Tiger Claws (26 page)
Authors: John Speed
When Hing reaches out, and touches him, touches him softly, just so, Khalil screams, and his own scream frightens him so much, he screams again. But after he screams, Alu appears in the passage carrying the light. Khalil is so grateful that he presses his hands against Alu’s arm. “Here is where it happened,” Hing says quietly. “Here is where they died.”
His voice doesn’t echo, exactly. It seems to drop away, as if the words were heavy, as if they fell spinning from his lips to an unfathomable depth. And as he speaks, Khalil is aware of a strange odor, or a mix of odors: water,
definitely—but nasty water, stale, and old and rotten. It brings to Khalil’s mind an image of oozing flesh dripping from wet bones. And it seems to him he hears moaning, and sees in his mind’s eye the faces of dead men with lidless eyes, like severed heads scattered on a battlefield.
definitely—but nasty water, stale, and old and rotten. It brings to Khalil’s mind an image of oozing flesh dripping from wet bones. And it seems to him he hears moaning, and sees in his mind’s eye the faces of dead men with lidless eyes, like severed heads scattered on a battlefield.
“What is this place?” Khalil cries out, now truly frightened. For though his mind has not yet comprehended it, his body knows: he has come to the Door of Hell.
“Why, Ali Khalil, it is the place those guards died—you wanted to come here, remember?” Hing takes his hand; Khalil is too stupid with fear to resist. “Bring the lamp this way,” Hing says.
Khalil now sees that they stand on the edge of a deep, deep well. There’s no protecting wall: just a vast circle of emptiness about fifteen yards across. The lamplight flickers, casting shadows down into its endless depths.
The little African boy tosses something; a coin maybe.
They wait.
Hing turns to Khalil with a quizzical expression on his face. They wait. Khalil wonders if he only imagined the coin being thrown. They listen. They wait, now scarcely breathing.
Plink.
The sound is so soft that Khalil’s first thought is to doubt his ears. No well can be that deep. “Show him,” Hing whispers.
Alu steps to the very edge, the toes of his satin shoes actually reaching out into the emptiness. He balances there like an acrobat, extending the lamp outward. “Look,” says Hing, nudging Khalil forward.
Khalil follows Alu’s example. He tries to appear calm, but his eyes are wide and his lips quiver. He shuffles to the edge, inch by inch, his hand unconsciously tightening on Hing’s as he moves.
He looks down, down into inky, endless black. It takes a long time for his eyes to adjust as the flame flickers into the deep shadows. At last he sees the bottom of the well, the dank circle of water glimmering in the pale light. Then he sees—can it be?—poking out of the black water, human forms. He squints: an arm, a leg, the top of someone’s head perhaps, and a dim, watery oval that might once have been a face. He trembles.
Then he sees one more sight and cries out.
“What’s wrong?” Hing asks quietly, still holding Khalil’s hand.
“There’s something down there!” Khalil cries. His words swirl eerily, echoing against the stones.
“Yes,” says Hing.
“No, something’s moving! Something’s alive!”
Hing sighs. “You know, we wonder about that sometimes. Does the fall kill them? Do they drown? But those guards: they’ve been there for three days now, so in my opinion, they must be dead. Or nearly.” Hing moves closer to Khalil, still holding his hand. “Still—there might something down there. Perhaps a turtle.”
Khalil pulls back from the edge with a sudden violence. “A turtle! There can’t be a turtle in a well that deep!” He shouts, much more vehemently than he should. Some part of him has realized that he has peered into his own future.
Hing shrugs. “A turtle is the most logical explanation. Don’t you agree, Alu?”
“As you say, master.” Alu eyes Khalil strangely. “It is an amusing idea. More pleasant than the alternatives.” He steps back from the edge and inches closer to Khalil. Khalil sees that Alu has thrown his sleeve over his long blade, as one hides the knife from an old bullock whose time has come.
“And so, Ali Khalil, you have seen them, those guards of Basant’s. Now you know the answer to your questions. Now there remains but one question more for you to answer.”
