Chapter
Ten

Determined to finish her assigned illustrations before the end of the day, Nora had woken when she heard Pallavi rattle into camp, dressed quickly, and pulled the table into place before the sun had fully risen. It had rained through the night, and the heat hadn’t yet burned the moisture from the ground, so she settled one of the Jamakkalam rugs from her tent under her feet. It was coarse beneath her toes, and the orange and red stripes brought a smile to her lips when she remembered how Pallavi had shoved the rugs into her arms the night before when Nora finally made it back to camp, two hours after the cook. The rain had slowed her down, and she’d taken refuge beneath a tree for the better part of an hour.

“You got lost?” Pallavi had asked. The men crowded behind her, fear and anger flashing in their eyes.

“Where were you?” Owen’s cheeks went taut, and a tremor underscored his words. “We were just about to leave and search for you.”

Nora hadn’t wanted to betray Mrs. Davies’s story, so she busied herself untying the string around the rolled-up rug and then watched as it unfurled. It was narrow but long enough to offer some comfort when she got off her cot in the morning. Something to soften the canvas floor and brighten her tent’s drab interior.

She assured the men she was fine, told Pallavi she was too tired to eat, and marched into her tent, dragging the rug behind her. As she stripped off her sweat-soaked clothing and wiped a damp, tepid cloth across her heat-prickled skin, she listened to them argue about her.

“She needs to stay put. I don’t have time to go out and search for her.” Mr. Alford didn’t even try to mask his anger or hide his words.

“If you insist on keeping her trapped in camp, she will find ways to get out and explore on her own.” Nora wanted to be angry at the confidence in Owen’s voice. He didn’t know her that well, after all, and it seemed presumptuous of him to speak on her behalf.

But it was true.

Their voices dropped then, and she fell onto the cot, her arm flung off the side and her fingers trailing over the rug’s knobby weave. She’d fallen asleep to the sound of their heated whispers.

Nora lifted a brush from the table and wiped her thumb across the splatter of orange ink marring the wood. She wanted to finish illustrating the specimens. Wanted to prove she was capable of hard work. If that meant she forwent rest, so be it.

She wiped the bristles on a square of linen lying on her lap and dipped them into the cake of orange watercolor. Leaning over her work, she carefully drew the tip of the brush through the Aphnaeus schistacea’s cream wing.

Pallavi shuffled over and glanced at her painting. With a shake of her head, she moved toward the fire, where sambar was boiling over the flames. She stuck her finger in the pot and brought it to her mouth before pouring and pinching and shaking an assortment of spices into the stew. Leaning near, she wafted the steam toward her nose and inhaled with a whistle. Satisfied, she drew back and pushed a flat, circular griddle over the flames.

“What are you making?” Nora asked. So far, breakfast had been sambar—a stew made with lentils, vegetables, and tamarind—along with rice.

“Dosai.” The word tripped over Pallavi’s tongue, and Nora tried it out while the cook disappeared into the cabin. A moment later, she reappeared and took slow steps toward Nora’s workstation, carrying a dented metal bowl covered with a light cloth. She jerked her chin toward Nora’s canvas, and when Nora moved it, she set down her bowl. “Dosai,” she said again, pulling off the cloth.

Nora leaned over the bowl and sniffed the foamy, sour-scented batter. “Pancakes?”

Pallavi made a tsking sound and pulled the bowl back to her belly. “Come. Help.”

Nora looked at the last two butterflies needing to be illustrated—two small Hesperiidae. Skippers weren’t her favorite—most didn’t have interesting markings and were a dull shade of brown—so she’d saved them for last, knowing she could paint both on one canvas in less than an hour. She could have them done before Mr. Alford awoke, leaving him with no excuse to abandon her at camp. But Pallavi stood above her, clutching the bowl and watching her with narrow eyes, as though daring Nora to ignore her invitation.

“All right.” Nora stood and followed Pallavi to the smoking pan.

