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RISING OF A DEAD MOON

Paul Haston

With special thanks to Pascale Arundel for editorial services Claire for design Maurizio Blasetti for his wonderful photograph

Paul Haston is the author of Rising of a Dead Moon and Blood and Doves. Originally from England, he lives on the west coast of Canada and spends much of his spare time writing.

Copyright Paul Haston, 2012 The moral right of the author has been asserted All rights reserved Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner Copyright is registered with the Canadian Intellectual Property Office Front cover image copyright Maurizio Blasetti, 2010 used by permission of the photographer

1 The Indian Widow


Nor aught, nor naught existed; you bright sky was not, nor heavens broad roof outstretched above; What covered all? What sheltered? What concealed? Was it the waters fathomless abyss? There was no light of night, no light of day, the only One breathed breathless in itself, other than it there nothing since has been. Darkness there was, and all at first was veiled in gloom profound, an ocean without light. Translation from Nasadiya Sukta, the Vedas

The dead moon in the early morning Calcutta sky demanded attention. From the darkness of the harbour quay, Usha, a young Indian woman raised her eyes, seeking inspiration from its glow. Cmon coolie, I aint got all day you know, a sunken -eyed man shouted, his yellow teeth and onion and whisky reeking breath sending a shudder through her. The man grabbed the tin ticket adorning her neck and yanked her head sharply forward so he could read the number. Up there, he snapped, pointing to the gangway behind him, then he ticked her name off the ships register. Usha fought back the tears from the whiplash and met his fiery stare. Thank you, she said. The man, as though shocked when she spoke English, eyed her and registered her face for the first time. Eh, a clever one ere, its Captain Reeves to you, coolie. His venomous tone cut through her like a sword. She steeled herself to stay strong. Over there with ye, he shouted, smirking and pushing her across the quay. For all her resilience, Ushas slight frame could not resist the thrust. She fell, her head hitting the wooden boarding. Searing pain
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pierced her right temple and several seconds passed before she regained her senses. Blood trickled from a gash above her eye. Using her arm, she tried to stay the blood before lifting herself off the ground. Her head spun, but fearful of being pushed again, she kept moving. She clutched her pass to her chest and hurried up the wooden gangway towards the Umvoti, a three-mast iron hulled steam ship docked at the busy Calcutta quayside. The roughly hewn edges of the rickety wooden plank swung precariously over the black water of the harbour and her sandal caught in a rut sending her almost tumbling into the foul smelling darkness. Her heart pounded as she recovered her balance and negotiated her way up to the top of the gangway. Stepping on board the ship she found her path blocked. Here! A large swarthy sailor thrust a parcel of supplies and a blanket onto her chest. The force of the impact winded her and knocked her back on her haunches. Sit down over there. His menacing tone mimicked the captains. Thank you, Sahib, she murmured, less confidently this time. The blood stain on her sari embarrassed her. If only she might have the strength of a man. A further blast of his rank smelling breath thundered across her shoulders. Women to the front, men at the back. She flinched and waited for the blow. When it didnt come she bolted across the deck, before glancing back. She was one of the few who had understood the pungent instruction. Others in the scraggy line of human cargo took little heed. A disparate collection of men, women and children clambered aboard, of all ages and castes, their faces filled with confusion: the confusion of the ship, the confusion of the new life upon which they embarked. Usha clutched her parcel and traversed the deck. Pain in her neck and forehead caused her head to spin more than ever and the swaying made her hold tightly to the railing. At the front of the ship she slumped down by the side of the cabin and braced her foot against the bottom of a rusty ventilation shaft. The rocking precipitated an urge to vomit. She inhaled a deep breath of salty Calcutta air and tried to control the nausea that rolled in her
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stomach. After a few minutes the spinning calmed sufficiently for her to open her eyes and to examine her parcel. Inside were two saris, a flannel jacket, and a lota, a small brass bowl used to wash and drink from. The lota was a blessing for she had left hers behind in the ashram, but her heart saddened when she touched the soft orange and yellow saris. She stared at the bright material and sniffled. Widows were not permitted to wear either. Clearly the Sahibs had no understanding of her status. She let the coloured fabrics fall from her hands and turned instead to stare at the distant Bengali hills. As she contemplated her life, a tear slid down her cheek. From the darkness she imagined the brilliance of her ethereal exemplar, the deity Usha, lauded in the Vedas, the oldest scriptures of Hinduism, as the Hindu goddess of dawn. The goddess Usha invoked the presence of the sun god, Surya. The bringer of light and spiritual consciousness, she warded off the evil spirits of the night. A stabbing pain wrenched in Ushas chest. She had known for a long time that she had been misnamed, that her parents had made a mistake. They had imagined that her name might be Usha in wishful expectation, but her real name was Nakti, or night. For Surya no longer followed her. Her dawn no longer burned like the fire. No radiance came from within. Born into a life destined to be dark her smile had long since vanished, only shadows lingered in her soul, only sadness filled her big dark eyes. Indeed the last time she could remember smiling - really smiling - had been when she was six years old. Even to this day she recalled the scene as if it were yesterday. Tell me the story, Father. Which story is that? the kindly face replied, smiling mischievously. He toyed with her. Of course he knew the story. Father! You know the one, about the baby girl. Her indignation was only half in jest. Ah, yesthe baby girl; let me see. He picked her up and sat her on his knee. A cool breeze wafted in through the open shutters while the full moon danced in the waters of the Ganges. A jar of honey lay open on the table, its yellow liquid oozing languidly down the side. Her fingers dabbled
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inside the jar and came out all sticky. She tasted the sweetness. It made her tingle inside. Well, in a cave in the woods of Veruna there onc e lived a mother and her baby. But this was no ordinary baby, for unbeknown to her mother or the other people in the cave, this baby girl could fly. She had magical wings! I would love to be able to fly, Father. Yes, that would be something, wouldnt it, my little nymph Well, the mother found this out one day when she went down to the lake near to where they lived. She left the baby girl asleep in her crib by the shore and busied herself with her washing. But she had placed the crib too close to the waters edge. A large whale swam past as whales tended to do at that time of the year. A huge wave washed up on the shore and the crib floated out onto the lake. The mother cried. She thought that she had lost her baby for ever. Oh, Father that is so sad. I know, my little nymph Suddenly the baby girl woke up. Something marvellous and unexpected then happened. She grew two beautiful white wings, just like a heavenly nymph. Just like me, Father. I am your little nymph. Yes, Usha Light and feathery, the wings had magical powers. As the crib sank into the dark water the babys wings spread wide a nd she flew up high, high, high into the sky, so high that eventually she touched the sun. Was that hot Father? Did it burn her hand? No, it was a warm and golden light. It made her feel happy. Oh, Father, I wish I could touch the sun like the flying baby. You will, my little nymph, you will Now completely filled with joy, the magical baby floated back down again on her wide open wings down, down, down like a beautiful white butterfly and joined her mother on the bank. Of course, the mother was overjoyed. She had thought that she had lost her little baby. My heavenly spirit she cried; then gave her daughter the biggest kiss that she had ever had.
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Oh, Father, Father, what a clever baby she is! Would you give me such a big kiss if I floated down from heaven? Of course, my little nymph. * Usha faced the greyness of a murky Calcutta horizon, her gloom momentarily interrupted by a smile, before wrenching pain returned to her chest. This was the last aurora. After this she lost her smile, she was Usha no longer, she became Nakti. Nakti saw only the darkness of the night. The joy of her fathers story was in contrast to the pain she remembered at the time he had left her, perhaps only a few weeks later. * She played with her doll, knowing instantly from his sad eyes that something was wrong. What had she done to deserve such a dark look? Usha, I have something to tell you . I have to go away. Where Father? Where are you going? It is a place far away. The pounding in her chest was suffocating, as if she had succumbed to the grip of a dark ogre. No, Father. Dont leave me. Why are you going? I have to go, but I will return, and when I do--- No, you cannot go. Tears streamed down her face. Take me with you. I cannot, my little nymph--- If I was really your little nymph, you would take me. I cannot, Usha. You must stay with your mother until I return. No, Father, no, she screamed, clutching onto his leg. He prised away her fingers, black in the face. For him to be so angry she must have been bad. Her mother held her down as he left and he didnt glance back, not once, even though she wished him to. It was her ugly face that he could no longer bear to look at, and why would he?
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On the porch she sat, night after night, waiting for him to return. But he never did. She knew it was her fault. Nakti was not good enough for him to want to see her again, and however much Nakti busied herself thereafter, washing away her badness with her school work and helping her mother around the house, the father never returned to the daughter whom he had abandoned, and the daughter never forgave herself for having been the cause of it. It was the worst thing that could ever have happened in the world and the little girl never let herself forget it. His absence haunted her like a shadow. Perhaps her karma was to blame? Her evil actions in a former life had pre-ordained her misfortune in this one. Nakti believed this must be true. She had been bad before and she was bad now. Naturally, things followed a path of darkness after that, even including the day of her wedding. * Nakti lifted her ghunghat to reveal the sadness under her veil. Wearing a golden crown and sprinkled with orchids, her black tresses framed a face powdered and rouged, adorned with a gold nose ring, its thin chain tied behind her ear. Her big eyes had been darkened on the eyelids with kajal. Dressed in her red bridal sari with gold embroidery, the young girl felt much older than her twelve years. At the head of a magnificent procession strode a large elephant. From it stepped an Indian man wearing a traditional Dhoti, his face covered with a curtain of marigolds. Nakti imagined for one fleeting, glorious moment that this resplendent traveller might be her handsome prince arriving to capture her heart. But the heavy powder and petals could not disguise the greying hair and lined face that lay beneath. The cold reality of her arranged marriage made Nakti shudder. What could she possibly have in common with a man three times her age, a man to whom she had been promised, but had met only once? Beckoned forward, she received from the Purohit the sacred mantras. Holding her head down to assuage the tears, she walked
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barefoot around the sacred fire and made her vows in the Saptapadi, the inevitability of her enslavement becoming apparent. May the night be honey-sweet, her husband vowed. Night it was for sure after that, but not honey-sweet. The lecher did not keep to his vows. He treated her like a slave. It was a miserable time. She hated her husband and she hated herself. * Krishna eventually came to her rescue. Four long years of repression were ended when the evil man came down with the sickness. It was the tuberculosis that killed him even though people seemed to think otherwise. Usha rejoiced. Free to follow the fountain of youth like other girls of her age, her entrapment in a loveless marriage was dissolved. However, things did not turn out as she imagined. Should she have been surprised? Take off your bangles, her mother -in-law screamed, tears of lament streaming down her wizened cheeks. How could you do this? It is your karma that has destroyed him. You have fallen. You have become inauspicious. Usha had been falling all her life although was shocked to discover how much so in just one day. What do you mean I am inauspicious? she shouted, her thin frame shaking with tremor. Have you no shame? It is written in the scriptures. Have you not studied Skanda Purana? Fever rushed to Ushas cheeks. No. The old woman took delight in spitting the words at her. Hare Krishna! The widow is more inauspicious than all other inauspicious things. At the sight of a widow, no success can be had in any undertaking. A wise man should avoid even her blessings like the poison of a snake. Before Usha could recover from the venomous onslaught, the mother-in-law was yelling again, to her two sons this time. Bind her down. She screamed as the blade appeared; her soft brown skin about to be slashed. Harnessed to the chair, she cried out.
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Get off me you brutes. Then, Dont cut me, dont cut me. Unassauged by her pleas, the sons sliced across her head with the razor sharp edge. Tresses of shiny black hair fell like whispering rushes onto the silent ground. Only when the mirror view showed the full horror of her bald transfiguration did Usha cry out in pain, but there was more. Her dehumanisation continued. Here. Feel the shame, the old woman yelled, ripping away the coloured sari that clung in clumps to her sweating body. Usha screamed again. Had the woman lost her senses? Was she about to be mutilated? Take your hands off me, you evil woman, she shouted, her young voice shrieking like a wounded leopard cat. Shush girl. Put this on. Cover your guilt, the vengeful voice thundered as the white muslin cloth thrust into her face. You are Brahmin. You have no choice. So wise men avoided Usha. The death of her husband, though no fault of her own, ensured that she became inauspicious. The white sari wrapped itself around her shaking body and the golden lily of her youth wilted before it had even begun to flower. * Absorbed in her contamination, Usha sat on the Umvoti deck. An old woman shuffled past, refusing to meet her eye. Ugly widow, she muttered. Usha flinched from the accusation, eve n though its truth was self-evident, for this person sat as far away as possible. Head down, she sought solace in her own sanctuary, an invisible boundary marking her confinement. The barbs deepened in their savagery as the deck filled up, the newer arrivals forced to position themselves ever closer to the impurity. Eventually, a bedraggled looking female (it could only be an untouchable Usha imagined) sat beside her, seemingly able to tolerate her widow status. A moment of short lived relief buoyed her before despair returned, for this person was the only one. Others resented the association, only tolerating her presence through lack of alternative. They kept as far removed as possible and muttered darkly about the ramifications of such vile corruption.
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Ushas thoughts darted back to even darker memories: the prospect of Sati. * The day of the funeral; the day of terror; the day that marked her forever. A hot Bengali sun scorched the land and simmered the waters. Mourners lined the bank of the sacred river in silent prayer. Usha stood with them. A white head cloth shrouded her from the burning rays above, but she was not shrouded from the fire of her husbands funeral pyre. The heat from its burning redemptio n was about to singe her body. A rope tied the floating mass of brush to the bank. Her husband lay on the pyre, his soul a shadow. She listened out for his pleas, but her heart was closed to joining him, she heard nothing. Only the silence of death rang in her ears and she shook from the bleakness of it. The pyre was torched and severed from its mooring when Usha found her arms grabbed from behind. Then she was being pushed into the water, onto the burning brush. Her brothers-in-law were manhandling her onto the floating carriage of death. A wall of blackness hit her. Yelling and kicking out, she punched the air with her legs. Her screams were heard by the souls of the dead. No, let me live. I have had no life in this incarnation. How can I leave it? Hers was not self-immolation. Others did it for her. Burned in the flames, she would pass into her reincarnation. A vision of a goddess appeared before her. She stood again beside the husband whom she had despised; the husband who had maligned her. But the vision held no joy, no peace entered her soul. All she saw was the burning of flesh, a life consumed by eternal darkness. and then her father stood before, holding out his hand. Do not leave, little nymph. You have to stay . I know, was her reply. The might of the deities infused her. She kicked out at the demons who bound her.
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No, never, she cried. The darkness in her brother-in-laws eyes told her that she had to fight. She screamed into his face, lancing him with her fury. Something in her expression must have made him lose his murderous intent. On the verge of fainting, suddenly the deathly grip on her arms was relaxed. Thrown to the river bank, her mouth was choked by earth. Asphyxiated, her head spun into blackness. Was she still in the throes of her death? Yet there were no flames and her mother-in-law was shouting. What are you doing? She must burn to purify the soul. She will damn us all. Her arms were once again pulled up. The old womans face, contorted, devil-possessed, flashed in front of her. Usha swung her arm, the anger of an avenger infusing her. Get off me, she screamed. Knocked back by the slap, the old woman released her grip. Usha scrambled up the bank and sat sobbing as the burning pyre floated away into the deep water, the acrid smoke drifting down the valley of her intended reincarnation. * The memory made Usha droop. She began to sob. Would it not have been better to have burned, the way things had turned out?

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2 The Ashram
Weighing anchor, the Umvoti navigated a course through the congested harbour. The movement jolted Usha from her fiery contemplation, forcing her to brace against the decking. Namaste, she said, bumping into another woman. Every inch of the vessel was occupied. Hundreds of coolies were packed like cattle in a pen, the crew obliged to clamber over the cargo to sail the ship. Usha gazed to the ocean and imagined the thousands of miles that separated them from their destination of Africa. Fair passage was made until a few miles out to sea a patch of squally weather caused the iron ships rusting bow to pitch into the waves. Her heart pounding, Usha huddled, thinking of her death, for crossing the Kala Pani was taboo in her culture. By crossing the sea, she risked defiling her soul, and confronting the houglis - the monsters of the black water. Cut off from the regenerating waters of the Ganges, she feared the loss of her purified Hindu essence, the end of the reincarnation cycle. Her thoughts jumped to the Uttar Pradesh criminals required to cross water to serve their imprisonment on the islands of Andaman and Nicobar. Like them she would never return. She would never see her homeland again. Born into sadness, she would die in sadness; and now not even on her own soil. Praying for salvation, she chanted the Om. Surely Brahman would tell her what to do? The Umvoti rolled violently in the swell. Usha gripped the iron balustrade. The infidels dragged her insides through a briar of thorns. She leant over the side of the vessel and vomited what little was left in her stomach into the black water. Eyes closed, she awaited her tumble into the embrace of death. Why had she been taken so young, having lived so little? Ushas chanting continued until her voice was hoarse. By midafternoon, however, the squall had passed; the Umvoti began to make smoother progress. A wave of disbelief swept the deck. The anger of the houglis had miraculously abated. Brahman had
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answered their prayers. The swell of the ocean continued to wrench her stomach, but the deathly palpitations that had gripped Usha began to ease. The reprieve was short lived. An ugly looking Indian man marched along the gangway. A clap of thunder jolted her. Get up! You are bandharries. Usha jumped up, only to realise that three women sitting on the other side of the gangway were the object of his attention. Confronted by his vehement assault two of the women rose to comply, but the third, a woman with an air of detached refinement, remained seated. No, she shouted. I am Brahmin, I will not cook for others; you think I am untouchable? Who are you to tell me otherwise? The man exploded with rage. I am Parag, the sirdar, you are bandharries. Now get up and cook. From his pocket he pulled a sjambok, a strip of bullocks hide about a foot-and-a-half long. The woman was struck. Your caste is taken off. You left it at the port. You wont put it on again until you come back. Crying out, the Brahmin woman rose to her feet. Apparently she did not understand what Parag meant. How can I discard my caste? It is not possible! Go to your work, woman, before I thrash you again. We are the temple of Jaganath here. Usha recognised the reference. The temple in Puri, Orissa had been a pilgrimage destination for Hindus since the 11th century. Dedicated to the prophet Jaganath, one of its four gates, the Singahdwara, or Lion Gate, housed an idol of Jaganath, known as Patita Pavana, which in Sanskrit meant saviour of the downtrodden and the fallen. In ancient times, when untouchables were not allowed into the temple, they would pray to Patita Pavana. Because of this the temple had acquired a reputation for treating worshippers equally. It required all to make and serve their food together and eat from the same plate, irrespective of caste. That evening, as the bandharries rinsed the gravel off the rice, and prepared a meal of rice, dhal and potatoes, Usha understood the meaning of Parags words. The Indians ate together, high and low caste obliged to sit alongside each other in pangats, the makeshift benches arranged in rows on the deck beside the
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kitchen. The meal was caste-less, the Indians ate all jumbled up. The precious stones had been shaken up in the same pot as the dust and clinker and scattered haphazardly. Eating her first meal for several days, Ushas shrunken stomach ached from the sudden ingestion of food. She sat with the others, grateful for Patita Pavanas benevolence. However, many sitting on the pangat had clearly never prayed to this idol of Jaganath. Usha felt the lashing of their fury. Backs turned, they inched as far away as possible, shocked to find the traditional observances interrupted such. In silence she munched her rice, finding solace in Bhakta Kavi Salabegs prayer to the saviour of the fallen: O most merciful one, if you are expert enough, Then save me, the foremost of the fallen. She chanted the mantra in her head. It helped to ease the darkness in her thoughts. That evening, Usha lay on the hard wooden decking. A thin blanket tempered the chill. She prayed to Lord Krishna hoping that he would be merciful. How else might she survive the dark crossing that she made? Her sadness took her back to the worst of memories: her final parting from her mother * Running from the tyranny of her deceased husbands household, she arrived at her mothers house. Please Mother, let me in, I beg you, she shouted, hammering at the door. The silence spoke to the limits of a mothers love. Her fist pounded again on the wood. Mother, I have nowhere else to go. I am your daughter. A voice sounded through the grille - cold, dispassionate. Go away. You are disgraced. I have had my share of bad karma. I do not want any more. Nakti knew there was little hope of being loved again, but she was desperate. Mother I have no one. I beg you, have pity. A miracle! A crack appeared. She was forgiven. She pushed, but it was a cruel enticement. Entrance had been offered so that its
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refusal could be made more forcefully. Before she could wedge it open, the door slammed shut, with the words. Away, leave me alone. Rage infused her tears. What sort of mother are you to abandon your daughter? What have I done wrong? Everything, I do not want to see you. You have darkness in you. Her mother was right, of course. Nakti fell to her knees, the darkness of her condition pulling her down. Why me? Then she was shrieking, a voice pulsating, desperate. Where is he? Where is Father? Tell me. Even though she had not been good enough for him to stay, he was now the only person who could save her from her predicament. The silence was only interrupted by the ringing in her head. A wave of panic rose inside and she was screaming again. Tell me! Where is he? Her request must have ignited the fury of a wifes abandonment. Through the grille was imparted the venom of the most wretched. Africa, where did you think? You and he drink from the same dirty cup. He sowed the seeds of evil and you can follow. Africaall this time and she had never known. Thank you, she whispered, barely audible. Silence followed. Had her mother heard her? Her tap on the door provoked the final mark of her death. The karma is polluted. Stay away! Immolate yourself for all our sakes! The damnation of a daughter by her mother is the hardest rejection to bear and the devastation was absolute, yet Nakti had always known that it must be this way. Was that not why her father had left her? *
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A chill wind blew across the Umvoti deck, but this was not the cause of Ushas shudder. Her thoughts had progressed to the sharp bite of a flogging * Ushas tremble made her bite her tongue. How had it come to this? Abandoned by those she thought had loved her, she wondered if any of it mattered anyhow? She held back the tears in her eyes and pushed open the gate. The chasm that the inauspicious widow now entered was deeper and darker than anything she could ever have imagined. The door had barely closed on her freedom, when the consequences of her transgression were made apparent. A fist landed heavily in her midriff, the stabbing sensation rippling through to her extremities. Winded, doubled up, she screamed in agony. First you refuse Sati and now this! You make a fool of us twice? Clearly not intent on being so lenient at a second time of asking, her husbands youngest brother had fire in his eyes. A second blow sent her reeling back against the wall. Shocked into a rage, she lurched forward. Coward, she yelled. She had had enough of being treated like dirt. What had she done to be treated like this? Her hand struck him across the face causing him to spill backwards. He returned with vitriol in his eyes. A further blow to her stomach knocked the life out if her. Felled to the ground, his heavy body pinned her down. The whip, he shouted to his elder brother. She bit his arm. Like a mongrel he squealed, but his grip only tightened on her arms, tighter, tighter, until feeling left her hands. Spurred by the anger of the furies she kicked out and spat at him. Get off, you dog. But then it started Leather cut into Ushas flesh and she screamed. She screamed for the soreness in her back, she screamed for the throbbing sensation in her soft belly, she screamed for the hope that was being lashed out of her; multiple screams for the first few lashings then whimpering as blinding pain clouded her head, numbness
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froze her body. Hope became hopeless. After twenty lashings even the whimpering stopped, only the nothingness of nothing remained. The jolt of a cart broke the darkness, before blackness descended again. Then, a withered face, mercifully not her mother-in-law leant over her. Where am I, she asked. The ashram at Vrindavan, he brought you here last night, the old woman said. Who? The uncle, he said you had been whipped. You were lucky. He stopped them from beating you to death. You must make penance for your sins, widow. Usha winced. Her back was on fire. My sins? You will take the name Dasi. You are a servant of the prophet Krishna. Now pray to him like the rest of us widows. It is required by the sacred Hindu writings of Dharmashastra. We wait to rejoin our husbands. I have been waiting thirty years. Usha struggled to rise up from the bed. Let me go, I want to leave! Her head throbbed with the pain. She offered no resistance when pushed down again. The woman gripped her arm and shook it. Where will you go? You must stay here and make your eternal living penance. How dare you suggest otherwise! Usha lay with fever. Three days and nights passed before she had the strength to leave her bed. Here, this way. She shuffled down the steps to a courtyard outside. A gate offered the chance of freedom, perhaps? Its locked, for you. The old widows laugh was toothless. Bloodshot eyes twinkled at Ushas entrapment. Head down, she followed the others to the temple. Hopelessness enveloped her. Even if she were to escape,
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where would she go? In front of the shrine she sat. For hours and hours she chanted the mantras, until her back became so stiff that she would never stand again. The Om did not work. By dusk, her soul remained uncleansed. A coin and a cup of rice were thrust into her hand, but she had no grip. From her hand dropped the cup. To the floor she slumped, wishing she were dead. The morning brought the shame of the dingy alley. Usha held out her hand with the others. What else could she do? Her stomach was empty and she had nothing to fill it. She knew then that her fate was set, that there was no escape from the clutches of the void into which she had fallen. Like the other widows she waited for that moment when she might follow her husband into the field of death. Why? How could this be so hopeless? Could the dark veil of her condition not be reversed? Ushas prayers began to change their focus. No longer did she pray for an end to her life, she prayed for a miracle that might rescue her from this pitiful existence. She prayed that she might somehow find the father whom she had lost. One day, whilst begging in the alley, a man approached and struck up a conversation. He had an alluring smile and a sparkle in his eyes that attracted her. ___ Hello, Im Vishram, Vishram said, forcing a smile and winking at the young woman. He had spent all morning walking the bazaar and was thankful at last to have found a candidate for his entrapment. This one retained her hope. He could see it in her eyes. I see you are a widow? he said, throwing a coin into her basket. Yes, thank you, the young woman said, a smile creeping onto her ashen face. What is your name? Usha.
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Ah, like the dawn, but is there dawn in your life I wonder? No, I am a widow, I have only darkness. Oh, but I see you have not lost hope. There is a twinkle in your eyes! No, I think you are mistaken. Yes. I think you dream of escape, of riches and golden opportunity? Vishram enjoyed the thrill of his deception. Like a Venus flytrap, he lured human flies into his trap, the stickiness of his honeyed aroma encasing his victims. I offer you freedom in a land of plentiful luxury. Where is this strange land? Ah, you see, you do have hope. I thought so He licked his lips. I offer the chance of escape, a journey across the ocean, a journey to a land of wondrous possibilities. But where is this place? I am confused. Africa: the land of plenty, the land of riches, the land of freedom. Usha closed her eyes and Vishram smiled. He smiled at his fat commission: one more fly and this months quota was met. He smiled at his advantage: an unlicensed arkati carried no limitation on how he spun his enticement. He smiled at how well his recruiter, Venu would look in front of Mohamad, and how well Mohamad would look in front of Iman, the big boss, the emigration agent appointed by the government of Natal in Africa. He smiled at Ushas miracle: how she would join the thousands of Indians enticed into indenture and transported by the white colonials to work on the plantations in southern Africa. He smiled so wide that he thought his mouth might even reach his ears! ____ Usha was enraptured. Indeed, Vishram need not have been half as eloquent with his description. The mention of Africa had sold her the notion. Her prayers answered, a miracle was delivered. How
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could she refuse the prospect of escape and finding her father again? * Usha lay on the hard boards of the Umvoti deck, the taste of Vishrams golden elixir in her mouth. She thought of her father and the story about the baby girl that could fly, but when she closed her eyes and saw his smiling face, it was a face shadowed and distorted; a face different from the one that she had once remembered. Had she forgotten the real face and invented another one to replace it? The fragmentation of his memory haunted her. Even his absence could not be remembered. A tear rolled down her cheeks as she considered the great void that had been left in her life. She prayed that she might somehow find him in Africa, that her father would make things right again, that it would be like it was before, when she was six, happy, laughing, protectedlike the baby girl that could fly. Usha fell asleep clinging to her expectation. Perhaps the gods required that she endure her inauspiciousness, the shadows that now clouded her existence, so that she could be re-united with him again? But her dream that night held only darkness. The monsters of the black water swallowed up her fragment of hope and spat it out in disgust. Her karma was bad after all.

