The Wizard of London (2 page)

For
all of her nine years until this moment, Sarah Jane Lyon-White had lived
contentedly with her parents in the heart of Africa. Her father was a
physician, her mother, a nurse, and they worked at a Protestant mission in the
Congo.

She
had been happy there, not the least because her mother and father were far more
enlightened than many another mission worker—as Sarah well knew, having
seen others when she and her mother visited other mission hospitals. Her
parents took the cause of Healing as being more sacred than that of conversion,
even though they were technically supposed to be “saving souls” as
well as lives. Somehow that part never seemed to take any sort of
precedence… and they undertook to work with the natives, and made friends
instead of enemies among the shamans and medicine people. Because of this,
Sarah had been a cherished and protected child by everyone around her, although
she was no stranger to the many dangers of life in the Congo.

When
she was six, and far older in responsibility than most of her peers, one shaman
had brought her a parrot chick still in quills; he taught her how to feed and
care for it, and told her that while it was still an immature bird, she was to
protect it, but when it was grown, it would protect and guide her. She had
called the parrot “Grey,” and the bird had become her best
friend—and she missed Grey now more, even, than her parents.

Her
parents had sent her to live in England for the sake of her health. Now, this
was quite the usual thing. It was thought that English children were more
delicate than their parents, and that the inhospitable humors of hot climes
would make them sicken and die. Not that their parents didn’t sicken and
die quite as readily as the children, who were, in fact, far sturdier than they
were given credit for—but it was thought, by anxious mothers, that the
climate of England would be far kinder to them. So Sarah’s Mummy had
carefully explained to her, and explained that the climate of England would
probably be bad for Grey, and so Grey would have to remain behind.

Though
why, if the climate was supposed to be good for Sarah, it could be bad for
Grey, Mummy had not been able to sufficiently explain.

“Perhaps
if I’m good, Mem’sab will tell Mummy that Grey must come
here,” she whispered to the friendly shadows around her bed. Some of the
other children already had pets—two of the boys and one of the girls had
rabbits, one girl had a canary, and there were fine, fat, contented cats
roaming about perfectly prepared to plop into any lap that offered itself, all
of whom seemed to belong to the school in general rather than anyone in
particular. So it seemed that Mem’sab was more than willing to allow
additions to the menagerie, provided any additions were properly taken care of.

If
there was one thing that Sarah was well versed in, it was how to take care of
Grey, and she had already determined that the same vegetable-and-rice curries
that the cooks made for the school meals would serve Grey very well. So food
would not be a problem. And this room was warm enough. And Mem’sab had
explained (and Sarah saw no reason to doubt her) that she had made it very
clear to the cats that while they were welcome to feast on as many mice and
rats and insects as they could catch, anything with feathers was strictly
off-limits. So
that
was sorted. All she had to do, really, was figure
out a way to ask Mem’sab to explain to Mummy—

And
as she tried to puzzle out how to do that, the weariness of a journey that had
been much too long and too stressful, and the release of discovering she was in
a safe and welcoming place, all caught up with her, and she fell asleep.

***

Sarah’s
first day had been good, but the ones that followed were better. Not that the
other children were all angelic darlings who took her to themselves and never
teased her—because they weren’t. But bullying was not allowed, and
teasing was met with remonstrations from every adult in authority, from the two
Indian ayahs who cared for the babies to Mem’sab herself, so that it was
kept to a minimum. And if Sarah didn’t make any bosom friends (partly
because she was more used to the company of adults than children), she at least
got along reasonably well with all of the other children her own age and for
the most part enjoyed their company. As far as schooling went, she was ahead of
most of them in most subjects, since both Mummy and Papa had given her lessons,
so that wasn’t a worry. And it wasn’t that she didn’t make
fast friends—because she did. It just wasn’t another child.

