Full Moon (9 page)

He knew all that without looking. Without even closing his own eyes he
could see hers— much more clearly, in fact, than if he looked straight
at her in moonlight dimness. ‘But that was natural; he could have drawn her
face” easily from memory. What irritated him was Wu Tu’s eyes, behind hers,
seeming to look through them. He decided he had to be brutal and get
questions over with.

“Where is your father?” he demanded. He looked suddenly straight at her.
She betrayed no surprise, but said nothing. “That’s why I’m here,” he added,
“to find out.”

“No other reason?”

Silence. He hated what he had to do, and saw no reason to make a secret of
that, but he had not come to answer questions. He ground his heel into the
gravel, well aware she was as tense as he was, but was hiding it better. He
governed his voice and spoke calmly:

“I’ve been sent here to ask things, Henrietta. Please answer. What do you
know about Wu Tu?”

He did not look at her that time. He preferred to give her a chance to
collect her thoughts. He could see Wu Tu’s eyes in the dark, and that made
him, and kept him, angry. He needed anger, and he was not in the least afraid
of Wu Tu’s influence. Any number of people can work that trick of impressing
mental pictures. Wu Tu’s would wear off. In the meantime it kept him alert
and made cruelty easier. He added, “You’re not accused of anything. I’ll not
humiliate you if I can help it.”

“No?” she answered. “All I actually know of Wu Tu is that you and she
completed my humiliation. She turned you against me in less than a week. Then
she offered you back to me —on her terms. Blair, I would have believed
almost absolutely anything sooner than that you are like that.”

“Like what?”

“Someone whom Wu Tu can take and can give.”

Their eyes met, and hers were truthful. She was saying what she believed,
that she was ashamed to be forced to believe. It suddenly occurred to him to
tell her the moonlight made her look nearly naked in that thin smock; but he
did not say it, although he would have in other circumstances. She was the
only woman who ever had almost seemed more desirable to him than his job. He
wondered why, staring at her in silence; until he realized that the nakedness
was not really physical but the effect of emotion, hers and his. She was not.
even trying to hide hers.

“You’re entitled to know the truth about that,” he said. “I’ll explain, if
you wish.”

“Officially? Or am I to believe it?”

He tried, to take her hand, but she drew it away.

“I will believe you, Blair. I can bear to hear anything. You needn’t
pretend what you don’t feel.”

“Wu Tu had nothing to do with it, Henrietta. I left off, because I didn’t
dare to fall in love with you.”

“Why didn’t you dare? I was in love with you. I admit it.”

“I knew that.”

“I meant you should know it. You ran.”

“Yes.”

“You behaved like Ranjeet Singh in the legend. In the beginning I hated
you, so much that I had to think about you. So I did think, Blair, when we
met in the dark that night in Bombay and you took my wrist—not my hand,
my wrist—you remember?—and dragged me, unwillingly, to look at an
almost naked fakir, who resembled a bas-relief against velvet darkness with
the firelight dancing on him, then I knew I loved you. I don’t know why. I
couldn’t reason that out. I just knew it. I was fool enough to think you
loved me. When you went away so suddenly, you said on duty, I supposed your
job made you silent. I thought it was the quietness of strength. I was
impatient, but thoroughly happy to wait. Then Wu Tu came.”

“To the house?”

“A police constable, of all people, brought a note from her, saying she
had important information from you. If anyone but a policeman had brought it,
I would probably have ignored it. I had heard of her of course; everyone has.
Knowing you have to use all sorts of people in curious ways, I made an
appointment to meet her in my tent at the end of the garden. She came by the
back entrance, and I kept her waiting because I felt vaguely afraid. She made
astonishing offers— money—then, that minute—quantities of
money—showed it to me—tried to force it on me.”

“What did she want you to do?”

“Betray my father. I refused and she threatened. I’ve no idea how she knew
about you and me, but she said she would deprive me of you, just so that she
and I might understand each other. That sounded so incredibly ridiculous that
I laughed. But when she was gone—it was too hot to go indoors—I
sat there all alone and felt ill with dread. And you only wrote once, you
remember—curtly—formally.”

“I wrote twice.”

“I received one. letter.”

“Go on. I’m listening.”

