CHAPTER

THREE

 

 

Das in pursuit – Extraordinary powers –

Mr Knives is healed – Landing in Greece –

“You can do what you will with the girl...”

 

 

DURGA DAS WAS on a mission to rid the world of the British.

He was ensconced in a vast armchair in the lounge of the two-man airship that carried him towards London. Through the porthole he could see the Pride of Edinburgh: the passenger ’ship carrying Janisha Chatterjee and her cohorts was a distant speck over the mountains of northern Greece. He smiled to himself and contemplated his glorious future.

His ire at being thwarted by the upstart Janisha Chatterjee was beginning to abate. She might have got the better of him in Nepal – and lopped off Mr Knives’ hands to boot – but she would pay for her crimes when he caught up with her. More, she would give up the tithra-kunjī she carried, after which he would obtain the third one from the Morn. And then, according to Kali, he would be able to open a portal to the heavens and allow Kali unlimited access to this world, whereupon his goddess and her minions would wipe the planet clean of the despicable British.

And he, Durga Das, would be elevated to the position of Kali’s High Priest on Earth.

For all his adult life he had worked to undermine the presence of the Raj in India. He had followed in the footsteps of his father, a leading Nationalist figure and a priest himself, and on his death had taken over as the head priest of the temple in north Delhi. Das enjoyed a loyal following in Uttar Pradesh and beyond, and more importantly had powerful politicians and policemen in his pay. He had never ceased to be amazed at how a combination of religious prestige and great wealth – donated to his cause by the faithful over the years – had brought him untold power. The one thing he had been unable to buy, however, were the British.

His father had told him, “Kali came to Earth and bestowed upon my grandfather the gift of the coin, and explained its significance. It has been in our family ever since. The coin is called a tithra-kunjī, a holy amulet that allows access between Heaven and Earth, and when the time is right Kali will step forth. Recite this mantra when the moon is as full as a pregnant belly, and, when the time is auspicious, then Kali will come forth.”

For thirty years, on the occasion of every full moon, Das had chanted the holy words, hoping that one day his devotion would reap dividends. “Anghra dah tanthara, yangra bahl, somithra tal zhell.”

And then, one day two weeks ago, Kali had manifested herself to him and announced that he, Durga Das, was to be her servant.

“The time of change is upon us,” the goddess had intoned. “The portal between the worlds will open anon. You will be called upon to leave your city and head east, into another country. You seek the second tithra-kunjī, and after that the third. The success of my coming to your world is entirely dependent upon the success of your actions.”

He had indeed headed east, and done his best to obtain the second tithra-kunjī, defeated in his goal only by the resourcefulness of Janisha Chatterjee. But Kali had shown herself to be a beneficent and merciful task-mistress, allowing him another chance to obtain the second and third tithra-kunjī.

“You will hire an airship and follow Janisha Chatterjee to London, where you will obtain from her the tithra-kunjī she carries. Then with my assistance you will locate the Morn, Mahran. He knows the whereabouts of the third tithra-kunjī.”

Das had hurried from Annapurnabad to Delhi, and there hired the latest Rolls Royce two-man airship, operated by something called an ‘automated pilot’ – thus doing away with the necessity of a pilot who would have been an unwelcome presence on the journey west.

And the goddess, in her largesse, had endowed him with an extraordinary power.

Back in Delhi, Das had laid his hand on the nasty gash that bisected his belly, thanks to the light-beam wielded by the Chutney Mary, Chatterjee. He had felt a warmth radiate from his palm, and watched in awe as the bloody flesh beneath his hand became a scab, and then no more than a scar that might have been years old.

Now Durga Das closed his eyes and dozed lightly, dreaming of the power he would possess when Kali had expelled the British from his land. He would return to India, oust feeble and corrupt politicians from power, and with Kali at his side would woo the electorate and rule his country according to the precepts of Hindu tradition going back centuries.

He would be invincible.

And the only person standing between himself and ultimate power was Janisha Chatterjee.

He was awoken a little later by a sound issuing from behind a small door at the far end of the lounge. The door opened and Mr Knives, staring at the ugly stumps of his arms – one severed at the wrist, the other below the elbow – tottered out.

The young man sat on the carpet at Das’s feet, cross-legged, and stared up at his master with tears in his eyes. “Baba-ji, I recall the woman, Chatterjee, and what she did to me, and I chased her and climbed the rope ladder to her airship, and she kicked out and I fell. And that is the last thing I can remember, Baba-ji!”

“You have been unconscious for more than two days,” Durga Das said, “recuperating from your many injuries. When you fell from the rope ladder, you broke your collarbone.”

The thin-faced street thug open his eyes wide in disbelief, at the same time rotating first his left arm, and then his right as if doubting Das’s words. “But, Baba-ji, I feel no pain!”

“Of course you feel no pain, you fool. And do you feel pain from those ugly stumps, boy?”

With a woebegone expression on his face, Mr Knives stared at the butchered stumps of meat and shook his head. “No pain at all, Baba-ji!”

“And do your arms look as though they were chopped just days ago?”

“No, sir. They look... healed.”

“And why do you think that is?”

The youth shook his head. “You have given me powerful drugs?” He bowed his head and brought his stumps together in a terrible travesty of a traditional namaste. “Thank you, Baba-ji!”

“Drugs? Do you think someone as powerful as I needs drugs to banish pain? Think again!”

The young man shook his head. “Potions of your own devising, improvements on ayurvedic med–?”

