placing his trunk on her shoulder.

She jumped, then brushed the trunk away impatiently, returning her attention to the pictograph. “Is this some kind of writing?”

“Yeah, it’s Sanskrit,” said Indy. “It’s part of the legend of Sankara. He climbs Mount Kalisa, where he meets Shiva, the Hindu god.”

The elephant hung its trunk on Willie’s shoulder again; again, she swatted it off. “Cut it out,” she snapped. Then to Indy, “That’s Shiva, huh? So what’s he handing the priest?”

“Rocks. He told him to go forth and combat the evil, and to help him, he gave him five sacred stones that had magical properties.”

The elephant nudged Willie again. Her patience was fast running out. “Magic rocks. My grandfather spent his entire life with a rabbit in his pocket and pigeons up his sleeves, and made a lot of children happy, and died a very poor man. Magic rocks. Fortune and glory. Good night, Dr. Jones.” She handed him back the cloth and walked to the edge of the clearing, where she put down her blanket.

“Where are you going?” asked Indy. “I’d sleep closer. For safety’s sake.” He watched her with mixed feelings. She was starting to get under his skin. He tried not looking at her, but that somehow made things worse.

Willie likewise refused to return his glance. Couldn’t he be honest about his feelings, for crying out loud? She just didn’t trust men who weren’t straightforward about what they wanted. “Dr. Jones, I think I’d be safer sleeping with a snake.”

At that moment, a giant python descended from the tree behind her; it curled over her shoulder. Short Round was aghast. Indy was more than that: Indy was frozen-stone-petrified of snakes. He didn’t know why, he didn’t care why. He only knew that of all the creatures that ever existed, might exist, or would never exist, snakes alone made him sweat bullets, shiver, want to run.

Willie, however, thought this was still the baby elephant. Losing all patience, she reached up behind her without looking, grabbed the snake by the neck, and hurled it backwards. “I said, cut it out!”

Indy inched a slow retreat, staring, sweating. Willie bent over to straighten her blanket. The snake slithered away.

“I hate this jungle,” Willie muttered. “I hate that elephant. I hate these accommodations.”

Nearby, unseen, a Bengal tiger cut a silent path through the thicket and was gone. Indy sat on a rock for a few seconds, took a couple of deep breaths; then got up and started loading more wood on the fire.

A lot more wood.

They broke camp early the next morning, to try to make time before the heat of the day. Tropical winds rippled the uppermost vines as the elephants plowed on through the thick of it. The air was teeming with sounds of animal life, though it didn’t seem nearly so ominous now that night had lifted. It reminded Willie of a large, poorly kept zoo.

Short Round was back to conversing with Big Short Round, increasingly convinced that the spirit of his lost brother Chu, snagged on the Wheel of Transmigration, had been deposited in the body of this large baby. For one thing, Chu had himself been of the rotund persuasion, a proclivity well invested in an incarnation like the elephant; for another, Chu was always in excellent good humor, as was this beast. Lastly, Chu’s nickname had been Buddha, not only for his portliness and disposition, but because of the substantial size of his earlobes—and of course the size of the young elephant’s ears need hardly be mentioned.

So Short Round discussed things with Big Short Round that only Chu could have understood or cared about—family matters, certain toys of disputed ownership, apologies for long-dormant squabbles over such heated concerns as whether Jimmy Foxx or Lou Gehrig was the stronger clean-up batter—and to Shorty’s great relief, the elephant put his mind at ease on all of these issues.

They were just on to New Business, speculating about all the things they would see in America when they joined the circus together, when they came over a rise, and saw, far in the distance, the palace.

Resplendent, almost iridescent white alabaster, it perched on the carpeted jungle crest like a carved pearl on a sea of green jade.

“Indy, look!” gasped Short Round.

“That’s Pankot,” he nodded.

They all stared in silence a full minute; then headed on.

It was well after lunchtime before they reached the base of the foothills that rose finally to the palace. They were about to enter the first low pass when Sajnu stopped the elephants with a command and ran forward.

“Navath thana.” His voice held fear.

Indy jumped down off his mount and walked ahead to join the guide. As he approached, he could see that Sajnu was staring at something, chattering frantically: “Winasayak. Maha winasayak.”
A calamity, a great calamity.

Indy tapped him on the shoulder; he ran back to the other guides, gibbering away. Indy now saw what had affected him so.

It was a small statue guarding the path, a goddess with eight arms. A malign deity, wearing a carved necklace of small human heads. Each of her hands dangled another head by the hair. She scowled demonically.

It was further adorned with ritual objects: leaves, dead birds, rodents, turtles. Around its waist was a bandolier of real, pierced human fingers.

Indy walked back to the group as Willie and Short Round were dismounting.

“Why are we stopping here?” asked Willie.

“What you look at, Indy?” said Short Round. Some treasure, maybe, for Chao-pao to discover.