“And what question is that?” Khalil asks. But now everyone is silent: Khalil, Hing, Alu, even Hing’s African boy, his teeth gleaming even in this shallow lamplight, gleaming white against his black lips all the while.
Alu stands with his left hand extended, holding the butter lamp far from Khalil, his right hand low with the knife blade pointing to Khalil’s ribs.
Khalil considers the effect of that long knife thrusting into his heart. Would he feel the tearing and the bursting? Or would he die before he felt the pain?
Or there’s the other way, he thinks. A step and a moment of fright, and then darkness.
He leans slightly out, over the dark pool far, far below him. The well seems to pull his head forward, for just one more look into its depths. He can hardly resist, so fierce his the desire. Even standing unmoving, the image fills his brain; that dark pool, those gray limbs, the ripples in the black water.
Peaceful, he thinks. Even the trip to reach the bottom … not so bad, maybe. And then to join those peaceful, endless depths.
Maybe he wouldn’t die, though.
Maybe he wouldn’t die, but linger in that deep pool, gasping, drowning, a broken mass of dying pain.
Or face that knife. And have Alu’s crooked smile be the final image that he sees.
He’s deciding, thinks Hing. Always they decide. The thought fills Hing with perplexity. Here, with death inevitable, he might easily throw me in the well, or Alu, or both of us. We stand here helpless, inches from death—yet we are forgotten.
That was the secret of this well, Hing’s master had told him years ago. When they peer down it, when they see the very bottom, somehow the well traps their eyes. Their eyes can’t rest until they see its depths again. And then the whispering begins. For the well whispers to its victims, it draws them. It calls to them to see once more its peaceful depths, its cold shadows, its endless night.
Hing’s master had been right. Khalil is listening; he hears its whispers; he thinks its soft enticements are his own wise thoughts. He believes he’s deciding—but all he’s doing is listening to the whisper of the well.
In a moment, just as Hing expects, a gleam appears in Khalil’s eyes. Decision resolves itself upon his face. He looks like a man victorious in battle. He glances to Alu’s face, and then to Hing’s, and snorts with contempt.
It seems for a moment that he will say something, some final word of triumph, some farewell.
Instead he simply steps: over the edge of the well, confidently, as one walks through a doorway; head held high, as though his foot will soon land on something solid instead of dropping through the dead forgotten air.
Poor Khalil begins to tumble as he drops.
He hadn’t counted on that.
Toward the last, he screams.
The echo ends with a wet, hollow smack that rings against the damp stones and fades into silence.
After some time, Alu speaks. “Is it always so, master?”
“Have I not said so? It is the power of the well. Once you see its depths, it calls you.” Hing’s wet eyes search Alu’s. “Do you not feel it calling you, even now?”
Alu snorts—as though he were a child to be frightened by such tales. The old eunuch stands statue still, staring back, saying nothing.
Alu’s mocking smile lasts for a moment, then begins to fade. Soon he is not smiling at all. His eyes grow wide and doubt appears. His face grows grave, as though he hears a strange, unnerving sound, like the drone of a tamboura buzzing its endless chord, and he steps toward Hing with knife raised.
“Yes,” says Hing, “this is why I brought you here, to hear the music of the well. Here we are equals, brother. So, as equals, it’s time we had a talk. You and I must come to an understanding. Otherwise I fear one of us must die.”
Alu looks at Hing with uncertain eyes: his knife raised almost helplessly; his grip now appears so weak that even Hing might break it.
“You’ve made your way quite satisfactorily. Good looks and a good brain. Unusual for a brother to have either, and you, dear one, have both. You will achieve much. If you don’t die young.”
Some part of Alu struggles to regain his will, while some other part of him feels compelled to peer again down into the fathomless inviting darkness of that deep well.
“Here we stand, you and I. You have your knife at my ribs and your foot on the edge of emptiness. So what we say here has the force of death behind it, do you see?”
Alu nods. Hing says: “Be my heir. I have no one left! I’ll confess, for all his stupidity, I liked Basant. It was my weakness. I thought he might grow wise in time. Alas he was far more stupid than I thought. But not you, Alu. I don’t like you very much, but my heart has proven a poor guide. You’re pretty and you’re smart. You’ll do, and do better than most.