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3 Crossing the Black Water

A chill breeze swept off the ocean as the first shafts of the dawn splintered into the horizon. Usha shuddered, but not from the rigour of an exposed deck, her fever came from within. The night had been long and agonising. She had spent many hours awake throwing up the very last of what was contained in her stomach. Weakened from months of malnutrition, her immune system had gradually lost its fight against the infection and by morning she was too ill to move, not even to grasp a cupful of water from the water butt. Get up you lazy widow. Clean the toilets before I thrash you. Nandita! Usha recognised the voice. The old woman had taken it upon herself to organise the others. Her name meant happy, but clearly this Nandita did not possess a happy gene in her body. Jaganath was ignored, Usha was fallen, an outcast and to be treated as such. Usha groaned from the sharp kick that Nandita gave to her belly, and struggled to rise. She stood, but her head began to spin. A few delirious steps across the deck and she collapsed in a heap on the wooden boards. She was kicked again, harder this time. "Lazy, ungrateful widow, Nandita shouted at the top of her voice, her withered face turning puce. Usha yelped. Monsters took bite sized pieces of flesh from her insides. Parag came striding down the deck, sjambok in hand. Intent on giving Usha a good thrashing a shrill voice stopped him in his tracks: Wait. An Englishman in brown cotton slacks and a white shirt was running down the gangway, his irregular face adopting a grimace. Sahib, she refuse work so I punish her, Parag muttered, the colour of his cheeks matching Nanditas. Shes sick, man. Cant you see? the Englishman shouted, apparently not yet accustomed to the methods of indenture. Bring her to the hospital room.
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Sahib, Parag grunted in begrudging acquiescence. He raised his hand to direct two coolies to carry the limp body. Put her over there thank you, the doctor said to the coolies who had man-handled Usha unceremoniously below deck. Their grimaces showed their repugnance at this dirty widow, and they left promptly, no doubt to wash their hands, lest their souls become tainted. Usha lay listless on the bunk bed. The small hospital room spun around her. She controlled her urge to vomit again, not wishing to embarrass herself in front of the Englishman. Hello. Whats your name? Usha, Sahib, she whispered, the action straining the muscles in her throat. Well, Usha. Im Doctor Hitchcock. I am going to examine you. Do you understand? His manner was kindly, his words slow and deliberate. Everything was a blur, she struggled to remain alert. Yes Sahib. I speak Englishat school. Lie still. Breathe in and out, slowly. The cold metal on her feverish skin made her jump. Hitchcock held the stethoscope tube to his ear, his brow furrowing. Can you sit up Usha? I need to look at your back. Move your sari a little. She hesitated, her pulse quickening. Even though she thought she could trust the doctor Sahib she was nervous around men. Trembling, she lowered the coarse muslin cloth. ____ Hitchcocks face whitened. His hands throbbed. Good gracious. The light brown skin of Ushas back was barely visible beneath a criss-cross of black and purple lacerations, as if someone had branded her with the scorched image of a heavily fortified portcullis. Several of the wounds remained open, green puss oozing from the sores. A putrid smell of rotting flesh emanated. Usha, whos been hurting youyou have terrible wounds? Her head was held down. I am widow. Widows are hit. This is barbaric, he muttered, his eyes moistening. Usha, we must wash the wounds, they are infected.
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____ She had no words. What could she possibly say? His gentle hands pressed on her neck, then on her abdomen. She yelped, a stabbing pain running from the place where he had pushed. A furrow lined his forehead. Its alright, Usha, Im not trying to hurt you. You have a high temperature. Have you been drinking any water? His words elicited a rush of sadness. She reached to dab her eyes with the pallu of her sari. No, Sahib. I will give you an injection to control the fever, but you must drink. You are significantly dehydrated. Sahib, you think I die? she whispered, feeling as if she might, the throbbing sensation in her head worse than ever. His smile was forced; the flush of his cheeks apparently unable to hide the angst inside. No, but you must rest. Your lungs are congested and you have a high fever. We must bathe your sores with carbolic acid. It will sting, but it is important to clean the wounds. And you will need to change your sari. Its filthy and re-infecting your sores. I am sorry, Sahib. Is difficult to keep clean. But you have two others now in the parcel? I not wear them, Sahib. Why? I am widow, Sahib. I must wear white sari. He wiped his forehead. Hardness had set into his voice. Usha, you must change. I insist on it. Otherwise your sores will turn septic. She thought of the sacred teachings and shuddered. To discard her white sari was to refute the teachings of the prophets. Would she not be struck down, eternally damned? Have you eaten, Usha? The distraction was welcome. I eat rice, but I am sick in night. Well, you must eat a little more, for strength and I want you to drink as much as you can. He brought her a cup of water. I will ask Amrita to help bathe your sores, but now you must rest. Stay in bed.
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Concern laced his eyes. She smiled weakly. Her natural inclination was to leave, to make room for others, but even she knew that this was impossible. She could barely lift her head off the pillow. ___ Hitchcock winced from the stiffness in his back. A migraine throbbed in his temples. He had set out into the world with philanthropic intent, but conditions on board the coolie ships were far worse than anything he had imagined. Was he up to the task? He thought of the eight poor souls whom he had lost on the SS Belvedere, his first voyage out of Madras. Pray God that Usha would not join them. Yet what could he do in the face of such intransigence? The Protector of Indian Immigrants was a protector in name only, a sop to the Coolie Commission. There was no desire from the indenture authorities to effect change. The malpractice continued. Units of labour; that was all these poor devils were to the white colonials. And yet, he couldnt give up. How many more lives would be lost if he did? He left the hospital room to finish his muster. Determined to make any improvements that he could, an image of the anti-christ loomed into his mind, however. Coolielover, Reeves had labelled him. How he hated that man. ____ Usha drifted into the shadow of deaths embrace, a place of burning cauldron and angry thunder crack. She awoke to a sensation of cold on her fiery forehead and the deliberation of a smiling face. Her mother! The little girl sat in the house by the river. Her fathers laugh came from the next room. Her mother began to sing to her but then the face changed, and the voice was different. My, you have the fire of Agni inside you. A fog of confusion clouded her mind. Who was this person? Why was it not her mother? We will bathe your sores. She shrieked as the woman rolled her over. The skin on her back had been stripped off and laid out to blister under a vengeful sun.
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Like this, a mans voice said. Not her father, surely? No; the doctor Sahib perhaps? A smell of acid sharpened her nostrils, wetness ran across her back. Hard into the skin scraped a wire brush, furrowing the flesh. She screamed, her torso numbing with the pain. Dont cut me. Then a sharp stabbing sensation in her arm as if someone had touched her skin with a red hot poker. Then blackness... In her dream, she ran down a flight of steps and opened a large wooden door. A gated entrance led into a vast open air temple. Shafts of blazing light rose into the blackness of the night sky. A large fire burned in a stone hearth before a statue of the Hindu deity, Shiva, the auspicious one, the god of destruction and rejuvenation. Usha shook. Were these flames of her destruction that leapt into the darkness? A group of worshippers performed a yajna, a ritual of sacrifice to the divine Agni. The priest chanted the incantations and oblations of ghee, grains and soma were poured into the flames, appeasements to the gods. Usha stood by the door, staring at the spiritual apotheosis, too frightened to enter. Her father appeared, as if from nowhere. Had he returned to rescue her? Why then did she argue? Their exchange was heated. She defended Shiva as virtuous, as if he were not the statue in front of them, as if he were really there amongst them. Then she realised. Her father was not so much angry with Shiva or her defence of him, as with her directly. Her father was angry with Nakti. But if this was the case, then why had he returned, if not merely to reaffirm his abandonment? And why did she defend Shiva? She was not married to him. How could she be? She was a widow. Her husband had died. And then she understood. Of course! She saw through the eyes of Sati, the goddess, Shivas first consort. The scene enacted the ancient Hindu legend. Fury invaded her. Her fathers coldness would be avenged. She, as Sati ran forward into the burning fire. Her flesh seared in the flames, yet she laughed. Sweet was the scorch of her selfimmolation. A shout of horror made her turn. Transformed from stone, Shiva leapt off his pedestal and plunged into the raging
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inferno. Her scalded arm was grabbed, her blackened, smouldering body pulled from the fire. Too late! Satis spirit drifted into the night. Shiva lifted her charred remains onto his shoulders. From above she watched him dance, a dance of fire, a dance of a god with the fury of the demons inside: a terrifying Tandava. Usha woke to a raging sweat. The woman mopped her forehead. But then burning flames enveloped her again. She coursed through the dark passage of her death awaiting a reincarnation that never came Then a flame flickered. But it was not the fire of Sati. A smiling face glistened in the shifting light of a candle. Youre back. We were worried. The woman, the one she had seen before. Usha found her voice again. How long have I slept? Three days. You have been so ill. You drifted in and out of consciousness. We thought we had lost you. You called out for Shiva. What? Shiva, you called out his name. I remember this terrifying dream, but it is all confused. Usha tried to raise herself up in the bed. Too weak in the arm, she slumped back down on the pillow. Her head spun around. Whats your name? she asked. Amrita, I know who you are: Usha, like the dawn. The womans face shone with compassion, as Ushas mothers once had, many moons ago. I do not feel like the dawn. Well, perhaps in a few days you will; at least you are awake now. Thank you for looking after me. I am glad to help.

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The strands of fire in Ushas head flickered less feverously. Heavenly wonder had delivered her a kindred soul and she wanted to repay the womans kindness. So you left India? she asked. Warmth graced her cheeks. Why else would Amrita be on board the Umvoti? Yes, Amrita said. From the scars on your back Im guessing we have a similar story. Usha stiffened with the shame of her condition. Amrita adjusted the bed covers; thankfully continuing to speak. I am an untouchable. I made patties in the fields, from cow dung, dirty work, a miserable life, all day in the hot sun for a pittance. Maybe it is a better life in Africa, I hope so. Do you have a family, Amrita? The womans eyes clouded. Cheeks burning, Usha wished that she might take back her question. I have a husband and a sonI had a son, Rajar was his name. He became sick. We had no money for a doctor. Amritas lip quivered. We did everything we could tohe died. Usha grasped Amritas hand and squeezed it tightly. I am sorry, Amrita. Her tears were for Rajar and for her own abandonment. Thats why my husband and I signed for indenture. We lost all our hope you see. Rajar, he had no life the poor boy. I pray he has a better life in the next. I believe so, Amrita. You must trust in Brahman. I pray as much as I can. Do you think my prayers will be answered? Yes, I think so. He is wise. He sees everything. She grasped Amritas hand and prayed, for Rajar and for Amrita, holding to her trust in the wisdom of the universal one. * The following day a monsoon lashed down. Huge waves rolled the ship. From the depths reared the houglis, their angry heads cresting white on the blackened water. Thrown around in her bunk bed, Usha realised that her recovery from her fever had been for
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naught. She would die in the storm. Brahman could not save her from the monsters revenge. At the helm, Captain Reeves mood was equally as tempestuous as the monstrous seas. The pull of a recalcitrant steering wheel was not the only reason for his ill-temper, however. Although steamdriven, the Umvoti used sails to supplement its paddle power. Keen to keep the crossing time to a minimum, Reeves had kept up his sail in spite of darkening clouds on the horizon. In the event, the storm had raced in faster than expected. Reeves rushed from the bridge. Reef those bloody sails, he bellowed lurching along the quarterdeck. Cmon you bloody loungers. Step on it! His raucous voice usuall y travelled far, but even his words dissipated in the howling of the gale. Theyre ripping captain, the bosun shouted. We cant hold them down. Dont give me bloody excuses, just do it, you bloody idiots. The men scaled the treacherous masts and reached to furl yards of billowing canvas. A loud ripping noise rang out as a large piece of wooden mast came crashing down onto the decking. Hells teeth. Do I have to do it me bloody self, you imb eciles? Call yourselves sailors; youre nothing but a bunch of lilies! The captains face was as blood red as his language. Ripped canvas lay everywhere. Pull that down and take it below, and start fixing the bloody thing! The storm raged whilst the below decks choked with torn sail for repair obliging the bandharries to prepare and serve the dinner on the open deck. With the tempest unabated, the emigrants ate outside, bearing the lashings of the murderous houglis. Unaware of the severity of the dark portent, Hitchcock marched into a storm of a different kind. Enraged at the pigheadedness of the captain, he had determined to have it out with the fool. The argument quickly blew into a full scale shouting match. The safety of the vessel is a priority. Dont concern yourself with matters that are not in your domain, Mr Hitchcock, or I will have you locked up, I surely will.
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Reeves face had deepened from bright crimson to purple. David faced Goliath, but Hitchcock refused to be cowed. The health of the emigrants is my responsibility, Captain Reeves. I dont give a damn about the coolies, Mr Hitchcock. If the ship goes down we all sink with it. What good is your concern then, eh? Now get off my bridge before I throw you off myself. For goodness sake, why are the sails a priority? I dont understand. We are steam powered. They were damaged yer fool. We are repairing them. Didnt you see the storm coming? Why were they up? Reeves arm swung in an exaggerated sweeping arc as if he were about to stride across and knock Hitchcocks head off. How dare you question me captaincy? Get out of my sight before I have you locked in your bloody cabin. The young doctor flinched, but emboldened by his indignation stood firm. I will withdraw, captain, but I object to your threats. I wont countenance another epidemic like the one on the Belvedere. I dont give a damn about your countenance or your bloody epidemic, Hitchcock, Reeves yelled, his voice now hysterical. My responsibility is the ship. Now leave me to my own, or else. Had the man taken leave of his senses? Hitchcock bottled his fury and left the bridge without further retort. Nothing could be gained by continuing the fight. He refused to give the blaggard an excuse to lock him up. His cabin door was slammed behind him. Hitchcock slumped into the chair by the porthole and for several hours sat, bristling with unabated anger at the intransigence of forces matched against him. Finally, no longer able to keep his eyes open, he plunged into the depths of a tumultuous sleep. Two more days the infidels raged, refusing to allow the vessel safe passage through the Bay of Bengal. Their fury spent, order was finally restored to the heavens. The ship rounded the tip of southern India in perfect blue skies. Battered and beaten, Usha lay in her bunk, wondering at the miracle that had spared her. A vast expanse of Indian Ocean now
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extended to Africa, might she have hope now of reaching its shores? * Hitchcock reddened under the rays of an unfettered equatorial sun. The winds howl had dropped to an eerie whisper. Sails, which had absorbed so much of the crews tim e in their repair, now lay idle, and but for its steam engines, the Umvoti would certainly have lain becalmed. The doctors first muster for three days found several cases of heat stroke. A general lack of cover on the open deck meant the captain would need to be faced. He gathered up his courage, the horizons calm belying the storm that must ensue on the bridge. Can we erect awnings over the poop and quarter decks to protect the coolies? We have cases of heatstroke. No boom shattered his ears. For once the captain spoke in a normal voice. Ah, the great doctor, we cant have our precious cargo perishing under a fair passage now can we? Perhaps the bosun will help us? Is that good enough for you? Hitchcocks jaw dropped open. The puffed face had deflated. Clarity had returned to demon eyes. Was this a mirage? Dare he hope that reason might finally prevail? He soon realised the foolishness of his expectation. Shocked to find a suspected cholera case on his rounds, he acted immediately to quarantine the Indian in an empty cabin below decks and issue instructions for drinking water to be boiled. Even from the end of the ship, Hitchcock could not have missed the explosion. A deafening shout of Hitchcock, damn you preceded a crashing of footsteps and then a thunder clap. Remove that bloody coolie. Hitchcock spun around, determined to hold his ground this time. No, I will not return the man to the decks. Are you mad? He has cholera. The disease will spread . Ill have him removed myself, you idiot.
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Madness infused his eyes. Reeves looked as if he were about to wrench Hitchcock asunder. No one commandeers a cabin without my authority, not on my ship. Hitchcock squared his shoulders, refusing to acknowledge the tremor that gripped his belly. If you want to take the risk of contamin ation then be it on your head. Ill have you strung up you bastard! Reeves yelled. The devil was in his face. No, Im not doing it, Hitchcock shouted, vigour infusing his soul. The argument was his. What was Reeves to do? Intervene directly and risk contamination? Well see about that, Reeves shouted, thundering across the gangway. Hitchcock braced his arm to parry the blow that must surely come. Coolie-lover, Reeves shouted, spitting in Hitchcocks face as he passed. The punch that should have been Hitchcocks found the face of the ships boy, the lad having been in the wrong place at the wrong time. * That afternoon Usha regained sufficient strength to leave her bunk bed. With a head still clouded, she gathered her meagre belongings and vacated the hospital room. Her reappearance on deck wearing an orange coloured sari and sporting a new head of hair was met by dark looks. She questioned whether the spirit of Jaganath had been universally adopted. Nightfall confirmed her suspicions. You filthy widow, have you no shame? Was that Nanditas voice? Her pulse racing, Usha spun round. The sun had dipped below the horizon and in the gloom she failed to anticipate the blow from the wooden ladle. A shattering pain in her temple made her slump to the deck. A scuffling on the decking preceded a barrage of kicking. Vengeful toes dug into her flesh like sharp sticks. The lashings of her brother-in-laws whip were upon her. Once again she fought for her life.
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Get off me, she cried, hitting out. She staggered to her knees, but the marauding pack was too strong. A thump to her back knocked her forwards and her face hit the decking. She screamed, but to no avail, her screams could not stop the stabbing, until finally the sticks no longer hurt, she descended into the darkness of the demons. She awoke at dawns light to a mans face. Bent down, he mopped the blood caked on her back and shoulders. Ushawhat happened? Was this Shiva, extracting her charred remains from the ashes? She blinked through the confusion. No, surely it was the Englishman who had helped her before? Leave me, Sahib. A widow is bad luck, she murmured, barely audible. Tears ran down her haggard face. She no longer cared about life, all she wanted was to end it all, jump into the Agni Kunda and sacrifice to the fire. Come with me, Usha. You can help in the hospital room. What Sahib? I will help you. Why would he help her? No one else wanted to. And yet here was his outstretched arm. Gritting her teeth to the pain rippling through her body, she levered herself up and hobbled along the deck. Blankly she stared at the looks of disparagement, her pride keeping her from collapsing. Below decks, Hitchcock pointed to a small recess under the stairs. You can sleep here. Usha turned to thank him, faintness making him support her stumble. A cubby-hole, but at least it is dry and you will be safe. Now come, Amrita will bathe your wounds. She stood, her cheeks flushing. Yes Sahib. Thank you. She pressed her palms together, fingers pointed upwards in front of her chest. Her place of sanctuary made her smile. Dare she hope of escape from the burning of Agni? He helped her to the hospital room. Usha, I have been thinking. Maybe when you are stronger you can help me with my work, translating from Hindi into English?
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Sahib? Often I am unable to understand what the Indians are saying. She sought his eyes. Did Brahman answer her prayers? Had Hitchcock been sent to save her? Yes, Sahib, but my English not so good. On the contrary, your English is excellent, Usha. Anyway, think on it, I have the muster to finish. Usha found out what cubby hole meant as she crawled into the under stair alcove at the side of the gangway. Her new sleeping place was as cramped as the doctor Sahib had intimated, but mercifully protected from the malevolence of those who would do her harm. She drifted into sleep, incredulous that a miracle might have lifted the veil of her condition. Her hope was that the light of the morrows dawn might bring an end to her darkness. But then, had anyone told Nakti?

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4 The African Plantation


The soul of all that moves not or moves, the Sun hath filled the air and earth and heaven, like a young man follows a maiden, so doth the Sun the Dawn, refulgent Goddess. Translation from Hymn to Surya, Rig Veda Book 1

Crossing the black water of the Kala Pani was always to be a treacherous affair. The Indian Ocean is mighty and disturbed, and the tempests invoked by the houglis continued to threaten the Umvotis passage. After several tortuous weeks at sea the ship finally reached the shores of East Africa and headed south, hugging the indentation of the coastline. Sahib, come see! Ushas heart pounded. A lighthouse stood on a rock promontory overlooking a large bay. His muster complete, Hitchcock turned towards the shore. Yes Usha, the Bay of Natal. Durban, Sahib? Yes, but the Portuguese sailor Vasco de Gama called it Rio de Natal, Christmas River! She was confused. It was Christmas Day, 1497. De Gama sailed past on his way to India. Rio means river. Natal means Christmas. Ah Sahib, I see. The association enthralled her. Strange isnt it. The Africans were called Natalians. They didnt know that of course. Yes Sahib. But why ships stay outside, not go in? I know. It is unusual. The harbour has a natural impediment. Sahib?
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A barrier, there is a line of sand across the entrance. Like this. He drew a line in the air with his arm. Yes Sahib. The ocean current flows south, like this. He pointed out to the distant ocean horizon. But near the coast here it flows in the opposite direction. Like this. His arms crossed over each oth er making her giggle. I know! They go against each other. The inshore current pushes sand around the Bluff - that large rock where the lighthouse is - and creates a sandbar across the bay. Look, you can see the waves breaking across it. Big ships, like the Umvoti, cannot pass over it. So we will anchor offshore. But how we reach land, Sahib? Is dangerous, yes? Lighters, small boats will take us. It is perilous for the large boats. In fact that is why Durban is here. Sahib? An English ship called Good Hope shipwrecked in 1685. Shipwrecked? Crashed on the sandbar and sank. Ushas eyes creased. Oh Sahib, not very good hope! No, an ironic twist! After it was shipwrecked some of the sailors stayed here. Why, Sahib? Elephant tusks. They wanted the ivory. They traded with the Zulu. I not like, Sahib. Kill elephant is bad. In Bengal, elephant is sacred. I know Usha, its a different culture. Zulu, they like English sailors, Sahib? Yes, at first. They traded with King Shaka, the Zulu king. They went to Shakas royal court and gave him muskets and medical supplies and he gave them ivory and buffalo hides. Fascinating, eh? Yes Sahib. She pictured a dark warrior king receiving strange white emissaries. At that stage, there were only thirty white traders here. So you see if the Good Hope had not been Bad Hope there would have been no settlement and we would not be sailing to it!
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She smiled. I look forward to meet Zulu, Sahib. Yes Usha, although the English and the Zulu are not so friendly now. They fight. The light in her eyes shadowed. Oh Sahib, I hope not. * In the hospital room a shudder of the ship caused Usha to grab the railing. Shouts rang out above. She ran up on deck to a scene of considerable chaos: a large number of Indians clambered over the side of the vessel. Her pulse quickened. For an instant she imagined that the ship had struck the sandbar. The Umvoti sank as the Good Hope had done. She rushed forward, readying herself to jump overboard with the others. Below, two lighters were moored up against the ship; the evacuees scrambled down a mat of rope netting thrown over the side. Form an orderly line, damn it. The captains voice boomed across the deck. Usha spun around, her ears ringing. However, no one seemed to be taking much notice. The new arrivals pushed forward, an unstoppable wave of brown faces, eager to disembark at their long awaited destination. Fearing there was no time to lose; Usha ran back down to the cubby hole to retrieve her bag of belongings and searched for Hitchcock. She found him in the passageway, helping an elderly man up the steps. Sahib, we land at port. Yes, I know Usha. Thank goodness, eh? A heavy crease indented her forehead. She realised that she would no longer be under the doctor Sahibs protection. What will happen, Sahib? ____ The lighter will carry you into the port where you will be taken to the holding shed and then allocated a work position. Hitchcock turned away, a tear forming in the corner of his eye. He worried about the harsh working conditions on the sugar plantations. It weighed on him heavily that as a woman Usha was vulnerable to abuse.
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As if echoing his concerns, Ushas chest heaved. I work for you, Sahibplease? He hardened himself to the pain inside. What choice did he have? I would like you to, Usha. You have been a great help to me. But we re-sail for Calcutta in a few days. I have to return with the ship. Usha dropped her head, mopping her tears with the pallu of her sari. I will try to help, a job as an interpreter perhaps, but I have limited authority on-shore. It is up to the Protector. Hitchcock parted from Usha with a heavy heart, wishing he could have done more. It wasnt only Ushas future that made him anxious, he felt a weight of responsibility for all the emigrants. He had written into the early hours, by candlelight. As with the Belvederes crossing, his surgeons report highlighted the barbarous nature of conditions on board, but this time a veil of gloom had spread across his aspiration. His faith in basic human decency was interrupted; he held no expectation that his report would change anything. Horrified that one group of people could treat another with such disregard he carried the burden of his countrymen s shame on his slight shoulders. ____ Trepidation tempered the euphoria of Ushas arrival in Africa. Obliged to forego the relative safety of the ship, disembarkation became her concern, the method not being of her choosing, her attire not the most practical. She scrambled down the coarse rope netting, her sari wrapping around her knees, her sandals slipping on the footholds. Four or five rungs were negotiated before she lost her footing. Too weak to hold her weight with her one free hand, she fell the remaining three feet and landed with a bump on the wooden boarding of the lighter. The impact swayed the boat throwing her sideways into the hull. Cheeks flushing crimson, she scrambled back up and found a space on the central wooden bench. She fixed her eyes to the floor and hoped that in the general confusion no one had noticed her indecorous arrival.
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The rays of a mid-morning African sun shimmered off the ocean. Usha squinted to the glare, the breeze cooling the heat from her temples. She ran her hand through her boyish crop of hair, its profligacy surprising her. One arm was dangled over the side, her fingers inadvertently running through the sparkling salty water. The wetness shocked her from her reverie. She hadnt meant to stretch her hand out so far. Looking down, she realised that the heavily laden boat sat dangerously low in the water. Her heart, already pounding from her indelicate descent, pounded even faster as she imagined herself pitching into the sea. As a child she had fallen into the Ganges and almost drowned. She had never recovered. The harrowing incident had left her with a deep-seated fear of water. On a large vessel such as the Umvoti the fear was manageable; she felt sufficiently elevated from the darkness below. Sitting close to the water as she was now, the phobia was all-consuming. She closed her eyes to the sharp sun, and clung fast to the wooden railing, praying that she might survive this final leg of the journey. With no room to squeeze another body on board, the oarsmen pulled the lighter away from the Umvoti in the direction of the sandbar that guarded their destination, the large protected harbour behind it. Usha kept her eyes closed; imagining that by hiding from it the danger would go away. Too soon, she made the mistake of checking to see if this had worked. A murky patch of yellow loomed up from the depths. The sandbar! As if to prove her expectation, the lighters bow suddenly tipped up, ran along the top of a curving wave then crashed down violently through its breaking face. Shaking uncontrollably, Usha joined the general shriek of hysteria that emanated from the boat. She had survived the ocean crossing, but the houglis were about to pull her into the darkness. Gripping the rim of the boat, she chanted the Om: May we receive thy supreme sin-destroying light. The words of the Gayatri resonated deeply within her soul for she believed this to be her last moment. A miracle! The lighter bobbed up again, emerging from the clutches of the monsters. A gasp of relief replaced the shrieks of terror. Usha opened her eyes to find that she lived. Brahman had answered their pleas for clemency.
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Flanked by the Bluff, the large protected harbour offered calmer water. The lighter headed in the direction of a thin line of wooden buildings and wharfs that lay along the Point, the curving shoreline on the opposite side. The pounding in Ushas chest began to subside and she steeled herself to look up. A flotilla of boats crisscrossed the harbour and unloaded a large number of soldiers, horses, and supplies on the dockside. It appeared that a whole army disembarked! Was this not the worst time possible for the Umvoti occupants to be arriving? They could only add to the congestion on the small quay. The lighter reached the landing jetty, sending a jolt through its passengers as it bumped against the wooden steps. Thankful to have reached dry land with her life intact, Usha joined the scramble onto the platform. A line of brown feet shuffled towards a large wooden shed at the back of the quayside where an Englishman wearing a cream linen jacket and brown flannels stood. His attire prompted Usha to think that this must be Shepstone, the Protector of Indian Immigrants. Hitchcock had mentioned him. She reached the doorway and was about to address the man. Over there, he muttered, his intimidating glare and general air of disdain sending a shudder through her. Instead of speaking up, she held her head down and followed the direction of his outstretched arm. Inside was a large, dimly lit shed, like a storage warehouse for cargo. A solitary window at the far end sent a single shaft of light into splinters of dust-filled haze. The dark chamber smelt rank, like rotting waste. Usha drew in gulps of the pungent heat, the airlessness forcing her to wheeze. She joined the back of an avenue of shadows that straddled the earth floor and shuffled forward. Inching ever closer to the window at the far end, the line curved around the building like an entwined boa constrictor. Usha peered forward on her toes, her face filled with contortion. Between the heads of the assembled throng appeared a large desk at which the intimidating Englishman now sat. Shepstone, for she presumed it was he, barely glanced up as she reached the head of the snake some while later. Standing in front of him, she was surprised at how thin and angular he was. His
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pencil nose and beady eyes gave him the appearance of a crow, a crow that could peck violently and without expression. Name? twittered the crow. Usha Dasi, Sahib. She bowed and pressed her palms together. Her Namaste was ignored. Number? She had forgotten. Unable to read the tin ticket around her neck, the crow was obliged to rise and strut impatiently around the desk. 10307, it muttered, writing the number down in its ledger, before returning to the sanctuary of its chair. Age? Seventeen, Sahib. Place of birth? Calcutta, Sahib. Any family travelling with you? No, Sahib. Okay, Erskine plantation, over there in the corner. Her interview had lasted barely a minute. Usha had the impression that Shepstone hadnt even noticed her. There had certainly been no mention of a translator role. She looked around the shed searching frantically for Hitchcock, without success. Wait, Mr Shepstone--- Over there, coolie, the sirdar interrupted, pushing her into the corner. It was too late, Shepstone hadnt heard her. The unseeing crow was too busy interviewing the next coolie in line. She stood in the corner, her chest throbbing. Are you Erskine plantation? she asked an aloof looking woman who stood in the group of Indians beside her salvation perhaps, although from an unlikely quarter. The woman nodded without speaking, her gaze averted. The nagging sensation in the pit of Ushas stomach grew. This was not what she had expected. No one seemed to care much about the new arrivals. They were processed like cattle. She recalled Hitchcocks look of concern when she had asked him what might happen to her. Where was he when she needed him? Having wanted so desperately to arrive on African soil, she now wished that she was back on board the Umvoti. Her gut feeling told her
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that her place of indenture might not be as nurturing as Vishram had led her to believe. The sirdar herded the group of ten Erskine coolies outside. Emerging from the darkness, Usha shielded her eyes to the blinding contrast and stood with the others in an enclosed compound on the opposite side of the shed from the quay. Her tremor intensified with the arrival shortly afterwards of a man on horseback. Portly, with an ashen-grey face and piercing eyes that glared from beneath his broad brimmed leather hat, the man stepped down from his stirrup. He landed with a thud on the dusty ground of the barracks forecourt, groaned and walked stiffly towards the shed. Shepstone rushed out to meet him. Morning Shepstone, where are they then? I havent got all day. The mans tone was menacing, even more so than Captain Reeves. Here they are Mr Erskine. Shepstone pointed indifferently to Usha and the others. Ten coolies as requested. Theyre fresh off the boat and ready to go. I have the papers here. Erskine ran his eye quickly over Usha and the others. Im not taking the women. But its in the regulations, Mr Erskine. Youre obliged to take a quarter of any number as women. That means two out of the ten. Shepstone backed away in the face of Erskines glare. Usha imagined that the crow faced the talons of a black hawk. Alright Shepstone, but on condition you leave my affairs alone, right. No poking your nose in, eh? Shepstones cheeks had flushed a deep red. He handed Erskine the folder of papers, his beady eyes flickering to the ground. It was clear to Usha that the crow was a small bird. She wondered what protection the Protector could provide to the Indians. Ignoring the crow, Erskine grabbed the folder and strode over to the waiting group. A large, ugly looking Indian man ran through the gate and stood panting, a few steps behind Erskine. What took you so long? Erskine muttered, barely glancing behind him. Right you lot, I am Erskine, the owner of Erskine plantation at Umgeni. Talleen here He paused as if to make a point of the mans untimely arrival. will show you where to walk. It is about eight miles.
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A shiver ran down Ushas spine. Erskine had an air of brutishness. His harsh piercing eyes and thin lipped scowl indicated a meanness of spirit and capacity for thuggery. Erskine remounted his horse, whipped the beast hard and rode off. A momentary sense of relief swept over her, but then she turned to the reality of the ugly looking Indian man. Walk coolies, Talleen shouted, cracking his sjambok. He was not from Bengal, for he addressed them in broken English, not Hindi. Usha walked out of the compound when a sudden impulse to run infused her. About to take off, she realised the foolhardiness of such an action. She would only be caught within seconds and thrashed. Talleen was now her jailor. Walk coolies, he shouted again more vigorously, as if in confirmation. The party trudged around the Point and up West Street, a wide un-surfaced boulevard lined with a discordant mixture of wooden shacks and grander stone buildings. Ushas eyes brightened. The settlement had the air of a bustling, pioneering town. A steam whistle blew from behind, making her jump. She turned to see a shiny black wrought-iron locomotive, The Perseverance heading in the direction of the town centre further up the carriageway. The railway line ran parallel to West Street, and the locomotive chugged alongside them, its pistons struggling to pull the heavily laden wagons behind it. Usha steered her eyes back to the bustle of the African street. Although excited to be immersed in the culture of this new land, the Africa that she had dreamed so much of, a sense of unexpected detachment possessed her, as if she were an uninvited stranger. The cold reception at the barracks and the disdainful glances received from the people in the town conveyed the impression that she and the other new arrivals were unwelcome. Why had they been invited if they were not wanted? Her sense of displacement increased when shortly afterwards something sharp jabbed her in the back. She shrieked and jumped aside. A team of oxen ran past. Out of the way, bloody coolies, the driver shouted sitting atop a white canvassed cart, apparently unwilling to realign his direction along the rutted carriageway. Usha ducked to avoid the splatter of dirt thrown up by the cartwheels
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and scrambled back onto the track, rubbing her back through the blood stained tear in her sari. No sooner had she realigned to the road when Talleen called out again. Coolies! Hearing the thud of synchronised boots, Usha flattened herself to the wooden side railing and watched as a column of British soldiers marched past in full battle regalia a flash of bright red tunics, blue trousers, and white pith helmets. Prompted by the colourful spectacle, she ventured a question. What are the soldiers doing? Talleens eyes narrowed. Is not my problem, attack Zulu. Watch or they attack you, coolie. He cracked his sjambok over her head, apparently for effect, his face full of pleasure at her flinch. A blast of sweat and chili pepper wafted into her face. Coolies walk. No talk. She jumped to a brisk walk hoping to avoid a whipping. The rays of a sharpening sun burnt her skin. The shade of the nearby wooden verandas and occasional trees that lined the track offered a tantalisingly invitation, but remained elusive. With no prospect of respite from the swelter, Usha pulled up her sari to shield her face and plodded on. At the top end of West Street was the railway station. The Perseverance had arrived and the platform bustled with activity. A team of soldiers unloaded supplies from the locomotives wagons whilst many others milled about, apparently awaiting transportation elsewhere. A fork in the road took the Erskine coolies northwards. Usha noticed that a branch line of the railway followed the track and wished for the comfort of a seat on the train. The heat made her dizzy and with no water to drink her throat stung from dryness. The edge of town saw the rutted, red earthed track weave through forests of acacia, mahogany, red beech and wild date palm trees. Occasional patches of scrubland found African mud huts sitting on exposed red earth, but mostly the cover was green, a thick jungle. Sheltered from the ocean breeze the heat was now doubly intense, Ushas lungs struggled with a swirl of heavy moisture and red dust. Her feeling of suffocation was accentuated by a cacophony of sound from the jungle around them: the chirping
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of a million cicadas, the chorus of discordant bird calls, the soft yak yak buzzing of Natal forest tree frogs, the whooping of Samango monkeys. Several miles along, the track was interrupted by a large river, which dissected the coastline. An African boy - a hawker - ran up to her. He held out a bead necklace, his smile a flash of ivory brilliance. Usha had no money. What is this river? she asked, as if in compensation, not really expecting the boy to understand. Surprisingly he did. Umgeni, miss, like the acacia tree, look! She understood. A forest of the elegant African thorn trees lined the river bank, extending inland as far as she could see. Thank you, she said, ruffling his thick black hair, wishing that she had something to give him. Across the river bank, an assortment of herons, plovers and other wading birds congregated in the shallower water and several salt water crocodiles basked on sandbars that lay between the channels of faster flowing water. The tide was out and the remnants of wagon wheel tracks marked the sand where drivers had forded the river. A narrow wooden bridge had been built across, linking two of the sandbars in the middle of the river. Usha was relieved to discover that they had safe passage, mercifully elevated from the crocodiles! The party of Erskine coolies ventured across the rickety wooden bridge, Usha trailing at the back. Half way across, the clattering of horses hooves made her turn. Two mounted British army officers rode furiously towards her. Why did they cross the narrow foot bridge rather than fording the river? Hit by the horses thundering blow, Usha found herself falling. Time stopped. She hung in the air, blind to the reality of her predicament, before plunging into water. Cold arms were wrapped around her and once again she was four years old, floundering in the murky depths of the Ganges, the river monster claiming her soul. Then she realised that that was then and this was now. This wasnt the Ganges, she was about to lose her life in the murky depths of an African river, the Umgeni. Unable to swim, Usha grabbed useless handfuls of the suffocating water. Thankfully her natural buoyancy pushed her body back to the surface. Arms flailing, she emerged from the deathly embrace. The muscles in her
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chest refused to reflate her lungs, however. She gasped for air, the spinning sensation worsening as she began to asphyxiate from lack of oxygen. Refusing to bow to the infidels, she kicked her legs, pushing with her arms, trying to keep her head up. It was no use. The current was too strong for her flailing limbs. Under she went, darkness stealing her last breath away, infidels claiming her soul. The commotion caused Talleen to spin around. Coolie swim, he muttered, smirking and shrugging his shoulders. The officer who had knocked Usha off the bridge had whipped his horse and carried on riding. However, the second rider, a younger man with an angular face and golden locks who rode across in his wake, glanced back at the woman flailing desperately in the water. We have to stop, sir, shes drowning, he shouted ahead. The senior officer slowed momentarily before digging his boots into his horses sides. Come on, lieutenant, we havent time for this. Its only a coolie. I have to help her, the lieutenant bellowed. He pulled his horse around and diverted to the muddy bank. Although the horses hooves stuck to the mud, he rode at a pace. Reaching a point on the bank where he was ahead of the drowning woman, he jumped from his horse and waded into the perilous torrent. Usha rested in darkness. Her lungs had ingested the black water and her limp body floated head down in the main channel. The lieutenant waded in up to his shoulders, bracing against the fast flowing current. An accommodating eddy drove Usha away from centre and the officer managed to place a hand on her shoulder, but the water flow was strong and for a moment it seemed that they might both be swept away. The man held firm, however, driving his feet into the churning mud to stay steady. Grunting heavily, he inched the body away from the force of the main current and towards the shore. Reaching the shallower water, he lifted Usha into his arms and strode onto the bank laying her face upwards onto the mud. He knelt down. The woman no longer breathed. Had his valiant efforts had been in vain? He rolled her
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onto her side and began to urgently massage her back, trying to pump the water out of her lungs. The senior officer had cantered back, his face filled with thunder. Lets go, lieutenant. Youve done what you can. The intention looked futile, the woman lay lifeless on the bank, however the lieutenant continued pumping. I need to see if she will live. For gods sake, Lieutenant, shes deadcant you see? Undeterred, the lieutenant carried on. For a minute it did indeed appear hopeless when suddenly, miraculously the woman coughed up a lungful of water and took a sharp intake of breath. ____ Usha opened her eyes to the glow of her saviours gaze, believing that a miracle must have been delivered. Thank God youre safe, the man said, his golden eyes smiling. His was a face fissured with shafts of brilliance. Usha saw her sun god, Surya himself having stepped down from the heavens. Her head spun and it was a minute before she was able to sit up and splutter a few words, barely audible. Thank you, Sahib, you save me. I not swim. Her face was gaunt with the life - almost literally - washed out of it. I am very glad that I was able to pull you out, Lieutenant James Rothwell at your service, my lady. The lieutenant bowed, as if addressing a princess Usha imagined. Then, dripping with water, he remounted his horse and rode away in pursuit of his comrade in arms. Usha wondered if she had seen a vision. Talleen walked down the bank. The tyrant cracked his sjambok in the air as if nothing untoward had occurred. Walk coolie, he muttered. In spite of her near-death experience, Usha was obliged to lift herself up, and with faltering limbs, stagger up the bank. Talleen appeared only annoyed that they had lost time. Walk faster! he yelled at her. Soaking wet and shivering badly, she tried her best to keep up with the others, fearing a thrashing if she lagged behind. Every ounce of her remaining strength was required to set one foot in
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front of the other, however. The sun quickly dried her sari, but paradoxically she continued to shiver, the tremor inside refusing to dissipate. With her sandals lost in the river, her bare feet blistered on the rough earth and broken rocks of the track. Her feet bled but she had no pain, her numbed body having lost all feeling in its extremities. Perhaps she had been taken by the dark monsters after all? Further along the Umgeni Road, the party turned down a narrow dirt track and headed inland for a half mile through thick jungle. An imposing iron gate offered Usha her first glimpse in the distance of a formidable manor house built from sandstone with a large turret and castle ramparts. A wrap-around umbrella terrace flanked the property, its gardens approached by a stone-columned pagoda walkway covered in vines: a castle fit for a king she assumed, and presumably the extremely well appointed residence of Erskine Sahib, the man who had addressed them earlier. She walked with the others along a gravel drive that bent around manicured gardens with palm trees and an array of exotic sub-tropical bushes. Down a well-furrowed dirt track behind the manor house, she turned a corner in the track that revealed from the hill the valley below. Her eyes bulged. The coastal jungle had been cleared, replaced by fields of sugar cane, which stretched over the rolling hills as far as she could see. The cane had grown high, nearly three times the height of a man in places, and was being harvested. Teams of coolies sweated under the hot Natalian sun, cutting the burnt cane stems and wrapping them into bundles for loading onto waiting carts. The Erskine plantation, the reality of Ushas indenture, lay before her. A terrible tremor invaded her soul. Darkness had fallen from the heavens. She wondered how she might ever survive such enslavement. Across two large cane fields they walked before reaching a row of dilapidated mud huts at the bottom of a gully. A lean-to shed in the middle of the row of huts acted as a rudimentary kitchen, and a hole in the ground behind a wall sufficed as a basic latrine. A stench of sewerage lingered in the air. Women, men, Talleen muttered, pointing to two huts at one end of the row. Layers of mud ran across a trellis of wooden sticks. With a sloping reed roof, the huts had no windows, each hut having
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a small entrance hole through which one crawled to enter. Usha ducked down and squeezed through the narrow opening, wondering if she entered the jaws of hell. The trapped air inside the hut smelt of rotting bananas. She took a gulp of the sharp heat and imagined herself as Agni burning in the fire. Adjusting to the darkness, her eyes made out several dirty-looking blankets, which littered the floor. The occupants slept on the ground, on matting made from reeds. She crawled across the hut and found in one corner a small patch of free space where she left her meagre possessions before crawling back out again. Outside, she took a breath of humid air. Holding back her tears, she glanced around the camp. Several dirty-looking children ran between the huts, apparently minding themselves. Was there no school for them to attend? Coolies work in fields, Talleen shouted, interrupting her train of thought, seemingly impervious to the torment he inflicted. But, we need food, Rajapattai, one of the older men, said, seemingly more prepared to stand his ground than the others. Usha wished that she had had the strength to complain. Eat later. Now work, Talleen shouted, cracking his sjambok. Rajapattai did not object, his bravery apparently having its limits. Feeling parched, Usha quickly drank some water from the kitchen tap. It tasted rank, but at least it quenched her thirst. She rushed out of the lean-to shed. Someone had left a half-eaten bowl of mealie meal. She ate it quickly, urgently needing something to fill the emptiness in her belly. Hard labour filled the next two hours. The men were given machetes and directed to gangs of coolies cutting down the cane. Usha was pushed towards a group of women bundling up the chopped cane stems. Watching the others, she grabbed a bunch of chopped cane stems and rolled them together. She then carried the heavy bundle towards the waiting cart and, using all of her remaining strength, hoisted it on. After an hour, her hands bled from handling the rough cane and her back ached from the lifting. Exhausted from her journey and her scramble for life in the river, she felt herself blacking out, but forced herself to keep going. A woman collapsed exhausted by the side of the cart. Usha
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attempted to help her, but Talleen pushed her away. Lazy coolie, no pay today, he shouted, unleashing his sjambok. Finally, the sun disappeared over the horizon and Usha was able to stagger back to the huts. A few mouthfuls of porridge were snatched, fingered in for she was too tired to hold the spoon. She crawled into her hut and found her patch of matting in the corner. Cut and bruised, her hands and feet throbbed. Searing pain arched down her spine. Collapsed to the ground, Ushas thoughts darted back to the nightmare of her near-drowning and her gallant rescuer, Lieutenant James Rothwell. She shuddered. Without his act of heroism, she would now be dead, floating in the darkness of the Kala Pani. Tears flowed down her cheeks as she contemplated the reality of her African dream. Was such a life worth living? Even the hardship of the ashram was better than the enslavement she now faced. She thought about her father. Lying down on African earth, she felt closer to him than she had ever done. Usha chanted the Om, calling out to him in her prayers for she needed him now more than ever. Only he could lift the terrible darkness into which she had descended. She cried herself to sleep, taking solace from her fathers proximity, praying to Lord Krishna for her salvation. Her sleep, however, was feverish, filled with terror In her nightmare, Usha fell into breath-choking blackness. She struggled for life, but drowned women floated in the murky depths, tangling up her legs, pulling her down. Black liquid forced its way into her lungs until she could no longer breath, except that it was no longer water that she ingested, it was blood, the blood of the women pulling her down. The women had not drowned. They were widows, sacrificed on the burning pyres of their cremated husbands. The blood of Sati burnt Ushas lungs and forced her down into the darkness. A shadow appeared above. Through reddened waters, Usha saw a face, the golden face of her saviour, the lieutenant! Reaching down, the officer grasped her outstretched hands and pulled her to safety. She imagined that she was saved when a sharp pain at her wrists made her scream. A dark monster wielding a machete had sliced off her hands, the bloodied limbs remaining in the officers grasp as she sank back down. Terror infused her. She glanced
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across to the realisation that her mother was the monster who brandished the machete. Her own mother committed her to the depths! Damnation upon you, dirty widow. Her mothers demonic laugh echoed into the darkness. Abandoned by all, bells tolled as a lifeless Usha drifted to a reincarnation that would not arrive. Usha awoke with the conviction of her death. Her eyes opened, however, to the roof of the mud hut and the startling realisation that she survived. A ringing noise made her crawl outside into the fractured light of a new dawn. A long bar of iron suspended from a branch of an acacia tree was struck, the bell tolling for a new day of indenture. She had survived her burning, but had awoken to another day of tortuous labour on the Erskine plantation. She spooned down a bowl of cold mealie porridge and trudged into the cane fields. Her miracle had been washed away. Nakti lived in darkness as she had always done.

