Brit Party (31 page)

"Jon? Jonathan?” Priscilla voice signalled her alarm as she and Anil climbed to the porch. The door was half open, definitely a bad sign. “Lalida?” Had they been attacked and abducted by some of bandits that occasionally roamed the hills? But there was no sign of any struggle or violence.

She clutched at Anil's soggy coat. “What could have happened? Where are they?"

"Where are the lamps?” Before she could answer, he located a lantern and a box of lucifers on the mantel. In a moment he had it lit. They looked around the parlour, seeking clues.

Priscilla saw it first. The note was scrawled on a scrap torn from a ledger, and fastened to the dining room door frame with a nail.

"Landslide at the village. Gone to help.” The writing was barely legible, but she recognised Jon's hand.

A landslide! Priscilla recalled the heaps of mud and rock piled by the road on the way to Gauhati. “We must go to them,” Anil insisted, reading over her shoulder. “A landslide can bury a whole town, or sweep it away.” He searched her face. “Do you have shovels or picks? And buckets, buckets would be useful."

"In the utility shed, behind the house.” Anil was already on his way out the door.

Jon had taken most of the tools, but they found a short spade and a mattock. They grabbed them and scrambled up the slippery path toward the village, rain still washing over them in dense squalls. As they approached the site of the village, home to the plantation workers and their families, shouts filled the air. Lanterns flickered in the wet, black night.

Priscilla had visited the village several times, bringing sweets for the children and English soap for their mothers. She hardly recognised the scene of devastation before her now. There was no sign of the wooden huts that sheltered the workers. She saw only a vast sea of mud, with splintered planks and beams jutting out at odd angles. Half naked men dug frantically in the muck, looking like an army of demons in the shifting lantern-light. Children hung onto their mothers, wailing or watching the rescue efforts silent and wide-eyed. An elderly woman, tattered sari clinging to her wizened body, crouched under a tree half-crushed by a huge boulder.

Priscilla saw Jon near the far perimeter, wielding a shovel and yelling orders to the other men. She stumbled across the ex-village, the treacherous mud sucking at her feet, and threw herself into his arms.

"Darling! I was so worried.” she cried. “Are you all right?"

Jonathan held her so tight she could scarcely breathe. His chest was bare and streaked with dirt. His blond hair was black with rain and soil. “Priscilla! Thank God! I'm so glad to see you!"

"How bad is it?"

"Bad—nearly all the houses were destroyed—but it could have been much worse. Most of the villagers were up at the shrine when the hillside gave way. We think that there are only a few people buried. We're trying to find them before it's too late."

"Let me help. I can dig, too.” She held up her spade. Jonathan looked at her for a moment, appraising her strength, then nodded. “Take the north east quadrant. Be careful—you don't want to slice into someone that you're trying to rescue."

"What about me? Where do you want me?” Anil had come up behind them during their embrace.

"Anil! Wonderful! Can you organise the men working in the south west? I'm not sure that they understand everything that I've been telling them."

"Certainly, I'll do what I can.” Anil strode off toward the group that Jon had indicated.

Priscilla waded over to the area Jon had assigned to her. The Indian men eyed her curiously as she dug her spade into the saturated dirt. The mud resisted, sticky and heavy as cement, but she refused to be discouraged. She raised one spade-full, then another, scanning her expanding excavation each time for any sign of a body.

Her shovel hit some buried wood. The impact sent a jarring shock back through her shoulders. She thought that the thump sounded hollow. Priscilla dug in again, listening more carefully. Definitely hollow.

All at once, she heard a muffled cry, a human voice. “Jon! Over here, I think there's a partly collapsed house here, and someone's inside. Alive!"

The men swarmed over to where she was digging. “Careful now,” Jon cautioned. Don't disturb the timbers or the whole place might collapse.” He showed them how to lift off the soil in layers, standing away from the hole so that their weight would not affect the precariously balanced ruins underneath. It took half an hour, but finally they pulled an old man out of the ground, crushed and bleeding but conscious.