“Wu Tu came again. It seemed cowardly to refuse to see her. And besides, I
was wretched and wanted to know. She said she would give you back to me, if I
would be sensible, as she expressed it. She seemed to know all about
you—for instance, how you have nothing beyond your pay. She even knew
where you were born, and where you went to school, and the name of.a girl in
England who inherited a hundred thousand pounds and wrote you
love-letters.

“Then she named some important people whom she hinted she had put where
they are through her secret influence. And she offered to show me how to make
yours a real career, with orders and decorations and I don’t know what else.
She made politics and promotion and all that kind of thing sound like a
filthy swindle, with a few innocent figureheads manipulated from behind the
scenes by blackguards. And she said you know all that, but that you lack the
sublety and need a woman to awaken something in you. I might have you back if
I would promise to give her my confidence.”

“Go on,” Blair said. “I’m listening.”

“I almost did promise. I thought I might save you from her.”

He waited. His eyes smoldered. But they changed, and he looked relieved
when she laughed a bit bitterly at her own conceit and added, “But I saw you
would have to save yourself. I couldn’t do it. It was like this legend of
Ranjeet Singh, although I didn’t know the legend then. To yield myself would
not have cleaned you.”

“Cleaned?” he said. He got up and strode to where they were skinning the
tiger. It was a slow job. They were not particularly expert, and they were
taking great pains not to damage the skin. The old Rangar was arguing with
the Bat-Brahmin in a shadow, and the shikarri who, for some reason, had not
been allowed to touch the carcass, was looking on, scornfully. Blair sent the
shikarri hotfoot to his camp for cigarettes and then, himself in shadow,
stared at Henrietta. She looked lovely in that moonlight. The sight of her
made his arms tremble. He loathed his job more than ever. It would have been
so simple to go and make love to her. She would tell him anything he asked,
if—

He strode back, feeling and looking ruthless. He stood in front of her
with his face in moonlight. She said. “Don’t look like that, Blair. You’re
not cynical. You feel as badly as I do, or you should.”

“I told you I’d explain,” he answered. “Wu Tu had nothing to do with it,
Henrietta. I wrote twice. The second one was a rotten letter to have to
write, but you’d have understood. I said honestly that I wasn’t in love. Wu
Tu may have stolen that second letter. She’s capable of it. If so, she simply
took advantage of information. She’s an opportunist, and she’s rather clever.
That’s the truth—or as much as I can tell you; I can’t betray official
secrets.”

“But you question me like a culprit.”

“No, no, not a culprit. If you’d rather, I’ll wait till daylight.”

“Oh, no, let’s not evade it,” she objected. “I’ve been up there on
Gaglajung, imagining myself waiting for Ranjeet Singh to return with
honor—being silly and romantic—wallowing in sorrow. I knew you
were here, so I came down. I’m in a mood for anything. Absolutely anything,”
she added, “except—”

“Except what?”

“Lies.”

“Will you answer three questions?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s your father?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where did you get that gold box that was stolen from your bedroom?”

“Father locked it in’ my suitcase. I didn’t know it was. missing until I
noticed the lock of the suitcase was broken.”

“Where did
he
get it?”

“He found it.”

“Have you heard from your father?”

No answer. Suddenly: “Wu Tu told me you have been in love with her for
ever so long.”

“You believe that?”

“I suppose I don’t care.”

“Well, it’s a lie. Look here, Henrietta, you and I had better face this.
You’re under suspicion.”

“What of? You suspect me?”

“To a certain extent, yes. I always did. You’re a mystery, but it seemed
like sacrilege to try to question you.”

“Sacrilege? You?”

“Yes. I couldn’t fall in love and mistrust you at the same time. So I ran
out. I’m not making love now, so don’t be afraid. I’m friendly.”

“Is that quite true?”

“Yes, it is. But you’re as baffling as ever. You never once revealed your
real thought.”

“Blair, I wanted to have no reserve from you. i wanted to be able to tell
you anything you care to ask.”

“Tell me now.”

“No.”