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5 Day of the Dead Moon

Lieutenant James Rothwell, of the British armys 2nd battalion, 24th foot regiment, dismounted and tethered his horse to one of the white canvassed wagons that the oxen had pulled to the edge of the large rock promontory behind them. A storm cloud had just swept across the African bushveld drenching the rolling hills of grassland with replenishing rainfall, but the refreshment was shortlived. The burning rays of a mid-afternoon summer sun evaporated the sodden ground, producing swirls of water vapour that rose like ghostly apparitions out of the dongas. Rothwell removed his pith helmet and doused his flamboyant fair locks with water from his water bottle before taking a swig. The cooling liquid refreshed a mouth dry from the dust of a days ride. The young man scanned the vast inland plateau of the bushveld, squinting to accommodate the shimmering glare of the sun. Thick grasses dominated the plateau, interrupted occasionally by pockets of Alfromontane forest where acacia trees congregated in the steep sided river valleys. A scattering of relic-mountains punctuated the horizon: occasional steep sided kopjes of harder rock, which resisted the erosion of the soil around them, and stood like beacons of grandeur commanding the plain. A voice with a clipped, aristocratic intonation interrupted Rothwells examination. Will you muster your men, old chap? Lord Che lmsford has indicated we will camp under this Lions Rock. The eyes of a chisel-chinned young man glinted mischievously. I hope we will not be eaten by the jaws of this creature as some of the men would fancy. Rothwell glanced across to the rocky outcrop beside which they had camped. Distinctive for its sphinx-like shape, it was in terms of both its size and configuration the grandest of the kopjes in the area.
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Yes, lets hope not Buckingham. We are sitting up for all around to see us if we encamp here. It does resemble a lion, Buckingham said, gazing upwards. Though I fail to understand the god-like association, a rock is a rock after all. Krishnan tells me the Zulu call it Isandlwana. Isandlu means a hut, apparently, used for storing grain. I can see why the men are nervous. Look at the shadow cast across the hillside. One could imagine a divine presence, and Im not superstitious! If I didnt know you better Rothwell, Id think you were t rying to give me the jim-jams. Rothwell forced a smile. The hill marked them with a dark, demonic elongation. He knew it was irrational, but this strangely foreboding place sent a shiver through him. He hoped that they would not rest here for long. Has Chelmsford given any order to form a laager? Buckingham asked, apparently impervious to Rothwells concern. No, Pulleine mentioned that were camping here temporarily, so that may put the mens minds at rest. Lord, its hot. Buckingham undid the top button of his tunic. Anyhow, I thought King Cetshwayo had agreed to High Commissioner Bartle Freres conditions. How could he? Cetshwayo would have had to disband the whole Zulu army. The ultimatum was worded so that he could not comply. So, were at war whatever happens. Yes, given Bartle Freres plans to squash any Zulu opposition. Poor devils, they dont stand a chance against the might of the British army, eh? Steady on Buckingham, lets not get too gung-ho. Were in foreign territory dont forget. What do the natives know about warfare, Rothwell ? A MartiniHenry will take down a savage at eighty yards, unless they can throw an iklwa that far, of course! Youre too cocky, Buckingham. You think youre immortal! Well I am, arent I, old chap? I was Hannibal two thousand years ago. Didnt you read about me crossing the Alps on my elephant?
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Rothwell laughed. His conviction was less ingrained. He gave the enemy more respect, although he could not help admiring the imperious bravado of his friend. Buckingham led away his horse, inadvertently stepping into a pool of sitting water. Bloody terrain! Why couldnt Chelmsford have waited for the end of the rainy season? Look at those carts, knee deep in mud. Blimey Rothwell, it has taken ten days to travel, what eleven miles? Perhaps you should have brought your elephant, eh? Buckingham laughed. Anyway, we all know why it was such a rush. Pray, enlighten me Rothwell. Rothwell slapped Buckingham on the back then turned to face him. Was he pulling his leg? No, Buckingham went through life seemingly in blissful ignorance of events! He lowered his voice. The rumour is that Bartle Frere didnt get specific authorisation from London. He ordered Chelmsford to hurry, to disrupt any peace negotiations. Thats why we advanced to Rorkes Drift in anticipation of the expiry of the ultimatum on the 11th. Bully for him I say. Im certainly not turning back now weve come this far. Well, its probably too late for that. Chelmsford has already begun his three pronged invasion from the lower Tugela and Utrecht, as well as Rorkes Drift. Like the pincer movement of Zulu buffalo horns. Were taking a leaf from the book of Zulu military strategy, so to speak. Buckingham arched his arms and winked at Rothwell. Rothwell smiled. The man was incorrigible. I hardly think were as agile on the ground as the Zulu, Buckingham, but I get your drift. As in Rorkes, Buckingham said, this time w hacking Rothwell on the back. Highly amusing, Buckingham, you were ever the wag, even at school. Well, Im looking forward to getting stuck in when we find the blighters.
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Rothwell gazed to the distant hills, frowning. If we can find themChelmsford has a search party out to try to spot them, but theyre good at hiding. An orderly ran up: Dispatch for Lieutenant Buckingham, sir. Rothwells face cracked into a grin. More admirers, Buckingham? Buckingham read the letter. Annabelle. Wants to know how the campaign is going. The letters dated 15 November. Whats todays date? 21 January. Lord, its taken over two months to arrive. Im amazed its even reached me, given where we are! How is she? Well indeed, Buckingham replied somewhat distracted. He finished the page before glancing up. My goodness, Rothwell, you were a fool to break off your engagement; a charming girl like Annabelle. What the blazes were you thinking of? He laughed. Dont get me wrong old chap, Im mightily glad you did of course. Well I thought you were better suited, Buckingham. Things werent quite right between us. Shes very eligible of course and absolutely beautiful. Maybe Im an idiot, but something was missing. You are an idiot to have let her slip through your fingers, Rothwell. I couldnt believe it when you served up the golden jewel on a plate; snapped her up before you could sa y Jack Rabbit, didnt I? Glad to be of service! What are friends for? When will you be married? As soon as we can clear up this mess and I can ship back to England, old chap. Ive already presented my respects to the Duke of Salisburyso you see my dear friend, youll be stuck twiddling your boot straps in Tiverton whilst Ill be lording it at the estate in Dorset. Rothwell smiled. Oh Buckingham, no wonder she had you eating out of her hands. Dont you see shes only interested in your swash-buckling good looks and title? Its shameful!
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Youre only envious and wishing you hadnt slipped up so badly, Rothwell. Rothwell laughed, happy that Buckingham had found love. He and Buckingham didnt always share the same values, or for that matter the same taste in women, but he would have done anything for his friend. Ill have to get these cleaned, Buckingham said, shaking his sodden boot. Where is Krishnan? In prayer I believe; you know he chants the mantras. Like an Indian guru. Funny chap, dont y ou think Rothwell? How did you come across him? He was orderly to Lieutenant Blakely before the poor sod was shot by a Boer. I appropriated him. Jolly good find Id say, Rothwell. Yes, an interesting fellowcame across on the Juliana about ten years ago apparently. Upped sticks and left his family when he lost his job in Bengal. You know hes a Brahmin, a high caste. Hes very educated. What, an educated coolie! Hells bells. Dont be so bloody arrogant, Buckingham. Hes very contemplative. I think he misses his wife and daughter in India. We all have to make sacrifices. Look at me! I left a beautiful enchantress to come to this pile of boggy mush. Where is that lackey? These boots definitely need sorting out, mantra or no mantra. * The moonless night made the night sky darker than usual. Rothwell lay awake inside a hot and humid tent, listening to a cacophony of sound: the high pitched clicking of a million crickets and the whooping of hyenas ripping bloodied teeth through flesh. He worried about their exposed position, vulnerable to Zulu attack on three sides; particularly when they had erected no defences. A rustle of the tent flap had him reaching for his pistol. Very dark outside, Sahib. Krishnan! He would have to get a handle on his nerves.
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Bad omen, Sahib. What are you talking about, Krishnan? Zulu call it ilanga mnyama, Sahib, day of the dead moon. New moon bring darkness, Sahib. Evil sign. Thats only local superstition, Krishnan. Its nonsense. Rothwells face was taut. He did not believe his denial. The shadow of the sphinx-like rock loomed even greater in his mind. Sleep inside the tent if that makes you feel better. Krishnans eyes shone with relief. Thank you, Sahib. The first cracks of dawn broke the shadows of umnyama. Rothwell woke weary, absorbed in sombre thoughts. A voice lyrical and eastern in texture interrupted. Tea and mealie porridge, Sahib? Thanks, Krishnan. Whats going on out there? Rothwell screwed up his eyes to the blinding rays wishing that he might have slept better. Many soldiers move, Sahib. Feeling groggy, Rothwell sipped the warming liquid from the mug then spooned a chunk of sticky porridge into his mouth. After several minutes Krishnan returned. Thank you Krishnan. Have you seen my boots by the way? Yes, Sahib; I polish them this morning. Excellent, Krishnan, what would I do without you! Krishnan beamed. His eyes scrunched up into a line as he smiled, and his cheeks crinkled. With his angulated jawline and pointed chin, his face took on the appearance of a meerkat, his smile made all the more endearing by the fact that several of his teeth were missing. What were you saying about soldiers earlier? Many soldiers move out, Sahib? Really, what about Buckingham? Lieutenant ride also, Sahib. What! Rothwell jumped up. He pulled on his breaches, newly shined boots and blue officers tunic and bolted out of the tent. The sun had reached the tops of the distant hills, its emerging heat tempered by a cooling breeze crossing the veld. Nothing seemed
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capable of distracting the mosquitoes from their blood-thirsty assault, however. Damn, Rothwell said, crushing one of the blighters onto the back of his neck. He walked quickly over to Pulleines tent and peeped through the flap. Morning, lieutenant colonel. Whats happening sir? I heard were moving out. Morning lieutenant, come in. Pulleine was in the throes of a leisurely breakfast. No, were standing here. Chelmsford departed earlier to harry the Zulu to the south east. Hes left the 24th 1st and 2nd battalion to guard the camp. Right sir and Buckingham? Making a reconnaissance with the Natal Native Contingent. Do you need me for anything, sir? No. Not at the present, Rothwell. Im not expecting any action. Ill call for you if I need rescuing from any river or such like! Pulleine laughed. Sir? You havent forgotten your valiant endeavours rescuing that coolie from the river, lieutenant surely? Yes, of course sir. I mean no I havent forgotten. Rothwells face flushed with colour. Hed thought about the woman and what might have happened if he had not intervened. By the way, shouldnt we laager the camp, sir? No need, lieutenant. Chelmsford hasnt requested it. Were only resting here until he locates the Zulu and calls for reinforcements. Ready the men for when we get the command. Right sir. Rothwell raised his eyes to Pulleines indifference, unable to shake his ominous feeling about their position under the sphinx-like rock. He was anxious to move out. * Five miles north-east of the camp Buckingham rode alongside Lieutenant Raw and a troupe of scouts from the Natal Native Contingent. The horses stumbled as their legs slid into the boggy ground, but the conditions didnt cloud the sparkle in Buckingham s
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eye. He relished the prospect of engaging the enemy. He didnt have to wait long A group of Zulu warriors advanced across a rolling hill in front of them. Buckingham fancied his chances against such a small contingent. Come on, he yelled to Lieutenan t Raw. Lets teach the bleeders a lesson about horsemanship. Buckingham cantered off, with the others in pursuit. The sight of British riders careering towards them caused the Zulu to run back across the hill and disappear. The top of the ridge was reached several minutes later. Buckinghams jaw dropped; some 20,000 Zulu warriors sat in silence in the valley below. A frisson of fear ran through him. Bloody hell, its only the whole Zulu army, he muttered, the hairs on his neck rising. Chelmsfords decision to take half the force and chase the Zulu spotted to the south-east appeared disastrous. And worse still they had been seen. A mass of Zulu clambered like crabs up the sides of the valley towards them. Quick, Raw we have to warn the others, Buckingham shouted, whipping his horse and turning back towards Isandlwana. Arriving back at camp, Raw rushed into Pulleines tent, the senior officer still dressing. Lieutenant Colonel, he cried, brow sweating. Weve just spotted the entire Zulu army, encamped seven miles north-east of here. Bloody hell, Pulleine shouted. He pulled on his tunic and boots. Get a dispatch off to Chelmsford, immediately! Rothwell ran up to hear the news from Buckingham. How many? About 20,000 give or take a few thousand. Rothwells heart pounded. Hells teeth, he muttered. How many do we have? Buckingham asked. 1800, but only 750 red coats. Dash it, Buckingham said, his face turning ashen. Pulleine arrived, still buttoning up his tunic. Form a line across the hill, lieutenants.
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Sir, Rothwell shouted. A line was standard military practice although much less defendable than the entrenched close order formation that a laager would have provided. Form up the men, colour sergeant, and make sure each man has sufficient ammunition, he yelled, perspiration covering his brow. Ay, ay, sir, Colour Sergeant Williams replied. Shouldnt we use the square, lieutenant? Rothwell frowned. Perhaps colour sergeant, but those are the orders man! Ay, ay, sir. Williams ran back a minute later. His brow was heavily lined. Were having difficulties with the ammo, lieutenant. The quartermaster has the boxes screwed down, so the distribution is slow. Rothwell thought about the differential in numbers. Well, step on it then colour sergeant. Were going to need all the fire -power we can muster! A thin line of red-coated soldiers crouched down on their haunches across the hill. Rothwell ran up the line noting that Durnsfords men marched out a few hundred yards to form a right flank. Rothwells markers ran out in front of his line. About there! he shouted, reckoning that they had found the range for the Martini-Henrys. They hammered in the stake posts. A huge swarm of Zulu warriors appeared over the foothills. Adorned in traditional Zulu battledress, naked, save for a two-part apron of Springbok hide, they waved their iklwa thrusting spears and beat their ox-hide ishlangu shields. Hells teeth, Rothwell muttered, his stomach wrenching at the sight of the huge wave of black torsos. Hold your fire, he shouted Wait for the range. His words were drowned out by a terrifying wall of sound that now boomed across the stony ground: ngashla ngashla. Fear gripped Rothwells soul. His extremities were numbed. He knew that he was about to die. Even with their superior firepower, how could a few red coats repulse such a mass? Bloody hell, they want to eat us, Williams shouted.
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What? Ive heard it before, sir. It means I have eaten. Their king has told them to eat up the red soldiers. The swarm approached like a river of lava to engulf them. Hold your fire, Rothwell yelled above the booming noise. Then seconds later, he yelled again: Fire. A flash of explosions erupted down the line and a wave of metal flew across the scrubland, piercing the flesh of hundreds of black bodies. The effect was negligible. Others stepped in to replace the fallen bodies. Fire, Rothwell yelled again, the next wave of sacrificial flesh advancing into range. Reload, Rothwell yelled turning to Williams. Any luck with that ammunition, colour sergeant? They would need thousands of bullets. Doing the best we can, sir, Williams yelled. It was difficult to hear above the gunfire and Zulu chanting. FireFireFireFire, Rothwell and Williams shouted repeatedly, as the Zulu swarm came ever closer. It was hopeless; the number of bodies was overwhelming. Each barrage of bullets yielded another ten yards of bloodied ground as a new wave of warriors trampled relentlessly forward over the slain bodies of the previous. After about half an hour, Rothwell spotted Durnsfords men on the right withdrawing. The encirclement by the Zulu tightened, like a noose it entrapped them. Fighting withdrawal, Pulleine yelled from behind. Rothwell glanced across to Buckingham. In imminent danger of being overrun, his company had begun a fighting retreat. Over this way, Rothwell shouted to his men, moving across the hill to lend support to his friend. Krishnan arrived, having commandeered a handful of boxes of ammunition from the quarter-master. Krishnan, give out as many boxes as you can and come straight back. I need you to carry a box for me. The Zulu were now so close that Rothwell could see the whites of their eyes. He started firing frantically with his pistol. FireFire, he shouted, trying to maintain the discipline of the synchronised firing. However, order in the British ranks began to break down,
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some of the auxiliaries fleeing. Rothwells pulse raced. He kept firing but rapidly ran out of bullets. Krishnan returned with a couple of boxes. There is no more, Sahib, he shouted. Rothwell finally reached Buckingham as the thin red line to their right broke down, overrun in places by the Zulu. The British soldiers now engaged in hand-to-hand combat, thrusting with their bayonets for all they were worth. With no fire power to bring them down, the Zulu ripped open the soldiers bellies with their iklwas. We cant hold them, Buckingham shouted, his brow heavily furrowed. Fighting withdrawal, Rothwell shouted, pacing back up the slope towards the Lions Kop. Keep to the line, he yelled, firing as rapidly as he could. Back up the hill, Buckingham yelled with a voice higher in pitch than usual. He now fought shoulder-to-shoulder with Rothwell and the remaining ten or so soldiers of the 24 th. They inched backwards and wedged into a formation at the very edge of the towering Lions Kop behind them. The onslaught was resisted for a few more precious seconds before their ammunition ran out and the position was suddenly overrun. Behind you, Sahib, Krishnan shrieked. Having clambered over a rock to the side, a Zulu warrior threatened to thrust his iklwa into Rothwells back. Rothwell spun round and, shaking with fear, unleashed a bullet into the Zulus chest, thankful that his manservant hadnt run away like so many of the other auxiliaries. He, Buckingham and the others in their tiny square fought for their lives, firing at point blank range or lunging desperately with their bayonets. Focussed only on survival, Rothwell ignored the terror that gripped his body. An iklwa thrust missed him by inches. He kicked the warrior in the stomach before winging a bullet into his body. Another Zulu charged. Buckingham fired his pistol, but there was no explosion, he was out of bullets. Rothwell swung around and pulled his trigger. Miraculously he still had bullets left in his barrel and the Zulu fell. Whoops of ngashla now surrounded them. Rothwell steeled himself for his death. All of a sudden he was thrown into darkness. Was this the end? Had the sphinx thrown its demonic shadow to envelop him? He
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gripped his arm to discover that he was still alive; no iklwa had brought him down. An eerie twilight covered the stony ground: an eclipse of the sun. The whoops were silent. Extra-ordinarily, at the point of victory, the Zulu stood transfixed on the battlefield. A whisper came from the gloom. The horses, Sahib. Krishnan! Rothwell spun around in the half-light to see two horses tied to a wagon only yards from him. Buckingham, the horses. The half-light gave them a chance to save themselves. Buckingham grabbed Private Jones, the only man in his company still standing. The four men - Buckingham, Rothwell, Jones, and Krishnan - ran to the wagon, the partial light acting as a cover for their escape. Rothwell untied the two horses and he and Buckingham leapt on. Rothwell reached down to Krishnan. Jump on the back. Jones mounted behind Buckingham. Rothwell dug his heels in and rode off as a group of Zulu blocked his path. He fired at the Zulu directly in front of him. What must have been one of his last bullets struck the warriors chest. Ducking down as a spray of iklwas flew over their heads, they steered their horses around Isandlwana Hill towards the north. The partial eclipse had passed. A swarm of Zulu now rampaged across the foothills. The direction led the soldiers deeper into Zulu territory, away from Rorke s Drift and Natal to the south. Thankful they had escaped with their lives, Rothwell did not care, anywhere was better than the bloodied ground of Isandlwana. He and Buckingham rode furiously for about five miles across the African bushveld before Buckingham called out. Rothwell, we have to stop. Jones is in a bad way. Here. Rothwell guided his horse down into a gully. Help me, Rothwell, Krishnan, Buckingham said, dismounting and lifting Jones down. An iklwa must have speared him. On the ground, Rothwell ripped open Jones bloodied tunic to discover a large incision in his side. Jones groaned as Rothwell pressed down on the wound using part of the mans shirt to stem the blood flow. I cant stop it, Rothwell yelled, turning pale.
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Here, Sahib. Put this around. Krishnan removed his shirt and ripped away one of the sleeves to form a make-shift tourniquet. Rothwell wrapped the cloth around Jones waist and tied a tight knot in it. The tourniquet only partially slowed the bleeding. Any water, Krishnan? Yes, Sahib. Krishnan rushed to the horse and pulled a water bottle from the saddle bag. Im going to do a recky, Buckingham said, striding up the hill. Good idea, Buckingham. See if there are any Zulu about, Rothwell replied. Even though they had placed a reasonable distance between themselves and the battlefield, this was the heart of Zululand after all! Whilst the gully was out of view of the rolling plain, he was aware of their vulnerability to attack from above. Krishnan returned with the water. Rothwell pressed the bottle to Joness mouth. The water dribbled back out of his mouth an d down his blood stained tunic. Damn, Rothwell muttered. Joness breathing slowed and then stopped. Rothwell pumped his chest, yelling come on, come on. He listened to Joness breathing, or rather lack of it, before pumping even more furiously. Stay with us, Jones. His efforts were futile, Joness limp body refused to resuscitate. He lay stiff in Rothwells arms. All clear for the moment, Buckingham said, scrambling back down from the top of the gully. Bloody hell, Jonesy didnt make it. Hes gone, Rothwell muttered, lowering the body to the ground. Didnt stand a chance once that spear had got him, the poor blighter. What the hell are we going to do now? Buckinghams face had blanched. How many bullets do you have left? Rothwell opened the barrel of his pistol. One and you? Nothing. What about Jones? He bent over and examined the dead mans bullet belt. Empty. And Joness Martini-Henry? Rothwell asked. Buckingham ran to pick up Joness rifle, which had dropped by the side of the horse. Somehow he had kept hold of it whilst clinging to Buckinghams waist. No bullets.