A shout rang out from the other side of the mud field. Anil's group had located another body. Priscilla went over to lend her spade to the efforts. Digging side by side with her husband and the Indian lawyer, she worked steadily to strip away nearly two feet of dirt. Underneath, they found the mangled corpse of a woman cradling an infant. The woman was beyond help. The baby, though, let out a lusty wail as the fresh air filled its lungs.

Priscilla bent down and took the naked child in her arms. It was covered with scratches and abrasions, but miraculously unharmed otherwise. A boy, perhaps six months old. He looked up at her with chocolate coloured eyes and cooed, waving his chubby limbs.

Tears streamed down Priscilla's cheeks, mingling with the raindrops.

Finally, after hours of work, it was over. All the missing villagers were accounted for. Two of them were dead. Three, including the infant, had survived. The dark, sinewy men leaned on their shovels, drained, surveying the muddy wasteland where their homes had stood. The women huddled with their children under the remaining trees, seeking shelter from the showers that still watered the earth.

Priscilla sat on the ground near the village gate, shivering and clutching the baby to her breast. Water dripped from her sodden hair into her eyes. Her hands were black with mud and purple with blisters. Her blouse was torn at the shoulder, and soaked, though the baby snuggling against her did not seem to mind.

Anil crouched down next to her and put his arm around her shoulders. She was too exhausted to worry about her husband's reaction.

Jonathan stood on top of the boulder. He looked tired, but he stood tall, his voice ringing out over the devastated site. “My friends! I know that you have lost your homes, lost everything that you owned. But we will build new homes. We will choose a safe site, on flat land far from the hills, to keep this terrible thing from happening again."

The people turned dull, uncomprehending eyes to him. “Anil, can you translate for me? I don't think that they understand.” The Indian rose and took a place next to Jon. He repeated Jon's words in Assamee. The villagers nodded.

"For now, you are welcome to sleep in the plantation house. It will be crowded, but you'll have a roof over your heads. Tomorrow, when the rain stops, we will decide where to build our new village."

The villagers muttered among themselves as Anil translated. An elderly man stood and addressed Anil, speaking for several minutes as the lawyer listened closely.

"They do not want to come to the house. They thank you for your generosity, and for your pledge to help them rebuild, but for tonight, they prefer to stay here, where their families have lived and died for generations."

"At least let them send the women, the children ... The exposure is dangerous. And there is always the risk of another slide."

Anil consulted with the elder. “They understand, but this is their choice. They ask that you forgive what may seem like ingratitude."

Jon shrugged, unwilling to waste his dwindling energy on further argument. “Very well. If they change their minds, the house will be open to them. Let's get back there ourselves, before we collapse."

He reached out his hand to help Priscilla rise. Still holding the baby, she struggled to her feet. Jon smiled at her and wiped a smudge of dirt from her cheek. He did not speak, but took her arm to lead her back along the path to the bungalow.

She could hardly walk. Every muscle ached. Her blistered palms stung and the bruise on her knee, where she had hit herself with the spade, hurt more with every step. As she limped along, leaning on her husband's strong arm, feeling his warmth seep into her and drive away the chill, she was happier than she had been in a long time.

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Lalida reached the bungalow before them and lit the lamps. She took the babe from Priscilla's arms, firmly rejecting her protests. “I'll take him to my room and give him some milk, Madam. You need to bathe and rest. Tomorrow we will try to find his family.” She bustled away with the sleeping child, leaving Priscilla, Jon, and Anil alone.

They stood facing each other in the parlour, a triangle of muddy, dishevelled bodies. Now that the emergency was over, no one knew what to say. An awkward silence filled the spaces between them. Tension crackled in the humid air.

Priscilla looked from one man to the other. Jon's hair was matted with dirt. There was blood smeared across his naked chest, but thankfully, she did not see any wound. Anil's fine suit was torn in two places, with the pale lining gaping out of the gashes. He was barefoot, the sucking mud having swallowed his shoes. A dark bruise swelled above his right eye.

She knew that she looked no better. Her filthy hair stuck to her forehead in damp strings. Her clammy skirt clung to her thighs. Her blouse was in tatters, the seams split from her exertion. Her lace camisole, now a muddy brown, was clearly visible.

They were tired, battered and bruised. But they were alive, when not everyone had been so fortunate.

