WILLIAM DAVEY
We parted company from Gobinda before we left Bombay, with the assurance that we would see him again in Calcutta. I invited him to join us aboard the steamship but he declined, claiming pressing business.
For my part, I was relieved to have a respite to consider how I was to approach him—or make use of him—before circumstances forced me to do so. But I did not know how he might reach Calcutta otherwise in any reasonable amount of time—there was no direct train service. Perhaps he planned to call up a magic carpet. Georgiana seemed to entertain no doubts, so I let the matter lie.
After the voyage from Aden to Bombay, the passage to Calcutta was anticlimactic. We were not assaulted by stoicheia and met with no mysterious strangers. However, it was not without its eventful moments.
Our route took us entirely around the island of Ceylon, a large teardrop south and east of the tip of India. It seemed like an unnecessary detour for the ship, as opposed to passing through the Palk Strait into the Bay of Bengal, a shorter way as shown on a map. As we watched the approach to Ceylon’s west coast from the main deck of Malabar Princess, I observed as much to Georgiana.
“It’s not navigable,” she said. “There’s been talk of a ship channel, but it would cut through Rama’s Bridge, which is clearly out of the question.”
“Rama’s Bridge?”
“There is a reef that extends from India to Ceylon. It’s called Rama’s Bridge because Lord Rama used it to reach the island, to recover his wife, Sita, from the evil Lord Ravena. It’s all in the Ramayana. The story is that Lord Rama crossed on a bridge of floating stones—”
“Lord Rama.”
“Yes.”
“Another Hindoo god, I suppose?”
“He was likely a real king, in ancient time. A great hero—the perfect servant of dharma, which is—”
“Wait.” I held up my hand. “I concede your knowledge of Indian culture. Let me assure you that, other than as it affects my purposes, I do not care very much about it.”
“You should. I have already suggested to you—”
“Yes. That I might anger Lord Shiva, or Vishnu, or Rama, or whomever.” I gave an exaggerated glance upward, as if there was a smiting on the way. “But I don’t believe in all of it—not as religion. Do you?”
“I have told you that I do not.”
“To be honest, I find that harder and harder to believe,” I answered. “Whenever one of these pagan beings—I hesitate to refer to them as ‘gods’—comes into the conversation, Georgiana, you accord him great reverence.”
“I would not call it—”
“Reverence,” I repeated. “I am trying to maintain distance from what I see.” I looked away from her, out at the verdant hills of Ceylon. The air was humid beyond belief—even in late morning mist covered the higher slopes, where rain was falling. “Somewhere ahead of us, I believe I will find an artifact that embodies a malign spirit, something dangerous enough that James Esdaile was willing to give his life and trap the soul of an innocent young woman—and, I must note, to defy me and the entire Committee to keep us from it. Gobinda called this thing a demon. I find the characterization not at all unbecoming.
“I refuse to be distracted by pagan nonsense that clouds the subject and confuses my aims. There is much that I do not understand, Georgiana, but—”
She put her hand over mine. I paused and looked at her.
“William,” she said quietly, “there is much that I do not understand. You asked me whether I worshipped Lord Shiva and I told you I did not—but that does not mean I do not respect His power. I am not sure about the boundaries of divinity: what makes a being a deity, or god-like, or just something or someone we cannot comprehend.
“What is clear to me is that beings of such power have appeared in many cultures in the past.”
“Yes, I accept that: the Vikings, the Egyptians and the Hindoos all seem to have devised ways to keep them at bay. But regardless of their power, it does not make them God.”
“It makes them—” She removed her hand and adjusted her hat minutely, as if to better suit the fitful damp breeze that had sprung up. “It makes them something to be feared and respected. They may be different things, or they may be one thing viewed in different ways. Archaeologists call this syncretism: it’s like the Greek Zeus and the Roman Jupiter.”
“You are arguing the divine with a clergyman, Georgiana. I may be many things, but I am still in a line of work that requires that I pay heed to certain standards. I also continue to adhere to those beliefs.
“Shiva—” I lowered my voice and caught her eye. I did not attempt a mesmeric pass: this was not a time for a test of wills, but I wanted to make sure I had her attention. “Shiva,” I said very quietly, “is not God. Whatever the being whom you perceive happens to be, he or it is not God. If I were to travel that road, then soon I would attribute godhood to the terrible thing inside that statue. That way—that way lies madness.