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Brilliant. So we have one bayonet and one bullet to fend off god knows how many thousands of Zulu. Buckinghams laugh was weak. Lets just hope we can stay hidden. We cant leave poor Jones here. Well have to bury him. Rothwell looked around. Loose rocks down in the bottom of the gully might provide a shallow grave. They could build a cairn. He knelt down and began to attack the earth, Buckingham and Krishnan joining him. Thankfully, the ground was sodden. The earth came away easily in his hands. He dug down about two feet when something sharp jabbed him. Bugger, he muttered, jerking his hand out of the earth to find his fingers bleeding. He replaced his hand into the earth, carefully this time, and pulled out the offending object: not sandstone nor granite as he had expected, but a piece of shiny translucent glass. His heart pounded. He held up the stone to the sunlight and watched it flash. He had found a large diamond, about three inches in length and absolutely symmetrical. My God, Buckingham yelled. Let me see! Bloody hell, Rothwell, youve unearthed a diamond. Buckingham began digging again. Lets see if there are any others! A larger hole appeared. Buckingham stood up several minutes later, sweat pouring down his tunic. Extraordinary, it must have been a one -off. My word, Rothwell, the gods must be smiling on you. A shiver ran down Rothwells spine. Deathly ground was hallowed ground. Look. The Zulu might come upon us at any moment. Lets put poor Jonesy into the ground and be done with it. They lifted the body into the hole and replaced the earth. A cairn of rocks marked the grave. Buckingham grabbed Jones Martini-Henry rifle with its fixed bayonet and headed back up the gully. A blood-curdling whoop rang out in front. Heart pounding, Rothwell looked up to see three Zulu sprinting down the slope. Hells teeth, he yelled, pulling out his pistol - one bullet against three Zulu. The diamond, Sahib, Krishnan shouted.
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You take it, Krishnan. Krishnan grabbed the diamond and ran to the horses, following Rothwell. One of the Zulu peeled off to block Rothwell and Krishnans escape, the other two ran toward s Buckingham, who had run to a rocky ledge on the other side. Rothwell stumbled and cried out. His foot had caught in a rut, twisted around in the wrong direction, and been cut by a sharp piece of rock. Searing pain wrenched through his leg and head. Come on, Sahib, yelled Krishnan. Rothwell stood up. The weight on his foot sent a sharp flash of pain to his ankle, as if someone had lanced it with a hot poker. He glanced up, cursing his misfortune, to see Krishnan almost at the horses. A whoop came from behind. Rothwell spun around to see two Zulu bearing down on Buckingham. They had about twenty yards to reach him - two on one, with Buckingham only armed with a bayonet. Rothwell could envisage Buckingham taking out one of the Zulu, but the action of the lunge would almost certainly expose him to the thrust of the second Zulus iklwa. Rothwell took aim at one of the two Zulu careering towards Buckingham. He waited for the warrior to reach his range, all the time fighting the heaving in his chest. Sahib, Krishnan screamed. Rothwell pivoted around. The Zulu on the other side had been too quick. Krishnan was about to be impaled. Rothwell pointed his pistol towards Krishnans assailant and pulled the trigger. His one remaining bullet fired directly into the Zulus heart. Help me, Rothwell, shoot the bastard! Rothwell spun around again. Buckingham was yelling, the whites of his eyes blazing. The two Zulu were nearly upon him. Rothwell aimed and fired, but the barrel only clicked over without flashing. With nothing else for it, he picked up a rock and stumbled forward, ignoring the shafts of fire burning in his ankle. Buckingham bayoneted the first Zulu. The second Zulu attacked as he extracted the bayonet. Rothwell arrived and slammed the rock down on the head of the second Zulu, fury rippling through his veins. The warrior slumped down. Blinding flashes of light splintered in Rothwells head. Thank God, he had arrived in time.
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Why then did Buckingham lie in front him, eyes open but lifeless? Why then did he yell at the top of his voice: BuckinghamNo? Why then when he bent down and rolled Buckingham over did he find an iklwa skewered through his body? Rothwells legs buckled. He sank to his haunches, his head pounding with the thunder of Thor. Buckingham could not be dead, he was immortal. Yet, Buckinghams face stared up at him, expressionless. Rothwell screamed, like a man who has crossed into the darkness of hell. How could I have not saved my friend? Let the clock wind back and run time again. I made the wrong choice. Please god let me change it! Or at least let me die in his place ____ Quick, Sahib, more Zulu, Krishnan yelled, peering at figures running towards them from the other end of the gully. Having escaped within an inch of his life, he believed that he was now about to die. Rothwell Sahib knelt transfixed over Buckingham Sahibs body, unmoving. Sahib, you have to run, he yelled, even more frantically. Assuming that his master would follow him, Krishnan clambered up the slope in pursuit of the bolted horses. He glanced back, heart pounding, to find that his master had not moved and that he was now in great peril. The Zulu, careering along the trough of the gully, would soon be upon the Sahib. Realising that he needed to cause a diversion, he shouted so that the chasing warriors might see him. ____ A frantic cry of Sahib from above jogged Rothwell from his confusion. A mob of Zulu warriors ran up the hill in pursuit of Krishnan. He hobbled a couple of frantic steps, the action sending spasms of pain coursing through the back of his neck. Realising that he could do little to assist his manservant he began to scramble on all fours up the opposite of the gully. His hands blistered on the rocks and blinding pain in his leg made him nauseous. He continued
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climbing until, exhausted and on the verge of passing out, he reached the top of the slope and slumped over the ridge. His head spun like a whipping top and his thoughts were cataclysmic. Was he immersed in the darkness of hell itself? Jones and Buckingham lay dead and Krishnan was on the point of being hunted down and impaled. His decision to shoot the Zulu bearing down on Krishnan had almost certainly cost Buckingham his life. What else could he have done? To have saved Buckingham would have required sacrificing Krishnan. Yet, events had conspired to ensure that the situation was even more tragic. He had used his last bullet to save Krishnan who most likely now lay dead having sacrificed his life to save Rothwells. He had fallen into the darkest of possible chasms for he carried the death of both men on his shoulders. The burden of guilt was irredeemable for there was no going back. A cloud of darkness swept over him. Like a black plague, there was no escaping its demonic affliction. The umnyama of this portentous day had cast its deathly shadow. Rothwell wished with all his heart that the Zulu warrior had speared him rather than Buckingham. In any case, his chances of survival were slim, a 15 mile scramble back to the safety of the camp at Rorkes Drift seemed impossible. Perhaps it was divine justice that he was fated to perish in the wilderness? Rothwell prepared for his end, his final descent into the darkness of the night. He thought of the Indian woman with the realisation that their paths overlapped. A similar shadow of death must have swept over her, the difference being that he had no one to pull him back into the light, his end was determined.

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6 Shifting Allegiance

Dressed in a tailored tweed jacket and lightweight cotton trousers the man left his suite of rooms on the fir st floor of the Star and Garter hotel in Richmond, England and walked stiffly down an elegant sweeping staircase to the grand entrance foyer. He nodded politely to the footman and stepped outside through the hotels revolving doors. Across a cobbled courtyard, wrought-iron gates led to a flag stoned pavement, which adjoined the street. A few shuffled steps brought him to an arched entrance and on the right a flight of stone steps, which dissected the grassy bank below. From this vantage point the man might have been in awe of the expansive views before him. An area of grazing meadows at the bottom of Richmond Hill fronted the River Thames, its silver sheen threading through a canopy of green to the distance. The man failed to stop and admire, however. Head down, and wincing occasionally, he continued his slow passage, the iron railing assisting in his brace against the slope. The towpath that ran along the edge of the riverbank offered some respite from the difficult descent. A milky sun rose above the treetops. Spring daffodils reached for its enticing embrace, their yellow reflections dancing in the somnambulant waters. Only the occasional wash from a boat coursing to the head of the river interrupted the shimmering spectacle. Unlike the other strollers on the towpath, however, the man was not mesmerized by this dancing aurora. Blind to the heavenly illumination, his dark eyes were fixed to the earth. A face once full of youthful expectation wore only the imprint of fallen aspiration. The 18th century town bridge was passed by unnoticed. Gait ever slowing and not for reason of his walking stick - the man shuffled forward, drawing out his journey, for Lieutenant James Rothwell had no anticipation for his destination that day. His thoughts were fully absorbed in sombre recollection: the memory of Africa and Rorkes Drift
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* For three tortuous days, he had hobbled through the bushveld; the sodden earth his final resting place. His head spun with delirium from the infection in his leg, his surroundings no longer making sense to him. The barbs of the Zulu spears had been evaded, but it mattered not. Darkness possessed his soul, the will to live having long since dissipated. Deaths embrace appeared as an enchantment, a sanctuary of warmth into which he might descend. He wished for nothing else. Then suddenlycries aheadmen lifting him from the ground. Through the gloom came the redness of a soldiers tunic. Was this possible? Had he by some miracle reached Rorkes Drift? The next thing he remembered was lying on a make-shift hospital bed. A dark room smelt of rotting flesh - perhaps his? Lieutenant Rothwell. Can you hear me? Im the surgeon. I will need to amputate your leg. A shaft of awareness flashed through the swirling greyness. Whats wrong with it? Swollen up like a green pumpkin, aint it? Ill have to take it off or the gangrene will kill you. The reality of his condition was confirmed. A waft of rank smelling puss reached his nostrils. He no longer cared if he lived or died, but even so he was damned if he would allow some barbarian to mutilate him. No, I dont consent, he mumbled, concentrating on his words so that his intention was clear. Leave it alone. You bloody fool, youll kill yourself. Rothwell already knew the anger of his death. He would die whole, body intact. He raised his head an inch off the bed. What do I care, leave it damn you. The unknowing descended upon him. He awoke to the realisation that the chasm of hell had not been entered. Beams of light pierced the room through a tiny hole in the wall. He lay, as before, in the old, rickety bed. Had the almighty offered redemption? Suddenly, he remembered the surgeons
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words. He reached down, fearing the worst. Thank god, his leg was still there, the bastard hadnt chopped it off. Lord have mercy, youre awake, came a voice across the room. Steps, then his throat was held. The coarse woolen blanket was pulled back and cold air rushed to the wound on his ankle. I do believe youve pulled through, you lucky blighter. You didnt cut it? No, I thought you were a goner anyway. Its a bloody miracle. To all rights you should be dead. Someone is watching over you, lieutenant. * Rothwell scrunched his eyes to the shimmer from the River Thames and shuddered. The surgeons word s still resonated in his head. Why had he been one of the chosen few to escape the slaughter? Apparently spared at the expense of his comrades, he had spent every waking, and non-waking, moment reliving those last moments in the gully, trying to find some rationale for his decision not to fire at Buckinghams Zulu. All he could establish was that he had failed his friend and that the guilt was unassaugeable. There would be no redemption. His thoughts shifted back to the hospital in Durban. * A booming voice behind made him swivel around, his arms wrestling with the wheelchair. Well done, Lieutenant. Bloody natives, couldnt knock the stuffing out of us, could they? Major General Brightling! Was the man demented? Had he not understood the carnage? Rothwell attempted to rise and salute his commanding officer, but a sharp pain in his leg made him double up. Sit down, Lieutenant. We dont stand on ceremony here you know. No pun intended.
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Brightlings elongated moustache brushed his red veined cheeks and quivered, although his eyes did not hold the joviality of his smile. Whats this I hear of you resigning your commission, Rothwell? Damn it man, youre a war hero, were about to present you with the Victoria Cross. Rothwell had been dreading the explanation. He knew that he was letting down the regiment and his familys expectation, but he no longer had the stomach for warfare. The horrors of Isandlwana and its aftermath had ensured that. The VC, Im sure I dont---- It wont do, Rothwell. Youve been through a dreadful business, what with the battle and the leg. You need time to recuperate. Ive made arrangements to ship you back to England. Take some time and reconsider. Youre in shock man. Who wouldnt be? Youre one of the few to come out of it. How bad was it? Rothwell knew his question was stupid; he more than anyone comprehended the answer, but the distraction was a mercy. Isandlwana? Bloody mess! 1300 lost and 1000 Martini -Henrys taken by the Zulu. They wont have a clue how to use them o f course. Thank God we held the blighters off at Rorkes Drift. The High Commissioner has ordered a laargering up of all the townships. Seven new regiments and two artillery batteries are being sent out from England. That should do the trick. Well crush the bloody savages once and for all. Youll be heading the other way, old chap, but I think youve earned it. Now get yourself some rest and then return to give the buggers hell. Thats an order, lieutenant. Rothwell gathered his strength to reply, but Brightling had already departed. Rothwells words drifted into nothingness, the anger of a Zulu nation ungratified. * Leaving the towpath, Rothwell headed up a narrow sloping lane towards Richmond Green, the darkness of his thoughts continuing. The shame of his survival and the dishonesty upon which it now
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rested held an ever tightening grip on his conscience. Neither his parents, nor Buckinghams had been told the truth of Buckinghams death. And now he had to face Annabelle, Buckinghams betrothed. What on earth would he say to her? He crossed the footpath that bisected the Green and entered the front garden of an elegant, three-storey Georgian house. He did not know whether Annabelle would be at home that Sunday morning for she had no foreknowledge of his visit, nor that he had even survived the battle! His hope was that she might not be there, for he had no appetite for the news that he must deliver. On the front door step he stood, his chest heaving with the weight of his apprehension. An impulse made him turn to leave, but it was too late, the door chime had been pulled and footsteps were in the hall. Can I help you, sir, a well-dressed footman asked, opening the door. Lieutenant James Rothwell, a visitor for the Lady Annabelle Smithens. Is Lady Smithens expecting you, sir? the footman asked. No, but we are well established friends from the past. Rothwell struggled with his words for his throat had tightened inexorably. Please step this way, sir, and I will inform her ladyship of your arrival. The worst news! Now he must face her. He was shown to a small drawing room, its windows overlooking the Green. A loud shriek came from the back of the house then running footsteps in the corridor. The door flung open. James, oh dear lord, it is you! Annabelle hitched up her long corseted summer gown and ran quickly over, flinging her arms around him. Oh James, I thought you were dead. They told me that you had been killed at the battle. She drew back, as if to check that it really was him. A watery cascade flowed down her cheeks and whilst joyful, her face beautiful in a perfectly symmetrical puppy-dog fashion - was drawn, with eyes reddened from what he imagined were many weeks of crying.
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It really is you. You survived. Ann abelle smiled through her tears then frowned. Oh dear Lord, your leg James, what happened? Its alright, Annabelle. I was injured. My leg will recover. He did not wish to draw attention to it. The last thing he deserved was sympathy. A flash of expectancy crossed Annabelles face. Is George with you? Is he safe too? She looked to one side, as if imagining that Buckingham might stand in the very room, behind him. Rothwell stiffened, giddiness taking a hold. The moment he had dreaded more than anything was upon him. I need you to sit down, Annabelle. He guided her to the chaise longue, but she resisted his intention, remaining standing in alarm. What is it? What? He faltered as he spoke, unable to bear the reality of his news. George died, Annabelle. Im so sorry. Annabelles sharp intake of breath pierced the room. Her swoon forced him to extend his arm to catch her. For a minute he stood, taking her weight in spite of the throbbing in his leg, before she opened her eyes and found her feet once again. Her pretty face was haggard, her speech slow and stilted. How did it happen, James? I need to know. The crux of the matter: a question that, consumed with regret, he could only fail to answer. How was he to tell her that he had not saved Buckingham when he might have? The battle at Isandlwana was a disaster. The Zulu overran our position. Asphyxiation caused him to pause and gulp in oxygen. George and I, Private Jones, and my manservant managed to flee. We escaped on horseback, but Jones died from his injuries. We were burying him some five miles north of the battlefield when more Zulu attacked us. He swallowed. Each word required a tortuous flex of the muscles in his throat. George fought valiantly, Annabelle, like a hero, but there were too many and he was struck down.

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Buckinghams skewered body lay be fore him on the African earth. Rothwell was steeped in the blooded stain of his action, tears streamed down his face. I regret it immensely Annabelle. I wish I had been the one struck down. I would swap places with G eorge in an instant. Annabelle grasped his hand. James, Im so sorry. You lost someone equally as dear to you as to me. Im sure you did everything you could. You must not feel guilty that it was you rather than he that survived. I just thank God that you came back to me, for I feared I had lost both of you. Annabelle could not have realised how damning and unanswerable her words were to Rothwell. He pulled back, finding the support of the window sill. The Grim Reaper had swung a deathly scythe right through him, the slicing sensation in his belly making him realise that he was about to be violently ill. Im sorry, he mumbled, running from the room. Nausea flashed through him. He lurched down the corridor and flung open the front door. Reaching the sanctuary of the Green, he sank to his haunches behind a tree and vomited the remains of his breakfast onto the ground. Pain fissured through his head. Eyes closed, he was instantly returned to the African gully, but this time he was Buckingham. The Zulu spear ripped through his gut, wrenching the life out of him, instead of his friend. The ache was intense, but strangely sweet. For a few precious seconds it took away the darkness of reality except that he could not hold the image. Buckingham was again in front of him, shouting. Shoot the bastard. Rothwell stood, unable to act, the affliction in his gut now doubly intense. No spear penetrated, only the wrench of unassuageable guilt tore through his insides. * Rothwell awoke the next morning to sodden sheets and a head still throbbing. Buckinghams death hung like the yoke of an ox around his neck. He thought of Annabelle and the great void that she faced and his heart went out to her. He determined to do
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everything he could to support her through her bereavement. Yesterdays encounter had presented her in a different light. The selfishness, the emotional hardness that had prompted him to end their relationship had not been apparent. He wondered if he had judged her too harshly. Refusing breakfast, he managed a cup of tea. The warming liquid helped to soothe the pain in his stomach. By mid-morning he had mustered the strength to check out of the hotel and deposit his belongings at number 54 Richmond Hill, a well-appointed Victorian brick house on which he had taken a short term lease. His mind far from focussed on the task in hand, he sat at the mahogany desk in the drawing room and wrote a letter to Mr Robert Hodgkin, of Hodgkin, Maple and Sons, a trading brokerage in the city dealing in stocks and commodities. A long-time associate of Rothwells father, Hodgkin had agreed to take on the decorated war hero as a junior broker in the firm. Stock broking was not a career that Rothwell had previously contemplated, but discharged from the regiment he needed to find something to do with his life. Distraction was his only requirement. He didnt care much what he did as long as it took him away from the memories of the killing fields. He finished the letter and posted it on his way to Richmond Green, aware that he needed to explain his abrupt departure the previous day. Bowing stiffly, Rothwell kissed Annabelles hand. She wore an elegant walking dress, her corset accentuating her already narrow waist, the bustle at the back emphasising her curvaceous silhouette. Although inexpert in such matters, the dress struck him as being fashionable. Her beauty touched him. A cluster of ringlets fell over a face whose large, saddened eyes betrayed vulnerability beneath. Her smile was warm yet filled with melancholy, having the appearance of being snatched in the face of adversity. James, is your leg hurting you? I was about to suggest we take a stroll down the river. I need some air to improve my demeanour. The leg is troublesome, but I need to exercise it. I agree with the sentiment. He was pleased to avoid the drawing room, an atmosphere that he had found oppressive. Perhaps fresh air might revive their spirits?
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They stepped across the gravel path that bisected The Green and headed in the direction of the River Thames. I apologise for my hasty departure, yesterday, Annabelle. It has been a difficult time, I was not feeling well. How are you bearing up? Annabelles eyes watered at the edges. I have been very sad about George. He knew he must change the subject, but to what? I am concerned about you, James - particularly your leg. The need to explain seized him, although he was determined not to be drawn into the specifics of the circumstance. I injured it after the battle and it became infected as I walked back to Rorkes Drift. Oh you poor dear. She touched his arm, a fleeting caress before drawing away. I heard about Rorkes Drift. Apparently it was a heroic stand by our men. Yes, the small garrison held out for many hours against thousands of Zulu, although the victory was relatively minor in context. Chelmsford makes a big show of Rorkes Drift to cover the humiliation at Isandlwana. He forced a smile. The garrison had been reinforced by the time I reached it thankfully, or I might have been facing more Zulu. He walked, the memory of his tortuous passage back to the outpost refusing to leave him. Do you remember us strolling like this in Hampstead Heath, around the pond and ornamental gardens? Distracted from his thoughts, he glanced up to a face filling with tears. Yes. He remembered the occasion with mixed emotion. It had been several years ago, whilst they were courting, a few weeks before he had ended their liaison. Annabelle trained her eyes downwards, her dainty leather boots scuffing through the shingle. I was greatly upset, you know, James, when you broke our attachment. He looked away. I know, Annabelle, but I thought it was for the best at the time. George was very admiring of you and I considered that you and he would be a much better match. I was attached to him, James.
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She stopped to face him. I am so glad that you are here, James to comfort me in this time of sorrow. You and he were close. I feel that a part of George is with us when you are with me. I feel the same way. His words were a whisper. Buckingham was ever present, his memory lingering, as smog sits over the city. Annabelle could not have conceived of the complexity of the association to which she had referred. Pain seared through his temples. Seeing her could only reinforce the guilt that he bore for the death of her betrothed, and yet akin to the lure of the opiate he desired the reincarnation that being with her facilitated. Even though Buckinghams presence was ethereal and laced with regret, a part of him remained desperate to keep alive his memory. Rothwell walked for a quarter of a mile in silent contemplation, Annabelle accompanying him, before reaching an ornate 17th Century building, which fronted the river. Built in 1610 by Sir Thomas Vavasour, Knight Marshal to the recently installed King James I of England a nd VI of Scotland, Annabelle enthused. He turned to her, lines marking his forehead. Ham House. Yes, but how--- We learnt about it in history, its one of the fe w things I remember from school. She bobbed, excitement infusing her. Rothwell was grateful for the distraction. He stood to admire the perfect symmetry of the Jacobean Houses red brick walls and stone dressed windows. The gates were closed, but it was of no great inconvenience for the magnificent residence could easily be viewed from the gravel drive that fronted it. A stone statue of Father Thames sat in the elegant formal garden, the recognition of the houses riverside location bringing a wry smile to Rothwells face. Annabelle broke the silence. Magnificent structure isnt it? I must ask my father if he knows Earl Dysart. Perhaps he could secure us an invitation to visit? His frown deepened. The owner, inheritor of the baronetcy.
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That would be charming, although I am quite c ontent to admire it from afar. His smile was weak. Wealth and title were not accolades to which he held aspiration. Those who had achieved as a result of their own actions, rather than by inheritance, were regarded with greater esteem. He recognised that Annabelle - one of the privileged few - did not worry about such consideration. As the only child of the Duke and Duchess of Salisbury, she would one day inherit the vast Salisbury estate. Many in his circle had berated him for his foolishness in giving up such an opportunity, but Rothwell hadnt given it a moments consideration when withdrawing from his courtship. Lifes calling was too precious a determination to be compromised in such a fashion. Yet for all his worthy intention, the murkiness of an unseen path continued to fill Rothwells horizon . If only he might find fair passage A wooden bench on the grassy river bank beckoned. Rothwell sat down, following Annabelle. With the grand house behind them and an avenue of beech trees directing their gaze to the glistening water in front, the place lent itself to reflection. Annabelle filled the emptiness of his swirling confusion. You are deep in thought, James. Yes, I was thinking about the future. I know. It is difficult isnt it? We have both ha d such sorrow in our lives. I had not known George all that long, yet I imagined that we would be married and settle in the countryside. His death has left a huge void in my life. Like the primordial Titan, Atlas, the burden of the celestial sphere lay on Rothwells shoulders. Unburden himself he must, at least in part. I am truly sorry for your loss, Annabelle. I feel it deeply. George was my best friend and I consider that I let him down. I would give anything to undo matters. He paused, his chest heaving, and grasped her arm. I want you to know, I will do anything to bring comfort to your sadness, Annabelle. Tears had welled up into Annabelles eyes, although her spirits seemed lifted.
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I welcome your compassion, James at this difficult time. I have always held our friendship in the highest regards, as you know. Her fingers touched his hand, lingering. I had grown very fond of you before you stepped aside, before George and I became acquainted. Yes, Rothwell murmured. His thoughts were with Buckingham. Life is strange, isnt James. I am a firm believer that everything happens for a reason, even the terrible things. The hand of fate predetermines our fortune, he muttered, deep in the recess of his dark reverie. ____ Yes, indeed. Annabelle brightened and linked her arm through Jamess. His words had struck a chord. Had she not been thinking the very thing the previous night? Devastated by the loss of George, her comfort was that he had perished for a reason. In fact the process of her grief had arrived at a particular notion. Had George died so that James might return to her? The thought that this might be seen as perverse and more than a little dispassionate had briefly crossed her mind, but she had dismissed it. She only rationalised the irrational. Why should lifes progress be so dismal? One door had closed and another opened and she was more than a little encouraged by it. ____ Accepting her arm, Rothwell kicked his boots unceremoniously into the gravel on the path. Destinys cruel hand lay upon him but blind to his passage he had no reason for its purpose. Was action random, a consequence of fancy, or did events conspire to occasion other events, their link causal and predetermined? One throw of the dice might discover an arbitrary result, but was a second throws outcome dependent on the first? His contemplation was general, a consideration of universal man. He would no doubt have been perplexed at the specific causal linkage running though Annabelles mind at that moment for his interpretation of fates consequential sequence was certainly divergent to the conclusion to which she had arrived.
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* Several months passed. Rothwell maintained a vigil on Annabelle to ensure that she coped with the loss of Buckingham although perhaps she should have watched him, for he could not have declared that he handled it well himself. Their renewed attachment was strong, but it was a reconnection born out of loss and there were undercurrents of darkness within it. Annabelle enjoyed the comfort of the reincarnation of Buckingham that their conversations allowed, but there was an additional complexity to her desire to be with Rothwell, and it wasnt to do with Buckingham, so much as with Rothwell himself. Enmeshed in his darkness, Rothwell failed to notice the signs: the wistful and desirous glances extended towards him, the affectionate touches, the dependency, the irritation when other female acquaintances were mentioned. Unaware that the machinations of marital engagement became ever more enmeshing, Rothwell joined Hodgkin, Maple and Sons in the city of London. Robert Hodgkin and Charles Maple had created the firm twenty years previously, taking advantage of an expanding stock market, a consequence of the rapid economic growth of postindustrial-revolution Victorian England. The firms newest junior broker certainly found the distraction he desired. Rothwells first appearance on the Stock Exchange at Capel Court, in the city of London, filled him with bemusement. Built in 1802, the elegant glass-domed Victorian building that housed the Exchange had been placed at the epicentre of the city so that its 2000 members could quickly receive intelligence by foot from the Bank of England, the Royal Exchange, and the various coffee-houses where private letters from abroad were received. The Exchange traded shares in everything from British, Colonial and foreign government securities to railways, banks, insurance, mines, steamship companies and tramways. Prices went up or down as news, whether real or fanciful, percolated by foot or otherwise through the grape vine. Entering the trading floor, Rothwell and his mentor Watkins were met by a throng of 500 top-hatted and tail-coated gentlemen,
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jobbers and brokers buying and selling shares on behalf of their clients. Watkins intention that day was to buy a block of Greater Western Railway shares on behalf of one of the firms more affluent clients. Railway stocks were in high demand. The building of the railways had been one of the great achievements of the Victorians, the vast amounts of money required for the capitalisation of the rail companies being one of the principal drivers of the embryonic stock market in the mid-1800s. That day as with every day, Watkins was instantly recognisable on the floor and quickly surrounded by a group of jobbers seeking business. Gentlemen, I am a buyer of 70,000 Great Western at 45, Watkins bellowed fancifully to the hungry pack. At 1/8th sir, the jobbers resounded, ten thousand of me five of me two of me, each gentleman holding up as many fingers as were warranted by his offer. Business was brisk and within a couple of minutes, Watkins had placed the whole share purchase order. A very good price, Watkins whispered in Rothwells ear, very satisfied with his two minutes of work. We believe the company is about to announce an off-shore enterprise that will send the shares through the roof. Our client should make a princely sum. Rothwells head spun in bewilderment. Business was conducted at break neck speed, gentlemen shouting out prices across the trading floor, as if talking to thin air. Fortunes were being made and lost in a blink of an eyelid. Done at 7/8th againat 3/4, all-agoing60,000 Consols for Government, at 69. One had to be careful not to nod or wink and certainly not to raise a finger or a jobbers clerk would rush over with an order confirmation for 1,000 shares purchased in some company or other. Rothwell had dabbled in the market, but only as an amateur chasing an easy profit. Taking advantage of some information revealed to him by someone in the know, he had instructed his broker to invest the monies from his trust fund in shipping, and in one particular company. Excellent choice of stock the broker had declared, happy to take his commission. You wont have to worry. *
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Around the middle of August, news reached London of a crushing victory. King Cetshwayos Zulu army had been decisively defeated by British forces led by Chelmsford at the Battle of Ulundi. Desperate to restore his reputation after the earlier disaster at Isandlwana, Chelmsford had pushed through to the Royal Zulu Kraal, whilst on the verge of being replaced by his successor, Sir Garnet Wolseley. The news failed to elicit in Rothwell the joy held by his compatriots. He thought of the bloodying of a thousand soldiers beneath the face of the Lions Kop and the bodi es of Buckingham and Krishnan lying prostrate in the African earth. For him, the umnyama remained ever present, an enveloping gloom that the passage of time had failed to brighten. He wondered if he would ever escape its shadow. * The direction of Rothwells relationship with Annabelle took a dramatic turn shortly after this. They conversed over dinner one evening when Annabelle fell silent. More subdued than usual, her face was grey, her mouth lined with vulnerability. She had drunk several glasses of wine. Whats wrong Annabelle? Rothwell asked, touched by the sadness in her eyes. I am so happy being with you. Its been such a terrible time with George dying. I have felt such sorrow, but you have made it bearable. I am so very grateful. I dont think I could carry on if anything happened to you James. Well, its not about to, is it? Im here for you Annabelle. Ill always be here for you. Will you James? What if you were to meet someone else? What would I do then? Well, I could not contemplate the prospect of stepping out with anyone else. Rothwell spoke truthfully, but in the sense that he was in no frame of mind to court a woman. He realised too late that his words might be construed as having a different meaning.

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Does that mean that you really have feelings for me, James? Annabelle said quietly, her beautiful sad eyes gazing directly into his. A lump caught in his throat. Of course, I do Annabelle, you know that. He swallowed, beginning to wonder where the conversation headed. She downed her glass of wine and found his eyes. Enough to marry me? A loss of feeling in his arm caused him to drop his glass. Are you serious, or just playing with me? Of course, Im serious. Will you marry me? Heat rose to his cheeks, the colour matching the redness of the wine spilling across the table. He shuffled his feet, silence filling the table. How could he not have seen this coming? He had assumed that Annabelle had accepted their previous separation, that they were now only good friends. And was she not in the throes of mourning? Had the alcohol unhinged her grasp on reality? Well, what is our answer? Tremor filled her voice. Rothwells head spun in circles. He thought of Buckingham. How could Annabelle have raised such a matter given what had happened to her betrothed? She could not have recovered from the loss so quickly, her eyes betrayed her desolation. Suddenly he knew. Was it not his duty to fill the void, the void that he had precipitated? He must marry Annabelle for Buckingham. How could he refuse her given the terrible wrong he had inflicted? The cold bite of necessity drove his words, strangely they were not his; he was as if detached from himself. I would be agreeable, if that is what you truly desire. ____ A flood of relief flowed through Annabelles veins. James s acceptance proved to her what she had always known in her heart: that he had never stopped loving her, that their separation, his stepping aside in favour of George, had always been a terrible mistake. She flung her arms around him. Oh James, I love you so
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much, my darling. I have always loved you, even when we were separated before. ____ Rothwell embraced Annabelle in silence. A frisson of ice ran through his body. His compassion for her suffering was deep, but he did not love Annabelle in the way that a husband loves his wife. He closed his eyes and hoped that he made the right decision. He knew of course that he did, for his sense of obligation would not have allowed otherwise. She drew back, her yearningly eyes entrapping his. Wanting to be kissed, he duly obliged, meeting her reddened luscious lips with his own. He abandoning himself to the physicality of the moment and tried to believe in his love for the woman whom he had discovered was to be his wife. * Rothwells dream that night was feverish and filled with torment. Across the African plain he ran pursued in the distant horizon by Zulu warriors. A thousand thundering feet swept ever closer. Murderous chants of ngashlangashla filled the air. Running alongside him, Buckingham shouted: Come on Rothwellcome on, his voice more frantic with every cry. Each shout, each contorted step brought a fresh shaft of debilitating pain his ankle now a festering sore. I cant go on, Buckingham. Save yourself for Gods sake, he cried out. No. Buckingham bent down and acted as a crutch, pulling him across the thorny landscape. Rothwells strength continued to ebb, his body becoming heavier and heavier, now scouring into the earth as a heavy, immoveable plough. How could they escape the engulfing wave of death? Leave me, Im dragging you down, he yelled . Ignoring his plea, Buckingham pulled ever harder, a heroic action, but one that Rothwell realised was futile: both of them would perish as the marauding wave of hungry warriors swept over them. Quickly, he pulled from his holster his pistol and pointed the
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barrel at his chest. He was about to pull the trigger when he found that he no longer had control of his arm. A strange force pulled it, away from him, towards Buckingham. A shadow made him glance sideways. Annabelle! With hands like iron, she pulled his arm and gripped his fingers around the trigger. No, stop, he cried. Too late! The pistol flashed, its bullet careering venomously into Buckinghams chest not his own as intended. Dear Lord, not again With Buckingham slumped in front of him, Rothwell turned to confront his killer. A shaft of terror flashed through him. Annabelle was not there. He had seen a mirage. He alone had pointed the gun and pulled the trigger. Yelps of nglasha ringing in his ears, h e stood to face his retribution: a thousand iklwas wrenching through his guts. His torso lathered in sweat, Rothwell awoke to the recognition that he lived. African drums continued to beat inside the residual darkness of his dream and his stomach churned with the barbs of iklwas that should have slain him, but death had not released him from the terrible legacy of his action. The damnation that was his hell lay like an unending chasm before him. He grabbed his stick and limped into the bathroom. The cold water on his face failed to wash away the demons of the night. In fact, the cloud darkened as the events of the previous evening came flooding back. Had Annabelle really proposed? Had he accepted? He imagined for the briefest of moments that the whole evening might have been another dreadful nightmare, like the one he had just experienced, but then unsavoury reality broke through his wishful expectation. He was engaged to be married. A devilish chill ran through him. He gripped the edge of the basin and steeled himself to his destiny. He was ready to do his duty by Buckingham. ____ Annabelle awoke that morning, joy replacing the sadness that had lingered before. James was her first love. His place in her heart was special. She had always regretted their parting. George, Jamess replacement had died for a reason, that reason being to
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reunite her with her one true love. She smiled. The passage to her intention had been torturous and entangled, but fate had determined the success of it and her desolation at Georges loss had diminished in proportion.