“Be my heir. I have no goods to leave you—rings and trinkets and what not? You’ll get enough of those on your own. No, Alu, I mean: be my heir for power. Succeed me—lead the brothers when I die. Do you know who rules Hindustan today? It is I, the
khaswajara,
no one else. I have only to say the word, and Shah Jahan will do as I tell him. Can Assaf Khan say as much? Or anyone?”
khaswajara,
no one else. I have only to say the word, and Shah Jahan will do as I tell him. Can Assaf Khan say as much? Or anyone?”
A pale light comes into Alu’s eyes. Hing’s words seem to be entering his brain, driving out the relentless droning of the well. “What must I do, master?”
“Do? Why, whatever you please!” Hing shrugs. “Well, perhaps from time to time I may ask some small favor. A token. Nothing much. Nothing difficult. Besides, you like killing. I can tell.” Hing steps close to the young eunuch, staring into his dark wayward eyes, so close his dank breath swirls in Alu’s nostrils. “Be the next
khaswajara
. Work with me; follow my footsteps. Don’t just call me master, acknowledge my mastery! Or kill me. Or die.
khaswajara
. Work with me; follow my footsteps. Don’t just call me master, acknowledge my mastery! Or kill me. Or die.
“Whichever you choose. I no longer care, you see. My days are dwindling. Soon I will be gone. Someone will be
khaswajara
in my stead. Why not you, brother? Why not you?”
khaswajara
in my stead. Why not you, brother? Why not you?”
In Alu’s mind Hing’s words are like a slender, brilliant rope thrown to a drowning man. “Let it be as you say, master.”
“Then put your knife away, and let us go together, you and I.”
Alu slips the knife into his scabbard. Hing lifts his gnarled hand and Alu grasps it with his smooth long fingers.
“Brother,” says Hing.
“Master,” says Alu.
They embrace. Alu’s hands can feel Hing’s body through his clothing like the bones of a naked skeleton.
“And there’s this, brother,” Hing says gently to Alu. “Aurangzeb must not be emperor. That would destroy us, brother, destroy our only legacy, the legacy of our power.”
Alu frowns. “But not Dara, master …,” he begins to protest.
Hing holds up his hand. “Shah Jahan—Dara. The power of the Brotherhood depends on that succession. We will play Aurangzeb for the fool he is, but Dara will be our champion. So long as I live, I swear it: Aurangzeb will not sit on the Peacock Throne.”
Alu bows his head. “So be it, master.”
In a few minutes, as they walk together in slow silence up the rough floor of the tunnel, the howling begins.
Alu shivers as the howl winds through the still air of the tunnels. A howl that chokes off in a splutter, and then starts up again. Its echo slides along Alu’s spine like wet ice.
Hing seems not to hear. Perhaps he is deaf, or deaf to some sounds.
“Master?” Alu says at last, his husky voice choked in his throat.
Hing stops and turns to Alu, his enormous eyes glimmering. “It happens sometimes. Sometimes the fall isn’t enough. Sometimes it takes a while.”
Another howl shivers through the dark.
“How long?”
“A few hours perhaps. Maybe more … a day maybe … if he decides to eat.”
The bright green parrots squawk as they swarm around the lake, terrified by the racket of the beaters.
Though the tiger hunt is nearly a mile away, the birds feel the noise with their fragile bodies; the slap of the clapping sticks, the bang of the squibs, the shouts of the beaters and the roar of the elephants, the crack of breaking trees. The parrots fly in frenzied clusters, pivoting in midair like schools of fish, and each time they light, the clamor blares anew, and off they fly, shrieking.
At the edge of the lake stand three hundred silk tents. The largest and grandest stand twenty feet tall, as wide around as a stable, brightly colored, with pennants and banners snapping in the breeze.