But Durga Das stopped him. “No, no, no!” A thought occurred to him, beautiful in its simplicity. Smiling, he said, “Fetch me one of your knives, Mr Knives.”

The youth blinked. “Sir?” He looked around the airborne lounge. “Where might they be?”

“I rescued your precious knives from the valley in Nepal,” Das said. “They are on the bureau.”

He smiled to himself as the young man crossed the room and clamped one of the knives between his stumps. He carried it back to Durga Das, who took the knife and gestured the youth to sit down.

Das tested the blade. He would give the youth this: he’d kept his beloved blades razor sharp.

“Hold out your arm, Mr Knives.”

The young man looked fearful. “Baba-ji?”

“Your arm, Mr Knives, and I will show you how I effected your cure.”

Tremulously, Mr Knives proffered his right stump, wincing in anticipation.

Durga Das slashed the knife swiftly through the air. Blood spurted across the lounge in a beautifully geometric arc. Mr Knives howled in pain and pressed the gashed stump to his white shirt, the linen blotting the fluid in a great spreading stain.

“Now hold out the wound!”

“No!” Mr Knives howled, wide-eyed.

“I do not intend to cut you again, you fool! Quite the reverse, in fact. Now, your arm.”

Uncertainly, the young man moved the lacerated stump closer to Das, blood dripping on to the carpet. Ignoring the unpleasantly warm tackiness, Das reached out and laid a palm over the pulsing slit.

He closed his eyes and concentrated, as Kali had instructed him to do. He felt a warmth course through his body, spread down his arm and pass through his right hand.

Mr Knives gasped.

Das said, “Do you feel anything?”

“But Baba-ji! Sir, the pain – the pain is no more!”

Das smiled in satisfaction. He raised his hand, and saw that the wound had ceased bleeding. He applied his palm once more to the gash, then closed his eyes and remained like this for five minutes.

When he next examined his handiwork, the wound was scabbing over, and Mr Knives was shaking his head in wonder. “But Baba-ji!”

“Blessed are those who work with the goddess Kali, who has rewarded me for that good work with the power of healing!”

Mr Knives cried out and, from his cross-legged position, scrambled on to his knees and salaamed before Durga Das.

The priest laid a hand upon the boy’s head. “Now, on the table over there.”

“Sir?”

“A present.”

“A present? A present for me, Baba-ji?”

“I see no one else aboard the ship, do you? Now quickly.”

Mr Knives hurried across the lounge and picked up the gift from the table-top. He carried the implements over to Das. “But what are they, Baba-ji?”

“What do they look like?”

“Knives, but knives attached to a belt.”

“I had these made before we set off, so that you might regain some of your usefulness. Because, without hands, you must admit that your effectiveness as my... assistant... is somewhat impaired. Or should I say, ‘without knives’?”

Das took the first belt, instructed Mr Knives to hold out his right arm, and proceeded to fasten the belt around the stump. Now two long-bladed, lethal-looking silver knives protruded from the cuffs of Mr Knives’ white shirt. Das affixed the second belt to the youth’s left stump.

“There, what do you think?”

Mr Knives climbed to his feet, and Das watched like an indulgent parent as the young man danced around the lounge, slashing at an imaginary opponent. The blades, two on each belt, flashed in the light slanting in through the portholes.

The young man grinned. “Baba-ji, I feel whole again!” He raised an arm, admiring the weapons, then looked at Das. “But where are we going, Baba-ji?”

“Would you believe, Mr Knives, that we are bound for London?”

“London?” Mr Knives’ eyes grew round. “London?”

“On the trail of the Chutney Mary, Mr Knives. And this time, when we apprehend her, we shall not be as lenient as last time.”

“Baba-ji?”

“I recall telling you, a week ago, that we would spare the girl when we finally got what we wanted. Well, in light of her actions in Nepal, I have revised my plan of action. Now, when we have obtained the tithra-kunjī, I will allow you to kill Janisha Chatterjee.”

Mr Knives’ eyes positively glowed as he considered the notion.

Durga Das waved. “Now, back to your room, Mr Knives, and leave me to my meditations.”

The youth backed from the lounge, bowing all the way.

Durga Das was dozing, a little later, when he was stirred by a blue light. He sat up quickly, coming to himself after dreams of naked nautch girls, and stared at the light as a face materialised in the air before him.

“Kali!” He pressed his palms together and fell to his knees.

The blue-faced goddess looked down at the priest. “There have been developments, Das. The Chatterjee girl is no longer aboard the airship.”

Das shook his head, attempting to assimilate the impossibility of this statement. “What?”

“Get yourself into the control cabin.”

The blue light moved off like a comet, trailing a blur behind itself, and passed through the hatch to the smaller room. Das squeezed himself through after his goddess.

“Observe.”

Das stared through the viewscreen. The Pride of Edinburgh was a tiny speck in the distance.

“A lifeboat jettisoned from the airship one hour ago,” Kali explained. “It carries Chatterjee and her cohorts. You will circle the area until you locate it, then apprehend her upon my instructions.”

“And obtain the tithra-kunjī?”

“And obtain the tithra-kunjī,” Kali said. “After which we will proceed to London, where I will direct you to the Morn.”

“And the girl? I had planned to dispense with her once we have the tithra-kunjī.”

The lapis lazuli visage regarded him without a flicker of human emotion. “You can do what you will with the girl,” said Kali, “once we have the tithra-kunjī in our possession.”

The goddess faded from sight, and Durga Das bowed.

He turned to the controls and instructed the automated pilot to bring the airship down over the foothills.