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7 A Tainted Legacy
The woman shrieked and urgently clasped her husban ds waiting hand, the ocean swell having rocked the lighter onto which she stepped. Are you alright? he asked. Yes, of course she replied, frown ing and letting go of his hand. Another wave caused her to stumble onto the gun whale of the small boat, grab the railing, and sit down sharply amongst a deluge of bags that littered the craft. Remember to brace for the sandbar, he warned, gazing at the line of breakers in the distance. The heat of the tropics was intense. The newly married couple sweated in their European finery, fashioned for more temperate climates. James Rothwell mopped his brow and held his hand to shield his eyes from the piercing sun. The sight of the rolling Natalian hills framing the harbour sent a shiver of excitement through his veins. Africa! He was back. Even though the land was foreign and filled with dark memories, strangely, he felt as if he returned home. Perhaps that was it? He had unfinished business in this place, it drew him in. He smiled, thankful that fate had presented him the opportunity, his mind drifting back to the letter that had set all this in motion. * The silver letter opener sliced like a rapier through the paper envelope. The writing on the letter was unfamiliar, from the executor of the will of a George Erskine, someone whom Rothwell had not heard of. The news was extraordinary. The estate of Mr George Erskine, deceased, of Umgeni, Natal is bequeathed in its entirety to his heir, Mr James Archibald Rothwell of Tiverton, Somerset, England.
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Rothwell read, but the words made no sense. His mind racing, he continued. The letter had been re-directed by his mother, with a covering note. Apparently Erskine was his second uncle on his mothers side. Without a wife or children or other more direct descendants, Erskines estate, a sugar plantation in Natal, had passed to his nephew, James. Rothwell set aside the letter and glanced through the window towards Wimbledon Common, the elegant Georgian house fronting directly onto fields. He frowned. His mother had mentioned many years ago a strand of her family with which contact had been lost, her cousin having emigrated from England. However, until now Rothwell had not given the fact much thought. Certainly he had had no knowledge of a relation, albeit a distant one, in Natal. He walked quickly into the drawing room and handed the correspondence to Annabelle. How extraordinary, you probably marched past it on your way out to Isandlwana! Annabelle said, having scanned the contents. Perhaps, although Ive not heard of Umgeni. What will you do with it? Ive no idea. Its all a complete surprise. It doesnt sound as if the estate is in the best shape. What do you mean? Financially didnt you read the letter? The executor writes of a large debt outstanding. It sounds as if Erskine had mortgaged himself up to the eyeballs. Rothwell reaffirmed his gaze to the Common. But it could be a challenge, dont you think, managing a sugar plantation? Annabelles eyes adopted a dark intensity. What! I hope youre not serious, James. Im not traipsing out to the African jungle to be surrounded by a horde of natives. He surmised from the scowl on her face that his wife was serious. There could be no prospect of him persuading her to discard her flirtation with affluent Victorian society. With a certain degree of resignation he put the letter aside, determining that he would need to send instructions to the executor to sell the estate and recover whatever monies were possible.
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An idea, once placed in the mind but apparently forgotten can germinate into a much greater conviction. The lure of Africa was such that Rothwell knew he could not dismiss it. Over the coming days his thoughts turned to it again and again. Unable to shake off the umnyama of his past, he wondered if fat e had somehow shown him a path. Might the rescue of an African sugar plantation be a task to which he had been called, a chance for him to redeem the dark legacy of the gully? Of course, Annabelle was diametrically opposed in her lack of enthusiasm. On the third occasion of Rothwells raising of the matter, all hel l broke loose. Bloody Africa, Im not spending my life cooped up in some jungle in the middle of nowhere! Its a fascinating country. Think of the progress we could make, the help we could offer to the people there. Philanthropy! His words must have touched a nerve for she shrieked, grabbed the porcelain vase from the drawing room mantelpiece, and smashed it down onto the wooden floor boards. Philanthropy! No, Im not a philanthropist. I didn t marry you to be a philanthropist. Before he could make amends she had stormed from the room. * The wooden planking of the Durban jetty offered solid ground after many weeks at sea, yet still Rothwells legs swayed with the disorientation! He held out his hand to assist Annabelle. Her brow was furrowed. Embroiled in an entanglement of petticoat and bushelled dress, she gave the appearance of being similarly awry. Rothwell prayed that she might acclimatise. Her words as she had stood in the drawing room continued to reverberate. Six months Ill give iton the strict understanding that if I hate it, which I am sure I will, we return to England. Im only doing this for you, James. I know how much you want it. Grateful for his wifes accommodation, Rothwell had convinced himself that once arrived in Africa, she might grow accustomed to the lifestyle. Only in his more practical moments did he acknowledge the enormity of shift in her outlook that this would require.
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Considerable change had occurred in the port. The wooden storage warehouses and the coolie barracks were as he remembered, but the quay now extended thirty feet along the foreshore toward the harbour entrance, the addition of a wooden piled wharf and gangway allowing more boats to heave to. In spite of its greater capacity, however, the harbour was significantly quieter than when he had last been there, hobbling on crutches, heading in the opposite direction to the hordes of troops disembarking at the quay, reinforcements arriving after the disaster at Isandlwana. A dishevelled-looking man wearing a brown casual working suit and a wide brimmed leather hat strolled up. Of middling height, with a sallow complexion, a bulbous nose protruded from a face that held shifting eyes. Mr Rothwell, I presume. Im Arnold Royston, the manager at Erskines. Rothwell shook the greasy hand presented to him. The man was unshaven and smelt of alcohol. It was not the best impression. Ah, Royston, so glad to meet you at last; let me introduce my wife, Annabelle. Mrs Rothwell; pleased to meet you. Roystons manner was gruff, his eyes averted, as if ashamed of his appearance. With eyes strained and forehead creased, Annabelle appeared in no mood to acknowledge the unkempt mans approach. Whilst the first impression was not entirely reassuring, Rothwell determined to give the man a chance. Thank you for stepping into the breach after my uncles unfortunate demise. How have things been progressing? Well, its been a difficult time, Mr Rothwell. The executor asked me to continue in the role of manager, until your arrival. Were in the middle of the harvest and crushing season. Royston cleared his throat. Im afraid were a bit behind schedule. Its difficult to get the coolies to work properly. Rothwell backed away from the wave of garlic and old wine wafting across him. Although grateful that Royston had been there to run things until his arrival, he was perplexed as to why his uncle had hired him.
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Over here, Mr Rothwell, Ive organised a carriage for you and your good lady. The coolies will load up the baggage. Rothwell frowned in puzzlement. The man had an air of false endearment. He smiled with his mouth, not with his eyes. Thank you, Royston, he said, bending down to lift one of the cases. You dont have to do that, sir. Thats what the coolie is for. Roystons tone was instantly aggressive. Here bloody coolie, bags, he shouted, glaring at an Indian man who waited patiently by the side of the carriage. All civility had disappeared. A thin lipped grimace had replaced the sycophantic smile. Royston looked as if he might belt the coolie if he didnt jump to it. Rothwells mouth hardened. Its alright Royston; Ill carry my own bag. Lets keep it civil shall we? We keep them sprightly, Mr Rothwell. Theyre a lazy bunch. Merriment lingered in Roystons eyes. Well, I dont know about that, Royston. You have to treat people well to get the best out of them. A thinly disguised smirk flickered across the dead pan face. Right you are, Mr Rothwell. Rothwell helped Annabelle to her seat in the carriage before stepping up and taking the horses reins. If youd like to follow me, Ill guide you up to the estate. Its about eight miles north along the Umgeni Road, Royston said, mounting his horse. Rothwell had little idea where his uncles plantation was located, but as he journeyed along from the Point into town and then northwards, his eyes began to bulge. He followed the same route that he and Pulleine had taken all those months ago on their way out to Rorkes Drift! They passed across the same narrow wooden bridge crossing the Umgeni River, his eyes widening further with the recollection. How extraordinary, this is the exact place where I rescued an Indian woman who had fallen into the river. You never told me about this, James, Annabelle said, turning to examine his face.
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Yes, Pulleine and I undertook a recky around to the north, before the advance into Zululand. Pulleine, the idiot, knocked this poor Indian woman into the river as he rode past on his horse. He intended to ride on and leave her, but I noticed that she was in difficulty. She couldnt swim, so I stepped in to pull her out. Annabelle rolled her eyes, her mouth turning down. Very gallant of you Im sure, Jamesbloody heat, its suffocating. Rothwells forehead creased. He hoped that she might quickly become accustomed to her new surroundings for her not infrequent outbursts of frustration had become wearing. He turned away and glanced at the turbulent waters below, wondering what might have happened to the beautiful young Indian woman whom he had rescued. ____ Annabelle peered at the thick black jungle and muddy rutted track along which their carriage bumped and wondered why on earth she had agreed to venture into this god-forsaken backwater. The place was a disaster, worse even than she had imagined. Her eyes watered from the intense sunlight and her back was lathered in sweat. The humidity made it difficult to breathe and the general stench by the roadside left her feeling nauseous. With no alternative, she put her gloved hand to her mouth and expelled a globule of vomit that had been sitting in her throat. The carriage ran over a pothole and she jumped in her seat. Damn, she blasphemed, wishing that she could change out of her heavy gown and freshen up. Several miles further up the Umgeni Road, the party made a left turn onto a dirt track that meandered through the forest. Was this the Erskine property? They passed between two wooden gate posts and along a gravel drive, which skirted overgrown lawn gardens, before reaching a three-story manor house. Annabelle smiled thinly. Having travelled past a selection of uninspiring shanty style buildings in Durban and various rudimentary African mud huts along the Umgeni Road, she had anticipated the worst for her new plantation lodging. Although not a match for the splendour of the family estate at Salisbury, the manor house was grander than she expected, dare she hope habitable? Her spirits began to revive.
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____ Had the house had been designed as a refuge? Rothwell had an idea this might be the case. One half was close to classic Victoriana except that its pitched slate roof, chimneys and stone decorated windows had been corrupted by a colonial style wraparound balcony: a rain sheltered pillared walkway that ran around most of the ground floor. The attached, other half of the building took the form of a mini-castle and was certainly not Victoriana. Higher in elevation to the rest of the house, the castle incorporated a main tower with buttressing and steps to a smaller tower at the top. This appeared to have been designed as a viewing platform, presumably to warn of bush fires and any unfriendly natives in the surrounding plantation fields and jungle. The windows on the castle side were of the same configuration as the house side , but smaller suggesting a defensive purpose. As one of the early settlers, Erskine would no doubt have been wary of Zulu attack, although the prospect of this must have receded considerably following the defeat of King Cetshwayos forces, the previous year. Rothwell smiled grimly at the irony. Whilst the victory at Ulundi had consolidated British control of Natal and advanced plans for a federated South Africa, his place in that history did not give him any satisfaction. He had loathed the killing on the battlefield and questioned the moral authority of the British invasion of Zululand. He wished that the establishment of the settlement - of which he was now a part - had been achieved through cooperation and peaceful accord with the indigenous people rather than bloodshed. The prospect of running a plantation filled him with exhilaration, but the fact that he stepped into the shoes of the imperialists before him sat badly. Royston opened the large mahogany door of the imperialist manor house and escorted Rothwell and Annabelle into a musty, wooden panelled entrance hall with a vaulted ceiling. The hall extended to a reception room adorned with what Rothwell imagined must been once lavish, but were now faded, furnishings. French windows faced onto a veranda at the back, and the gardens
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beyond. The room smelt of stale bread and rotten eggs, giving the impression that it had not been properly aired for some time. Lets open some windows, Annabelle said, gasping. She pulled up one of the rusted iron window latches before slumping into an armchair. No cooling breeze came from the partially open window, however, and she fanned herself vigorously, the motion doing little to ameliorate the burn on her cheeks. Rothwell walked across the dusty oriental carpet to an ornate cabinet where a framed portrait hung. Heres the old devil. I wondered what he looked like. The painting showed a well-built man in his forties standing triumphantly, rifle in hand, next to a dead elephant, somewhere in the African bush. Rothwell hadnt known that his uncle was a hunter. The image made him shudder; there was brutishness in the mans demeanour. Came over on The Victoria in 1850 apparently, one of the early sugar cane pioneers. Oh really, muttered Annabelle, disinterestedly. She stepped through the French doors to a large wooden-decked veranda. Several wrought iron chairs surrounded a table under the shade of a large red beech tree, which appeared to have been planted in the middle of the large lawn for this very purpose. She sat. The heat was intense and she was immediately harassed by a swarm of flies. Damn tropics, she muttered, waving her hat vigorously. A loud whooping noise emanated from the back of the garden. She jumped up. James, theres a strange animal in the trees. Quick, close the door, she shrieked, running back inside. Rothwell ran out, fearing that it might be a leopard. The whooping made him realise that it was a Samango monkey. Several of them sat in the acacia trees, their grey and white coats wrapped around the branches. Theyre only monkeys darling. They wont harm you. Theyll stay away unless you leave some food out for them to get their hands on. I hate this place already, James. Im hot and I...hat e this wretched jungle. She stamped her foot on the large Oriental rug. A cloud of dust wafted up from its ancient weavings. And this damned rug needs cleaning.
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Well, we should go and change, Rothwell said, refusing to be miserable in spite of his wifes complaints. Clearly it would take some time for her to settle. Royston returned from organising the bags, several coolies in tow. Take those to the Sahib bedroom. He pointed up a sweeping wooden staircase that curved around the entrance hall. Across the lawn Rothwell could see glimpses of the cane fields through gaps in the trees. Theres a better view from the top, Mr Rothwell. Excellent, lead the way. Rothwell smiled, happy to follow the diversion: an opportunity to escape from the dust and he had been intrigued by the towers. He and Annabelle followed Royston down a passage and up three flights of stone stairs before emerging into bright sunshine at the top of the main tower. The house sat on a hill and held sweeping views of the surrounding countryside. From the parapet Rothwell looked out over the tops of the acacia trees in which he had spotted the Samango monkeys. African bush had been replaced by sugarcane fields that ran into the distance, the view only interrupted by plumes of smoke billowing off the burning cane. How far does it go? he asked, marvelling at the teams of antsized workers labouring below them. About as far as you can see, Mr Rothwell; up there to those hills and around to there. Its all Erskine property, or should I s ay Rothwell property now. Royston smiled, an unpleasant sight for his teeth were yellowed and crooked with several missing. Rothwell turned away instinctively, happier to take in the stunning vista in front of him. Down in the valley, over there, you can see the chimney and roof of the new mill. Mr Erskine had it built about a year ago. We crush and process our own cane now which has significantly expanded the business although its put a considerable strain on the finances. Well you might know more about that than me, Mr Rothwell. Yes, I understand Royston. Ill need you to show me the books afterwards. But I would like to take a look around first: at the fields and the mill. And I want to meet the workers. How many do we have altogether?
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About eighty in total. And where do they live? Annabelle asked. Rothwell glanced towards her with expectation although her eyes remained hardened to her discomfort. They have their own huts. You cant see them from here. At the back of that hill over there, Royston said, indicating. Rothwells brow knitted. Huts, what sort of huts? Well, theyre basic, mostly wattle and daub, you know African mud huts. But they have a kitchen lean-to and a latrine. Its all they need, given they are working most of the time. You cant give the coolies too much or theyll stop working altogether! The crooked smile flashed yellow. You mean they live in huts, Annabelle said, mopping her brow with her lace handkerchief. Well, I suppose they would do, you know being natives. Rothwell stiffened, blood rushing to his cheeks. Well, Ill need to have a look at their quarters, Royston. I want to make sure they are adequately housed now that theyre under my jurisdiction. Of course, Mr Rothwell, but I think youll find its sufficient for the requirement. A stench of rotting garbage had Rothwell gasping for air. He turned away from the toothless half smirk. Alright, lets take a tour of the estate. Did you wish to come, Annabelle, or do you want to get settled in? No, Ill leave you men to it; Im going to unpack and change. Her laugh rang shrill. * Were burning in the back field as you can see. Royston had disappeared into a thick cloud of smoke, Rothwell could not see anything. He stumbled forward, his boots blackening in the recently scorched earth. Through billowing pillars of grey, flashes of red streaked into the sky. A fire swept furiously through the tall cane stems. Vast plumes of burnt embers wafted into the air and drifted down the valley. Even from this distance the heat burnt his cheeks. He reached for his handkerchief, holding it over
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his mouth to filter the choking smoke and to shield his face from the fiery blast. Talleen, Royston yelled across the field. A large Indian man jumped, like a startled springbok taken unawares by a hunting lion. Yes Sahib, he gasped, arriving dripping with sweat. His ugly face was blackened with soot and his clothes reeked of smoke. Royston turned his back to the man . Our head sirdar, Mr Rothwell; Talleen keeps the coolies in order. Rothwell stepped to the side and extended his arm. Please to meet you, Talleen, I am Rothwell, the new owner. Talleens mouth dropped open. Hurriedly, he jutted out his hand to meet Rothwells. Rothwell recognised something familiar in the mans evil stare. I think we have met before? Talleen blinked rapidly, without comprehension. Sahib? About a year ago, crossing the river, a woman fell into the water. I remember seeing you there. I was riding a horse. He made an action as if taking up the reins. Talleens face continued to line with confusion. I lift woman from the river. He made a carrying motion. A spark jumped into the dark sunken eyes. Usha, Sahib. Rothwell stiffened, the ends of his fingers tingling. Usha, she is the young woman who nearly drowned? Usha, Sahib. What happened to her? Talleens brow furrowed even more deeply. Usha, where is she? Rothwell said again, urgency gripping his throat. Talleen pointed through the smoke to a group of women collecting up bundled sticks of cane. Usha, Sahib. Rothwell followed the direction of Talleens arm. A group of Indian women stood in the distance, but he couldnt pick out Usha. Extraordinary! he muttered, his chest throbbing. What a quirk of circumstance? The young woman he had rescued had ended up on his plantation.
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Back to work, Talleen, Royston interjected sharply. Keep that fire under control. I dont want it spreading into the other field. The cane is not ready. Talleen ran back over and began shouting at a group of sooty faced coolies beating down the crackling flames with make-shift brushes. Rothwell stood transfixed, the young Indian woman from the river absorbing his thoughts. He turned to find beady eyes examining him. Did you know much about sugar ca ne before you came to work for my uncle, Royston? he asked, refocusing on the yellow graininess of a twitching mouth. Id worked on a plantation before, Mr Rothwell, in Mauritius, but was laid off when the proprietor ran into financial difficulties. I was supposed to receive a share in the business, but it all went belly-up. Royston averted his stare, shuffling his feet in the earth. Its not a difficult process. You grow the cane for nine months, and then harvest it after the burn-off. Then you crush the stems. Ill show you what happens in the mill. Thank you, Royston. That would be interesting. Keeping a safe distance from the flames, they traversed around the edge of the field and into the next, a field of blackened cane stems, which coolies harvested. The fiery heat had abated, but the smell of caramelised sugar lingered. Rothwell was reminded of toffee apples. Does the burning affect the cane, I mean in terms of the sugar? he asked, feeling his ignorance. No we burn off the top leaves leaving the charred stems. It makes the harvesting easier. The stems are crushed at the mill and the syrup is heated to reduce it to a concentrated sugar block. A group of eight or so men stood idle by one of the carts. They seemed exhausted. Royston glanced across and walked briskly towards them. What are you doing? Get moving bloody coolies, he yelled. From his belt he pulled a thin piece of cane and began to flog the nearest coolie on his shoulders. The man jumped, his lacerated shirt staining red. Yelping, he hobbled back across the field towards the standing cane, Royston continuing to thrash him.
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Royston, what on earth are you doing? Rothwell shouted, flabbergasted that his estate manager had used such violence. The mans only crime was to be taking a rest. Royston stopped and turned, scowling. He walked back, his face dripping with sweat. I had to deal with it, Mr Rothwell. We cant have coolies standing around doing nothing. Theres work to be done! Rothwell felt the heat inside his temples. Yes, but have some compassion man. He appeared exhausted. Theres no need for such violence. Its the way round here, Mr Rothwell. Your uncle advocated it. He would thrash the buggers himself if they stepped out of line. The hairs on the back of Rothwells ne ck stood up, like a coarse brush. Im not my uncle and Im not having it Royston. I dont want the men flogged like that. Well, youre the boss, Mr Rothwell, but it is only your first day sir, and I think youll come round to it once youve seen how th ings are. Rothwells cheeks burned with indignation. He knew what the smarmy grin meant. The man thought he was a fool. I am the boss now, Royston and I wont have it, alright. His face sullen, Royston found the distant horizon. The two men walked across the smouldering stumps in a strained silence. Rothwells blood ran hot. He bristled with anger, both with Royston and with his uncle. What kind of a man had he been to have meted out such measures? They passed the group of Indian women that Talleen had pointed out by the carts. Rothwell suddenly remembered about Usha and glanced back to see if he could recognise her. He thought he spotted her for the briefest of seconds as she bent down to pick up a bundle of cane, but the view was obscured by others and the moment passed. In any case, he had other matters on his mind. He followed Royston down the slope subconsciously racing the man in what had become a battle of wills. ____ Something made Usha drop the bundle of cane she held and glance up. Royston Sahib walked across the field. She was about to bend down again, fearing a remonstration for her momentary
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idleness, when she saw the white man accompanying him. Her interest sufficiently aroused, she held her position for a second longer than she had intended . She had heard that Erskines nephew was arriving from England to take over the plantation and wondered if this might be the new owner. The two men passed and she ducked down again in order to avoid attention, but her heart raced. Surely that was the British officer who had pulled her out of the water and saved her from drowning? It was only a fleeting glance, but the recognition was instant. She would never forget that charming face; it was imprinted on her memory. The day of her rescue had been the last time that anyone in authority had treated her kindly. Ushas gaze returned to the red earth beneath her feet . Had her eyes deceived her? She had been rescued by a British army officer, not a plantation owner. Her saviour that day had displayed a courtesy and consideration that she could not conceive of being shown by anyone related to Erskine. The circumstance was too extraordinary to be credible. Surely she had been mistaken? Weak from hunger and exhausted from many months of hard labour in the fields, her thoughts had become increasingly dark. She imagined at times that her mind was inhabited by demons. Perhaps she was now being delusional, wishing for anything or anyone to appear to rescue her from her confinement? The Erskine plantation had certainly been a hellish place for Usha. Painfully thin, her body was scarred from the regular lashings she received. She glanced across at her friend Chandrima, toiling in the field and thanked Krishna for her friendship. Usha could not remember much of it now, but she was convinced that without Chandrimas nursing she would not have survived the fever that had stricken her down. Now recovered, she wondered if she had the strength any longer to serve out her time on the plantation. Having escaped the harrowing ostracism of widowhood in India, and travelled with the intent of finding her father, she more than ever lamented the day that she had signed up for indenture. She knew now that the promises made had never been intended and that the hardship was far, far worse than anything she had endured back in India. Nakti was in the ascendency, therefore, and to make
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matters even worse, there had been no word of her father. She wondered at the prospect of ever finding him. ____ A blast of hot air rushed into Rothwells face. The heat inside the large wooden shed caused him to wheeze, the sickly smell of sugar gripping his lungs like thick smog. A deafening clang of machinery rang in his ears. This is where we crush the cane, Royston shouted above the din. He pointed to a large circular iron crusher with a series of cogged wheels. Several coolies fed cane into the crusher at one end and thick black syrup dribbled out into a large vat at the other. What do you do with the waste stems? Rothwells shouting strained his chest. The bagasse is fed back into the furnace to drive the boiler for the steam engine. See over there. Royston pointed to the corner of the shed. The large furnace was like a red-hot cauldron, its fiery glow even more intense than that from the burning cane outside. We use wood to fire it up, but then bagasse. The waste is recycled, which keeps the cost down and means that we dont need to dispose of it. The furnace heats the boiler, which then heats a series of vats that concentrate the syrup. Here, look. Royston walked further along the production line. Mr Erskine installed this new evaporation unit invented by a British scientist called Howard. Clever isnt it? Steam from the boiler heats a series of closed vessels. The liquid is held in a partial vacuum which means it boils at a lower temperature, so it saves on fuel and also reduces the amount of sugar lost through caramelisation. Rothwell leant over to find Roystons ear . Fascinating! How much did it cost? Well, thats the hard part. I believe it was about a thousand pounds, just for this machine. The whole plant probably cost Erskine nearly four thousand. The problem is that we cant get enough through-put to make it pay. Thats why he purchased the additional land at the back of the estate and laid down the tracks for the locomotive, so that we could get cane into the plant
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quicker. The whole project has cost a small fortune and at the moment its not making a return. Right. Rothwell felt sick in the stomach and it wasnt solely from the pungent smell of caramel. It looked like it was going to be a struggle to turn things around. Roystons grasp of the problem and his understanding of the process were impressive, however, a partial redemption from Rothwells earlier misgivings about the estat e manager. This is what comes out at the end. Royston pointed to a large vat of yellowy-orange congealed glue. Pure sucrose, we square it into blocks and ship it out in sacks. He stuck his finger into one of the blocks and tasted it. Rothwell tried. The brown sticky glue tasted like caramel, laced with rich sugar. Within seconds his head was buzzing. Where do the blocks go after here? We cart them into town and Lamont, the agent in West Street, organises shipment. Most of the sugar goes back to England, where it is refined. Theres a growing market, but unfortunately, significant oversupply. Were competing with plantations in India, Mauritius, the Caribbean, and theres been an explosion of acreage here in Natal. Prices have plummeted and its all about economy of scale. Its difficult for a small estate like this one to compete, which is why Mr Erskine was trying to expand. I can see the problem. Lets go and have a look at the books, Royston. Rothwells brow was furrowed, the weight of his inheritance bearing down on him. Right you are, Mr Rothwell, but theyre in a bit of a mess. Im not really a finance man, Royston said, looking sheepish. A large Indian man appeared at the doorway. The sullenness in his eyes matched Talleens. Hey, Aadesh whereve you been, I told you to stay in the shed, Royston shouted, his eyes narrowing. Sorry Sahib, go hill, bring cart, Aadesh mumbled in broken English. Royston cut him short. Watch the boiler, Aadesh, as I said. Yes Sahib.
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Mr Rothwell, this is Aadesh, the other sirdar. Hes in charge of the mill, when hes not wandering off that is. Rothwell smiled and extended his hand. Pleased to meet you, Aadesh. As with Talleen, Aadesh looked uncomfortable, apparently not used to such largess. Royston waved the Indian away. Make sure the cane is fed into the grinder and unload that locomotive. The coldness in Roystons voice grated. Two hard lines appeared on Rothwells forehead. His thoughts submerged in the bittersweet confusion of his legacy, Rothwell trudged back up the field towards the manor house. He reached the gardens and his traverse slowed ever further, thick matted couch grass causing his feet to labour. Annabelle sat out on the veranda. Are you alright, my darling? he called, anticipa ting a further bout of consternation. She smiled and waved, apparently for once in a better frame of mind. Perhaps the elongation of the late afternoon sun had tempered her fever? Perfectly fine, James, Im much refreshed. I found some juice in the pantry, but theres no food. Well need to organise some provisions. And what are we going to do about a chambermaid and a cook? Rothwell mentally added to his growing list of tasks. Yes, all in good time, my dear. How was the tour? He slumped onto the chair and sighed. Theres a lot to take in. Its a big operation. Im concerned about the finances. Im sitting down with Royston shortly to go through the books. Ah, Royston, Annabelle said, rolling her eyes. Not the best impression. Rothwell lowered his voice. I know, but he seems to know the business. In any case we need him for the time being. The sight of Royston striding across the lawn made Rothwell rise wearily. He wasnt relishing the prospect of crippling debts. Good luck with the numbers, Annabelle said, settling back into her book. *
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In the study, Rothwell sat at his uncles large mahogany desk. He squinted, trying to decipher the scrawled figures on the ledger. Did my uncle run the numbers, Royston? Even though he could find his way around a basic profit and loss account, the figures were a jumble of confusion. Yes, Mr Rothwell. He kept them very much to himself. All Ive done is manage the payments, the wages, paying suppliers. But Im no accountant. Ive just coped as best I can. Rothwell frowned without looking up. And I thank you for that, Royston, but the books are in a bit of a mess. I cant even find the bank balance. Royston leant over and sifted through the pages of the ledger. I think its here, he said, pointing. Rothwell read the column of figures. 15,115, is that the figure? Thats the debt amount? A dead weight fell to the pit of his stomach. He had known that the situation was bad, but this was far worse than expected. Yes, I believe so, Mr Rothwell. A rather large sum isnt it? Royston said, grinning toothlessly. Rothwell dug his fingers into his forehead, as if that might ease the pain searing through his temples. Good Lord, I never imagined. He paused to mop his knitted brow. What the blazes was Erskine doing? As I said before, Mr Erskine had considerably expanded the business, what with the land acquisition and the mill. A glance filled with injury replaced the grin. Royston shuffled backwards. Dont look at me like that, Mr Rothwell. Its not my doing! The back of Rothwells shirt was lathered in moisture. What on earth he had got himself into? He clutched at straws. So, are we up-to-date with the bank interest? Roystons eyes followed the line of the wooden floorboards. Not exactly. What do you mean Not exactly? The sinking sensation in the pit of Rothwells stomach had deepened. Theres about three months interest owing.
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Royston scrabbled through one of the drawers, pulled out a letter and passed it to Rothwell. Sure enough, it was a request for overdue payment from the Natal Bank in Durban and several months old. Clouds loomed ever darker above Rothwells head. Damn, we have no money in the account. Ill need to organise funds. How have you been paying the wages? Well, theyre overdue also, but its only the coolies, we can get away without paying them for as long as we have to. Rothwells face turned a shade of puce. But you cant run a business like this, without paying the workers! How on earth are they going to survive? In any case its not legal. Theyre supposed to be paid ten shillings a month! I know that, but thats only the indenture guideline. Its common practice not to pay coolies. Everyone knows that. Rothwell felt the fire raging within. Well, not on my watch it isnt. But theres no money. A river of burning lava now flowed: Ill sort out the money, Royston, but Im not having this plantation run like some sort of Victorian poor house! Royston backed away from the venting volcano, his pupils enlarging like a startled Tarsier. Rothwell took a deep breath, attempting to cool his ire. Look Royston, things are a difficult for me to assimilate, being new to this whole situation, but I am determined to turn things around, and by that I dont just mean balancing the books, Im talking about everything: the running of the estate, the treatment of the Indians, everything, do you understand! Royston nodded without conviction. Yes, Mr Rothwell. Have you been paying yourself, Royston? Rothwell assumed that he had. Royston wasnt the type to make a noble sacrifice. Yes, I have Mr Rothwell, as agreed in the contract with Mr Erskine. How much is that? 20 a week. What, thats a thousand pounds a year. Damn it man, thats outrageous!
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Royston backed away, defensively. Well, someone had to keep things running, Mr Rothwell, when your uncle became ill. I wasnt about to step in here for a pittance, you know. I gave up my job in Mauritius to come here. I thought you said you were laid off when your former employee ran into financial difficulties? Royston rubbed his hand across the stubble on his chin, his cheeks flushing. No, that wasnt exactly it. I gave up a good job to come here, as I said. Rothwells face paled, the crease lines on his forehead deepening. Should he sack the man on the spot? He took some further deep breaths of moist tropical air and forced a smile. He couldnt afford for Royston to jump from the sinking ship, even though his kings ransom added to the ballast that sunk it. Thank you for your efforts Royston, I know its been a difficult time. Royston pulled at his collar. Perhaps we could clarify a few things, Mr Rothwell, now were on the subject. It doesnt state as much in the contract, but Mr Erskine intimated that he would grant me a share in the business. I wondered if we might formalise your uncles intention. A full scale eruption could no longer be prevented. Youre right, Royston, its not in the contract. Youve only worked here for a matter of a few months. I know nothing about any indication my uncle may or may not have made to you. Do you realise the amount of money I will need to throw in to rescue the estate? Lets just leave it at that, Royston. You are paid handsomely for what you do and I appreciate it, but theres no question of anything beyond whats in your contract! Royston stumbled backwards. Right you are, sir. Perhaps we can talk later when youre more settled. I didnt mean to raise such a matter when you had just arrived, trust me. Rothwell searched for Roystons ever wandering gaze. Ive already said its not for discussion, Royston. He made as if to rise from his desk. I need to unpack and get organised. Tomorrow, first thing well call at the Natal Bank. I want you to wrap up the work in the fields, alright?
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Right you are, sir. Royston scampered from the room, the corners of his mouth twitching. Rothwell sank back into his chair, absorbed by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. Why would his uncle have offered a man such as Royston a share in his business? Suddenly, he leapt up and ran to the door. Royston, he called down the corridor. Royston spun round, his face losing its colour. Yes, Mr Rothwell. My wife asked about a chambermaid. Do you know whether any of the Indian women would be suitable? She would need to speak English. Roystons face gained a rosier hue. I dont know, Mr Erskine used one of the female coolies, but she had to leave. Ill ask Talleen to find someone. What about Usha? She speaks English. Usha? Royston frowned. Yes Usha. Ask Talleen to send her up to the house. Rothwell walked out onto the veranda and slumped into the chair even harder than previously. Annabelle glanced up from her book. Everything alright? I heard shouting. The place is a disaster. Erskine was up to his eyeballs in debt. He spent thousands of pounds expanding, building a new mill, but with money he didnt have. He mortgaged the property and borrowed from the bank. Were three months behind on the interest. Its a mess. Annabelle sat up. Instead of frowning, her eyes brightened. What will we do? Perhaps well be back in England sooner than we thought. Rothwell stiffened. A horrible notion entered his mind that she might be right. Im taking Royston into the bank tomorrow - hes completely untrustworthy by the way - Ill arrange a transfer from Baring Brothers so the bank doesnt commence repossession proceedings.
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Is it a lot of money? Do we need my fathers help? No, its manageable. A thousand pounds should cover us, at least in the short term. What do you mean about Royston? I agree hes not the most presentable manager, but untrustworthy? The blaggard tried to make out that he and Erskine had some sort of understanding; that Erskine had agreed to grant him a share of the business. First Id heard of it. Ill talk to the executor of the will, but Im convinced that there was no suggestion that Royston would be involved in the ownership. Hes just an employee and on an exorbitant wage at that. Really! How much? A thousand a year! My goodness, is he worth it? Of course not, its ridiculous. Id fire him on the spot if we didnt need him. Hell have to say, certainly until I can get things straightened out. You should see the condition of the ledgers. The workers havent been paid for months. Well, thats not the most pressing issue, is it? A stabbing pain lodged in his right temple. Annabelle! You cant stop paying the workers just because the business is in financial difficulty. How are they supposed to survive? Well, Im sure theyll manage. Were feeding them arent we? I hope so, but thats not the point. We have an obligation. Im so angry about the treatment of the Indians. It appears that they work in the most dreadful conditions. Well, it is the tropicsand theyre only coolies. For goodness sake, Annabelle, you sound just like Royston! Rothwell examined the porcelain veneer. Was she serious? She seemed so. He began to wonder if his wife didnt hold the same opinions as his estate manager. Dont raise your voice at me; Im only expressing an opinion. Im not the one who wanted to come out to this god -forsaken place, am I? Rothwell attempted to cool his fever. He touched her arm. Perhaps he had been unfair? Sorry, I know its a bit of a mess, but Im sure we can make it work.
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Well, I hope so, James. I said I would give it six months. The luscious red lips approached for a kiss. Rothwell fell into her arms, feeling the heat in his loins. He did love her. I know its been difficult for you Annabelle, agreeing to relocate out here, but its a wonderful country and Im convinced we can enjoy our time hereonce we get matters straight on the plantation that is. Lips having withdrawn, the ivory veneer sharpened once again. I wish I shared your enthusiasm, James, but I said I would try it, and I shall, for better or for worse. Rothwell was reminded of his marriage vows. He stepped towards the door, frowning. Had he misjudged his calling? Did you have any luck with a chamber maid or cook? I dont see how were supposed to manage, just the two of us? Annabelles words brought him back to a cold reality. Ive asked Royston to get onto it. Someone is coming up to the house later, so we can decide if shes suitable. Does she speak English? Yes, a little. Rothwell found that his heart raced. Shes the woman I rescued from the river. Extraordinary isnt it. Perhaps it is fate that I rescued her so that she might be our chamber maid? What do you think? Very fortuitous, Im sure James, Annabelle said, yawning. But well need two coolies: a cook and a chamber maid. Can this woman cook? Ive no idea. We only spoke a few words. Well make sure she can. You cant trust these natives.

