ELIZA ESDAILE
I have decided to continue this narrative to the end for my benefit as well as yours, Reverend. I know that you are surprised, even shocked, that I might be sympathetic to the man that gave me over to possession. But it offered me a way to go home—and a promise that it would go its way when he died. It fully expected to consume him at the moment of death: there was a time that it would have overjoyed me to see it happen. I rejoice now, however, that he cheated the being.
I don’t know where it has gone. Back to the nightfall realm, I expect. They speak of the Glass Door, which separates our realm from theirs. Even when closed, each side can see through and be tempted. Maybe it watches this scene, though I doubt it; I don’t know what it means for such a creature to give service and be cheated of payment—though I can tell you that it is a member of a hierarchy of sorts, and is among the least of its kind. I tremble to think what a greater one might be like.
This is the power you would have been able to access, had James delivered the statue to you. No, I do not believe that you would have been able to resist the temptation. James could not, though he had only used that power once.
After his initial approach, James made a point of speaking with me and working with me whenever possible. I enjoyed the attention, of course, as any young woman might—and Mrs. Shackleford favored me with frequent smiles because I was in such high esteem with our patron. Amelia, my room-mate, was jealous, but tried her best to conceal it—I think she would have been glad to be so prominent.
But she would have been unlikely to be found “suitable.”
At the end of a particularly wearying week, Doctor Esdaile invited me to dine with him at his own residence. It was impossible to do so alone, as I am sure you understand: I was therefore accompanied by Mrs. Shackleford. We completed our work for the day and returned to the dormitories; even Amelia seemed excited, and helped me brush my hair and arrange my frock. All of the others were most encouraging—it was as if I were truly being evaluated in some way, rather than simply being accorded a courtesy by the Doctor Sahib.
We walked almost everywhere even in the most fierce heat, but this evening Mrs. Shackleford and I were picked up by a palky and delivered in style through a fierce rainstorm directly to James Esdaile’s door. His dirwan—a younger man, much younger than the ageless relic who had guarded the door at the Heath compound—was ready with a stout umbrella when we arrived, and escorted us quickly inside.
Away from the hospital, I had expected James to be relaxed and more at ease—but he seemed quite tense, for the reason you can imagine. His house was small but well-appointed, with a spacious rear verandah and wide screened doors at either end—making it airy and somewhat cool.
“Thank you for joining me,” he said, offering us seats in the parlor.
A house servant provided us with glasses of Madeira; I am not knowledgeable about wines, but evidently the vintage was sufficient to impress my companion.
We engaged in small talk: discussion of the weather and the festivals, of the Great Exposition then happening in London, and so forth. James was most knowledgeable about ancient cultures: his house was decorated with artifacts and memorabilia from all over India, and he could speak on each one. I was fascinated in spite of myself, though Mrs. Shackleford found it quite wearying.
The discussion continued through dinner. He had engaged a talented chef; Kajari’s cooking was excellent as I have already said—but there was a marked difference. Each dish was more flavorful and savory than the last: I can remember them very clearly even after all of these years. And there were so many of them: a spicy soup, chapatti, and savory naan breads, a lovely lamb biryani dish, fresh vegetables and fruit, accompanied by more of the wine and that excellent sweet yoghurt drink called lassi.
At some point short of the end of the meal, Mrs. Shackleford’s head began to nod on her chest. She was accustomed to the heat and acquainted with the cuisine; her manners, if not her dignity, should have kept this from happening. Of course, years later I have my own suspicions on this event, but at the time I concluded that she had been working harder than any of us.
I reached to wake her but James said, “No, let her rest a while. I have a particularly interesting item to show you.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It’s in my library.” He stood and walked toward a doorway. I hesitated: it was a little improper for me to be alone with him—but I did not wish to contradict the doctor regarding Mrs. Shackleford’s rest. “It will only take a minute.”
Yes, of course. I should have said no. I should have known. Should have, should have, should have. I assumed he was merely being kind, and enthusiastic about some object he had found somewhere.
I went into the library. It was dark, with only a single lamp sitting on a circular, dark wood table in the middle of the room. Almost as soon as I came into the room, I knew what he intended to show me.
On the mantel, to the left of an ornate clock, there was a statue. It was tiny; perhaps no more than five or six inches tall. It was a naked native woman worked in exquisite detail, down to the bangles at ankles and wrists; she held one hand upright, almost defiantly, holding a dagger. It glowed as from within, making a second light source in the room.
“You see it, don’t you,” he said. I couldn’t see him in the dim light. I walked forward carefully to look at the object: it was compelling and beautiful.
Eliza, I heard. You came.
“What?” I spun around. “Doctor Esdaile? Where are you?”