The
third day of her residence, she went into the kitchen in search of a rag to
clean up some spilled water, to find a very slim, quite diminutive, very dark
man in a turban sitting patiently at the table, waiting for tea. There was
something about him that drew her strongly; perhaps it was that she could not
hear his thoughts, and yet there was no sense that he was hiding anything, only
that he had the kind of knowledge and discipline that Mem’sab was trying
to train her in. He turned to look at her as she came in, and nodded to her, or
she would not have said anything, but the nod seemed to invite a response.

“Hello,”
she said gravely, and offered her hand. “I’m Sarah Jane. I’ve
just come. I’m from Africa.”

He
took it, and bowed over it. “I am Agansing,” he told her, just as
gravely. “I am from India. I am a Gurkha.”

As
it happened, there had been enough British military visitors passing through
the Congo and taking advantage of the mission’s medical facilities and
hospitality that Sarah knew what a Gurkha was. In fact, she had seen some, and
her Papa had told her about them; that they were exceedingly brave, exceedingly
good warriors, and so trusted they had their very own regiment. She blinked.
“Why are you here?” she asked boldly, because while many, many
Gurkhas were in service to the Empire, once they retired, they always went home
to the hills in Nepal rather than coming to England.

“I
have no family, except Mem’sab and Sahib,” Agansing said, without
taking offense. “My family perished in a mudslide when I was younger than
you, and I never had other family except my regiment and my sworn brother,
Sahib Harton. When Sahib was to muster out, he offered me a home and work. It
is also so with Selim and Karamjit, who are his sworn brothers as well.
Karamjit is a Sikh. We three guard Sahib, Mem’sab, and you children,
though I am usually with Sahib at his warehouse.”

Selim,
she knew from the name alone, was likely to be a Moslem, and her eyes went
round. Many Indians came to Africa to become storekeepers and the like in the
cities, and Sarah knew very well how unlikely it was that a Gurkha, a Moslem, a
Sikh, and the other Hindu and Buddhist servants that she also knew were here
would coexist amicably in the same household.

Agansing
smiled at her surprise, and then smiled over her head. “Karamjit, my
friend,” he said. “Little Missy Sarah is come to us from Africa,
and we surprise her.”

Sarah
turned; another surprise, because she could almost always tell when someone had
come up behind her and she had not sensed—anything! There was a very tall,
very dark man in a turban standing there regarding her with grave eyes.
“Welcome, Missy Sarah,” he said, holding out his hand. She shook
it. “We are a surprising tribe here, I do think. Though you will not meet
with Agansing and Selim often, you will see me. My duties keep me mostly
here.”

Though
she could sense nothing from them, she had the feeling, a feeling so strong
that she had never felt anything like it except in the presence of the shaman
M’dela who had given her Grey, that she could trust these men with
anything. And she gave Karamjit one of her rare smiles. “We need
guarding, Mr.Karamjit?” she asked.

He
nodded. “The leopards and tigers that prowl outside our gates are of the
two-footed kind,” he told her solemnly, “and the more dangerous for
that. So you must not venture out of the garden, except with another grown
person.”

She
nodded then hesitated, and looked from one to the other, for she knew, without
knowing how she knew, that both these men had knowledge that she needed.
“Can you—” she hesitated, then ventured it all. “Can
you help me be quiet in my mind like you are?” she begged.
“Mem’sab gives me lessons, but
you’re
better than
she is, because you’re so quiet you aren’t even
there
. And
I know I need to be better.”

The
men exchanged a glance, and it was Karamjit who answered.

“I
will, if it suits Mem’sab. If I do, you will pledge me the obedience that
I gave to my master, for the teaching is not easy, and needs much
patience.”

And
she knew at that moment that she had gained the respect and the friendship of
both these men. “I promise,” she swore.

She
went and told Mem’sab what she had done at once, of course, in order to
gain that permission, and as she had suspected, Mem’sab entirely
approved. “Karamjit and Agansing both know meditation techniques that I
never learned,” she said to Sarah.