Inexplicably, her heart soared. These two courageous, compassionate men—they had saved lives tonight. She felt blessed by their presence, full of joy, power and love—for both of them.

She walked over to Jon, pulled his face to hers, and kissed him, open mouthed. He was tentative at first, but in a moment he became eager, pulling her to his chest and mashing his lips against hers. He smelled of earth, iron, and sweat, masculine, intoxicating. Priscilla's nipples became hard little pebbles that set up exquisite vibrations each time they brushed his flesh. He reached behind her, grabbing her buttocks and forcing her pelvis against his. The hard bulk of his erection prodded the mound at the juncture of her thighs. Her sex, already damp, gushed in response. Boldly, she reached down to fondle his cock through his trousers. Her quick squeeze made him gasp.

Before he could completely recover, Priscilla moved away from him to Anil. The native's dark eyes followed her every gesture. The hint of a smile played across his full lips. He met her kiss halfway, sinking his tongue deep into her mouth while massaging her breasts. Priscilla feathered a quick caress across his swollen groin before breaking the embrace.

She took Jon's hand in her right, Anil's in her left, and led them toward the bedroom. “Come,” she beckoned them . “I think that we all need a bath."

The bathroom was simple, Asian-style, a tiled area with a drain rather than a tub. Lalida had left an ample supply of hot water, filling every bucket and ewer in the house. Cold water came directly from the rain-fed cistern on the roof.

Quickly, before she could think too much about what she was doing, Priscilla stripped off her clothes and kicked them into a corner. She grabbed one of the pitchers of hot water and poured it over her head. Dirt sluiced out of her hair in muddy rivulets and swirled down the drain. The warmth soothed her aching muscles but made her scratches and blisters sting. She picked up a bar of her precious English lavender soap and began smoothing the suds over her breasts and belly. She lingered over the task, savouring the silkiness of her own skin under her fingertips.

The two men watched her, transfixed. Jon's mouth hung open as if he didn't believe what he was seeing, but at the same time his trousers were distended by a huge erection. Anil's lips were parted, his tongue-tip playing unconsciously at the corners. She could see that he was hungry to taste her. For long moments, though, neither man moved.

Her soapy hands slipped easily into the cleft between her thighs. It seemed so natural, to slide her slippery fingers along her folds and stroke the juicy bud of flesh that set her trembling. She had done this so many times; she knew instinctively the path to her own pleasure. No one had ever watched her, of course. Instead of inhibiting her, though, her audience stirred her to new peaks of excitement.

No longer was her self-pleasuring lonely and sterile. Now she was sharing it with the man—the men—that she loved and desired. As she climbed higher, she could see her own arousal reflected in their faces. Neither moved to expose his cock, not yet, but she knew that would come soon.

She rubbed harder, plunging three fingers into her depths while vigorously thumbing her clit. With her other hand, she pinched her soapy nipples, sending sharp bolts of sensation straight to her sex. She moaned, closer every instant to her final release. With her eyes closed, she could still feel their lustful gaze, hear their harsh breathing.

All at once, Jon groaned. Priscilla's eyes flew open. He had unbuttoned his trousers. His cock jutted out, pale as ivory, the helmet purple with blood. He gripped his length with both hands, jerking away desperately. A grimace distorted his sweet mouth; he seemed almost to be in pain.

He worked his cock faster and harder, his eyes never leaving her soapy form. She picked up his rhythm, her fingers probing and twisting, her thumb mashing her clit against her pubic bone. She was close, and so was he. She squatted, opening her thighs wide and burying both hands in the sloppy, soapy cavern between them. Jon groaned again at the sight of her lewd posture.

They were locked in a race toward completion, each urging the other on. Priscilla tottered on the brink, humping her hands, watching her husband ravage his beautiful blood-engorged cock. Energy whipped back and forth between them, circling, strengthening. Nothing existed but their two bodies, straining toward ecstasy.

A half-strangled cry from Anil drew their attention. He had freed his cock as well. He stroked the thick rod of tawny flesh gently, far from the desperation of climax, or so it seemed. Yet as they watched, his cock contracted, pulsed and sprayed viscous ribbons of cum all over his delicate brown fingers.