Setting the bowl on the ground, Pallavi lifted a jar of ghee and poured a bit in the center of the griddle. With rapid strokes, she rubbed the oil onto the hot surface. Taking a wide ladle from the box of utensils at her feet, she dipped it into the batter and spread it in a thin circle in the pan. After a minute, she turned it with her fingers, then motioned to the stack of metal plates in a nearby basket. Nora retrieved one.

With a few flicks of her fingers, Pallavi folded the pastry into quarters and set it on the plate. She dipped a spoon into the sambar and poured it beside the dosa. She pulled waxed canvas off a small jar of tomato chutney and dropped a dollop onto Nora’s plate, then motioned for Nora to eat.

Nora still hadn’t gotten used to using her fingers as a fork, but she managed to tear off a bit of the steaming bread and scoop up a good portion of the lentils and chutney. The spicy-tangy flavors burst on contact with her tongue.

“It’s delicious.” She ate and watched Pallavi expertly make a small pile of dosai. After her last bite, she said, “Can I try?”

Pallavi sent her a startled glance, but she handed over the ladle. Nora dipped it into the batter, tipping a bit out when Pallavi grunted and pushed against her hand. When Pallavi jiggled her head, Nora poured batter onto the griddle and tried to spread it, only succeeding in making a mess.

Pallavi’s fingers curled around Nora’s wrist, and she guided Nora’s movements so that the batter began to look somewhat the way it should.

“Flip,” Pallavi said.

Nora pinched the crispy edges and flipped it, burning herself in the process. She popped the tip of her index finger into her mouth. Pallavi pulled Nora’s finger free and gently cupped Nora’s hand in the palm of her own, twisting the injured finger one way and the other as a small blister formed. Nora hissed when Pallavi poked at it with her nail.

Muttering a string of Tamil, the cook dug through the basket of utensils at her feet and emerged with a jar. “Honey.” Using a clean spoon, she pulled out a dab and gently spread it over Nora’s burn, then patted the top of Nora’s hand.

For a brief moment, Pallavi’s fingers, dry and papery, stood in stark contrast to Nora’s. One dark and wrinkled, the other fair and smooth. And for an even briefer moment, Nora felt a connection to the Indian woman. Her mother had never cared for Nora after an injury. Had never taken a moment to tend to a scrape or burn or wound. It had always been the other way around—a backward way—the daughter caring for the parent.

The attention felt nice.

Footsteps approached. “Can you please try to keep yourself safe?” Owen said.

Nora ignored him and withdrew her hand from Pallavi’s. She ladled out more batter and made another circle, this time without help. “Get yourself a plate. I’m making you breakfast.”

Owen snorted. “Are you becoming domestic?”

She scowled and pressed a fist into her hip, but before she could open her mouth, he nodded toward the griddle, where the edges of her dosa had begun to burn. She flipped it, spreading the burn on the tip of her finger to the pad. But she wouldn’t let him notice. She gritted her teeth and pressed her thumb against the pain, spreading the honey.

After she plated Owen’s breakfast, she handed the ladle back to Pallavi and waited with more curiosity than she cared to admit. He shoved a large bite into his mouth and watched her while he chewed. Then swallowed. Then ate some more.

When he finished his meal without saying a word, Nora rolled her eyes and went back to her table. She settled in, pulled the last two butterflies closer, and jumped when he drew near and whispered in her ear.

“It was delicious, of course. You do everything well.”

A smug smile curled her lips.

“We’re going to search for the Papilio buddha again when it cools off this evening. Want to come?”

Her smile drooped, and she turned toward him. “Really?”

For a moment, he stared at her, and she stared back. They’d both taken to a simpler mode of dress. The Indian sun was too harsh, the rain too capricious, to insist on all the layers of current Western fashion. Maybe if they lounged around airy bungalows in town, being fanned by servants, they’d be willing to subject themselves to proper attire. She wondered if she’d chosen too relaxed an outfit in wearing only a simple linen skirt and an unadorned challis blouse, and she fingered the bit of lace at her throat, pushing the top button she’d undone as she worked it back through its hole.