“Do not try me, Georgiana. Do not.”
I thought about using the Art again, decided against it, and began to turn to walk away; but she grabbed my sleeve. I shrugged it off but remained: she had something to say, and whether I was annoyed or angry with her or not, I needed to hear it.
“There was a time that such beings walked the earth,” she said. “They crossed bridges of floating stones; they raised great towers and changed the courses of mighty rivers. They blessed lands and scourged them. I believe that. I also am convinced that it happened a very, very long time ago. It is better to let such beings sleep, either by constraining them—or by offering them the proper respect and duty.”
“Idolatry.”
“I think of it more as insurance. Whatever happens, William, whatever we do, we do not want them walking abroad again. Let them sleep.”
We came upon Sangor Island in the first light of morning, the sun rising oily and orange-yellow from the Bay of Bengal. The island was an overgrown jungle that showed some signs of human habitation; some of the undergrowth had been hacked away to make room for docks, and there was a profusion of boats of various kinds. Malabar Princess was travelling under a fair bit of steam and none of these vessels approached—and our captain seemed to have no interest in heaving to long enough for them to do so.
Georgiana informed me that years ago, not only did ships inbound for Calcutta regularly give over to this diversion, but that it was almost a necessity: the waters near the mouth of the Hooghly River were sufficiently hazardous that it was almost a requirement that a ship take on a foreign pilot to guide it into harbour. But those were still mostly sailing ships; a packet steamer like Malabar Princess did not require such assistance.
Thus, though the ship slowed its pace as we approached and then entered the river itself—opening up a beautiful view, far superior to the initial impression—we approached the city without any intervention, coming at last to dock under the watch of Fort William, which dominated the fairly flat landscape. Soldiers were prominently stationed on the dock: as Jackson had pointed out to me a lifetime ago, this was a land that had only recently undergone a great upheaval. No natives with nasty knives were in evidence.
I could feel presences on shore—not only the sorts of inchoate spirits we had felt in Bombay, but also those who projected an aura indicating facility with the Art.
As we arranged our descent from the ship, I saw Gobinda on the dockside, standing serenely among the scarcely organized chaos of the import jetties which accompanies the arrival of passenger vessels anywhere in the world, patiently waiting for us to approach.
When we came close, he offered a perfect, courteous bow to Georgiana, and gave me a tight, careful smile.
“I am pleased to see you here,” I said. “And to be honest, not the least surprised.”
“I dislike dissembling,” Gobinda answered. “I have been very busy since we parted, Davey Sahib.”
“Of that I have no doubt.”
“And I do not doubt that you did not expect me to arrive in advance of Malabar Princess,” Gobinda said. “But as I told you, I have been quite busy since we last met.”
“Indeed. And may I ask what possessed you, sir?”
“William,” Georgiana said in a tone that seemed like a mild scold.
“You have an interesting choice of words, Davey Sahib.”
“It was deliberate. I should like some answers, if you please.”
“Answers?”
“It has become clear to me,” I said, looking from Georgiana to Gobinda, “that there is a good deal of knowledge being kept from me. And while this is not my domain—” I lowered my voice a bit. “While this is not my domain, I still retain some power. I am not here to be a part of your plans but to execute one of my own. I shall do it with your help or without it, or in the face of your opposition.”
“William!” Georgiana repeated, with an expression of scarcely contained fury; but the khansamah held up his hand.
It was a subtle, but very powerful, mesmeric pass. I recognized it and felt it pass by me—and I cannot imagine that Georgiana did not do the same. In any case, she fell silent.
GEORGIANA SHACKLEFORD
Though I was aware of your purpose, it drew upon deep reserves of patience to refrain from an act of physical violence against you when you took such a tone with Gobinda. I have seen him angry—and I respect his power, William, even more than I respect yours; to his credit, he did not give in to that or any other emotion in his response.
You may have thought that you controlled the situation with your abrupt and brusque tone. But it did not seem that way to me. If it had been a cricket match, I would have declared your side’s innings over.
Except, of course, this was no game, and all of us knew it.
“I fear,” I said, “that as some say, you wish to put the imp back in the bottle. But I do not think that is possible.”
“We must try.”
“William,” I said, “I believe that we must attend to mundane matters. When our luggage is arranged, we will have much to discuss.”
