WILLIAM DAVEY
Georgiana was amused as she looked at me, lowering the spyglass from my eye.
“I can see it.”
“You look relieved, William,” she said. “Or is that wonder I see in your eyes?”
“Wonder? No. I confess to relief. During the crossing I had the strangest feeling of isolation, as if the entire world was encompassed by this ship with nothing beyond.”
“But you are much taken with the view.”
“It is quite remarkable. I cannot see the harbour, but I thought I picked out a fort of some kind.”
“Bawa Malang. It’s in ruins now—and we are still some distance from the harbour; it is on an island set out from the coast. When we come closer, you’ll see that Her Majesty’s Forces have seized extravagant and magnificent control—there are shore batteries and gunships, though I remain at a loss to know against whom they might be directed. The Rebellion is long past, and no other European power threatens Her Majesty’s realm in India.”
“It is called deterrence, Georgiana. Those armaments help deter mayhem.”
“I cannot imagine that anyone would contemplate it.”
“I do not think you understand how these things work, madam.”
“I witnessed the Sepoy Rebellion in person, Reverend,” she answered with some asperity. “I understand exactly how these things work.”
I had no reply to that comment. Georgiana was always quite stubborn when she thought she knew what she was about.
“I have offended your male pride.”
“Do not trouble yourself,” I said.
She pursed her lips but did not immediately respond. We stood there looking out across the water, dappled by the sun.
At last she said, “You still don’t trust me, William.”
“I don’t know what makes you say that. I owe my life to you, Georgiana.”
“But you are still on your guard toward me.”
“It is merely a habit of my profession.”
She smiled. “I suppose I cannot blame you. I followed you all the way to India in secret; other than our little skirmish with the nereic and the chthonic beings, I have done little to gain your trust—”
“Surely,” I said, “that is enough.”
“I should have thought so. However, now that we are coming to another country, one that most Englishmen never see, you need to accept me as an ally.”
“Need? I think you may overstate the case.”
“I do not. I find your aloofness charming, William. But never fear: if you choose to trust me, I shall speak of it to no one. Your secret is safe with me.”
GEORGIANA SHACKLEFORD
As was customary, our vessel docked at Apollo Bandar below Fort George to discharge the mail. The captain of Malabar Princess and the haughty customs official insisted on referring to it as Wellington Pier, but the old name—derived from the palla fish, and not the Greek god!—was still the vernacular. But as with the guns and ships, we have a tendency to attach the names of famous past heroes to anything in reach, though the indigenous people often stubbornly resist.
Within an hour we were again underway, proceeding along the east side of the island to Mazagaon, where the custom house is located, so that we could disembark. That process could scarcely have been more disagreeable—not only for the rather undignified way in which the transaction was handled, but also for the odor from the nearby flats that permeated the air. But it was not the smell of fish that alarmed us as we waited for our luggage to be examined—it was the sense of something else all around us, waiting and watching.
By the time we emerged onto the crowded street opposite St. Peter’s Church, it was clear to me that we had come to a changed land: not the India of the pleasant guidebooks, nor the India I had left a few years earlier, but a place with spirits that few people could see or feel. We two were among those few.
WILLIAM DAVEY
Our purser had made arrangements with a dubash, a sort of valet de place who had come aboard at Apollo Bandar, to secure places for us at a small hotel in Bykullah, supposed to be nearby. I could only hope for the best, as I certainly had no idea. I was somewhat bewildered by Bombay, as we waited for the carriage.
When it at last arrived, I was made even more aware of the alienness of the place. The vehicle was harnessed to a pair of large bullocks. Porters obligingly piled cases and trunks onto the back of this conveyance—a bullock-garee, as it was called—and we took our places on broad benches. We were thus unceremoniously hauled over to Palanji’s Hotel.