Owen blinked, took a step back, and nodded. “You have my gift of persuasion to thank for that.”

Attire forgotten, she crossed her arms. “I’m not thanking you for convincing him to allow me to do something he should have allowed me to do from the very beginning.”

He shrugged. “I don’t need your thanks. I’m pretty proud of myself. Do you want to put your work away and see if we can find anything interesting that lives outside the order of Lepidoptera?”

Nora glanced at her little brown skippers and bit her lower lip. She needed to finish these. Her focus on this trip was butterflies. But India held a wealth of interesting insects, and she didn’t want to miss the opportunity to find some to add to her collection. She especially didn’t want Owen finding them without her.

Without a word, she packed up her supplies and specimens. Owen helped her load everything back into the cabin, and they grabbed their rucksacks on the way out of camp just as the sun was burning the moisture from the grass and trees.

“Where should we go?” Nora asked as they trudged through foot-tall grasses. Seeds wove a delicate pattern into the fibers of her skirt, much like the ones that graced the saris the women in this exotic place wore. She picked one off and bit into it, the fresh taste washing away breakfast’s heavy spices.

Beside her, Owen shrugged his rucksack onto his other shoulder and put a steadying hand on her arm. He let it rest there, offering her a firm place to lean against when the ground curved upward, moving them closer and closer to the blue-tinged hills of the Western Ghats.

“There’s a stretch of shola on the other side of this hill I want to explore. Let’s head there.”

The hike took long enough that the soles of Nora’s feet began to burn inside her snug boots, and her calves screamed for respite. She stumbled, and Owen’s broad hand cradled her lower back as she righted herself.

“Almost to the crest,” he said. “Look.”

Her gaze following the direction of his pointed finger, Nora saw nothing but wide swaths of bare ground peeking out from sunburned grass. But then, as though a mirage had come to life, half a dozen animals roughly the size of a mountain goat but sporting curved horns appeared, their sturdy brown bodies blending into the backdrop of dirt and stone.

Nora stopped shuffling her feet forward and stood still, not wanting to startle them as they grazed. “What are they?”

“We saw them the other day. William called them varaiaadu. It means precipice goat, but it’s not really a goat. I believe it’s a kind of tahr. He said there used to be large herds all over these mountains, but hunting has diminished their numbers. I’m not sure they’ll recover.”

The creatures moved with a grace peculiar for animals so solidly built. A chill swept Nora, icing her blood and prickling against her spine. The Western Ghats held an astounding diversity of flora and fauna. There were certainly undiscovered species of both making their home in the grasslands, hills, and sholas. How many had disappeared before a scientist had ever noticed their unfurling petals, creeping bodies, or stretching legs? Would the varaiaadu become extinct and be lost to future study?

She shifted her bag and sat on the ground, heedless of the biting rocks. Flipping open the rucksack’s flap, she pulled out her sketchbook and pencils and set about capturing the tahr with firm strokes.

“What are you doing?” Owen asked, settling beside her.

His interruption should have irritated her, but she felt nothing except the satisfied reassurance of being in the presence of another human being. Companionship with a person who understood the fragile themes exposed by nature.

“Rose has spent years working with the animals at the Cincinnati Zoological Gardens. She is particularly interested in their conservation efforts. I think she’d appreciate learning about this animal before the ability to understand it is lost.” She finished the drawing and began jotting down notes on the edges of the page about its size, movements, and interactions with others in its herd.

Owen shifted closer, sparking that missing irritation, and she scooted a few inches away. “I wonder how many insect species have faded into history without making an imprint on humanity’s consciousness,” he said.

