WILLIAM DAVEY
“You felt no passage of time?”
“None,” she said. “It was as if I blinked and the scene changed from an icy waste to the conservatory in Mr. Heath’s house. I could not imagine that a whole week had passed.”
“And had it?” I asked.
“What do you mean? Are you asking if Fi told me the truth? She did. Apparently, all of the wedding preparations had been made in considerable haste, despite the alien and frightening image that Fi had presented. Her second appeal to me was more urgent: she had no idea how to conduct herself as a bride.”
“And she would not free you so that you could do so.”
“That is so. She explained to me that unimaginable torture would await her if she did. Instead, she offered me a choice: to assist her in exchange for some unspecified reward, or to experience complete oblivion.”
“Could she let you ‘sleep’ forever?”
“I do not know. I am not interested in knowing. To lose a week in an eyeblink was terrifying enough—perhaps even more terrifying than all that followed.”
“It would not have been better to simply be absent for—for—”
“No. To be completely honest, Reverend, I do not believe that. Imagine if I were to awaken, suddenly, in the Crystal Palace, kneeling next to the corpse of a man I had only recently met, to discover that I was thousands of miles away from my former position and that seven and a half years had passed in but a moment. Try to imagine that, and how I would have reacted. I should have gone mad.”
“Instead of being a prisoner, instead of witnessing what you saw yourself doing?”
“Reverend,” Eliza said. “Please, sir. The meanest criminal in the most onerous prison can still dream of freedom. And what Fi gave me instead of oblivion was enough to keep that dream alive.”
“I do not know how I could have survived it. My admiration for you grows by the moment.”
“Your terminology is very accurate, Reverend Davey. I survived. And I speak of it now against every desire I have to forget all of what happened.” She looked down at her lap, as if she were closely examining her hands.
“You have my gratitude.”
“Yes,” she said. “And your admiration. And not your enmity. You can reserve that for others, since I am so revered.”
“Sarcasm ill becomes you, madam,” I said. “I do not revere you, and many others among the Committee do not see any reason to separate Eliza the chthonios from Eliza the prisoner. They are wrong, just as I was wrong. I like to think that admission is worth something.”
“It is not lost on me. But it is not a currency that affects my feeling about you, or makes me less reluctant to speak of my experiences.”
“I see.” I was very slightly disappointed, but I cannot say that I was surprised.
“Your honesty, Reverend, is why you remain in my sitting room. If the admission had no value, the interview would have never begun.”
ELIZA ESDAILE
And thus I was married.
My matron of honor was Georgiana Shackleford. She could not stop expressing her surprise that I had been suddenly swept off my feet by a man many years my senior—but on the whole, she was thrilled for me and wished me every happiness.
I was permitted to watch, though not permitted to speak for fear that I might reveal what was happening—not that anyone would believe it. But if I were believed to be hysteric or a madwoman, Fi’s purpose would be ruined as well.
I had determined to continue resisting, but this was my wedding. I spoke aloud the proper things for Fi to do and say, and tempered her worst tendencies, so much so that James appeared almost at ease when he spoke the vows. I do not know if they meant anything to Fi—but they were meaningful to me. I have never forgotten that they were spoken, Reverend Davey, and it was always foremost in my mind that Fi observe them just as James always did.
Oh, of course. I know that you must think the worst of him for having made the bargain, and for being insincere—but whatever his failings, a lack of kindness was never among them. He was a true husband.
We began to prepare our departure from Calcutta almost as soon as the wedding was over. There was scarce time for a bridal tour; in this, James would have been more considerate, but I assumed that he knew that Fi would not expect it, and he was most interested in leaving India. Fi’s emotions on the subject were clear, as well.
Did I fear what was to happen? No, not really: I was not dispatched to oblivion, but we did not have any conversations of the sort that we had done while we were still in India. I did not have a trousseau, as a bride in England might have, but the members of the Society helped assemble much of what I brought with me when we undertook our sea passage.
For James—and for me, viewing the affair from a distance, helpless to interact—this was a voyage back to Britain, back home, though I would be coming to Scotland for the first time. For Fi, however, it was nothing but an agony.
I am not given to seasickness. Mrs. Heath suffered during our outward passage, as I told you earlier; and even Mr. Heath took time adjusting to his sea legs. James seemed to accustom himself quickly, and was soon calling upon fellow passengers who did not. I am not sure if my captor had ever seen the ocean—much less traveled on it. She was severely affected, sick and in an extremely poor mood; it’s no wonder that James spent so much time apart from her. It interfered with her abilities but did nothing to weaken her hold on me. Still, it brought about our first true conversation since my wedding day.