“I have made an advance reservation at the Auckland Hotel,” you told Gobinda—and me, for the first time. “If it would be convenient, we can meet in the lobby later today.”
Without so much as a by-your-leave, you offered the merest of nods and turned away, walking down the jetty toward the queue of passengers awaiting entry to the custom house.
Gobinda waited several moments and then allowed himself a smile.
“Georgiana Memsahib,” Gobinda said with a slight bow, touching the ends of his fingers together.
“And I shall now call you Guru?” I glanced around; no one was paying any particular attention. “No. Merely names, my friend. And it is good to be back in Calcutta once more.”
“You despise Calcutta.”
“I do not despise Calcutta.”
“Georgiana,” Gobinda said, “when you departed Benares twenty-six months ago, you assured me that if your soul passed around the wheel of dharma five or six more times before you returned to Calcutta, it would be far too soon. I am sure your facility with the English language can characterize that as something short of despising, but it is a distinction without a difference.”
“I spent many years in Calcutta,” I answered, “but I concede that it is painful to be reminded what I left behind. It is the scene of my second greatest loss,” I said. “Losing Martin was painful, but I could have saved Eliza.”
“This is old ground, Georgiana. The question of whether you, or I, could have saved Eliza is irrelevant and we can do nothing to remedy what happened. But she survived,” Gobinda said, looking thoughtful. “She survived.”
“William has visited with her. She was—she is—a remarkable woman.”
“Davey Sahib is going to be a problem, Georgiana. I am not sure what he precisely wants.”
“What he cannot have. But he knows that, Gobinda. He has come to realize the limits of his, or anyone’s, power.”
“You think so.”
“I do.”
“Such men sometimes realize the limit of their power, my friend. But it rarely prevents them from trying to exceed it.”
WILLIAM DAVEY
Customs officials and native functionaries are the same the world over. They can be obeyed, flattered, bribed or compelled; the judicious application of humility, fair words, coins, and the Art in the correct proportion and at the proper time will see a gentleman through the most onerous of inspections.
I did not wish to apply my abilities to any noticeable extent, but I did employ a few very simple passes when the dilatory nature of Her Majesty’s servants became too much for me to abide. Based on what I had been told, the Company had been remarkable in its efficiency; the Government, by comparison, seemed to excel in just the opposite.
A palky took me from the Custom House to the Auckland Hotel, or (as it was locally known) Wilson’s Hotel, across from Government House. This impressive establishment was as English as its surroundings were Bengali—an ornate white facade four stories high, rising above its neighbors on the crowded streets.
I entered the lobby of the hotel with my carpetbag in my hand, and was at once on my guard: I sensed a presence, just as I had done on the docks in Bombay.
It was quiet away from Courthouse Street and cooler than I would have expected. I warily approached the concierge’s desk.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the English clerk said. He seemed nervous; I offered him a polite smile. He was not the presence I sensed: I wanted to turn and search the lobby, but refrained.
“My name is William Davey,” I said. “I sent a letter from London—”
He glanced at me, and at a ledger book opened in front of him. “Yes, sir. Reverend Davey. You are expected.” He snapped his fingers and said a few words in Bengali to a junior clerk, who moved quickly to a side table. “I believe—we have some correspondence for you, sir. If you would be so good as to sign the guest book?”
I would be so good. As I applied myself to the task, I glanced around me, carefully extending my senses. Locating the being that had attracted my attention took only as long as was required to inscribe my name on the register.
“May I ask about your luggage, Mr. Davey?” the clerk said. “Your letter said that it would be aboard Empire Star, but that vessel has not yet arrived in port.”
“There was a change of plan. I arrived on Malabar Princess, which has only just docked. I may have a trunk aboard Empire Star, and would like to have it delivered here when that ship arrives.”
The clerk looked a bit confused; I wasn’t about to take the time to explain it to him. Still, he was well enough trained to nod and say, “Very good, sir.” He took the guest book in hand, and offered me a small bundle of letters.
I took them in hand along with my room key, thanked the clerk with a rupee coin, and set off across the lobby in search of my prey.
A figure sat in a wide armchair in the shadow of a square pillar. It was noticeably cooler in the vicinity; I tucked the key and the unread letters in my bag and stood a dozen feet away, my right hand held loosely by my side.