Nora snapped her face toward him and recovered the distance she’d created only a moment earlier. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

His smile softened, and he was no longer the flirtatious man who prodded and joked, but a scientist of deep thoughts and even more lovely words. “If you’re done, maybe we can discover a species before it’s too late.”

She grinned, shoved her supplies into her bag, and leapt to her feet as easily as the tahrs did when her movement startled them. The animals’ legs pumped, and they soon disappeared over the hill’s ridge, their pounding hooves an echo of what used to be.

She shook off her maudlin thoughts and traipsed with renewed energy over the crest of the hill and down to where the shola took over and ensconced them within its embrace.

“I already love the shola,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “There’s a peace here I have never felt before. It feels like a sanctuary hidden deep in the country of a thousand idols. A place where God’s fingerprints point to His plan.” Her face burned as the words slipped out, branding her as sentimental.

But Owen didn’t tease. He didn’t use her words to prove the silliness of women or unsuitability of her gender in a man’s field. He took her elbow, his warm fingers slipping across her skin, and said, “I agree.”

She smiled up at him, not sure why she had ever hated him in the first place. Sticky threads kissed her cheek, and she froze. “Stop! I don’t want to destroy whatever it is I’ve run into.”

Owen’s eyes took in the web encasing her face, spending more time in examination than seemed necessary. “It’s not damaged. You only disconnected a few strands. Here.” He pinched at the bits of silk and rubbed them free of his fingers.

As soon as Nora knew she wouldn’t ruin one of nature’s most beautiful displays, she took in the web strung between two mahogany trees. About five feet in diameter, it shone like spun gold in the light filtering through the upper story of the shola.

“It’s a Nephila pilipes.” She poked a pinky toward the hub, which radiated outward from the top center of the web. The sticky capture strands filled the lower part of the web, but the spider had wrapped and moved five insects into a cache above the hub. The golden orb weaver rested near her cache, observing her viscous kingdom. “Do you have one in your collection?”

“I don’t,” Owen said, “but feel free to make it yours. I think a spider with this level of dimorphism should become the prize of an equally strong female.”

A laugh bubbled up in Nora’s throat, one she couldn’t capture, and it spilled out with enough force to sway the spider web, sending the golden orb weaver south toward where Nora’s laugh had vibrated the silk threads. Half a dozen tiny males, ten times smaller than the female, scuttled around with nervous energy. “Pull out my large kill jar, Owen. Quickly.”

He shuffled through her bag and handed it to her. Twisting off the lid, she clamped it between her teeth, reached for the female spider, and pinched around its opisthosoma. Its gold and black jointed legs stiffened before wrapping fully around Nora’s wrist. One of the largest spiders in the world, it would make an impressive addition to any collection, especially one that had been decimated.

Before it could bite her, she shoved it into the jar and jammed the lid back on. Holding it up between their faces, Nora grinned at Owen. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

Owen peered into the jar. “Do you suppose you’re the only woman on the planet who thinks that?”

Nora shrugged. “Possibly.”

“Does it bother you, being unlike anyone else?”

“Should it? What’s the alternative? Being afraid of creatures like this?” She flicked her nail against the glass and shook her head. “I wouldn’t want to be anything but who I am.”

Owen grinned, a crooked one that did odd things to her belly. “I wouldn’t want you to be anything else either.”

Early that evening, after Nora and Owen had returned from their exploration, Mr. Alford formally invited Nora to join them for the outing. He thought they’d be more likely to find a Papilio buddha after the worst of the day’s heat had dissipated, so they set off after a light dinner, each of them carrying a rucksack over their shoulders and a few of the men bearing lanterns for the return trip.

“Of course, gather anything you think might be useful, but I mainly want to find the Malabar banded peacock. I had one in my collection before leaving for India, but it wasn’t mounted properly and degraded.” Mr. Alford led them deep into the forest, and soon the towering pines blotted out the sun and a carpet of needles muffled their steps. A light drizzle misted the air, and he groaned. “Let’s fan out. We’ll be more likely to find the butterfly that way. Hopefully the rain doesn’t begin in earnest. Call out every few minutes to keep track of the rest of the group. I don’t want to have to search for anyone. Plus, the noise will frighten away any animals.”