Returning from his inspection, General Jai Singh rides to the second grandest tent. A great dark blue banner flutters on a silver flagpole, on its upper corner is the sacred swastika; for Jai Singh, Dara’s first general and a Rajput king, is a Hindu. His banner waves bravely in a forest of pennants bearing the crescents and swords and stars of Islam.
On the fifth hour of every fourth day Jai Singh inspects his troops. Even a royal tiger hunt is no reason to change his routine. So Jai Singh had sent regrets in response to Dara—anyone else would have dropped everything, viewing the invitation to the tiger hunt as a royal command. Still he promised to join Dara as soon as his inspection was over.
With Dara and the others gone to the hunt, Jai Singh enjoys a few moments of privacy. His heart is troubled by the letter he has just received
from Shanti, his dear wife and queen. At this moment he misses her exquisitely. He wishes he were beside her, standing in the gardens of their palace in Amber fort, watching mountain eagles soar across the lake far below.
from Shanti, his dear wife and queen. At this moment he misses her exquisitely. He wishes he were beside her, standing in the gardens of their palace in Amber fort, watching mountain eagles soar across the lake far below.
He unrolls the letter and studies it again:
My dear husband,
Bad news, they say, is never gentle, and I fear my tale will break your tender heart. Dear husband, know first that your dear son Man Singh and I are safe and happy, except that both of us long to see you soon.
The sadness is about your friend, Behram Singh. He was the most trusted of your men, the captain of the royal bodyguard. Yes, sweet husband, I say “was,” for alas, Behram Singh is no more. And I do not doubt that you will find the circumstances of his death as troubling as do I.
Two days ago I received your last letter. How I enjoyed hearing about your chess game with Aurangzeb! Of course I told Behram Singh of your good wishes as you asked. He seemed happy to hear them, husband—how extraordinary in light of what soon followed!
Last night I was awakened in my bed. Standing over me was Mohmoud Das, captain of the Mogul imperial honor guard. In his hand was a bloody sword, at his feet was Behram Singh, stabbed through the heart.
Captain Mohmoud explained that he had seen Behram Singh enter the seraglio, and followed him to my apartments. Behram Singh had come to kill me, but Captain Mohmoud saved my life.
Captain Mohmoud says that if Behram Singh could turn traitor, the entire bodyguard was suspect. He has therefore sequestered the royal bodyguard and placed himself in charge. So now, the whole palace is carefully guarded by his troop of Mogul guards.
I long for you so to return to set things right.
I am with deepest adoration, your own,
Shanti
I have forgot to say this word of comfort, my husband: You will be glad to know that Behram Singh did not suffer. Though his clothes were soaked, there was scarcely any blood on the floor around his body. It was almost as if he had been killed elsewhere. Captain Mohmoud assures me that this is the sign of a quick and painless death.
His hands tremble as he sets the letter down. Her hints seem obvious. The captain of his bodyguard is dead, and his wife is a Mogul hostage. This is Dara’s work, Jai Singh thinks.
What must I do?
Although his blood is hot, he refuses to let emotions rule him. He sets the problem to the side, knowing it will take time to solve and in that time new elements will come to light. He wants to find out what Dara knows about the events at Amber. He wants to see Dara’s eyes when he asks him.
About a half mile from the edge of camp, near the simple cloth tepees of the camp whores, where the
dhobiwallahs
spread wet laundry on the tall grass, Jai Singh approaches the hunt. The noise of the beaters grows wilder as they hem their prey in an ever-shrinking circle. Birds burst into the air from the dense trees, flapping in terrified confusion. Jai Singh can’t see them yet, but he knows the drill: a slowly tightening noose of men and elephants pushes through the forest, driving any animals toward the killing field, a clearing bounded by an array of mounted hunters.
dhobiwallahs
spread wet laundry on the tall grass, Jai Singh approaches the hunt. The noise of the beaters grows wilder as they hem their prey in an ever-shrinking circle. Birds burst into the air from the dense trees, flapping in terrified confusion. Jai Singh can’t see them yet, but he knows the drill: a slowly tightening noose of men and elephants pushes through the forest, driving any animals toward the killing field, a clearing bounded by an array of mounted hunters.