“Please, Reverend. Come and make yourself comfortable.”
In the indifferent light of the lobby, I at last saw the figure of Dr. Richard Daniel, whose path I had not crossed since my visit to the sanitarium at Trafford.
“Dr. Daniel.”
Empire Star had not yet arrived in Calcutta, but Daniel was already here. He clearly had not found the object of the search, or he would not trouble himself to seek me out.
“Welcome to Calcutta, Reverend Davey. I am surprised to see you here so soon. I have been waiting for you.”
I could not readily determine if this was indeed Ann Daniel’s husband, or some stoicheion playing the part. I concluded that I should assume that he was the genuine article unless proved otherwise.
“I didn’t realize my itinerary was of any particular interest.” I declined to sit in the offered chair, but remained instead at my ease standing behind it, leaving my free hand on the antimacassar.
“Oh, come now.” Daniel leaned back in his own chair, pyramiding his fingers in front of him. “You must have realized that I—that we—would take notice of your intention to journey to India.”
“There was a change of plans.”
“Won’t you sit?” He gestured to the chair opposite—with a mesmeric pass! I gave the chair under my hand the slightest shove to interrupt the flow, making Daniel start in his seat. He glanced quickly to his left, then back at me.
“Have your friend join us,” I said. It was a bluff but it seemed to me that the chill I felt was not from Daniel after all—but it was close by.
“What friend?”
“Please do not trifle with me, Doctor. You have a companion—and, if I may say so, one who is presently giving you extremely poor advice.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I lifted my hand very slightly, fingers together, the thumb extended rigidly at an almost right angle. Daniel began to say something else, but his breath caught in his throat.
“Introduce the chthonios or dismiss him. I don’t give a damn which, but I’ll not have someone lurking in the background.”
Daniel’s face began to redden. Again, he attempted to speak and failed to make any sound. His face, which had been a mask of smugness and certainty, now betrayed a certain amount of alarm.
“Now, now. You don’t want to make your Annie a widow, do you?”
Daniel glanced at me, then suddenly, definitely, at the space behind the pillar. There was a chill breeze—and then it was gone, replaced by the warm, humid air of Calcutta.
I waited ten seconds before letting my hand drop to my side. Daniel heaved a great breath, slumping forward, hands on knees. He did not look up at me for several moments; when he at last chose to favor me thus, he offered an expression of pure malice.
“That was unnecessary,” he whispered.
I stepped around to the chair and took my seat, carpetbag in my lap. “I will be the judge of that. And the jury and executioner, if you so choose. What are you doing here, Daniel? This is no place for amateurs.”
“Is that what you think of me?”
“I judge men by their deeds, or their inability to perform them. So yes, that is what I think of you. I think rather more highly of Miss Braid.”
“Mrs. Daniel.”
“Yes. Of course. She is a dangerous woman, or would be if she could walk.”
“She can walk. With difficulty. That is a burden, but it will be overcome under my care. Her recovery is none of your business, I may add.”
“And my business in India is none of your concern. Malabar Princess will clear out in a few days: I suggest that you be aboard.”
Daniel seemed to have recovered his composure; he returned to his previous posture, pyramiding his fingers and smiling.
“I don’t think that is in the offing, sir. I do not think that either of us expects me to simply depart because you say so.”
“I should not like to have to insist.”
“What does that mean?”
“You are not stupid, Doctor Daniel. Neither are you naïve. If you do not cease to be an irritant, I will have to resort to unpleasant means to rid myself of you.”
“Even if I could be of assistance.”
“Go home, Doctor, and tell your wife and her attendants that I have survived their little scheme, and that I am satisfactorily well-educated regarding their nature that I shall be henceforth on my guard. I shall have no trouble—indeed, I shall take some pleasure in the act of eliminating you from the landscape if you interfere in any way with my undertakings. Do I make myself clear?”
“Are you threatening me?”
“You’re not listening, are you? Of course I’m threatening you.” I stood up, wondering if he was simply baiting me, or was truly oblivious to my imputations.
“You should take great care in issuing threats, sir. You have me at a disadvantage at present, but we are far from England, and—”
“And you still must breathe to live. Don’t trifle with me, Doctor. I don’t issue threats lightly—nor do I like being threatened. Good day.” I deliberately turned my back on him and walked away, tensing for an attack of some sort, but none ever came.