He stomped in the opposite direction as Nora, muttering about bad luck and the quickly approaching monsoon.

Nora disappeared around the bend in the path, eyes peeled for the Papilio buddha’s bright green and aqua markings. Every few moments, a male voice called out “Here!” but she hardly registered the shouts. It wouldn’t hurt to be the one to find the butterfly Mr. Alford most wanted. She knew how much a prized insect could soften the heart. She swiveled her head in every direction, paying particular attention to the fruit trees the butterfly loved to feed on, and pushed even deeper into the forest.

The air was heavy and moist, cloying as it threaded sticky tendrils around her exposed skin. She strained to see through the fog that filled the woods with clouds. It wove around the base of the trees, muffling everything, and she felt surrounded by ghosts.

“Nora, where are you?”

Owen’s low call pulled a startled “here” from her throat. Turning in the direction she’d heard his voice, she pushed through a bush the height of a maple tree and tripped over a thick vine crawling around its trunk, catching herself on her hands. A centipede scuttled over her knuckles. She forced herself to stay still so it didn’t pierce her skin with its forcipules and watched, enthralled, as its hundred tiny legs roved over her fingers, tickling her.

She smiled when it toppled to the ground, and she stood and brushed at the leaves and clumps of dirt clinging to her damp skirt. She needed to find the rest of the team. Dusk bathed the magenta-flowering rhododendron ahead of her in silver. A moth, larger than her palm, landed on one of the flowers. She approached it with soft steps. Its pale green wings shimmered against the bright flowers.

How lovely.

She held her finger to the flower and, when the moth stepped onto it, brought it to eye level. Two fern-like antennae framed its furry face. She smiled when it lifted its pink legs and traveled the length of her hand.

She pinched the wings between her fingers and turned it over. Its underdeveloped mouth worked as she squeezed either side of the moth’s thorax, careful not to crush it. When it became immobilized, she pulled a jar from her sack and slid the moth inside.

Paralyzed, the moth didn’t beat its wings against the jar and damage itself, and Nora watched as its wiggling legs grew still.

She held up the jar, allowing the shadowed light to filter through it, and admired her new specimen. Through the glass she saw past the moth and into the canopy of a cluster of trees. She lowered the jar and squinted at an odd, pieced-together globe hanging from a branch.

She tucked the kill jar back into her rucksack and approached the tree. Brittle brown leaves looked to have been sewn together to make the globe, and a few orange ants crawled from a crevice and marched around its perimeter.

She gasped. Oecophylla smaragdina. Weaver ants!

Tramping feet alerted Nora to someone’s approach, and Mr. Alford and Owen appeared from between the leafy foliage of the rhododendrons.

“Anything?” Mr. Alford asked. His lank hair hung over his eyes, and he pushed it back with a fine-boned hand.

“Not the butterfly you wanted, but look.” Nora pointed up at the weaver ant nest, and Mr. Alford cast a dismissive glance its way.

“We may as well head back.” He looked at the sky. “It’s going to pour any minute. What a waste.”

“I’m going to look at it,” Nora said, grabbing a low branch and pulling herself up onto it. Her skirts twisted around her legs, and she grabbed a fistful of the material and bunched it in her palm. With a gentle bounce, she tested the branch’s strength. Satisfied it would hold, she pulled herself up to the next one and wrapped her legs around it.

“Nora, we aren’t here to study ants. Come down.” Mr. Alford’s curt words just barely cut through her mission.

“Just a few moments. I’ve been fascinated by weaver ants since Professor Comstock first told us about them. Don’t you remember, Owen? It was last year during his discussion on the world’s most painful insect bites. Light the lamp for me and hold it up. It’s getting too dark.”