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8 A New Dawn

USHA! Usha jumped involuntarily, the bundle of cane stems falling from her arms. She swung around, pulse racing, to see Talleen striding across the field towards her. Evil eyes gleamed with murderous intent. Her instinct was to run, but she held her ground to face the anticipated whipping. To run would only mean a more severe beating when she was caught, although she couldnt imagine what she had done wrong. She had worked as hard as she could all day. Even so, that didnt matter with Talleen. If he was in a bad mood, he would whip you for no reason at all. Her back was lined with the lacerations she had received as a result of his vicious temper. You go house, Talleen yelled, arriving out of breath. He pointed up the hill. What have I done? Usha asked, refusing to be co wed although she wobbled with fear. Perhaps Royston Sahib was intent on whipping her? You go house, now! Talleen shouted, his face turning purple. He reached for his sjambok. Usha shrieked. She hitched up her sari and ran as fast as she could up the field. Arriving at the manor house, she paused to catch her breath. Her heart pounded and her head spun. She had never had occasion to visit the big house before. She must be in big trouble. With no answer to her first tentative knock, she knocked again, loude r this time. She couldnt possibly return to the field without taking her punishment. If Talleen found out, she would be thrashed twice over. The door opened. An aurora flashed before her eyes The British officer who had rescued her! Suddenly she was enveloped in her heavenly persona; she was Parvati, the goddess of life giving energy, reincarnated from the burnt goddess Sati, meeting her adored deity, Shiva for the second time. Usha steadied herself against the door post and peered
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through the rush of swirling light. How could it be him? Was he in charge of the plantation? Had he left the army? Come in Usha. James Rothwell, Im the new plantation owner. Why did he introduce himself? Did he not know that he was her saviour? Yes, Sahib, you bring me from river, you remember? Tears welled up inside and her chest contorted. Her life had been full of sadness since that day. He smiled. Yes, Usha, I pulled you from the water. How extraordinary, hey? Can you believe it? The last time I saw you, you were soaking wet and hardly breathing! Usha gripped her left arm with her right hand, as if to check that she was not dreaming. Her skin was icy cold to the touch. Her head swirled in confusion. Was this really him? Why had she been called? Did Royston still want to see her? Then she was muttering. Yes, Sahib, you save me, is good fortun e...have I done bad, Sahib? No Usha. What makes you think that? Come in, Come in. He was waving her inside. She stepped onto the shiny wooden panelled flooring of the entrance hall suddenly conscious of her feet, dirty and bruised from the work in the fields. The heat of burning cane was on her face. Erskine Sahib hit us, I think I do wrong. His face was dark. No, Usha, Im not Erskine Sahib. I do not beat people. You have nothing to fear. Please come in and sit down. She followed his feet into the study. My wife was to join us, but she is resting. It has been a long journey. The burning in her face began to ease. She thanked Krishna that she was not up for a beating. You come from England, Sahib? Yes, Usha, Im Erskines nephew. When he died, the plantation passed to me. Very good, Sahib. But you are officer in British army? Yes? No, Usha, I left the army; too much slaughter. Usha felt her flush returning. What was slaughter? He must have read her mind.

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You understand what I am saying? Slaughter, killing is bad. He made a stabbing motion with his arm. Usha flinched involuntarily. She was used to Talleens methods. Yes, I think, she said, backing away. She understood killing, but remained confused. She had assumed that soldiers must enjoy killing, although it was comforting to know that Rothwell Sahib did not. Its alright, Usha, Im not going to harm you. His eyes were tender. She trained hers to the floor, annoyed with herself for her fear. Yes Sahib, sorry Sahib. You speak good English, Usha. Thank you Sahib. I speak a little. My father was English teacher in Bengal and I learn at school. She concentrated. Her English was rusty. She hadnt had much cause to use it on the plantation. He smiled. Excellent, Usha. Well, my wife and I need a chamber maid and a cook. Can you cook? Her frown deepened. For some reason she had not expected him to have a wife. Not good cook, Sahib. What is chamber Sahib? Sorry, chamber means room. We need someone to clean the rooms in the house. Ushas eyes began to water. She bit her lip, trying to staunch the flow. She had cleaned for her mother as a child. Sahib, I very good chamber maid! She glanced at Rothwell. His face was filled with warmth. Tears began to gush forth, the soreness in her lip notwithstanding. She grasped the pallu of her sari and attempted to wipe her eyes. Was she dreaming? Was this her Shiva? It must be. Was he not standing in front of her and saying the words? What is the matter, Usha? Are you not pleased to do this? Then she was shaking. The ache of desolation gripped her, sadness poured from her face. Sahib, work in fields is very hard. Since I arrive at Erskine plantation, I have very bad time. Women treated badly. Talleen, he hit us all the time. The top of her choli was now wet through. Why had she let herself down like this? Then his hand was on her shoulder. The action was clumsy and made her shudder, yet all she wanted was to
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leap into his arms. How could she? Suddenly she was afraid. Had she said too much? If this had been Erskine, she would have been thrashed within an inch of her life. Its alright Usha. I realise that things have been bad, but they will change. As I said, I am not my uncle. Its not the way I do things. His words were soothing. She continued to weep, but hers was a sadness now filled with hope. The touch of his hand had convinced her of the sincerity of his words. Was he her Shiva after all? She sank to her haunches and grabbed his arm, her face streaked with tears. Oh, thank you, Sahib. Thank you. Ignoring her embarrassment, she glanced up to meet his gaze: eyes that were honest, eyes that had goodness in them. Had he not stepped in to rescue her from the black water, after all? Yet he stood silent, ashen faced. And when he spoke his voice was jagged, strangely unemotional, as if he struggled with darkness within. Had she offended him? Im sorry Usha Her cheeks burned even brighter. Its alright, Sahib Please get up Usha. I am pleased to help you; you dont need to thank me. A tear rolled down his cheek. Did he cry for her? Yes Sahib. Come back in an hour, Usha. My wife will need to see you. He was matter of fact. Had she displeased him? Then why did he cry? Yes, Sahib. She flew from the house, her heart pounding even more intensely than when she had arrived. Was she immersed in a wonderful dream, a dream that would break at any moment? Then her sun god was calling her. Usha. She stopped in her tracks and pivoted around. He stood at the door, his face flushed like a red pepper. Was her dream about to end? Yes Sahib. Do you know someone who can cook? We need someone to work in the kitchen.
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Why did he ask this? Did he not realise her enchantment? Maybe Chandrima, Sahib? Well bring her too when you come back. Yes Sahib. A frisson of excitement ran through her veins. She imagined the glow of joy on her friends face when she told her the news, but would Chandrima believe her? Was she dreaming? Had the gods delivered a miracle? It must be so, had he not smiled at her? She skipped away, euphoric, warmed by the touch of a golden sun. * A study full of emptiness met Rothwells return. Ushas sadness had ripped a sword through him, his urge to take her in his arms and make things better for her. A blanket of darkness smothered him. He carried on his shoulders the universal shame of her indenture, the diaspora of a people taken from their homeland, subjected to a life more miserable than the one from which they had escaped. The responsibility of his guardianship lay like a sharpened stone in his belly. He would do everything in his power to right the wrong that had been inflicted. A picture of Usha returning to her mud hut flashed in his mind. He determined that first thing in the morning he would inspect the Indians living quarters. Footsteps on the stairs forced Rothwell to gather himself. He wiped his moistening eyes with his handkerchief and attempted a smile. Annabelle breezed into the room. Did I hear voices? Yesyou just missed herUsha. She seems ideal for a chamber maid. Shes coming back later with another woman who might be suitable as a cook, so you can see them both. Had he stumbled over his words? His thoughts were enmeshed in a veil of shadows. Issues of domesticity seemed far removed from the bleakness of the plantation fields. Excellent, although Im not sure I need to see them. A maid is a maid and a cook is a cook! Her demeanour was unfaltering. He sighed, feeling the tension across his chest.
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Whatever you like, Annabelle. We may have to give the cook some guidance I fancy. My dear, James, I havent cooked for so long, I can hardly remember. It would be like the blind leading the blind! The throbbing in his head intensified. He needed fresh air. This is the tropics now Annabelle. Things are different. You may have to muck in a little more. Muck in! Ive never mucked in. Too emotionally drained to face it head on, he tried to side step the issue. Well, you know what I mean. But where will they stay? I dont really want them sleepin g in the house, Annabelle said, apparently impervious to his affliction. Im concerned about these huts. They sound primitive to me. Well, I fancy theyre not expecting to sleep in anything much more than a hut are they? For the first time he realised that he did not know his wife. He could not see what lay beneath the porcelain face and imperious smile, a smile that he knew was about to break. Its about basic human decency isnt it? You cant expect people to live in squalid conditions when we can provide better. Two deep gashes appeared between slanting eyebrows, the veneer no longer perfect. Thats if we can afford it! Im sure we can afford it. Its a matter of principle. Im not having the Indians treated like dogs. We have a responsibility! Annabelle took a step back. Anyway, I was thinking, where does Royston reside? Her smile was weak. With no strength for an argument, he was grateful for her diversion. Do you know, I have no idea, I suspect there are some rooms attached to the house, but I forgot to enquire. Well, perhaps youd better ask, or we may find were rather crowded in here! Her laugh was brittle. He was surprised at how eager he was to escape it. * White daggers danced across the walls, the sunlight bouncing off droplets thrown from the water fountain. Rothwell lingered,
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absorbed in the shimmer of this oasis of tranquility. Awakening, he crossed the stone paved courtyard and opened the door of the annexed stone cottage. Inside was a small bedsitting room with an adjoining washroom. An odour of vinegar and stale blue cheese pervaded. Clothes were strewn across the bed. Papers littered the desk by the window. Roystons quarters, but no Royston! Feeling his intrusion, Rothwell retraced his steps back to the entrance hall and explored the large rambling house in the opposite direction. At the far end of a corridor he discovered a laundry with a small adjoining room for storage. The dark lines on his face softened. Although full of furniture, once cleared it would suffice as a maids room. Feeling more energised, he retraced his steps back to the lounge. Ive found Roystons quarters. Theres a separate annex at the back of the kitchen. I dont want him sleeping in the house. We can hardly throw him out can we? Where would he stay? I just dont want to be bumping into that vulgar man, thats all. Its an annex. Theres a separate entrance, through a courtyard. He wont need to come through the house. Ill make things clear. A sharp pain shot through his forehead. The need to be a stranger to his wife was strong. Rothwell retired to the study to become immersed in what he imagined would be even more depressing matters: accounting ledgers. * How do I look? Beautifullike a goddess, Chandrima, Usha said, standing outside the front door of the big house. A frown appeared above Chandrimas big brown eyes. What shall I say? Be yourself, he will like you I am sure of it. Ushas knock was soft so as not to draw attention. She was about to knock again when the door opened.
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A tall, ivory faced woman! Which one of you is Usha? Ushas pulse raced, but she held her head high. I am Usha, Memsahib and this is Chandrima. Come in Usha and Chandrima. Go through to the drawing room. I will fetch Mr Rothwell. Usha shuffled into the large elaborately furnished room, feeling her displacement. Her sari was soiled and threadbare and her sandals bore the remnants of earth from the fields. She had forgotten to scrub them down. Hello again, Usha. Her heart quickened. She turned to see Rothwell breezing into the room. And you are? Chandrima, Sahib. What an interesting name. Chandrimas face was bright red. She glanced at Usha, her eyes filled with alarm. It means light of moon, Sahib, Usha said , trying to remain calm. His eyes sparkled. How fascinating. Thankfully, Chandrima found her tongue. Like Chandra, the mood god. The moon had certainly lit Chandrimas face. Usha smiled, embracing her friends joy. Chandra rides chariot across the sky every night. Ten white horses, Sahib. What, pulling the chariot? Yes Sahib. Well, there you have it. We have our little ray of moonlight to brighten us up of an evening. Usha caught the glow of Chandrimas face, yet frowned. Often her friends eyes were moonless. Life under Erskine had been dark, as dark as a dead moon rising. So, Usha, I understand my husband rescued you from a river. The Memsahib! Usha swivelled around, the warmth in the room cooling.
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Yes, Memsahib, I very grateful. Burn had returned to her cheeks. She lowered her gaze to the floor. All in a good days work, my dear, Rothwell said. Come, sit down, please. His gaze was directionless. Had he not met her glance? Usha shuffled across the room and perched on the edge of a velvet covered chair, hoping that her heavily soiled sari might not discolour the fabric. She and Chandrima exchanged furtive glances, Usha pointing quickly to Chandrimas broken sandal strap. Can you cook, Chandrima? The Memsahib again! Ushas eyes darted across to see Chandrima tucking her foot underneath the chair. Her head was down. Had she heard? Yes, Memsahib. What sort of meals can you cook? Chandrima hesitated, red in the face. She glared at Usha. Usha glared back. What meals do you cook? she repeated in Hindi. Chandrima forced a smile. Very good Indian cook, Memsahib, cook very good rice! Any European cuisine? The Memsahibs manicured face was like an ivory mask: cold, unmoving. Usha shuddered involuntarily. Chandrima had turned a bright purple. Even though she hadnt understood the question, Usha stepped in. She very good cook, Memsahib and quick to learn. The mask acquired two disfiguring lines. Right, what do you think, James? Lets give it a try and see how we go. Was that a twinkle in his eye? The Memsahib stiffened in her chair. Alright, I will show you how to cook English food. English cook, Yes, Memsahib, very good Memsahib, I cook? Yes, you cook, Rothwell said, smiling with Chandrima. Thank you Sahib, thank you. The moonlight was unusually radiant that evening. Usha felt the necessity to explain.
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She is very happy Sahib, Memsahib. She like cooking . The Memsahib made as if to rise. A pang of tension gripped Ushas belly. No one had mentioned the maids job. She forced herself to speak. I work as chamber maid? Rothwell Sahib glanced at the Memsahib. Please let her not object. Yes, of course, he said. A wave of relief passed through her. She thought of Patita Pavana and gave thanks. So, tomorrow morning, the two of you should come to the house after breakfast. Memsahib will show you what to do. We will travel to Durban to buy supplies so perhaps one of you can accompany us. * Im not sure how that is going to work, Annabelle said as the door closed behind the two chattering young women. It could be fun finding out though; Im quite looking forward to my Indian style pork chops! Well, youll have to eat mine then, my dear. Only later that evening did Rothwell remember his intention to speak to Royston about the bank visit and viewing the huts. The evening light was fast fading. A flickering lamp through the open cottage door was evidence that Royston was inside. Rothwell knocked and with no reply knocked again. A strong waft of alcohol met his entry. Fully clothed, Royston slept on the bed, an empty bottle of whisky standing on the bedside table. Clearly Royston would be of little assistance that evening! Thankful to escape the smell of ether and rotting fungus, Rothwell retraced his steps. Roystonwhat on earth was he going to do with the dreadful man? The night was rough. Rothwells nightmare was dark and twisted. Blinding pain ripped through his ankle. Across the African bushveld, he struggled, Buckingham helping, a mass of blood thirsty
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Zulu rampaging ever closer. But then the landscape changed. No longer the rolling plain beneath the Lions Kop, Buckingham dragged Rothwells dead weight body through fields of burning sugar cane. Fire scorched their faces and lanced their skin. Put it out, man! Put it out! Buckingham cried, stamp ing out the flames with his boot. For every flame he extinguished, two more grew, the inferno deepening with every staggered step. A dark shadow appeared beside Rothwell. He turned expecting to find Annabelle or Krishnan, but it was neither. The shadowy figure laughed, a high pitched cackle, like a hyena. A frisson of fear gripped Rothwell. Royston! Burn coolies, burn, the madman yelled, a reddened sjambok flashing in the air. A large sack was strapped to his side from which he pulled out bundles of dry cane leaves. Each bundle of leaves was thrown to the ground, the flames of the fire leaping higher. No, Rothwell yelled, lumbering forward. He screamed, s earing pain rushing from his blackened flesh, the wall of burning flames now thunderous. Except that it was no longer cane leaves fueling the inferno. Royston pulled bundles of money - notes - from the sack and threw them onto the fire. What are you doing, you fool? Rothwell shouted. Making you bankrupt. Burning you in hell, the shadow cackled, its yellowed rotting teeth exposed through its smile.

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9 The Moon Goddess


Rothwell woke to a thunderous head, the sound of demonic laughter reverberating within. He stumbled to the basin and filled a pitcher with water, the refreshing liquid cooling the fire in his temples. Through the shutters dawn glimpses took the edge off the bushveld darkness. An eerie twilight pervaded. A scream outside made him jump. He stumbled down the stairs and wrenched open the front door. Usha cowered beneath the venomous sjambok of Talleen, her sari ripped open at the back. Wait. What are you doing? Rothwell shouted , blood rushing to his head. Even though Talleen was a large man Rothwell had no hesitation in charging forward and grabbing the sjambok from the brutes hand. Damn you, he cried, throwing the whip to the ground. Talleen wheeled sideways. Sweat poured off his face. She work in field, he muttered. No, she works for me in the house. Sh e is maid, you understand! Fury filled Rothwells veins. His eyes glared like comets in the night sky. Do not hit the women. Do not hit any of the coolies. He pointed his finger at the man. You understand. Talleen held his ground, his eyes dark and menacing. Erskine Sahib say hit. The strength of Hercules infused Rothwell. Is Erskine Sahib here? Do you see him? No, he is gone. Rothwell Sahib is here and Rothwell Sahib says no more hitting. Now go! His heart pounding, Rothwell braced himself to fight the man. Talleen picked up his sjambok and shouted at Usha before walking away. Usha, come inside. ____