He has stepped away, Eliza. But he will return. He will be with you.
I wasn’t sure what was happening and did not wait to find out. I walked straight for the doorway, where light streamed out from the dining room. But suddenly someone was standing in front of me—a young Indian woman whom I had never seen before. She was barefoot and dressed casually, in a beautiful choli and sari that seemed to catch the light. She raised her hand as I approached, making the bangles at her wrist jangle musically. It stopped me in my tracks.
Yes, Reverend Davey. That is where I began to be afraid.
“I must ask you a question, Eliza,” she said. Not memsahib, not Miss Weatherhead. “What is it you most desire?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“I can answer for you, Eliza. You want to go home. You want to leave India and return to your home.”
I wanted to reply angrily—but I could not, Reverend. I could not find words to answer this Indian woman.
She was right. I wanted more than anything to be quit of India—quit of voices, of monsoons, of all that was around me—and see my home again.
“I do not know how I will be able to do it.”
“I can help you, Eliza. I shall help you.”
“How?”
“You must trust me. The Doctor finds you suitable, and I have what you desire.”
“You can help me go home.”
“Yes, Eliza. I can.”
“What must I do?”
“You must say yes, Eliza. You must only say yes.”
I do not know what moved me at that moment. Perhaps the chthonic spirit had already taken control of my will, or there had been some substance placed in our dinner, or I was overwhelmed by the desire to do as she said—to leave India forever.
I took a deep breath and said, “Yes.”
The young girl’s eyes began to glow. I promise you, Reverend, I saw it—her eyes became like a pair of bright streetlamps. I opened my mouth to shout, but no sound emerged.
My sight began to fade and I felt faint: my legs seemed to give out under me.
Somewhere in the distance, I thought I heard Gobinda’s voice shouting my name.
WILLIAM DAVEY
Her story went no farther for the moment.
There are times when a mesmerist must press a subject to achieve a desired effect. There are many methods and many consequences: pain, loss of memory, emotional turmoil, implantation of false feelings and false recollections—but Eliza Weatherhead Esdaile was not an adversarial subject. She had accepted the trance state at my hands in order to facilitate the telling of the story, and she felt that it had reached its end with Esdaile’s betrayal and her own acceptance of the chthonic spirit.
I think that her admission of that terrible decision humiliated her before me. She had already declared her disdain and dislike for me, for the Committee, and for all that we represented. Whether that meant that there was more to tell and she refused to tell it, or that she had confessed to as much weakness as she chose to do at present, I did not know at that time.
Whatever the case, she summarized for me—briefly and, I think, rather curtly—how she had awoken in the women’s ward at the hospital, having fallen unconscious for a few days; how she had found herself trapped, watching her body and her senses under the control of an alien force; and how she had quickly become engaged and then as quickly married to the man who had so casually and callously betrayed her.
Within a matter of a few weeks, Eliza Weatherhead—now Eliza Weatherhead Esdaile, a prisoner in her own body and mind—was boarding a ship with her new husband, bound for Scotland, leaving India behind forever. The statue remained behind: she knew this for certain, since her senses were now attuned to its presence.
When she had finished, I told Eliza that I intended to travel to Scotland to visit Esdaile’s brother. When I thus informed her, I thought that she might bid me good riddance—but she softened, and asked that I take a letter with me to Reverend David Esdaile, which she would write and arrange to be delivered to my hotel room so that I might carry it with me.
“I shall convey it with pleasure, madam,” I told her. “I give you my word that I will not examine it.”
“If that were my concern, Reverend Davey, I should not send it with you. It does not matter whether you see it or not—there is nothing I care to keep secret. I merely wanted David—James’s brother—to know of his death, and some little of what we have learned together these past few weeks. I also wish for him to know how terribly sorry I am at his grief at what he and we have lost.”
“I understand.”
“You do not,” she replied. “You only think you do. But I would not dream of gainsaying the chairman of the Committee. Suffice it to say, sir, that my keeper was by no means the only such spirit abroad in the land. There are certainly others, as I expect you will learn soon enough.”
I had no ready answer to that comment, but simply said, “I shall deliver your letter.”
“Then I shall bid you farewell, Reverend Davey. I have told you that I believe you to be the villain of this drama, but for all that, I do not wish evil on you.”
“I thank you for that kindness, Mrs. Esdaile.”
“It is only because evil needs no more help from me, sir. I suspect that it shall have no trouble finding you without me.”
And thus I took my leave of Eliza.
As I walked down the lane away from her cottage, I turned back for a moment to see her standing at the door. She followed me with her glance for only a few moments, then turned away and closed her door as if shutting me once and for all out of her life.