“And
if you have the patience at your young age to learn them, they will be very
good for you. You can use the conservatory; it’s quiet, and you can tell
Karamjit I have given you permission to do so, and thank him for agreeing to
teach you.”

That
was an astonishing privilege, as children were not allowed in the conservatory,
or “hothouse,” as one of the boys called it, without an adult. This
was in part because all the conservatory walls were glass, and children and
glass walls usually do not coexist well. And in part it was because the adults
used it as a refuge, since children were allowed to come and go in virtually
every other room of the school, so having one place where there was some peace
from childish racket was a necessary thing.

As
Sarah now knew the school had not originally been built for such a function; it
had been converted from an enormous house and grounds that had once belonged to
some very wealthy Georgian merchant (or so Mem’sab said) but which had
been abandoned when the London neighborhood in which it stood began to
deteriorate. Now it was a very bad neighborhood indeed, which was why
Mem’sab and Sahib had been able to afford such an enormous place when
they looked for a building to use as their school.

The
bad neighborhood was one of the reasons why it was not a
“first-class” school. “First-class” schools were
situated outside of cities, far from bad neighborhoods, bad air, and the
dangers and temptations of a metropolis. But the people who sent their children
here, like Sarah’s own parents, had very particular reasons for choosing
it. Mostly, they only wanted their children to be cherished—but there
were several other children here who also had what Mem’sab referred to as
“Talents.”

Now,
Sarah had been
just
old enough, and just sensitive enough before she
left, that she knew very well her parents shared M’dela’s Magic,
though she could not herself duplicate it. And she knew that though she did not
have that sort of power, she had always been able to talk to Grey in her head,
and she could often see the thoughts of other people—and these were
things her parents could
not
do. As Mummy had told her, now that she
was here, the people at the school were going be able to help her sort these things
she could do out. Apparently other people knew that Mem’sab and Sahib
could do this, too, and probably those people felt that being sorted out was
the most important thing that their children could learn.

So,
“Thank you, Mem’sab,” she said sincerely, dimly sensing that
Karamjit did not often offer his services in this business of being sorted out,
and that though this would be a great deal of work, the reward was likely to be
very high if she mastered what he could teach. And that she had gained a very,
very valuable teacher, perhaps one of the most valuable she was ever likely to
have as long as she lived.

She
went back to the kitchen where Karamjit was still waiting. “Mem’sab
says to thank you that you will teach me, and that we can use the conservatory,”
she told him.

One
dark eyebrow rose, but that was the only way in which Karamjit showed that he
found the second statement remarkable. “Mem’sab is wise,” he
replied, and paused. “You have a question.”

“Why
are you quieter in your mind than Mem’sab?” she asked.

He
pondered that for a moment, while Vashti, one of the cooks, pretended to ignore
them both out of politeness for what was a private conversation.

“Mem’sab
believes that it is because of the way I was taught,” he said finally.
“This is only in part true. It is because of
what
I was taught.
Mem’sab has not learned this, because she cannot, not because of
ignorance. It is—it is exactly that reason that you cannot learn what
your parents do. Mem’sab is not even truly aware that I do this
thing—that I become
not there
to all inner senses, unless I wish
to be
there
. Thusly—”

And
suddenly, to her astonishment, she
sensed
him, just as she could sense
anyone else. Then, just as suddenly, he was gone again except, of course, that
he was still sitting right there.

“You
and I are alike in this, Missy Sarah,” Karamjit continued. “Just as
Agansing and Selim and I are. It is uncommon. Sometimes it means that one is to
be a kind of warrior, though not always.”

She
thought that over. “I don’t feel like a warrior,” she said
truthfully.

He
shrugged. “One need not have this to be a warrior. Sometimes it is a
protection. Nevertheless. This is why Mem’sab cannot teach you. You must
be very diligent, and very patient. It is a skill that takes years to learn and
a lifetime to master, so you must not expect to be proficient any time
soon.”