Indy was talking to the agitated guides, though. Sajnu just kept shaking his head, turning the elephants around. “Aney behe mahattaya,” he was saying. The guides began quickly driving the elephants away.

This rather distressed Willie. She ran after them a few steps, shouting. “No, no, no! Indy, they’re stealing our rides!”

“From here on, we walk,” said Indy. It was no use forcing natives to go where they were afraid to go; inevitably, things got worse.

“No!” she pouted. After all that aggravation yesterday, she was just starting to get used to the big ugly brutes.

Short Round watched the elephants trudging away. His big round friend turned its head to look back.

“Baby elephant!” Shorty called out. Could it be that after all these years, his beloved brother Chu had returned, only to stay for two days, then leave again? Wait! No fair! What about the circus?

But maybe he’d just come back to straighten out the differences between them that had been left unresolved years before in Shanghai. Maybe now that everything was settled amicably, it was time for Chu to leave again. This was hard for Short Round to accept, or even fathom, but it seemed to be so. For wasn’t the reborn Chu smiling now as he bid farewell?

Short Round waved at the lost, found soul. His little pal trumpeted, and flapped his ears, and waved his trunk and lumbered off. Short Round tried very hard not to cry.

Indy walked back up to the idol. He studied it closely.

Short Round called up to him. “Dr. Jones, what you looking at?” Treasure was small consolation for a twice-lost brother, but it was some.

“Don’t come up here,” Indy called back. He didn’t want them to see this, especially Short Round. It was a wicked totem, full of occult power. At best, it would cause horrible dreams; at worst . . .

Indy didn’t think it served any purpose to expose Short Round to such depravity—or to expose Willie, for that matter, for he was beginning to feel a bit protective toward her, as well.

He stood and returned to his waiting friends. “We’ll walk from here.”

By late afternoon they came to a rock-paved road that ran along a high stone wall. Willie limped along a few yards behind the others, carrying her high heels, sweating, disheveled, grumbling, “. . . shot at, fallen out of a plane, nearly drowned, chomped at by an iguana, attacked by a bat; I smell like an elephant . . .” Suddenly, feeling as though she couldn’t take another step, she shouted at their backs: “I tell you, I’m not going to make it!”

Indiana stopped, walked back to Willie, was about to make a comment—something pithy, or sarcastic, or pointed—when, as in the first moment they’d met, their eyes came together. Something he saw there—lost, quiet at the end of the noise—stopped him. And something
she
saw, at least momentarily, brought her quiet to the surface.

Without a word, he picked her up in his arms, started carrying her the remaining distance. She was surprised, and puzzled—though not displeased.

“Anymore complaints?” Indiana asked.

She smiled faintly. “Yeah. I wish you’d thought of this sooner.” It didn’t feel so bad at all.

Short Round rolled his eyes to the heavens. He’d seen Gable do that in
It Happened One Night.
He thought it was dumb in the movie; he thought it was dumb now.

Indy carried her all the way up the road along the wall, until they reached the large front gate. Here he put her down, gently smoothed her collar back in place. “Well, no permanent damage.” He smiled.

She straightened herself, turned around, and for the first time saw Pankot Palace up close. She whistled.

It was magnificent, sprawling. An extravagant mixture of Moghul and Rajput styles, it reflected the dying sun with a bloody, opalescent hue.

The three travelers started slowly across a marble bridge toward the main entrance.

P
ALACE GUARDS
stood lining the bridge along both sides.

Bearded, black-turbaned, and beribboned, with scimitars in their belts and lances at their sides, they snapped to attention in sequence as the threesome passed. It made Willie jump at first, but she quickly grew to enjoy the attention. Her carriage improved; she assumed an air of grace appropriate to someone of her stature. She only wished she’d thought to put on her shoes before she’d come in.

They passed under a dark archway, into a glittering courtyard. Quartz and marble walls, lapis lazuli minarets, arching windows with gilt facades . . . like an opulent mausoleum. And just as deserted.

“Hello?” shouted Indy. His voice echoed from the somewhat foreboding walls.

Three enormous Rajput guards appeared silently at the opposite side of the courtyards. They did not look as deferential as the first platoon.

“Hi,” Willie said to them, placating. The only response was her own echo.

A few moments later, between the guards, down the marble steps of the expansive entryway, stepped a tall, bespectacled, severe-looking Indian man dressed in a white English suit. He looked courteously, but suspiciously, at the woozy beauty dressed in a man’s wrinkled tuxedo who carried her shoes and gown; the dirty Chinese boy wearing the American baseball cap; the Caucasian ruffian with a squint and a bullwhip.

His name was Chattar Lal.

He walked forward with a bureaucrat’s briskness, to appraise the visitors more closely. Their appearance did not improve with proximity. “I would say you look rather lost.” He smiled disdainfully. “But then I cannot imagine where in the world the three of you would look at home.”