Jai Singh has often said that a hunt is like a battle: when the tiger appears, order and reason fly, and the true measure of a man appears. Now Jai Singh wants to sample the measure of the man he obeys, the heir presumptive, Dara.
This is a small hunt, quickly gathered. No more than thirty elephants are crashing through the forest. Drummers thump the huge drums slung on the elephant’s backs. Between the elephants walk men with bamboo beating sticks; behind them, noisewallahs blow trumpets or bang field drums or light firecrackers.
Just as in a battle, the men on foot have the worst of it. As the forest animals run, some grow agitated and frantic until, frenzied by the noise, they try to break through the marching line of beaters.
On horses and elephants around the killing field are Dara’s friends and courtiers. In front of them stand soldiers with bright spears pointed toward the clearing; the first line of defense. The richest courtiers sit in jeweled howdahs strapped to the backs of elephants. Those wishing to be thought brave push to the front; wily men and cowards hold back. Their elephants wait nervously, sighing loudly and rocking from foot to foot.
The grandest elephant is Prince Dara’s, a yard taller than any other. Beneath the green velvet canopy of the royal howdah ride Dara and his companion, a doe-eyed young man with a sky-blue turban.
The sun is bright, the air humid and still. The smell of smoldering beeswax fills the heavy air: the burning fuses of the hundred matchlock rifles. The warm wax smell mingles with the sting of smoke from the firecrackers,
with the tang of forest dust, with the leafy smell of the vegetation cut to clear the killing field. The air is nearly too thick to breathe.
with the tang of forest dust, with the leafy smell of the vegetation cut to clear the killing field. The air is nearly too thick to breathe.
With the circle of beaters closing, animals begin to dash from the forest. First come the monkeys: angry, not frightened. They leap into the clearing, sharp white teeth bared in their black faces, screaming as the spearmen let them pass. Next come the mice and squirrels. Tensed for big game, however, the spearmen startle at the skittering of tiny paws across sandaled feet and the mahouts struggle to calm their elephants. Now the larger animals race from the woods: mongooses and possums and weasels, spinning and skidding into the unexpected clearing.
The real action is about to start.
A big-antlered buck and two does run from the forest. A chorus of matchlocks crack in quick succession, filling the air with smoke. One doe is shredded as a half-dozen rounds crisscross through her, while the other flips backward, like an acrobat somersaulting head over heels. The buck staggers forward, antlers down for an attack, blood spurting from its belly and neck; after a few steps, it kneels on its forelegs and topples over.
The black smoke begins to swirl off. Even the smoke from these few shots makes horses cough, and men wipe their tearing eyes. The beaters are now only yards from the clearing. Their elephants thrust trees aside. The trunks snap, the trumpets blare, the drums boom, the beaters shout and clack their sticks. The noise reverberates through the clearing.
Jai Singh sees shadowy forms prowling at the clearing’s edge. Two cats. Maybe three. One tiger dashes into the clearing; Jai Singh sees its bright coat and dark stripes, sees it whirl and disappear back into the shadows. But there is no safety left. Suddenly two tigers slide raging into the clearing. A third follows. Then, unexpectedly, a frightened-looking bear.
At last the beaters reach the clearing and their thunder stops. The air seems flooded by the sudden silence. Everyone’s ears are ringing. Jai Singh can barely hear the hunters’ shouts of orders and encouragement. The men on the howdah beside him begin to sing a drunken song. Idiots, he thinks.
From his jeweled howdah high above the others, Prince Dara calls out, “Hold! Hold!” This is Dara’s party; it is his right to take the first shot.
The tigers wheel madly, testing the line, hoping to find some place of weakness. But the men drive their spears into their path.
For a moment, the tigers seem to give up. They start a slow, prowling walk, snarling, roaring. Jai Singh stares; they are so powerful, so grand. The bear sits in the midst of the clearing, scratching its chest, looking calm, even stupid, except for his wild, flashing eyes.