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Blood seeped through her sari and pain in her back numbed her senses, but Usha did not care. A vision of hope had arisen over the horizon. Im alright, Sahib. He is bad man. Chandrima ran across and grabbed her arm. Well bathe your back, Rothwell said, his voice filled with tremor. Chandrima, can you help Usha into the kitchen. Ill see if we have any dressing. Usha hobbled into the house on the arms of her saviour. Her heart rushing, she wondered if her nightmare might finally be ending. * Darkness invaded Rothwells eyes. An aroma of Indian spices wafted through his nostrils. Out of the blindness came shadows, then ruddy brown walls that encircled a tiny chamber. Several coarse woollen blankets lay over reed mats on the earth floor. Various pots and trinkets sat on a small wooden shelf hung from sticks pegged into the mud wall. The hut was empty, but nevertheless he felt his intrusion. He counted six beds; six occupants sleeping in this one tiny hut? A ghastly image of the black hole of Calcutta made him shudder. Wriggling back out on all fours, he stood up and went to the next hut. This one was occupied. An old woman lay inside, her breathing heavy. A smell of vomit lingered. Are you alright? Rothwell called into the gloom. The old woman stirred, her eyes unopening. Hey, Royston, is this woman alright? She looks sick. His estate manager stood idle, fidgeting with a lota that had fallen by the side of the kitchen. He popped his head through the entrance of the rank smelling hut, withdrawing quickly. I believe so, Mr Rothwell. It is better that we stay away though, in case she is infectious. But who is attending to her? Royston failed to meet Rothwells eye. One of the other coolies will see to her, Im sure. Dont we have a medical room or a doctor that attends?
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No, sir, Mr Erskine didnt trouble with that. Theyre only coolies after all. If they get sick, they get sick. Thats ridiculous, Royston. Surely we must ask a doctor to attend so that this woman can receive treatment? Roystons eyes were fixed on the horizon. Rothwell didnt wait for a reply. My god, what sort of place is this? Look at the state of these huts, Royston. Its barbaric. No one should be expected to live in these conditions. The smirk yellowed. Its just the practice, Mr Rothwell. Its the same with all the plantations. No one provides more than basic huts. The hairs on Rothwells necked were raised. A pounding had invaded his chest. Its deplorable, Royston. We have to provide some proper accommodation for these people. I dont care what it costs. There are levels of basic human decency! And we have to find a doctor. There must be someone in town. Royston pulled at his collar, his cheeks flushing. There is a Doctor Elliot at the hospital, but he normally only attends to the whites. Rothwell wrung his hands. Really! Well, I will ask this Doctor Elliot to come and visit. Yes, sir. The cheeks were now white, mouth thin lipped, with all traces of yellow encrustation vanished. Come on, Royston, Ive seen enough. Rothwell began to walk back up the hill. Is there a materials supplier or a builder that could construct some simple timber-framed housing for us? Im not sure, but what about the cost, sir? Breathless, Royston caught up. He pulled at his collar. Did the man have a nervous twitch? Leave that to me, Royston. Perhaps we could get the Indians to build their own accommodation, u nder supervision, of course? Two lines flickered - almost imperceptibly - across Roystons forehead. But that will take them off the fields, Mr Rothwell. Were trying to get as much cane cut as possible at the moment. It is the crushing season, after all.
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I know Royston. Im trying to think of a practical solution. Perhaps we could organise a building party of five or six workers? It may take time, but we need to find a compromise here. Would that deplete the work force in the fields too much? Rothwell stopped in his tracks. He was thinking on the move, such was the urgency and the extent of the remedial action required. Wouldnt it be better to do this properly? It strikes me that we are already hugely undermanned for what we are trying to do in the fields. The workers are out there from dawn till dusk and we still cant get the through-production into the mill. He paused. I want you to give this some thought, Royston. We make the work day for each worker 12 hours, not 16 hours; we allocate five workers, lets say for three months, for the new housing. Give me an estimate of how many extra workers we would need to run things. A number plus a cost, with a separate tally including back pay owing. Do you think you could do that? Royston scanned the bush. Yes, sir, I can certainly do that, Mr Rothwell. He spoke without conviction. By the way, Royston, I meant to tell you. I had words this morning with Talleen. I found him thrashing Usha. Royston turned back to him. Did she refuse to work? No, she was waiting outside. Ive asked Usha and Chandrima to work in the house. I tried to tell you last night, Royston, but I believe you had retired. A picture of Royston lying in a drunken stupor in his quarters flashed before Rothwells eyes. Talleen obviously didnt understand, but I refuse to allow a sirdar to strike the workers. Its brutal. There has to be better way of maintaining order. Hes only doing his job. Erskine instructed the sirdars to hit the coolies. Its standard practice. You have to have some discipline or the lazy buggers will be playing us all for fools. Rothwells face reddened to burnt ochre. He faced his manager with the thunder of Thor in his voice. Please dont call them lazy buggers. They work every hour of the day in appalling conditions. We treat them like animals. Theyre beaten for the slightest thing by that thug, Talleen. He paused to
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catch breath. Ive already told him, and Im telling you. If I catch him or anyone else beating the workers, Im going to dismiss them, right? The warning was barely veiled. Royston dropped his eyes to the ground, his face hardening. Yes, Mr Rothwell. * The sound of the jungle was a high pitched buzzing, universal in its encumbrance. From nowhere and everywhere, the unseen throbbing invaded the senses, even the clacking of a horses hooves on the red earth track could not register amongst its confusion. Damned tropics, Annabelle muttered, a palm frond from an overhanging tree scratching her face. Her wide brimmed hat was no match for the heat. Beads of salty sweat dripped down her face and the fabric of her over-embroidered dress clung to her back, like a soggy blanket. A breath of tepid jungle air made her cough, the moisture apparently tickling her lungs. Her discomfort prompted his involuntary smile. A gloved hand swiped his arm. Unfortunately she had caught his expression. I am not amused, James Rothwell. Youre the one who brought us to this horrid place! An impulse to laugh was stifled. Anything he said or did at that moment would only aggravate the situation. Instead, he focussed on the ride. The earth was boggy, sodden with water from a tropical storm the previous night, the reins slipped in his hands as he negotiated the cart around the worst of the rivulets. He glanced back and felt a rush of warmth inside. Chandrima sat on wooden planking. Her legs dangled over the back of the cart. The position was perilous and her hand gripped firmly the side railing, yet she wore the prettiest of smiles. Untroubled by the heat, her face glowed. She absorbed the jungle vista as sublimation, its vibrant beauty infusing her own. A patch of open ground in the centre of town hosted the twice weekly Durban market. This being market day, the square was filled with traders and hawkers, a multitude of blacks, browns and whites
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buying and selling everything from ox, cattle and elephant meat, to maize and pumpkin, to tobacco, corn, sugar, molasses, fish, bananas. Will you be alright? Rothwell shouted above the general melee. He wondered how his wife might cope with this seething mass of African confusion. Annabelle stepped from the cart, her eyes filling with purpose. Yes, of course. Chandrima will help you. You run along and leave us women to sort things out. He was surprised at her conviction. She held a determination that he had not seen since their arrival. He left in search of the Natal Bank where he had arranged to meet Royston. A small, rotund man with a jovial countenance welcomed them into his office. Good day, Mr Rothwell, the man said, his handshake full of warmth and commitment. Dawkins, the manager, I have been expecting your attendance. We had word that you were taking up the reins after the passing of the late Mr Erskine. Please accept my condolences for your loss. Rothwell sat in the chair facing the desk, his eyes drifting to a black and white sketch of West Street mounted on the wall. Thank you Mr Dawkins, but I hardly knew my uncle. He was a very distant relative. Ive brought Mr Royston with me. No doubt you two gentlemen are acquainted. Dawkins nodded. Royston, standing, kept his eyes trained to the window. I wanted to get matters straight with the plantation account, Mr Dawkins. I gather there are arrears on the loan. Yes unfortunately affairs have slipped, Mr Rothwell. Several months back interest is outstanding. Given the arrears and the uncertainty following your late uncles unfortunate passing we were on the point of initiating a recovery action. Well it is fortuitous that I have stepped in this m orning then, Mr Dawkins. Im arranging for funds to be transferred from Baring Brothers in London. The arrears should be rectified shortly.
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Excellent news, Mr Rothwell, Im looking forward to assist ing you with the account and any other financial matters where I can be of help. Thank you, Mr Dawkins. Im much obliged. Dawkins closed the folder of papers on his desk and slipped it into his top drawer. So, how are you finding our distant tropical outpost, Mr Rothwell? Extremely well, Mr Dawkins, hot and humid of course compared to the chill of an English winter, but most enjoyable nonetheless. I was here before so its not completely foreign to me. Oh, I didnt realise that Mr Rothwell. Yes, I was stationed here briefly with the British army on our way to Zululand. Very courageous Im sure, Mr Rothwell. His was a memory of shadows. Rothwells smile was grim. I fought at Isandlwana, but its not an experience that I care to remember, nor indeed a campaign in which I take pride, Mr Dawkins. Very good, sir, I understand that particular battle was not one of our best. Yes, far from it, Mr Dawkins. Rothwell shifted uneasily in his chair and attempted a smile. Anyway, that is all behind me, I have transgressed into sugar for better or worse. For better I hope Mr Rothwell, although I know that the market has been difficult in recent times. Yes, Im discovering the issues from Mr Royston here. Royston merely nodded, apparently reluctant to join the discussion. Rothwell rose from his chair and extended his hand. Well, Mr Dawkins, I wont take up any more of your valuable time. Those funds should be with you shortly. Very good, Mr Rothwell, its been a pleasure to meet you. Im very glad that youve come back to join us. Oh, by the way Mr Dawkins, can you recommend a builder in town? Im planning to construct some housing for the workers on the plantation.
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Travis and Williams in Main Street have a good reputation. George Travis is a long standing customer of the bank if you wanted to mention my name. Im much obliged, thank you. Rothwell had reached the door when Dawkins called him back. Perceiving that the bank manager wanted a word in private, he suggested that Royston wait for him outside. I dont wish to speak out of turn, Mr Rothwel l, but I need to bring something to your attention in the strictest confidence. Dawkins walked to the door and closed it. The joviality had disappeared. His manner was grave. There have been several irregularities on the Erskine account over the last six months, more withdrawals than usual. We stopped a couple of payments because it appeared that Mr Erskines signature had been forged. Events were overtaken when your uncle passed away. My goodness, do you know who might be behind this? Dawkins glanced to the door. Well I have to insist that this matter remains strictly confidential, but I did some checking on your estate manager since he was running the account. It appears that Mr Royston has a history. I understand from my sources that he was accused of embezzlement by his former employer in Mauritius. Rothwell shivered. So that is why Royston had been so quiet in front of Dawkins and why he had seemed nervous when discussing the accounting ledgers. Now it made sense, Dawkins revelation had confirmed his instinct: the man was a crook. He frowned. What was he to do with the scoundrel? I didnt want to say anything whilst he was in the room, but this is partly why we were about to instigate foreclosure proceedings on the loan. We were concerned about further misuse of funds through the account. Now that you are here, I am much relieved of course. How would you like me to handle this, Mr Rothwell? I recognise that the matter is delicate. If Mr Royston is to continue working for you, I would countenance extreme caution. Rothwells face had turned ashen. His instinct was to fire Royston, but having just arrived could he afford to?
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Thank you, Mr Dawkins, I appreciate your candour. Let us be clear. My signature and my signature alone will appear on any transactions with regard to the account. Any request from Royston should be referred to me. Please leave this with me, Mr Dawkins. I will need to determine how to deal with it. In the meantime I would be extremely grateful if you would keep this information to yourself. Of course, Mr Rothwell, I just considered that you needed to know, given the gravity of the matter. Yes thank you, I appreciate your raising it, Mr Dawkins, truly. Royston shuffled his boots in the earth as Rothwell stepped outside. Is everything in order? Yes, Dawkins wanted clarification on the funds transfer. Rothwell tried to appear as matter of fact as possible, but struggled to meet Roystons enquiring eyes. A sense of revulsion gripped him. I have some business to attend to, Royston. Perhaps you could join my wife and Chandrima at the market and lend a hand? Make sure they havent purchased the entire market! The joke was weak, but served to camouflage his unease. Will you call on Mr Travis? Shall I attend? Thats alright, Royston, I may drop in if I have time, but I have other matters to attend to. Ill join you shortly. Colour had drained from Roystons face. He departed in silence. Rothwell was concerned that he had not been sufficiently circumspect. He made two calls: Addington Hospital, where he left a message for Doctor Elliot to call; and Travis and Williams, where he spoke with George Travis about the prospective building project. Roystons contribution would have been useful at the second meeting, but Rothwell hadnt the stomach for it. His mind churning over, he returned to the square and a cart loaded with boxes and bags: an assortment of meat, maize, pumpkin, rice, flour, fruit and various other kitchen items. My goodness, you have purchased the entire market! The glint in Annabelles eye suggested that she was enjoying her role as director of operations.
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Well, we needed to stock up. Chandrima has been a great help. She is a little ray of moonlight. Annabelle clarified in the face of Rothwells bemusement. Chandrima, it means moonlight apparently. Rothwell smiled at the Indian woman. Is that right? Chandrima smiled back, her face filling with radiance. Yes, Sahib, Chandra is moon god. Excellent work, Chandrima, you are indeed a ray of moonlight. Thank you, Sahib. Her big eyes tracked the ground. Well Royston and I had a useful meeting at the bank and I managed to call on Doctor Elliot at the hospital. Why, are you sick James? Annabelle asked, her face clouding. No, not meone of the Indian women, I discovered her lying in a hut this morning. Is that really necessary? Of course. His words were clipped, others were within earshot. Royston wore a sickly grin. Ill meet you back at the plantation, Mr Rothwell, he said, mounting his horse. Right you are, Royston. Rothwell frowned , avoiding his stare. They played an unsettling game of cloak and dagger. With Annabelle and Rothwell up front, and the back of the cart packed with supplies, there was no room for Chandrima. Coolie, you walk, Royston muttered, before riding off. Chandrimas face lost its sparkle. The plantation was an eightmile walk in the heat of the day. Annabelle squinted into the ever sharpening sun. Lets go, James. Rothwell jumped down from the carriage and began to rearrange the bags. Hop up, Chandrima, we cant have our little ray of moonlight walking now can we? Chandrimas face regained some of its effervescence. She jumped into the tiny space that he had created. Her legs dangled even more precariously than before, but it was better than a long walk. Thank you, Sahib.
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Rothwell jumped back up and gave the horse a tap with the whip. Was that really necessary? Annabelle muttered. Yes, it was, he whispered hoarsely. Had she no compassion? The horse inched the heavy cart along a West Street bustling with market day traffic. A multitude of ox and horse-drawn carts ploughed, almost literally, up and down the muddy rutted carriageway. Thankfully the thoroughfare was wide. The roads in Durban had been laid out so that a team of three pairs of oxen and wagon could turn; a logistical requirement that had created spacious boulevards, but ensured that in the rainy season the boggy quagmire was negotiated only with the utmost trepidation by both carriage drivers and pedestrians alike. Aside from the condition of the thoroughfare, Rothwell was struck by how established the settlement had become. Parts of West Street and Smith Street adopted an air of sophistication, the wooden pioneering shacks of the original shanty town having been replaced by elegant stone buildings. St Pauls Church with its elaborately decorated bell tower now dominated the skyline. Also striking was the multi-cultural diversity, a collage of white, black, and brown faces lined the streets. Many w ere passenger Indians, emigrants who had arrived independently of the enforced restrictions of indenture. It grated on Rothwell that the whites in the colony benefited from the enterprise of these emigrants, both the indentured and passenger Indians, yet so resented their presence. He had heard that the Natal government was now even reneging on the promise of granting land to coolies who had completed their ten years of hard indentured labour. Very few of the thousands who had applied for land, in lieu of a return passage to India, had been awarded it. It was abundantly clear that the Natal government did not want them to stay. The offer of land had been a cynical ruse to lure the Indians to indenture, but the golden elixir of a promised new life was a fools gold in reality. The carrot disappeared before it could be eaten. Rothwell recognised the irony. As a white settler, a subjugator, he was an emigrant just like the Indians he managed. The white settlers land was not theirs to give away. Had his uncle and others
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like him not stolen it from the original owners, the African people? Rothwell knew that he walked on shifting sands. The collective shame of his white brethren weighed down on his shoulders. A beaming Usha greeted the returning party at the door. Many bags, Sahib. Rothwell stepped down from the carriage. How is your back, Usha? Were you not supposed to be resting? Is very good, Sahib. He smiled at her fortitude. He could not imagine how she could possibly be very good after the beating she had received earlier. With the bags unloaded, Rothwell accompanied Royston down to the fields. The Indians were hard at work cutting the cane. Hundreds of bundles sat on carts awaiting transportation to the mill. Rothwell had circumvented a bank of thick cane in the second field when a scuffle ahead caught his eye. Pinned to the ground a man was being thrashed by a large man standing above him: Talleen! No Talleen. No! he yelled, running forward. Talleen stopped whipping the man and looked up, his face sweating from the heavy exertion. The beaten man lay on the ground, motionless, his back a bloody mess of lacerations. Is he alright? Rothwell yelled, bending down to ascertain that the man still breathed. Rising, he turned to Talleen. I told you before, Im not having it. Leave, you no longer work here. Go back to India. His words came as a cobra spits venom. The fury of the gods infused his soul. Hes only keeping the coolies in order, Royston shouted, rushing forward. Rothwells face turned from crimson to purple. No, he brutalises them. The man is a menace. He has half -killed the fellow. Rothwell squared up to Royston. Get him off my plantation and youd better listen to my instructions, or youll be following. Rothwell no longer cared that he needed Roystons experience. The man was an unprincipled fraudster. If he obstructed him, then his usefulness had expired. Royston jerked his head and shuffled backwards, flushing red. Right, Mr Rothwell.
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Take him to the Indian Protector at the Point. I want him shipped out. Hes not to be reassigned to another plantation. Royston shifted his gaze to the ground. Rothwell knew that the man was slippery. Make the arrangements and I will confirm with the Protector this afternoon. Royston turned to leave. Have you made the estimate? Which estimate? The estimate of additional workers required for the building project. Royston paused, his eyes vacant. Er, another 15 coolies I reckon, Mr Rothwell. Thats allowing five for the new housing construction? Royston nodded, the sullenness in his face matching Talleens. Alright, Ill organise it with the Protector when I speak with him. And I want to hold a meeting with the workers later to pay their wages and discuss the changes. Changes? Yes, changes, Royston. It was a tussle of wills, but Rothwell held the upper hand. Royston worked for him and with every passing day he became more expendable. Royston looked darkly at Talleen. What about a new sirdar? Leave that with me. Rothwell turned to leave, before swivelling back around again. One more thing before you leave Royston, when you communicate with the Indians, how do you usually do it? Roystons eyes glazed over. I dont understand, Mr Rothwell. How do you talk to them? Royston cleared his throat. Well, normally I tell them what I want and if they dont understand the sirdar explains it in their language. How does that work if they dont speak English? I cant imagine Talleen or Aadesh understanding much. Royston fiddled with his tunic button, smiling insipidly. It usually works, Mr Rothwell, they get the message, one way or another. Rothwell sought to find Roystons gaze, without success.
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So what we really need is an Indian who speaks good English. Royston shuffled his feet. A bead of sweat ran down his temple. Is there anyone? Rothwell asked. Nonobody I am aware of. Thank you, Royston. Ill put my thinking cap on. The joust had far reaching implications. A sirdar or an interpreter who spoke English seemed the obvious solution to Rothwell. He thought of Usha. She was the only Indian he had encountered with proficient English. His question was directed at undermining any argument that Royston might construct to retain the old order. The man was dangerous, a boil to be lanced. Annabelle was busy in the store room when Rothwell returned. She joined Rothwell in the lounge. Weve been stowing supplies. We? Chandrima and Usha, Ive been throwing my weight around. Are you alright, darling? You looke d tired. Here, Ill make you a drink. Rothwell wiped the moisture from his forehead. Ive dismissed Talleen. He flogged one of the coolies to a pulp. The man is a monster. Was that wise, James? Dont we need someone to keep them in order? Thats what Royston said, but Im not having such brutality on the plantation. There are better ways of doing things. Well, you know best, dear. I dont know, Annabelle. Im just doing what I think is best. I dont see how one can justify such barbaric treatmen t. We have a responsibility. Did I tell you? I saw the huts; absolute squalor. You wouldnt put your dog in there. Its an extra expensive, but well have to erect new housing. Have we the funds for that? No, but well find them. Ive arranged a transf er from Barings, so we are solvent at present. I hope its not money down the drain. I hope not, bloody plantationits proving to be more of a challenge than I had expected.
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Annabelle smiled with just a hint of I told you so in her face . Not losing our zeal for emancipation are we? Rothwell sighed. Perhaps. He took a sip of his drink. Oh, I meant to say, we must move Chandrima and Usha up to the house. Its the least we can do! We cant have them living in a mud hut when we have a perfectly decent maids room. Lets have open house, then? Move all of them in, Annabelle said, rolling her eyes. The lines on Rothwells face hardened. Alright, move them into the maids room if you want. Well have them both night and day. His eyes remained dark. He was in no mood for playing games. Dont you see? Chandrima means light of the moon, and Usha apparently means goddess of dawn in Indian, so Im calling them night and day. Annabelles laugh was sharp, her eyes darting across the room. He smiled. Well, theres a surprise, I hadnt realised that Usha meant goddess of dawnnight and dayvery intriguing. * Usha grasped the edge of the box, with Chandrima holding the other end. Now. With a push, they lifted the heavy object onto the shelf in the pantry. A voice at the door made her jump. Usha, I wanted to ask you something. Can you come through? Rothwell! Her pulse raced. Had she done something wrong? Yes, Sahib. She quickly brushed her hair back and followed him into the study. My cleaning good? Its good Usha. Memsahib is very happy. Please take a seat. He smiled and gestured to a chair beside a large mahogany desk, sitting down behind it. The rush in Ushas chest began to subside. Memsahib tells me your name means goddess of dawn!
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Yes Sahib. In the Vedas, Usha is goddess of dawn. Surya follow her. Usha wished that it could have been so. No one followed Nakti. Surya? Yes Sahib. Surya is sun god. Fascinating, so Usha you bring light into our lives every new day! Yes Sahib. She smiled without conviction, her eyes finding her feet. You speak good English, Usha, I can see that. Sahib? My father teach me and I learn at school plenty. Good. What language do the Indian workers speak, on the plantation? Oh, many language, Sahib, mostly Hindi, but others also. And you speak Hindi? Yes, Sahib, I am from Bengal so I speak Hindi, but why you ask, Sahib? I need a translator, Usha, someone to help me talk to the Indian workers, so that they can understand me. I think you could be a good translator. A rush of excitement coursed through her. She recalled her expectation when disembarking from the Umvoti. Yes, Sahib, I like to be translator. Good, I have arranged a meeting with all the workers for later this afternoon. I want to inform them about the new housing and to pay their wages. Very good, Sahib. Usha knew that she should be happy. This was an opportunity she had dreamed of, but Rothwells manner was different, matter of fact. Did he no longer care for her? The tension in their silence obliged her to fill it. What is new housing? She scrunched her eyes to the disappointment of her question, but it was all she could think of. The huts you live in Usha, theyre disgusting. I intend to build new houses for everyone. This may take several months. In the meantime, I want you and Chandrima to move into the maids room in the house.
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In house? Surely she had misunderstood? Yes, in the house. A miracle! He must care for her. Unable to bottle up her emotion, a tear ran from her eye. He stood up, his face filled with concern. Why are you crying, Usha, is this not good? She wiped her eyes quickly with her pallu. Sorry, Sahib. What must he think of her? This very good, Sahib. Hut is very bad place. I very happyvery happy. Thank you for changing my work. My life is very bad before, Sahib, and now very good. Her mouth quivered into a smile. Tears of joy cascaded down her face. Then he was walking around the desk and placing his hand on her shoulder. I am pleased that I can help you, Usha, you, and all the Indian workers. I want to make this a better place for you all. His touch was warm although his voice was strangely dispassionate even cold. She continued to cry through the confusion. Thank you, Sahib. Thank you, you very kind. Then he was backing away from her. I want you and Chandrima to collect your possessions. Bring them to the house and move straight into the maids room. Later you can help me with the meeting, alright? Warmth rested in his smile, but his eyes were distant. Once again, she felt his discomfort. She had embarrassed him. Yes Sahib. Thank you, Sahib. Sorry for crying, Sahib. From the room she scuttled, her cheeks smeared with salty residue. The touch of human kindness had rekindled a fire within. She skipped through the blackened field and wondered for one glorious moment whether she might not be Nakti after all.

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10 Talking to the Coolies


Good day, Im Doctor Elliot. The man emitted an air of refinement that extended beyond the cut of his cloth. James Rothwell, thank you for calling doctor. Rothwell raised his hand to his chin. Your face seems familiar. The doctor smiled. Indeed, I attended to you after Isandlwana. You were in the throes of fever at the time so you may not recall. Why yes, I do, Doctor Elliot, of course. He felt foolish for not having remembered. How is your leg? I am thankful that we were able to save it. A few twinges, but otherwise fully recovered. Thank you for everything you did for me in the hospital. The wonders of the healing process, Mr Rothwell! Doctor Elliot stepped into the hallway. Have you left the army? The last time I saw you, you were in uniform. Yes indeed, doctor. I sought a discharge after my injury, and then circumstances led me to return here from England. Erskine, the former estate owner, was my uncle. Ah yes, Mr Erskine. Regrettably his illness had advanced too far. We were unable to do much for him. Please accept my condolences for your loss, Mr Rothw ell. Thank you kindly, Doctor Elliot, although I did not know him. He was a distant relation. Doctor Elliot placed his medical bag on the sideboard. Well, Mr Rothwell, how can I help? Should I examine your leg? Or perhaps someone else in the household requires attention? Oh yes my good fellow. One of my workers is sick, I will show you. Rothwell turned to the door. Doctor Elliot flushed and took a step back. Ah, I would not usually call out for a coolie. I had assumed it was a member of the household. Rothwell frowned. How would you normally deal with it then?
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The usual thing would be to bring the coolie to the hospital, but only in extremis. Im afraid that was not possible doctor. When I saw the woman this morning she was too ill to be moved. Rothwell felt the heat in his face. Wasnt the treatment of the sick a doctors obligation? Why would Doctor Elliot differentiate between a white and a non-white? The doctor hesitated, as if unsure what to do. Well, now you are here doctor, perhaps you would care to at least examine the woman. The two men walked uneasily through the cane fields. Rothwells embarrassment mixed with his irritation. He had assumed Doctor Elliot to be a kindred spirit, but clearly his refinement was selective. Have you attended to any of the Indians on the Erskine plantation? He had intended to make conversation, but in the event had spoken his mind. Doctor Elliots reply was wooden. As I say, Mr Rothwell, its not the common practice to attend directly. Rothwell glanced sideways, frowning. He sensed decency in the doctor; a discordance with his apparent prejudice. They reached the gully and Doctor Elliot disappeared into the hut, emerging from the murky depths several minutes later. She has a fever. I have given her something to bring down the temperature, but she will need plenty of fluids and rest. It is best that she is not moved, but bring her to the hospital if her condition deteriorates. She may have contracted a disease through the drinking water, a common occurrence with coolies. Thank you, I will examine the water supply, we may require a new well. I would advocate clean water of course, but often it is the expense that is prohibitive. Rothwell frowned. Would you not see it as a pre-requisite, an obligation? The doctors stare was filled with hurt. My, you are intent on rolling me over the coals arent you, Mr Rothwell. They walked back up the field in silence.
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I know what you are thinking. You must understand that I have been obliged to adapt to the prevailing conditions. The hospital hasnt the resourcing to implement a healthcare system for the many thousands of non-whites. There must be a way of providing a basic level of care, surely? The government may be opposed, but you of all people are in a position to influence opinion. You paint an ideal picture, Mr Rothwell, but the weight of opinion is against it. I fail to see how we can disregard these people, particularly when we bring them here to do our bidding. Doctor Elliot averted his eyes, his face taut. If your wish was to embarrass me then you have achieved it, Mr Rothwell. My intention was---- Your intentions are honorable Im sure, I wish I could have been more able to satisfy them. Let me think on it. Good day, Mr Rothwell, I have other calls to make. Their parting was strained. Rothwell doubted Doctor Elliots willingness to honestly reconsider his values. The well-trodden path is the one most easily followed even if such a course leads back on itself; one circles in never ending confusion. Yet did he not himself stumble forward in darkness unknowing whether the path he travelled could ever be completed? Was he in any position to be critical of others? * From the corner shadow, the sheen of a white cloth dhoti and sherwani jacket caught Rothwells eye. A face full of wisdom beamed at him. Narada! Usha had told him that the Indian never stopped smiling. Had he an effervescence that transcended worldly troubles? Narada? The man put his palms together and fluttered his head from side to side, his eyes twinkling. Rothwell mirrored the greeting then held up his hand. Wait. Usha had warned him that Naradas English was limited. He left the
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Indian with a markedly unsmiling Royston and went in search of his new translator. ____ Usha spun around at the sound of footsteps. Can you come? The smiling one is here. Sahib? Narada. Ah, yes Sahib. She followed Rothwell into the study, her face creasing at the sparkle in Naradas eyes. Do you speak any English, Narada? Rothwell asked. Yes, little Sahib, Narada said, grinning, holding up his thumb. Usha imagined that this should perhaps have been his little finger. She stifled a snigger, her eyes brimming with merriment. Had Narada really called Rothwell Sahib Little Sahib? Rothwell laughed, his face flushing red. Well that has put me in my place! Naradas blanch obliged Usha to step in and explain in Hindi. Sorry, Sahib Narada said, his head dancing from side to side. Which part of India are you from, Narada? Narada glanced anxiously at Usha, who translated, both Rothwells question and Naradas reply. He is from Bengal, Sahib. And what did you do in Bengal, Narada? He is a Rajput, a farmer from Ksh atriyas caste. Is very high caste, Sahib, below Brahmin, Usha sai d, translating again. What crops did you farm? Rothwell asked. Sugar cane, Sahib, Usha translated, smiling. She had recommended Narada for his sincerity and level headedness, his background in sugar cane was a surprise. There you are Royston. We have a sugar cane farmer in our midst and we hadnt even realised it! Royston smiled weakly. Very useful, Mr Rothwell, perhaps well ask him for some suggestions, shall we? Well, Narada, we need a new sirdar, Rothwell said. Sirdar, yes, Sahib.
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And with your knowledge of farming, I think you will make a good sirdar, Narada. Usha translated. Yes Sahib, Narada replied, his head dancing once again in merriment. My rule is no sjambok. If anyone refuses to work, you send them to me. Understand? Usha saw Rothwell catch Roystons eye. Her cheeks flushed. She could not imagine Narada using violence against anyone, his strength came from within. Narada nodded sagely. He understands, Sahib. He is very happy to be sirdar. He is good at making work in field. Good. Rothwell rose and shook Naradas hand. Oh, yes sirdars will now be paid 15 shillings. 15 shillings! Are you quite certain, Mr Rothwell? We do not want the coolies getting ideas, Royston interjected, venom flashing through beaded eyes. Nonsense, Narada will inspire the others to even greater efforts, wont you Narada? Roystons face hardened. Right you are, sir, he mumbled. Naradas wrinkled face broke into a broad grin, his head making an exaggerated rocking. Thank you, Sahib. I am good sirdar, he said. There you go. You do speak English, Narada, Rothwell said, smiling in unison. Little. Narada glanced around the room, a glint in his eyes . Nobig Sahib. Royston stood, stone faced, in a room filled with heavenly exuberance. * An incongruous collection of Indians stood at the back of the manor house, their tired bodies leaving long shadows over the couch grass. A murmur of expectancy cut the heavy air. Rumours of change circulated. The worn faces held to a hope that defied the tenor of their experience. Only the most hardened soul would not have felt compassion for their desperation.
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Usha smiled at Chandrima, but refused her friends invitation to join her, standing away from the others. Her nerves jangled. She prayed that she would be up to the occasion. Then her saviour was speaking. Hello. My name is Rothwell Sahib. I am the new owner of the plantation. Usha here will translate my words. He turned to her. Her mind raced. Had she understood? She stiffened her back and projected her voice across the open space. When she had finished speaking she turned to face him, colour having rushed to her cheeks. Her heart pounded even faster as he continued, a lump leaping to her throat. Let me begin by saying how deeply sorry I am for the way you have been treated on this plantation. I plan to make a number of changes to improve your lives. First. He held up one finger, like a school teacher she imagined. I have appointed Narada as head sirdar in charge of work in the fields. Aadesh remains as sirdar in charge of the mill. Usha translated, blushing in unison with Narada. Second, I am building new houses for you. A man will come from Durban to help us build them. I will ask for five workers to help also. Usha translated. A rustle of excitement ran through the assembly. The building work will include a new kitchen and toilets and a new well for clean water supply. As soon as the new houses are ready, in perhaps two months, you will be able to move in. Usha frowned. Rothwell spoke too quickly. Had she missed some of his words? Third, there will be no more sjambok, no more whipping. Anyone who refuses to work will be sent to me. This is very important. Those that work hard will be rewarded with extra food and Sundays as a free day. Ushas eyes moistened. The beatings she had received had left an indelible mark. Her eyes darted to Royston. His lack of engagement was telling. Would he continue to beat them in defiance of Rothwells request?

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Fourth, I am organising a medical room at the house . Anyone who is sick should go there and I will assess them. If you are sick, you will receive treatment and your wages will be paid. A gasp came from the crowd. Many appeared bemused. Usha wondered whether they believed him. Fifth, there will be more food. More rice, more dhal, more vegetables. Her pulse raced faster. Instead of being pleased several in the crowd voiced discontent. What do they say? Rothwell asked. She blushed more than ever. They speak of money, Sahib. Rothwell nodded. Sixth, he said, holding up the requisite number of fingers. Sixth is money. I will now pay each of you what you are owed. On Sunday you may walk into town and buy what you need from the shops. Rothwell cleared his throat. His voice was tremorous. I make these changes so that your lives can be more enjoyable. I want us to work together to make the plantation a better place. A fire of compassion entered Ushas heart. Rothwell had spoken with conviction and she trusted what he had said. Royston smiled also, but his eyes held no illumination. She shuddered at the faade, fearing his objection. Each Indian lined up and received his back pay. Rothwells handshake was a promise for the future, a new contract of indenture. Usha wondered if the march of oppression had been halted. Had a miracle of light finally shone through the dark recesses of her life?

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11 An Unbridgeable Chasm
From ignorance, lead me to truth; From darkness, lead me to light; From death, lead me to immortality Translation from Brihadaranyaka Upanishad 1.3.28 The path to enlightenment is ever rocky, the risk of calamity looming at every turn. Inspired by his vision, Rothwell had taken his first steps on this journey and a weight of expectation rested on his shoulders. He could only hope that opposing forces did not conspire to unsettle it. The great reformation continued with a visit from George Travis. A site near the top of the hill was chosen for the new housing. The higher elevation circumvented the problems of flooding, which caused the gully to become a quagmire in the rainy season. Erskine had positioned the huts there for this very reason, the waterlogged land being unusable for growing cane. A group of workers were reallocated to assist with the build. Rothwell arranged with Shepstone for additional Indians to be hired to more than replace them. These would arrive on the next indenture ship from Calcutta, hopefully to a brighter future than many who had journeyed before. Much to the chagrin of the estate manager, work on the plantation flourished. A halcyon period replaced the former Mephistophelian inequity. Naradas common touch encouraged his fellow Indians to embrace their new contract with gusto. Tonnage through the mill increased. Rothwell dared to imagine a bottom to the pit into which he poured money. Lifes prospect improved; if only Annabelle might embrace it Rothwell tried to lift the veil, to open his wifes eyes to the fascination of Africa, to involve her in his journey of discovery, but she clung to her preconceptions. Her prejudice was a sanctuary from which she was unable or unwilling to reach out. He could not fathom her self-imposed limitation. The polarisation of their
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aspiration drove an irreversible wedge between them. Immersed in the world of the native he shunned contact with this wife. Usha embraced this brave new world in the making. Unshackled from the burden of subjugation, her spirit was infused with new found vigour. Like a wilted flower replenished by the nourishment of a rain shower, she sparkled. Shakti flowed in her veins. Instead of the dark earth beneath her feet, her gaze became heaven bound. She was once again the aspirant goddess, Parvati. One shadow clouded the glow of her divination, the intransigence of which even the newly invigorated shafts of light were unable to puncture. More than anything Usha yearned to find her long lost father. Having travelled to Africa to find him, she was a year and a half later no closer to achieving her goal. What made you leave India, to come here? he asked her one day as they strolled back through the fields. A tremor flashed through her for the memories were harrowing. I was widow in India, Sahib. Life is not good as widow. So you married when you were young? Yes Sahib. I was twelve. It was arranged marr iage. Husband was old man. He died when I was sixteen, Sahib. That is sad, Usha. No, Sahib, I not love him. Arranged marriage is bad and he was bad man. Rothwell frowned, his face filling with sadness. Did your family look after you after your husband died? No, Sahib. Widow must stay with husbands family. They send me to Vrindavan, widow-city, Sahib. My mother close door; not let me in. I bring shame on her. Lines marked her forehead. Why did he ask her these questions? Now she would cry. She feared a deluge. And your father? The dark cloud of her despair enveloped her. She had to fight to find her words. My father leave me when I am six. He go to Africa, but I not know where. So, you came here to find him?
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Yes, Sahib, but no find him. Maybe he not here? The redness of the earth absorbed her eyes. Oh, that he might take her up in his arms. If he had touched her she would have sobbed her heart out. It was almost a relief when he didnt. I hope you will find him, Usha. His words were tender, but distant. She clenched her fist, wanting so much more. I hope so, Sahib. I pray to Brahman. Brahman? Yes, how you say? All, everything. Like universal, everything around usGod? Yes, universal one. Brahman, I pray to him. If only she could reach up, to see Rothwell as she saw Brahman? Of course, she couldnt, her condition would not allow it. But will you know him, Usha, your father? You were only six when he left? The veneer of moisture became a rush. Why did he persist? She mopped her eyes with her pallu, trying to stiffen her palpitation. And then the words were pouring out I remember him Sahib, he put me on knee and feed me honey and tell me story about baby girl that can fly. It is happy memory, Sahib. Her wavering smile was snatched. Finally, she raised her eyes to the sadness in his. Im deeply sorry, Usha. His touch was Shivas. He embraced his Parvati. A pang of longing coursed through her veins. Her eyes opened to a more earth bound reality. Long time ago, she mumbled, tears streaming down her face. Life much better now, thank you, Sahib. Her soul was stricken with grief, for he was married and she was only a servant. How would she ever be his Parvati? ____ Rothwell left Usha, the emptiness of a shattered world in his heart. An intangible bond held them together, yet apart. Had he rescued her from drowning in the Umgeni River so that she might arrive at his plantation? Had the gods bestowed on him a
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responsibility, entrusted him with her guardianship? He walked in darkness, blind to the light that shone above, enmeshed in the intractability of a sunless shadow. * A hot breeze rushed through the shutters, but did little to ameliorate the airlessness of the room. Is everything alright, dearyou seem distracted? Annabelles face hardened to the gloom. Eryes, I was thinking. About what? Oh, about the plantation. Something in Annabelles question required that he lie. He worried that she might misconstrue his thoughts. Her behaviour around both Chandrima and Usha had been bizarre recently. A furrow flashed across her forehead. What about the plantation? Oh, the new housing, Travis thinks that we should build at the top of the hill. A white lie; not the first he had ever told his wife. Annabelle threw her book to the floor and rose from her chair. Shall we go out tonight, James? Im sure we can find something to do in this God-forsaken place. Yes, if you would like to, my darling. Anything to placate her. And? He wracked his brains. There may be a recital on at St Pauls, or perhaps dinner at the Victoria club? again, he was about to add, but thought the better of it. The Victoria club it is then, Annabelle muttered, her eyes continuing their glare. A wave of irritation swept through him. Established as a refuge where colonials could escape from the native and mix with their own, the Victoria club on the Berea Ridge was a bastion of bigotry, full of white settlers grumbling about the inadequacies of the country they plundered. His wife found the patronage parochial,
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but the nuance of her objection was lost on Rothwell. For him, bigotry and small mindedness had the same distasteful odour, from wherever they originated. Why had he made the suggestion? He dressed, all the while steeling himself to the task. He struggled to imagine an interesting conversation across the dinner table. Annabelle stepped into the carriage, the sensual curves of her silhouette accentuated by the corset and bushel of her summer gown. Like the wandering firefly captivated by the glow of a fiery beacon, Rothwells lust rekindled. A balmy evening prompted them to dine outside on the club veranda. Did you hear about the elephants? No. What elephants? Rothwells thoughts were elsewhere. The heights of Berea Ridge enjoyed sweeping views of the bay. Chandrima told me. Apparently, there were elephants in the cane fields last night. They wandered in from the forest, quite close to the coolie huts. His eyes flickered back to the table. Really, I didnt hear that. Perha ps they were foraging for food, although its unusual so close to town. Theyll have to be careful or the poachers will get them. I didnt know you were interested in the wildlife, my dear? Im not really. Chandrima told me the story. He glanced across the table. Annabelles European finery appeared incongruous against the backdrop of the Berea Ridge jungle. Do you really love me, James? she asked, quite suddenly and out of context. Although accustomed to her unpredictability, the question threw him off balance. Her eyes were glazed from the alcohol, but he recognised the hurt in them. Of course, my darling. The sense of obligation weighed heavily. He wondered if he did love her. Theirs had never been the earth-shattering intensity of love that one might expect between a husband and wife. But for Buckingham, he would not have married her. The width of the chasm between them was such that at times he wished he hadnt.
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Are you happy hereI mean happy with mewe were so happy in Englanddo you ever wish we could go backback to that time? Had she read his thoughts? His reassurance had not soothed her worry. What is it Annabelle? Of course I am happy, but we said we would give it some time hereand I have, we have, so much still to do. A stony silence lay like an abyss across the table, so wide that it could not be bridged. Annabelles words broke it. Can we go back James? Yes darling. Are you alright? Im a little emotional tonight. I just want to be alone with you. The emptiness was voluminous, unable to be filled. They tracked across the heavens as two planets in ever separating orbits. Is there any more champagne in the cabinet? Annabelle asked upon return to the manor house. Rothwell feigned merriment, wishing that the evening might end. I think so, so long as Royston hasnt stolen the last bottle that is, but are you sure, darling. Havent you had enough? Of course not, my dear, Im just beginning to enjoy myself. Annabelles face was drawn, without joy. Head throbbing, he trudged to the study and investigated the drinks cabinet, wondering if the evening could become any worse. He was pulling out a bottle of wine when he heard shouting. Leave that you fool. Now get out of my sight. Chandrima rushed past him in the corridor, her face flooded with tears. Annabelle emerged from the kitchen. Good night night. Cheeks flushed, eyes clouded, she waved her hand with an uncoordinated flourish, like a queen dismissing an errant foot page. Shes always trouble, that one. What happened? Rothwell asked. Annabelles behaviour towards night and day as she disparagingly referred to them had become increasingly erratic.
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Those goddessestheyre not real you know, Jamestheyre just pretend. Come on, lets get you upstairs. Wait there for a minute. He had just replaced the unopened bottle in the study cabinet when two elegantly gloved arms encircled his waist. Pulled around into an embrace, his lips were pressed hard upon by moist pulsating passion. I must have you, she murmured, falling up the stairs on his arm. Pushed towards the bed, he waited, loins aching, knowing that he should resist, wishing he had the strength to do so. She emerged from the bathroom in a silk neglige with her hair down and began tugging at his shirt, ripping off his buttons, showering him with drunken kisses. Too late, lathered into frenzy, he now wanted her, like an animal on heat. Their bodies gripped like a fever, but made no connection, only detachment. The point of fulfilment came and he plunged into darkness, hating himself. The depths of oblivion beckoned. He chose to ignore the sobbing from the stranger who lay beside him. His recurrent nightmare was shocking, both in theme and message. Zulu warriors bore down. His pistol flashed as the shadow appeared, but it was not Krishnan or Royston standing beside him. This time Annabelle gripped his hand. She forced the bullet into Buckinghams guts. Except Buckingham was no longer Buckingham, the face now contorting in the grip of death was Chandrimas. Thank you, Sahib, the moon goddess whispered. Her words held a bitter resignation. She did not thank him. She slumped to the ground holding Rothwells contract. Hers was a face etched with disbelief at the bloodied betrayal. Good night, night shouted the evil temptress. A cyclone swept in off the Indian Ocean whipping the sky into a black turmoil. Torrents of rain lashed the earth. Violent winds broke the trees and ripped away the roofs of the African huts. The umnyama had returned for the sphinx-God was angry. Dark portends circled across the African bushveld.
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12 The Moon is Dead