Owen chanced a glance at Mr. Alford but lit his lamp and held his arm aloft. “Give her a second. There really is no dissuading her.”

As Owen and Mr. Alford argued, she inched toward the nest. The weaver ant was aggressive. After biting, it would rub its abdomen against the skin, infusing the fresh wound with a smear of formic acid. Nora’s hands shook with anticipation. How marvelous.

She sat so close to the nest now that she could see a steady march of ants exiting it. They walked downward over each other, clinging to one another to form a chain that swung over the ground. Nora laughed at their behavior. She’d never seen anything like it.

They must have felt the vibrations from her movement against the branch, because the chain dissolved, the ants scattering over the branch. One moved toward her, and not willing to vacate her perch, she flicked it from the tree.

“Nora! Come down now. The other men have gathered.”

Her head shot up at Mr. Alford’s call, and she wrinkled her nose. “Just one more moment. I want to see inside it.” She pulled a twig from the branch above her and slid closer to the nest. Just as she poked at it with the stick, another call came.

“Maybe you should come down,” Owen said. “Haven’t you learned your lesson climbing trees?”

She sighed. “Owen Epps, what type of entomologist is so afraid of falling from a tree that they’d abandon their study of such a fascinating creature?” She used the stick to separate two of the glued-together leaves and pushed one to the side. She peered inside the nest and grinned. Over a hundred ants scurried around, dancing to music only they could hear. “They’re incredible.”

A few of the ants scuttled from the nest, and Nora removed her twig when they began to walk along it. She banged it against the branch, knocking the ants free, then stuck the twig back into the nest. This time she leaned over, only inches from the opening, and saw the larvae glowing white against the leaf wall. She poked at the nest with her finger. How had they made it so sturdy? Amazing.

The tree trembled beneath Nora, and Owen grunted. “How did you get up here? That wasn’t easy.” He popped his head above the branch where she sat.

“I’m good at climbing trees.”

“You’re also good at falling out of them.”

“I won’t fall this time.” She lifted the nest with the stick, intent on seeing how they had attached it to the tree. “Look at this. They use the silk from the larvae to glue together their nests.”

She bit her lower lip. Steady. She propped the twig beneath the nest, and . . . it popped from the tree and tumbled through the air.

Mr. Alford screamed. Nora and Owen looked at each other with wide eyes, and Nora chanced a glance below, where their team leader smacked at his head with his hands, the weaver ants swarming his hair, face, and neck.

“Oh no . . .” She pushed at Owen and scrambled off the branch.

Owen jumped from the tree, and after she sat on the bottom branch, he gripped her waist and lowered her to the ground. She hurried to Mr. Alford and joined the other men in brushing the ants from him.

Razors sliced at her palms as the ants used their strong mandibles to bite through her skin. Her admiration at their cunningness fled as fire spread across her hands. She stomped and crushed every little devil she saw.

Finally, their frenzy ended. Mr. Alford pressed his hands against the raw, reddened skin along his temples, jaw, and neck. His fingers spanned his face, and through the gaps between them, he glared at Nora, tears pooling in his eyes.

“You—” The word came out as an accusation, and in it Nora heard all manner of insults.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Her palms throbbed, and she spread her fingers so that the air circulated around them.

“You stupid girl.” Mr. Alford spun and pushed through the weeds and brush. Mr. Steed smirked at her, then followed.

Mr. Taylor pushed his hat up and scratched his head. “Well, this will probably set you back in your quest to prove yourself to him.”

“It was an accident. It could have happened to anyone,” William said in a mournful voice. “But it’s bad luck it happened to you.”

When they turned and left, Owen came alongside her and gripped her hand in his. She gasped at the pain but allowed the comfort of his touch to soothe her heart.

“It’ll be okay,” he said.

“Your optimism in me is undeserved.”

She shook off his hand and followed the men back to the road, an easy feat given the loud string of curses trailing behind Mr. Alford.