The sun beats down on the ring of men and animals. For a moment all is quiet, even peaceful. But, just as in a battle, the silence is misleading. The breeze turns, and now the smell overwhelms the circle: the smell of big cats, of urine and blood and meat eaten raw. The elephants stamp and moan, rocking the passengers in the howdahs.
What is Dara waiting for? wonders Jai Singh. Take your shot, and let’s go home. These tigers could turn at any moment.
He squints to see Dara’s arm draped over his companion’s shoulder, his face close to the young man’s cheek, instructing him on the aiming of the matchlock. Dara’s fancy boy is trying to follow the prowling of the tigers, and as time passes, the cats move faster and the shot grows harder.
Think of those men facing the tigers with nothing but spears, Jai Singh wants to shout, and take the damned shot!
Then it happens.
The biggest of the cats, a gangly, hungry-looking male, unexpectedly whirls and attacks. But the line holds firm; the men whip their spears to stop him. The tiger skids and reverses course, his feet splaying. He drives headlong toward the beaters on the other side of the circle.
Dara sees the danger, and shouts for his friend to fire. His companion’s doe eyes seem about to pop. The long rifle booms, belching a cloud of smoke. The round misses its mark, tearing past the tiger, drilling into the flank of an elephant on the other side of the circle. Mad with pain, the elephant rears, blood spurting from the wound. Its mahout falls and scrambles away.
The tiger coils and leaps in an astonishing arc, grabbing the hurt beast’s trunk. Throwing its head to shake off the cat, the bellowing elephant flails around the circle, straight into the line of beaters. Some are lucky; the elephant crushes them at once. From beneath the clinging tiger’s claws, blood pours in rivulets down the elephant’s trunk.
Now the bear ambles over to paw through the wounded men, tearing off chunks of flesh which he swallows with a toss of his head. Oh, he’s hungry, thinks Jai Singh stupidly. The other elephants lurch away; in their howdahs the marksmen and matchlocks heave from side to side. Some drop their rifles; unintended shots get fired as sparks fall from the fuses into the firing pans. Black smoke pours into the clearing.
The other two tigers see the break in the line and make a dash. A hundred matchlocks now blast away. The air is filled with the shouts of the hunters and the groans of the injured, with elephant’s bellow and tiger’s roar.
Jai Singh has to wheel his Bedouin away from the elephant beside him; for the big beast is crabbing sideways. In the howdah its drunken passengers
spill first to one side and then the other. A matchlock falls from the howdah, striking Jai Singh’s shoulder and nearly knocking him from his horse. The fuse keeps burning despite the fall. Gods, thinks Jai Singh, it’s loaded! I might have been killed! He sets the stock on his knee, pointing the barrel upright. He considers snuffing out the fuse, but seeing the confusion all around him, decides it might be better to be armed.
spill first to one side and then the other. A matchlock falls from the howdah, striking Jai Singh’s shoulder and nearly knocking him from his horse. The fuse keeps burning despite the fall. Gods, thinks Jai Singh, it’s loaded! I might have been killed! He sets the stock on his knee, pointing the barrel upright. He considers snuffing out the fuse, but seeing the confusion all around him, decides it might be better to be armed.
Just as in a battle, order has dissolved into men concerned first with saving their own hides and only second with doing their duty. The uninjured beaters try to save their fallen comrades. More get trampled, adding to the screams. Shots blast out, aimed at who knows what. Stinging smoke drifts across the clearing.
Then through the smoke Jai Singh sees an amazing sight: In the center of the madness, armed with only a spear, is Prince Dara.
The wounded elephant, the tiger clinging still to its trunk, drags its bloody head to the ground in hopes of scraping off the cat. The huge copper drums on its sides clatter and boom as it turns. Dara moves toward the tiger clinging to its bleeding trunk. Oh gods, thinks Jai Singh, he wants to be a hero. Dara slides his feet like a fencer, eyes on the tiger, spear held firm.
The elephant shakes its head in a violent spasm, throwing off one of the tiger’s paws. The striped arm is bright red with blood. In a last gasp, the elephant runs blindly, straight for Dara. The tiger paws the air with his bloodred arm. Which is, miraculously, exactly what Dara might have wished.
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