The monosyllable was like the thump of a; door shut quietly. He watched
her, speaking: slowly: “Zaman Ali and a bad gang—Wu Tu and a worse
gang—Dur-i-Duran Singh of Naga Kulu, and certain others are suspected
of being concerned in your father’s disappearance. Wu Tu possesses a golden
figurine that may: come from the same source as the box you lost. We have
your box. I’ve seen it. You’re here, behaving curiously, to put it mildly. In
plain words, you’re here looking for something. And you’ve troubled yourself
to charm Grayne and to.mystify him until he lets you do just as you
please.”

“So you’ve been spying on me?”

“Yes,” he answered. “Who is the villager in whose house you slept?”

“You can easily find him.”

“I will. What have you been doing up on Gaglajung, in addition to making
villagers believe you’re a ghost?”

“Don’t you think you’re a bit ridiculous?” she retorted.

“Yes,” he said. “I feel ridiculous, and I hate what I’m doing. But, you
see, I want your answer.”

“There is none.”

“Take your time, Henrietta, and think. If you don’t, you may force me
to—well, I won’t discuss that.”

“I have thought. There is no answer.”

“May I search your tent?”

“No.”

In the darkness a man with a little bagpipe began blaring a tune. Several
men lit torches. Two men took the tiger-skin and bore it between them toward
Henrietta, thrusting the head forward for her fingers to touch. She
understood what they wished. She stood up and laid her right hand between the
pugnacious ears, speaking in Rajasthani:

“Be this then the end of Ranjeet Singh. He is forgiven.”

The old Rangar, coughing to hide embarrassment, stood forward, bowing: “If
the presence will—there is a little thing—it is not far—I
am ashamed of these superstitious people, but—”

“Why not?” She stepped forward. The Bat-Brahmin seized a torch from a man
and shook it. The bagpipe blared and the Bat led forward to the dark gorge,
singing the ballad of Ranjeet of the Ford. And the crowd that had grown to
forty or fifty people trailed along behind, excited, singing through their
noses.

It was nothing incomprehensible to them that Henrietta Frensham should be
a brigadier-general’s daughter, and a ghost, and a reincarnation of Ranjeet,
Singh’s self-immolated widow, all at the same time. There was a god in the
jungle who knew all about it, so they did the pleasantly discreet thing, and
walked in procession to put streaky paint, sweet oil and cow-pats on his
image. It was magic, which has nothing to do with ascertainable or concrete
fact, and does not call for explanation.

Night in the throat of the gorge grew crimson with the torch-flare that
glittered on frightened wild eyes amid rocks and undergrowth. They climbed a
well-worn path, disturbing sleeping birds, until the trees ceased and
they.were again in moonlight on the lap of a flank of Gaglajung. There the
shrine nestled—a mere godlet’s nest of white stone under one lone tree,
where the bats wove tapestry for unseen powers of the night. A monstrous wall
of rock, outleaning like a man’s breast, loomed, pale in moonlight, and
spread downward toward the jungle.

Peace breathed fragrance. An old hermit, gray-haired and gray-bearded,
mild-eyed, mad and friendly, came forth from the shrine and looked on. Two
young women suddenly appeared where nothing except darkness had been. Night,
it had seemed, created them with strings of heavy-scented garlands in their
hands; they hung garlands around Henrietta’s neck and then—impudently
daring—around Blair’s, standing on tiptoe to do it and then running
away to hide and giggle in the darkness. Then the
ceremony—short—casual with the smooth-worn accuracy of the
countless years—simple, as all good ceremonies are. The hermit blessed
the tiger-skin; the Bat-Brahmin ordered it and- then made irreverent sounds
to disparage the hermit and call attention to himself. They all knew the
moods of Bat-Brahmins and there was enough generous low laughter to flatter
the man’s self-esteem; the hermit’s blessing was in no way qualified by that.
The shikarri, sweating and heavy-breathing, brought the cigarettes and Blair
gave one to Henrietta, studying her eyes by the light of the match as he held
it in cupped hands.

“My camp’s not far,” he said; “Suppose we walk there. After we’ve talked
I’ll have ponies saddled and see you back to the Graynes’ camp.”

She nodded. Words leaped to his lips; he had hard work not to say them.
Pagan emotion had hold of him. It moved him strangely. It was good, and he
knew it was good. He threw away the match and lighted another as an excuse to
turn his back. That way he regained self-control.