As we passed through the streets, I also had the sense of being watched: unlike the idlers on Regent Street or outside Fergusson’s office, these seemed to be more inchoate and seemingly less malign—though Georgiana was on edge during our ride and even while we waited in the hotel lobby for our rooms. In the heat of the day we parted to take our rest; even in the winter, it was humid and warm, especially for a visiting Englishman. In the late afternoon, though, there was a sudden thunderstorm which unburdened us of much of the humidity in the air.
I met Georgiana in the hotel dining room near dusk: we resumed our roles as the natural philosopher and his amanuensis, sampling local cuisine. My companion did her best to steer me away from the most spicy dishes, but the fare was still rather more than I was prepared to handle.
“You’d best get used to it, William,” she said to me quietly as I wiped my brow and my eyes after a particularly savory forkful. “This is moderate for the native palate.”
“I suppose one becomes accustomed.”
“Or goes hungry.” She set her napkin on the table and caught my attention with her glance. “Tomorrow we shall take a short voyage by steam launch to Elephanta.”
“We shall?”
“We are going to visit Lord Shiva’s temple. I hope that we shall gain some insight there.”
“There are temples aplenty here. Why must we make this voyage?”
She looked at me, frowning slightly. “This is not just any temple. It is a Shiva Linga—one might almost say that it is the Shiva Linga. Some Brahmins disdain the place, but I suspect you will feel its power.”
“Tell me more,” I answered, though I knew she would not hesitate to do so.
“Benares, the city where I learned the Art, is most holy to Lord Shiva,” she said quietly. “But He is revered here as well. It is far too difficult to articulate all of the aspects of Hindoo beliefs, so I will not burden you with them—but suffice it to say that the great cave on the island of Elephanta is a remarkable center of power. It depicts Shiva with three faces: the creator Brahma, the preserver Vishnu, and the destroyer Rudra. It is called the Trimurti.”
The description reminded me of something—though I could not place it at that moment.
“It is a remarkable likeness, I suppose.”
“You do not have to resort to a mocking tone, sir. I can imagine that during your voyage here, your eyes have been opened to things you have never seen—denigrating a place of power is not only impolite and impious, it might even be dangerous.”
“You mistake my tone as a mocking one, madam. It is merely dismissive.”
Georgiana looked as if she was prepared to retort angrily, but instead made a sort of hmph noise—then softened, realizing that I was only joking with her.
“I do not think Lord Shiva has a tremendous sense of humor, particularly with non-believers. Unfortunately, the great cave on Elephanta gets a great deal of them—Englishmen, mostly, though it is said that the Portuguese fired cannons into it to destroy the idols within. That Lord Shiva has not seen fit to retaliate may suggest that He simply doesn’t think it’s worth His while to do so.”
“So I am safe in dismissing him.”
“No,” she said, sipping from her wine glass. “His inaction should not be used as an indication of his lack of interest. Post hoc does not necessarily indicate propter hoc—or is it the other way around?” She smiled. “While I should like to impress you with the numinousness of the Shiva Linga, I shall have to leave you to sense it for yourself. In the meanwhile, I am very troubled, William, by what I sense around us.”
We are everywhere, the Levantine had told me. “I think the problem is more widespread than just India, Georgiana.”
“I know that. But there is a certain hunger here. If the Glass Door has been opened—”
“I rather think that we would know it by now.”
“You have a tremendous confidence in your own abilities.”
“It is a survival trait.”
She sniffed, as if dismissing my survival traits. I might have considered it mildly insulting—except that I might well have owed my life to Georgiana and could not help but respect her abilities.
“I suppose you are right. But this is not your domain—and it is not mine.”
“Whose domain is it, then?”
“It is the domain of Lord Shiva. But He has more than one face. We must take care that the wrong one does not turn its attention to us.”
We took to our separate rooms and slept as well as we were able.
In the morning, Georgiana and I boarded a steam launch at the P&O at Apollo Bandar dock and left the main island. Bombay Harbour was still and shining in the sun; it would have been an idyllic, pastoral journey, except for the feeling that weighed upon both of us as we stood out on the launch’s main deck. The harbour was crowded with boats of every description—from the meanest rowboats to large steamships, berthed at the various docks behind us.