That which is all this changing universe, whatever has come forth, is living energy. It moves and oscillates and shines: A great terror, an uplifted thunderbolt. They who know this become deathless. Translation from Katha Upanishad 6.2 The storm had passed, but the magnitude of its carnage was startling. Torn fronds sliced from the trunks of palm trees scoured a lawn that was topsy-turvy, a jumbled mismatch of potpourri. Rothwell peered through half open shutters, the twisted events in his dream making his thoughts as chaotic as the ruination outside. Annabelle slept. Cascades of hair masked a clouded face, flickering eyelids betrayed turmoil beneath. Rothwells sto mach twisted at the wall of incompatibility that had arisen between them. He lingered a moment, wishing that things might have been otherwise, before necessity forced him to dress. He did not have much time. Then, her tousled hair shifted, shadowed eyes flickered open. Oh, youre awake. Sorry I disturbed you. I have to catch the sailing. What? You remember, we talked; my trip to Mauritius to investigate the sugar cultivars? Oh, the sugar cultivars He knew that she had not registered his words. He finished dressing and glanced at his watch. Annabelle, Im so sorry I have to rush away. We will discuss matters when I return. Sadness fell from his lips as they brushed her soft forehead in parting. Things would be better between them wouldnt they? ____
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Oh James, I slept so badly. I love you my darling. We need to talk Her words were lost, spoken to the ether. Annabelle emerged from the night to the realisation that James had departed. Why had he had rushed away from her? What had he said? We will discuss matters when I return. What did that mean? Was he leaving her? Heart pounding, her mind raced further and further away from the rational. His desertion sent terror running through her. ____ Rothwell rode away with foreboding, the events of his nightmare weighing heavily on his mind. He reached the Point, thankful to have left in such haste, for The Natal weighed anchor. Fortunately, the captain heard the cries from the approaching lighter and delayed the ships sailing so that he might clam ber aboard. Although aware of the aspiration by plantation owners to find a hardier, faster growing sugar cultivar, Rothwell had not realised that he had been blindsided until a tip-off the previous evening had warned him that a ship was due to sail for Mauritius the next morning. His colleagues, the other growers, had conspired that he would not be on board. Much to Rothwells chagrin their fear of his progressive methods had created a determination to see him fail. Morning gentlemen, so glad I could join you, was his retort to a sea of dark faces. Lets sally forth and gather cultivars. He revelled in the unravelling of the complicity for they could hardly throw him back over the side could they? Such an action would have been uncivil. By steamer, the sailing time to Mauritius is a week and a half. Including time spent visiting plantations Rothwells trip extended to a month, a necessary, but nonetheless inopportune time to be absent. The attainment of a batch of Mauritian cultivars was tangible evidence of the worthiness of his high seas adventure, but the sands on which his vision sat shifted precariously. Worried that events conspired against him, he arrived back to an Umgeni manor house shrouded in dark portent.
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* An airless room of musk and tangerines effused a deathly quietno night nor day, only timeless shadows hung from the walls. The clamour of aggrieved souls was silenced, absorbed within, a rush of cold that ran down his spine. Annabelle sat, lifeless, desiccated, staring through closed shutters at nothingness as an Egyptian mummy stares at its immortality. For one terrible moment he imagined that his wifes death was the chill wrenching inside him, but thena flicker of life. A tortured face that wasnt Annabelles turned to face the room. A strangers voice scratched the silence. Oh, James, thank God! Whats happened? Whats wrong? Her eyes held no light; her cheeks were a glacial blue. Its Chandrima. Its so terrible. Rothwell searched for meaning in the madness. What about Chandrima? Where is she? Shes dead. It was a whisper, barely audible. What...what do you mean shes dead? He must have misheard. Shes dead, Usha killed her. A high pitched ringing in his head knocked Rothwell sideways into the chair. Was he hallucinating? Would he awake to find his cabin on The Natal? He opened his eyes with a gulp of musty airlessness and saw the room. What do you mean, Usha killed her? I came down the stairs. Usha struck Chandrima on the back of the head. What? They are friends. He rose from the chair, but was forced to steady himself on its armrest. His heart pounded with the beat of African drums. They had a fight. Why? It doesnt make sense. His mind darted back to his nightmare the night of the storm Chandrimas betrayal. The details of his dark premonition were confused.
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I lost some jewellery. Maybe Chandrima stole it and Usha found out, and they had a fight, I dont know. What jewellery? My diamond broach, you know the one that my parents gave me for my 21st birthday. None of this makes sense. Why would Chandrima steal it? Shes never stolen anything before. Well, I dont know, people do strange things dont they? The temptation must have been too great. The room span in a confusion of blurred images. I dont understand. We called the doctor. Doctor Elliot took Chandrima to hospital, but she died on the way. Annabelle paused, her dark eyes moistening. Her headwas badly beaten. Rothwell attempted to find reason amidst the swirling confusion. She was still alive when you found her? I guess so, but she was unconscious, and blood seeped from her wound. Annabelle wavered, gripping her side with her arms. Her action made Rothwell realise that he had not embraced her. Perhaps he was too shocked to have done so? And what happened to Usha? We called the constable. They came and arrested her. Theyve locked her up. The magistrate has charged her. With murder? Yes. Stabbed by the lance of a gods fury, Rothwell doubled over. He forced a way through the darkness. Is a date set for a trial? The trial has already taken place; the magistrate sentenced her. Oh my goodness... A wave of nausea made him to draw in air sharply. Why had he gone away? Why had he not paid heed to the warnings? He might have prevented this whole series of dreadful events from happening.
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What else was he going to do? I witnessed the whole thing. Annabelles voice was full of tremor, its pitch raised. So what will happen to her? I dont know, James. I suppose shell hang. Hang? The lance in his belly had drawn blood. He lurched forward and banged his head on the wall, a valley of shadows engulfing him. Oh James, Im sorry Rothwell blinked hard to dispel the spinning in his head. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he staggered up and put his arm around his wife. Then he was speaking, without much idea of what he said. Must have been dreadfulI blame myself. Annabelle clasped him tightly, her lips thrusting forward to meet his. We are going to be alright, arent we, James? We do love each other, dont we? Well get through. The words were not his for he was not of this world. He descended into a Cimmerian cavern. A chink of light lit the inescapable gloom. I have to see Usha. Annabelles grip on his arm tightened. What can you do now? I dont know, but I have to speak to her, to find out why she did it. Did she say anything? When? At the trial. No, she wasnt there. The magistrate asked what happened and I told him. Theres nothing you can do now. Youre best to stay out it, James. So no one asked Usha why she killed Chandrima? No, does it matter? She did it, thats all. They probably had an argument about the broach and she lost her temper. It doesnt sound like Usha, something must have happened. Did you recover the broach? No, I never found it. Did you ask Usha? Yes, but she denied all knowledge of it. She would, wouldnt she? You cant trust these coolies. Its best that you just stay out of it, James.
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Perhaps, but I have to see her. Fire was in his eyes. He was entrusted, his guardianship required it. But, why, it wont do any good. Annabelles eyes were clouded with fear. Dont go! I need you to stay with me. Im not feeling well, James. Shall I call Doctor Elliot? No, I just need you. I need us to be together. She clung ever harder to him. Pulling away, he was speaking, words that were not true. We are together, my darling. Confusion lay everywhere. He turned to pick up his jacket, his thoughts filled with a guilt that he refused to acknowledge. I have to visit Usha. Afterwards we will sit down and talk. Looking back, Annabelle was slumped in her chair, ashen faced, drained of life, as if she were the one facing the gallows. * Flanks steaming, the horse cantered. Rothwell rode, but unseeing of the muddy track. Chandrimas death had drawn down a veil of umbrage. The premonition that he had dismissed as irrational had eventuated. None of it made sense. How could Usha have committed such an act? Insanity must have unhinged her mind, driven her to a moment of extreme folly. Did the gods devise such tragedy to exact revenge for his misdemeanour? Engulfed by the gloom of Hades, he arrived at the magistrates office without remembering his journey. At the back of the court house he stumbled into the jail and addressed the constable at the front desk. I need to see Usha. She is being held here? And you are, sir? Rothwell, James Rothwell, her employer. I own the plantation at Umgeni. Yes, Mr Rothwell, I recognise your name. Coolies are not normally allowed visitors, particularly in a case such as this, but as the prisoners employer, Im sure I can make an exception. Thank you, constable. She has been charged? Yes, for murder, sir.
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And the sentence? Hanging, sir. Rothwell wondered how their conversation could be so perversely matter of fact. Had his heart not been wrenched asunder? The 25th I believe. Let me check the registeryes the 25th. Thank you, constable. So she was sentenced by the magistrate? Yes sir. You were not informed? I have been away on business, constable. I returned to the news. Right sir, well shes down here. A flight of stone steps led to a dark chamber. Rothwell walked down, every step a descent further into the jaws of Hell. Im assuming you dont want to enter the cell. Yes, I would like to constable. Really, are you sure? Yes, thank you. Right you are, sir. I will need to lock you in then. Call me if you need my intervention. The keys clanked loudly in the cell door. Rothwell stumbled into the gloom of an unventilated room, which smelt of rotting effluent. Instantly he wanted to vomit. A shaft of light streamed through the gated entrance. One corner of the dingy cell was illuminated. He peered through the diagonal beam of phosphorescent mist into murkiness beyond. A dark shape, a woman, sat barefoot on a reed mat in the far corner clutching her ragged sari. A gaunt face marked with lines of desolation had the appearance of being older than its age. Hello, Usha. Are you alright? His voice reverberated across the shadows, a plea for order amidst the chaos. Sahib? Usha sat bolt upright. Her eyes searched the room. She leapt up and threw herself at his feet. Sahib, you help me. I in big trouble.
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He knelt down and grasped her shaking shoulders, staring into eyes that held only fear. I heard what happened. I just returned. He tried to clear the lump stuck in his throat. Why did you kill Chandrima, Usha? Big mistake, Usha said, her chest heaving. But why, Usha? She was you best friend. Why did you hit her? Her shaking was so violent that he could hardly hold her. I not hit her, is big mistake. Memsahib say I kill Chandrima, but I not there Her eyes were white with terror. Each word was issued with a spasm, her chest wrenching inwards. What? So you say you didnt kill Chandrima? No, Sahib. I not kill Chandrima. But, my wife saw you hit Chandrima, Usha. She saw you. The fact was undeniable, surely? Memsahib make mistake. I not know why she say this. I was upstairs, do cleaning, Sahib. Rothwells head pounded. Why did she deny it? It must have been a moment of madness. Perhaps the trauma had made her delusional? He clutched at straws. Maybe it was a mistake; you hit Chandrima when you were angry. Did you have a fight? ____ Usha stared fiercely into her saviours eyes. A whirl of confusion agitated her body, but she fought back the tears so that she could explain herself. Someone must hear the truth. Rothwell might be her last chance. He had to save her. Rothwell Sahib, I not kill Chandrima. I not understand why Memsahib say this. Chandrima, me best friends. Her voice was slow and determined. She spoke with the conviction of her spiritual ancestors. She crossed her arms over her chest to indicate her bond with Chandrima. Is big mistake, Sahib. You believe me, yes? Please Krishna, help him to believe me. He must believe me or I am lost. Otherwise Nakti will slip into the night, loving him, knowing that he did not love her.
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____ Ushas eyes were a window into her soul. Rothwell saw the purity that lay within. He knew that she was truthful. But how could this be so? The chaos of Hell became ever more enmeshing. Did they not fall into the shaft of an abyss from which there was no return? So you didnt hit Chandrima? You didnt fight with her? No, Sahib, me upstairs no fight with Chandrima. All big mistake, Sahib. Ushas body was as rigid as a Minion stone vase. One tap and it might have broken into pieces. Did you tell the magistrate this, Usha? His heart pounded. Annabelle must have seen one of the other Indian women hitting Chandrima and assumed, because it was in the house, that it was Usha. No Sahib, I not see magistrate. I tell policeman out there! She pointed through the cell bars, her face laced with anguish. Life drained from Rothwell, an icy infusion replacing the warmth in his body. Annabelle had identified the wrong person. The real perpetrator of the crime had run out of the house before she could be detected. Had Chandrima made an enemy amongst one of the other Indian women? Had someone else stolen Annabelles diamond broach? Oh my goodness, Usha. I think there has been a mistake. He rocked back on his haunches. My wife saw another woman hitting Chandrima, but thought it was you. Because the magistrate did not speak to you, he did not hear your version of events. You help me, Sahib. You help me. He stood, transfixed. What solution could he possibly find? Her voice was now a shriek. You help me, Sahib. You help me. Otherwise I die, Sahib. I die for nothing. As he had held her on the banks of the Umgeni, he held her once again: rocking her back and forth, mimicking the movement of her heaving, absorbing the fire of terror inside her. Every vestibule of his being was bound with her entrustment to him. Of course he would save her. He gazed into eyes full of fear and longing and made a promise.
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I will help you, Usha. Believe me. Somehow Ill get you out of here. Her grip on his arm had the urgency of the condemned hanging by a fingers breadth over the fire of eternal flames. You help me? You save me, Sahib? Yes, Usha, I will save you. He clenched her to him, the determination of the Redeemer infusing his soul. Was this not his destiny, his ultimate purpose? Had the gods not ordained it? ____ Trusting to his promise, Usha gave herself to her saviour in those precious minutes. He was her Shiva and she his Parvati. The darkness of the night could not last forever, for she was destined to escape the fire and join him in eternal union. ____ Rothwell departed Ushas cell, the responsibility of his ordination bearing down. Beholden to a promise that he had no clear path to fulfilling, he sought direction. Constable, the magistrate did not speak to Usha. She di d not attend her trial? Not as far as I know, sir. Your wife was the principle witness. Its not unusual for a coolie not to be questioned. Theyll only tell you a pack of lies. Youre best speaking with the magistrate though, sir. Thank you, constable. How could a person be sentenced to death without attending their trial? What sort of justice was it that ignored this fundamental principle of self-defence? He marched around to the magistrates office in a condition of extreme distress at the events unfolding. A portly English man with silver hair and a chubby face opened the door to his knock. Can I help you? the man asked. Rothwell had not had cause to meet the magistrate before, but assumed this must be the man. James Rothwell, sir. I need to speak to you about the death of one of my workers, Chandrima at the Rothwell plantation.
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Ah yes, Mr Rothwell, Earnest Braithwaite at your service. Unfortunate case; you were away on business, I understand. Mrs Rothwell identified one of your coolies as the culprit. I passed sentenced just the other day. How can I help? Mr Braithwaite, there appears to have been a terrible miscarriage of justice. I believe my wife has identified the wrong person. And what makes you think that, Mr Rothwell? Ive spoken to the woman, Usha. She emphatically denies hitting Chandrima, the victim. She says she was upstairs at the time. I believe her. I dont believe she could have committed such a crime. Well, people do strange and unforeseen things, Mr Rothwell. What does your wife say? Shes the one who identified this coolie. I will speak to her shortly, but Im convinced that Usha is innocent. My wife must have seen another Indian woman hitting Chandrima and mistakenly identified Usha. We need to get the conviction overturned. Braithwaite glanced languidly over the top of his round spectacles, his eyes twinkling. Why the concern, Mr Rothwell, I dont understand. Its only a coolie after all. Your wife has identified this woman and the conviction is done. Whats it to you which one it was, in reality? Rothwell turned pale, revulsion filling his stomach. This is a life were discussing, Mr Braithwaite. A w oman might die for a crime that she did not commit. Could we really live with ourselves with such a miscarriage o f justice? One coolie, another coolie; theyre all the same. There was no emotion; the merriment in Braithwaites eyes had evaporated. This Usha, shes bound to say that she didnt do it. Shes trying to save her own skin. The case is closed. Ive mad e the conviction. Rothwell needed a deep breath before attempting a reply. Was Usha even present at the hearing? Did you question her? Braithwaites eyes assumed a stony glint. He shuffled from side to side in his chair. No, the constable spoke to her. Its not unusual for a coolie to be absent at a hearing anyway. They only give you a pack of lies.
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Usually the worse the crime, the harder they try to wriggle out of it in my experience. But this is a murder trial, and you didnt have the accused there or legally represented. You hadnt heard her side of the story. Braithwaite stood up from his chair, his voice thundering across the room. I did. The coolie wasnt at the hearing, but the constable had spoken to her. She denied the charge, but then she would, wouldnt she? You should remember who you are speaking to Rothwell. I am the Magistrate for Durban, appointed directly by his Excellency, the Governor of the Colony. Watch your tongue, sir. Fire gripped Rothwells belly. He considered a retort, but realised that Braithwaite wasnt a man to be easily challenged. He would not rescind the judgement under duress. It took every ounce of his resolve to contain himself. Mr Braithwaite. Im only trying to ensure that a woman is not hung for a crime she didnt perpetrate. This is more than just a few lashings or a fine. This is a womans life. Mr Rothwell, the case is closed. Your wife identified the coolie so I took her word, I cant do much more than that, can I? Braithwaite gestured to the door. Rothwells frown hardened even further. This was the weakness in his argument: his own wife had identified the accused. He needed Annabelle to identify the real culprit. Perhaps Narada would know whether Chandrima had fallen out with any of the other women on the plantation? Thank you, Mr Braithwaite. I will speak to my wife and return. It is imperative that we find the truth here. Im assuming that we have some time before the woman will hang? Braithwaite sighed, shuffling through the papers on his desk. The 25th, Mr Rothwell, she is due to hang then. Ten days. But there is little I can do. The decree has been issued. A coolie does not have a right of appeal. Rothwell tempered his ire. I wont argue with you now, magistrate. I will resolve this, but require my wife to remember exactly what she saw. Braithwaite failed to acknowledge his departure, the papers on his desk finding his attention.
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Cheeks flushed red, back dripping in sweat, Rothwell walked down the steps of the magistrates office. If he had needed confirmation of the colonys ingrained prejudice against non -whites then he had received it. Indeed, Braithwaite had taken the bias to new heights. Although no lawyer, Rothwell knew that the accused had an entitlement to attend and be legally represented at their trial. Having side-stepped this fundamental statute, Braithwaite the supposed upholder of the law - had little incentive to reverse his conviction. To do so would risk exposing a malpractice that Rothwell suspected was not particular to this one case. His hope was that faced with new evidence from Annabelle - of mistaken identity - the magistrate would be forced to reopen his investigation. Better still, if the real culprit could be found, then the case against Usha would surely collapse. * Pulling his horse up in the manor house driveway, Rothwell caught sight of his estate manager. About to ignore the wretched man, a thought struck him. Could Royston throw light into the murky confusion? Ah Royston, I need to speak with you about this terrible business. Welcome back, Mr Rothwell, how was your trip? Not the best news for your return, sir. A hint of a smile crossed Roystons face. No doubt he enjoyed the chaos. The man had never liked Chandrima or Usha, seeming to view their roles as somehow diminishing his own. Can we step into the study, Royston? I want to ask you about Chandrima. My thoughts entirely, Mr Rothwell, I was about to give you my perspective. The thin smile had widened. Eyes sparkled beneath a face otherwise held taut. A shiver ran down Rothwells spine . Did Royston know something? In silence they walked, the tension between them so strong that whole armies might have been slain by it.
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I found the wagonload of sugar cultivars. You brought back some interesting varieties. Roystons eyebrows twitched. Rothwell tried to ignore his irritation. Yes, Royston, the trip was very useful. The samples will need to be tested in our soil, but Im hopeful we can obtain better hardiness and yield. It could serve us well. Oh really sir? That would be a step in the right direction. Hard lines etched into Rothwells brow. You seem disturbed by something, Royston. Are you alright, man? Never better, Mr Rothwell. But are you alright, sir? You seem disturbed yourself. Was that a snigger on the idiots face? He didnt have time for all this nonsense. Listen Royston, the news about Chandrima is obviously distressing. My wife has identified Usha as her killer, but I believe she may have been mistaken. Usha has denied hitting her. Did Chandrima have any enemies amongst the workers? Can you think of anyone else who might have done this? The smirk widened into a beam of sardonic satisfaction. Bristles rose on the back of Rothwells neck. What was the man thinking of? Had he no compassion for the women involved in this terrible tragedy? I can think of someone who might have done this. Gone was the sickly grin, steely cold were the eyes, like a viper about to strike its victim. What are you talking about? Who? Spit it out, man! Had the man lost his senses? I can spit it out if you want me to. In fact, I can spit it out as loudly as you like. In fact, the whole world can hear it, if youve a mind to, Rothwell. Every word was savoured, like a twisted perversion. Had Royston been at the whisky again? It was extraordinary behaviour. For some reason his estate manager had ceased to address him as Mr, the insubordination implicit.

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Rothwell found his voice rising. Whats wrong with you, Royston? If you have an idea who might have done this, who might have killed Chandrima, then tell me. Out with it man. Your wife. Rothwell took a step back wondering if he had heard correctly. His examination of Royston revealed a face full of icy intent. My wife! Look Royston, dont play games with me. My wife saw someone hit Chandrima. I need to find out who it was because it wasnt Usha. A face as cold as arctic tundra addressed him. I agree with you there, Rothwell. It wasnt Usha. Blood boiled in Rothwells veins, his cheeks fillin g with fiery glow. You will address me as Mr Rothwell and you will tell me this instant, or youll know the consequences. Oh really? Will I, Mr Rothwell, are you sure? Have you lost your faculties man, who was it? Royston coiled, like a wire spring. Murderous intent infused his darkened eyes. Ive already told you, Rothwell. A shaft of acid ran from Rothwells stomach into his gullet. Who? Your wife. Venom laced Roystons words. The glaring eyes of a snake caused him to brace against the table. Youre saying my wife hit Chandrima. Are you mad? Yes, thats exactly what Im saying Rothwell and youd better mind your manners or Ill be telling a lot of other people as well. Rothwell slammed his fist onto the desk. How dare you, you rotten scoundrel. Ive had enough of your blatant defiance. He stood; the room spinning around him. Youre sacked. Pack your things and go. Leave the plantation immediately or Ill have you thrown off. His vanquish apparently failed, the vipers poison became even more toxic at the second unleashing. Sit down and shut up, Rothwell. Youre no longer calling the shots here. I saw your wife through the lounge windows. I happened to be passing the morning it occurred. She argued with Chandrima then she picked up a silver vase, and hit her on top of
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her head. The coolie went down like a dead weight. Your wife hit her hard. I knew she had killed her. Now where is your high and mighty attitude, Rothwell, eh? Im more than happy to walk out of here. I have no desire to work on this bloody plantation. The place will be bankrupt within six months. But its going to cost you, Rothwell. I reckon 5,000 to keep my mouth shut, or Im straight into that bloody magistrate with the truth about what really happened. You can stuff that down your pretentious gob and chew on it now, cant you? A blacksmith hammered on a forging anvil. Rothwells head splintered. Life drained from a face now filled with ghosts. A mouth twitched but emitted no words, for poison had entered the blood stream. Waiting for its victim to fall, the snake leered. Move, damn you, move. Rothwell steered his lifeless body from the chair and across the floor of the study. Keep moving The devils claws tore at his insides. Into the lounge he hobbled. He clutched at his sides, the room running around him. Then he fell, the shadow of the sphinx engulfing him. His eyes opened to the reality of a living umnyama. How could it be so? He clung to the hope that Roystons story was a pack of malicious and depraved lies, an attempt by the devious, unprincipled man to seek revenge on him. Yet Roystons version of events had been expressed with such malicious intent, such damning resonance, that his words rang true, however terrifying was their message. What with Usha, and now Royston, the weight of conviction appeared slanted against Annabelles story. But surely this was impossible? If Royston was right and Annabelle had hit Chandrima, perhaps in an accidental fit of rage, then she had deliberately blamed Usha. Rothwell could not conceive that Annabelle would have done such a thing. The first act, whilst deplorable, could perhaps have been explained as a moment of madness, of uncontrolled but unintended violence, but the second was irredeemable. It would have required a deliberate intention to blame another for the killing, in this case to let someone else hang
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for the crime. Royston was a blaggard who would stoop to anything to exact his pound of flesh. Rothwell lifted himself up, intent on confronting Royston again when a silver vase on the sideboard caught his eye, the vase that Annabelle had allegedly used as the murder weapon. A wedding gift from Annabelles parents, Rothwell remembered it well. Walking across, he picked up the heavy metal ornament and spun it around in his hands. Although mortified to do so, he examined its immaculate gleaming faces for any sign of a dent. If Roystons story were true, there would be an indentation where the vase had struck Chandrimas head. He could disprove Roystons allegation in an instant. Rothwells fingers glided across the smooth surface of the vase, feeling nothing untoward. Royston had spun a fabrication, seeking to extract money from him in some twisted act of revenge. He would have it out with the villain. Then, as he turned the vase for a third time, a rough patch brushed against his fingers. Heart pounding, like artillery guns in full broadside, he glanced down to discover a large buckle in the silver face. Something or someone had crashed heavily into the once pristine surface. An icy blast rushed through him. The vase fell from his grasp, his hands leaving frozen imprints across the crumpled surface. What if Royston was telling the truth? What if this was the murder weapon? His mind racing, he stumbled from the room, but instead of turning back to the study he grasped the railing and ascended the stairs, to face whatever darkness he must face... Annabelle lay buried in bedcovers. He allowed himself the briefest of glances. From beneath the sheets she peered, a gaunt face, eyes filled with sadness. He slumped to the bedside chair. The heavy silence forced his eyes to the floor. A full minute passed before Annabelle broke the deathly stillness of the room. Did you see, Usha? Rothwell stared at the window, seeing nothing. I suppose she told you a pack of liesabout how she didnt do it? He steeled himself and turned. It was not her. He observed a stranger. Now, why would she say that, if she had hit Chandrima?
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In his heart he wanted to believe her, but his head was absorbed in other consideration. He had to know the truth. Because she is trying to wriggle out of it, isnt she. Isnt it obvious? Her voice rippled with fear, its shrillness jagging his ears. Strangely, he did not speak, another assumed his persona. Tell me exactly what you saw, Annabelle. I heard shouting, then I ran down the stairs and I saw Usha hitting Chandrima on the head. What did Usha hit Chandrima with? I dont recall. I think it was a rolling pin or something. Usha must have taken it from the kitchen. So where is the rolling pin now? I think I must have put it back in the kitchen, in the drawer. And you told the magistrate this? No, not exactly, he didnt ask about any of this. He just asked me who I had seen. And you said Usha. Yes, she hit Chandrima. With a face of stone, his alter ego delivered the coup dtat. So tell me Annabelle, why is there a large dent in the silver vase on the sideboard? Annabelles face froze, instantly lifeless, as if a phantom had crossed her path. One glance and he knew the truth. He choked, his throat drying under a blast of driven sand. You did it, didnt you? Her eyes were fixed to the ground. Annabelles silence spoke for her. Annabelle, you were seen. What do you mean? Her words were whispered. Eyes filled with terror searched for an escape. Royston, that bloody man. He saw you through the window. He saw you hit Chandrima. He said you picked up the silver vase and struck Chandrima on the head. He tried to blackmail me. How could you do that, Annabelle? And then to blame Ushathe poor woman will hang for your crime. He quaked. The person before him was no longer his beloved wife, but some stranger.
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Annabelles scream cut through the darkness like a sabre. She rushed from the bed to fall at his feet. Im sorry, James. It was all an accident. I know what I did was terrible, but you have to help me, Im your wife! Paradoxically, the admission stunned him. Even now, a part of him had clung to the hope that he was mistaken. Tears streamed from his face. Several seconds passed before he found the strength to speak. Why, Annabelle? I dont understand. I could perhaps have accepted that hitting Chandrima might have been an accident, a moment of madness followed by regret, but to have then placed the blame on Usha, to have deliberately lied to the magistrate, and then to have continued to lie, knowing that another person was to hang for your crime Unable to continue, he hung his head in his hands, as a man contemplates his end. