WILLIAM DAVEY
Come,” Georgiana said as we passed between two of the great stone pillars that flanked the facade.
It was dark and cooler inside—but the first thing that struck me was the profound silence. It was not so much the reverent quiet of worshippers: truthfully, in some ways they were as animated as the disdainful Europeans had been in our journey across Bombay Harbour. It was the silence associated with our separation from the world beyond those massive pillars—and I suddenly realized that outside I had been hearing the plaintive sounds of almost-voices; perhaps the chthonoi were asking me, in a voice I could scarcely hear and in a language I did not understand: What do you want? How can we help you?
And abruptly that chorus was struck silent. Within this ancient temple, a thousand or more years old, we were in the domain of Lord Shiva.
I could feel him—I refused to capitalize the pronoun then, and still hesitate to do so these many years later, for that would be to accord Shiva the status of deity. But his presence was apparent to anyone with the least sensitivity: and if not a god, he was clearly more than a mere mortal and more than the nereic spirit out in the Indian Ocean, or the photic one in the Egyptian desert, or the chthonic ones on Malta.
Shiva was, in truth, another sort of being entirely: powerful and without definite boundary, rather like a thundercloud in the sky. It was no wonder that Georgiana had been shaken by contact with him—especially if it had been deeper than the casual interaction I was presently experiencing.
My reverie was interrupted by Georgiana gently touching my arm.
“Come to the Linga Shrine,” she said, and gestured to a large square structure on the west side of the cave. “A friend is here.”
“A friend?”
She declined to answer, but indicated for me to follow.
We walked toward a doorway. Beyond I could see a square chapel, flanked by large stone statues that looked like Hindoo men leaning on smaller, dwarfish figures with curious, mocking expressions. As we passed beneath the square arch, I felt my aura tingle as if it had been assaulted by a mesmerist of considerable power.
Each compass direction held a similar square archway, so that the entire temple was open to the outer cave; in the center of the temple a smooth, conical stone about three feet across sat upon a round plinth.
Though the cave was crowded, this area was remarkably empty, other than the two of us and a turbaned man with his back turned, who appeared to be contemplating the stone. At our footsteps he turned and offered a polite smile.
He was an elderly native gentleman with a carefully trimmed beard and round spectacles. Animated eyes lay behind them.
“William,” she said, “I have the honor to present—”
“No,” I interrupted. “Let me guess. This must be the remarkable Gobinda Shah Ahmadi.”
“Have we met, sir?” the Bengali khansamah asked, taking my forwardness in stride. Georgiana, by comparison, was speechless—I think that she had expected the man to be present in the cave and my reaction had thrown her completely off-stride.
Good, I thought. Let’s keep it that way.
“You have me at something of a disadvantage,” Gobinda said. “I suspect that you know more about me than I do about you.” He glanced curiously at Georgiana. What did you tell him? he seemed to be asking.
“I take it that Georgiana did not brief you in advance when she set up this meeting.”
“She only just learned I was here. My friend and student”—he smiled toward Georgiana, giving the slightest mesmeric gesture, which I resisted, not letting my eyes travel from him to her—“has not been in India for a few years, and I have not left it. Despite our correspondence, Reverend Davey Sahib, I am unsure what you know and do not know. I do understand that you are a powerful practitioner within your domain.”
“And outside of it.”
“I have no doubt of it,” he answered.
“You and my newfound friend have arranged this meeting, sir. Perhaps you would be good enough to tell me what you want—or what you will do for me.”
At this point I turned to Georgiana; she looked impatient and somewhat annoyed. I returned my attention to Gobinda.
“Your reputation does not do you justice,” he said without explanation. “Nonetheless, I am here to assist you, and I shall do so. This is an important place to Lord Shiva, as I am sure Georgiana has told you.”
I glanced around. “It keeps the stoicheia at bay.”
“Just so. But there is more here than merely a barrier to elemental spirits. Consider, if you will, this stone.”
He turned away from us to contemplate the object that dominated the center of the room.
“This is supposed to be a part of Shiva, I presume,” I said.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “It represents Lord Shiva in his character as a prolific power of nature.”
“It is his—”
“Nature,” Gobinda interrupted, before I offered a literal characterization of the thing, which I am sure would have led me directly to paroxysms of laughter, allowing the two of them to make short work of me.
“And it is, I assume, an object of veneration.”
Gobinda did not turn to face me, but I saw him sketch a very subtle mesmeric gesture with his left hand. As he did, pilgrims and curious visitors began making their way into the hitherto empty temple area, as if he had just invited them.
“There are many places that mark mighty Shiva’s worship. But outside of Varanasi itself, this might be the principal one. Do you not agree, Georgiana?”
“It is a place where He is revered.”
“This is Lord Shiva’s home. In any case, Shiva is powerful here. Younger spirits, therefore, are not. Particularly near the Linga. But look at this.” He walked over to the north entrance, which was faced by an immense three-faced bust, perhaps twenty or more feet in height, depicting a huge figure topped with three faces: one looking directly at us, the others pointing left and right. Once again, the three-headed image reminded me of something that I was unable to bring to mind.
“The Trimurti,” Georgiana said.
“Some traditions show Lord Shiva with five faces, but the more common representation is of three. The one facing us is Shiva as Brahma, the Creator—he is an ascetic, despite that jewel in his breast: he drinks from a gourd. On our right, he is Shiva as Vishnu, the Preserver: see the lotus in his hand. These two faces are the benign aspects of Lord Shiva, who protects and cultivates. But there is a third face.” He stepped a little to the left and gestured. “That is Shiva as Rudra, the Destroyer. He holds a cobra wrapped around his arm, prepared to strike, and his third eye is visible but, thankfully, closed. When it opens, flame will erupt that will destroy the world.”
“That is to be avoided, I trust.”
He nodded. “For three thousand years, Lord Shiva has protected the land from perils—foreigners”—he smiled, inclining his head—“natural disasters, and of course, pishach, or demons. There is a tale that the worst of these demons have been bottled up and tossed in the ocean or planted deep in the earth, for their essence is such that even Lord Shiva could not completely destroy them.”
“The tale is true, as you know,” I answered. “But the one I pursue has not yet escaped. However, it has found a way to extend its influence beyond the bars of its prison.”
“Where is it now? Where is its prison?”
“I cannot say,” I said. “It is what has brought me to India. I believe it was found, partially opened, and discarded before it could do further damage. But it clearly has done harm. It may have helped bring about the Mutiny itself,” I added, as sotto voce as the echoes in the temple chamber would permit. “But there is something about it I do not understand.”
“What is that?”
“The beings here in India do not seem to be particularly well-formed. They seem immaterial, partially inchoate. I have encountered their kind in a far better organized fashion. Enough,” I said, looking at Georgiana, “that they could capably take a place in human society, such that those without extended perceptions might not even notice their presence. I have seen none of that sort here in India.”
“You might be surprised,” Gobinda said quietly.
“How gratifying.”
“If the pishach has not escaped by now,” he said at last, “then perhaps it simply cannot.”
I looked up at the Trimurti, paying particular attention to the Destroyer aspect. The light was irregular inside the cave, casting some of the three-faced figure in shadow; but for just a moment, I thought I saw the hint of flames behind the closed eye on the face’s forehead: the fires of destruction, waiting to be unleashed.
“I should not like to take that risk,” I said. “The object in which it is contained must be found and secured. Perhaps Lord Shiva can help.”
“If that is what He wishes. But if He desires that effort to fail instead—”
“Of the three faces,” I answered, “that is the one I least wish to see.”