It took us less than an hour to travel to Elephanta Island, passing a smaller island on the way—the launch steered well clear of it, as it was apparently used for quarantine. The craft was thronged with pilgrims as well as inquisitive Europeans; the natives were respectful, while most of the Englishmen were garrulous and—I must confess—somewhat disrespectful. The lessons of the Sepoy Rebellion clearly did not include any regard for native culture: I wondered that I even took notice of it.
When we reached the pier, we were all taken by the sight of an enormous mass of rock, cut in some bygone day in the shape of an enormous elephant, fifteen feet in length and nearly thirty feet around. Some of the head and neck had fallen off or been damaged—perhaps the Portuguese guns had done it. (I am given to understand that this great stone mass has long since been removed.)
The first inhabitants I noticed at the pier were not human at all—they were monkeys. Gray or dark brown, with long, curved tails, they seemed to have the run of the place; they capered around the visitors, hoping for food or attention, dodging canes and walking sticks (at which they seemed quite adept), while we humans had to make an effort to keep our footing on the slippery pier, composed of large concrete blocks with gaps of several inches between them. We streamed steadily up the flights of steps; the more weary and infirm tended to stop at landing places located at intervals, while others were carried upward—bump-bump-bump—by palky bearers. In comparison, Georgiana—who clearly had her destination in mind—moved at a resolute pace without pause, and I walked alongside. Monkeys kept us company, running along the stone railings and through the corinda bushes that covered the hillside.
We reached the summit of the hill at last and were presented with the remarkable sight that Georgiana had brought me here to see: a cave temple cut into the rock of the hillside. It was composed of wide, squat pillars supporting a broad facade of stone resembling porphyry, dividing the cave mouth into three broad openings. When it came into view, the native Indians immediately began to murmur to themselves; and even Georgiana hesitated.
“Shall we put our shoes from off our feet?” I asked quietly, in jest.
She stopped walking and grasped me by the forearm.
“I appreciate your dismissiveness—or is it disdain? But please understand, William: this is not the time, and this is certainly not the place.”
She was deadly earnest—truly, even when we were opposed by Fi and the nereic being on the ship, I do not think I saw such a serious expression on her face.
“What is to happen here, madam?”
“I told you,” she said, leading me gently out of the press to the left side of the great plaza. “We are here to learn more about the nature of our objective and what opposes us.”
“And to see a three-headed god.”
“This is one of Lord Shiva’s most sacred places.”
“I asked you some time ago if you had taken up the Hindoo worship, Georgiana, and you assured me that this was not the case. Would you care to reconsider your answer, and whether you intend something to which I might object?” I fingered the clerical collar at my throat.
“I did not choose this place by accident.”
“That much is obvious.”
“It is sacred to Lord Shiva, William,” she repeated, and added in a whisper, “which means that certain beings fear it and will stay away. There might be no place more protected from a chthonic eavesdropper than this temple. Now I ask you to trust me, and bear with me.”
“You are keeping things from me.”
“Many, many things. And you are keeping things from me. I think that we can trust each other despite that.”
“You ask a great deal.”
“And so do you. Now let us enter the temple, sir.”
I was acutely aware of the presence of the place, fifty yards from where Georgiana and I stood. Unlike the interior of the Crystal Palace, this place seemed to magnify my mesmeric senses: I felt drawn to it in a manner I had not experienced since I was aboard the Mediterranean steamer.
If Georgiana were leading me into a trap, I flattered myself that I should be able to anticipate that as well. But this far from my own domain and battered by recent experience and the continual revelation of worlds I had never seen, I found it difficult to be certain.
When I hesitated, Georgiana’s expression softened.
“I realize that India is terra incognita for you, William, as it once was for me,” she said. “But this is not the India I knew, either: it is a changed land, torn by the Rebellion and now—inhabited—by things we must both consider inimical. If you wish to turn back, I cannot and do not desire to stop you.”
“All right,” I said. “Lead on.”