James and I were sharing a small cabin that was well-appointed and, by the standards of most of the passengers, reasonably comfortable; he was not officially the ship’s surgeon, but as a practicing physician he had been given a certain amount of preference when our berth was allocated. She caused me to appear at her bedside so that we could talk.
Fi—in my image—looked awful. She was pale and drawn, as if she had seen little sunlight and had retained little food. We were scarcely two days out from Calcutta, passing through a chilling night fog as our vessel passed along Sangor Island, a low, jungle-covered waste emitting a stench that can hardly be imagined.
“Eliza,” she said. “I do not understand why I suffer so, when others on this ship are well and unaffected.”
“Different people react in different ways,” I said. “I am surprised as well. I have never been seasick.”
“This is not my natural domain,” she said. “My kind is of the earth, not of the water.”
“What does that mean? Are you in danger?”
“No,” she said, and my heart sank: for a moment, I had contemplated the idea that a being such as Fi could not survive out at sea, and that I should be freed by circumstance. “Not danger. I merely cannot protect James if I am prostrate here in this wretched cabin on this wretched ship.”
“Is he in danger on this ship?”
“I do not perceive any enemies.” I wondered to myself what she might be able to perceive. “But I am not confident of my own abilities in this situation.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to tell me what is afflicting me and what I must do to recover.”
“James has administered sedatives,” I said to her, as indeed he had done. “But in my experience, the best thing to do is to accustom yourself to the ship—to get fresh air and get your ‘sea legs.’”
“Fresh air? You mean—you mean walk out on the deck?”
“Yes, of course.”
She was incredulous. “But—but the ship pitches back and forth. I could fall off it.”
I laughed. “No, of course you shall not. The ship rolls with the waves, and there are railings to prevent anyone from falling overboard. The salt air will do you—do us—good.”
“No,” she said. “That won’t do at all.”
But it did: ultimately, she concluded that she could not remain in misery in the cabin, and remaining there she could not protect James from whatever might oppose him. Thus, she managed to dress and ascend to the main deck, where she took a very tentative stroll. I was not alongside—I watched from within as I usually did, like the Man in the Iron Mask, unable to speak on my own.
Fi projected an air of hostility, particularly toward people she had not yet met. During the next few days at sea, she forced herself to take constitutionals on deck; I instructed her to nod politely rather than glare and suggest affront—they would take her lack of interest as a side effect of her illness. She seemed to be surprised that this would work, but like so much having to do with humans, she simply did not understand how we interacted.
In any case, forcing herself to take fresh air and walk had a salutary effect, making her stronger and less afflicted by the pitching of our vessel.
One moonlit evening, while she stood on a remote part of the ship’s foredeck, Fi spoke to me. I could not answer aloud, but apparently, she could hear my reply from within.
“There is someone aboard this vessel, Eliza,” she said quietly. “Someone who has some ability with the mesmeric art.”
“Does he mean harm to James?”
“I must assume that he does. Good evening,” she said, her teeth clenched, to a nicely-dressed couple that ventured near. The gentleman tipped his hat to her, but something in Fi’s voice or expression caused him to steer his lady away.
“You frightened them,” I said.
“I would prefer to be alone. I am alone. I see no problem, Eliza. Now as I said before, I sense a practitioner, and I assume that he means harm to James.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“Eliminate the threat,” she answered.
I did not like the way she said it, and I am sure she sensed my unease. She smiled in an unpleasant sort of way—I felt it, for I could not see it: a sort of tight grin that pulled my lips back from my teeth, as if I were about to bite something.
“I am not sure what you intend.”
“Eliza,” she said, “I am to protect James. If there is an enemy on this ship, he will be dealt with.”
“You mean—”
I did not know how to end the sentence. As for Fi, she showed no inclination to explain.
I slept at night, much as I would have done had I been in control. Either she did not sleep at all—unlikely, I agree, but I have no way to truly know—or else she was asleep when I was. I really cannot say. In any case, she made herself ready for bed each night and settled in next to James, at which time I usually drifted off to sleep.
This night, however, after James began to snore softly, Fi arose and carefully dressed. She let herself quietly out of the cabin. I had not quite fallen asleep, and dressing had awoken me. I do not know whether she was aware that I was paying attention from the start, but as we made our way up on deck, I asked, “Where are we going?”
“I am intending to deal with the problem, Eliza,” she said. “If I meet with no difficulty, I shall be able to return to the cabin without even awakening James.”
I felt chilled to the bone, though the air was stifling and warm. “Do you know where this individual is to be found?”
“At present, he is in the forward lounge with a group of gentlemen who are playing cards or some other such foolishness.”
“They are unlikely to permit you entrance.”
“I do not intend to enter, Eliza,” she said. “I intend to wait until he leaves, and deal with him afterward.”
“You may attract unwanted attention, Fi,” I said. “Depending on what you have in mind. There are many other people aboard this ship and—”
“Be quiet!” she hissed. “I do not need your advice or your chatter. You can do nothing to assist my efforts and nothing to hinder them. Would you like me to awaken you when I am done?”
I must tell you, Reverend, that it took a considerable act of will to say no to this question. I had the sense that something unpleasant was about to happen, and realized that if I were to “sleep through it,’” I should be sent to this oblivion like a child to her room whenever Fi deemed me to be superfluous. Ultimately, that might well be always.
“I will be silent,” I said.
She did not respond to this comment.
It was dark this night; we were well out to sea now, passing along the Coromandel coast north of Madras. There were many places to hide out of sight, and Fi settled herself on a narrow bench along a corridor—what sailors call a “gangway”—that led out of the lounge where her quarry was presumably enjoying himself.
I was surprised that she should choose this place, for it seemed to me that any gentleman leaving the evening’s entertainments would hardly be inclined to take this route; but I did not wish to say anything in case Fi interpreted my comment as interference and sent me to oblivion. In the meanwhile, we could hear the laughter and chatter from within, along with the clinking of glasses and other incidental sounds. It faintly reminded me of the sort of dinner party that Mr. Heath would hold from time to time, entertaining fellow businessmen in Calcutta.
As it happened, Fi knew exactly what she was doing. After a few hours—I saw the moon rise from our vantage, lifting itself from the horizon beyond the rolling sea, and climb steadily into the sky—a nearby door opened, and a man emerged, profiled by the light from the lounge beyond. The sound of tables and chairs being moved grew loud and then soft again as the door closed.
The man took three or four confident strides then stopped, and in the moonlight I saw his hands move quickly in front of him. He was slight of form, and dressed in white—not as a card-playing gentleman in evening dress, but instead as a servant. His face was mostly in shadow, but I could see that he wore a carefully trimmed beard and a turban. The line of his jaw and the shape of his hands seemed terribly familiar.
I began to say Gobinda—for I was sure that it was he!—but dared not speak, not even within my own mind to Fi. But after a few moments, it was clear that, while the man resembled my old acquaintance, he was younger and somewhat taller.
“I cannot see you, servant of Kali,” he said in a soft voice, tinged with some accent that I did not know—it was not Bengali. “But I can feel you.”
“You are here to hurt my husband,” Fi answered.
“I do not care about him,” the man said. “It is you I seek.”
“It would have been better if you had never boarded this ship.”
“Duty overwhelms my personal choices, demon,” he said, stepping forward. For the first time, I managed a look at his face—and indeed, he looked very much like Gobinda: the same slightly protruding nose and rounded, firm jaw, the same dark, furrowed brows. “I have journeyed very far to confront you.”
“Shiva is nothing to me,” Fi said. She inhaled slightly and then began speaking a series of syllables. They were nonsense words, like a sing-song nursery rhyme; yet with each phrase, there was a sound like a great intake of breath, a sort of non-sound that seemed to soak up every sound around it.
Shiva! I thought. The ancient Hindoo god!
“He is—” The man seemed to be straining, as if he was being pulled toward us, one halting step at a time. “My Lord Shiva sent me from his holy city to—”
Fi continued to speak, and with each sound it became harder and harder to hear anything else. Indeed, it seemed that the moon shone less brightly, and the very patterns of the things on the walls of the gangway seemed to strain and distort.
“I have—” the man said. “I must—”
But whatever he had, whatever he must, for whatever purpose Lord Shiva had sent him from his holy city, was never revealed. The man leapt forward as if a mighty hand had pushed him: but before he collided with us I was subjected to a horrific sight: his body was pulled apart, first his outer clothing and then his skin and then his bones, which seemed to be on fire.
I know that I cried out in anguish and terror, but evidently matters had progressed too far for my exclamation to interrupt Fi’s effort. I could not look away: apparently, my choice was between oblivion and complete sensory engagement. The latter was my part for the next several seconds, as the fiery remains of the man seemed to flare brightly and then disappear, leaving no trace behind. All through this process, he had not even cried out.
Fi stopped speaking and took several deep breaths, as if it had taken some considerable effort.
“Someone will miss him,” I managed to say at last.
“No,” she said, turning away and making her way toward the stairway to below decks. “No one will miss him but his god.”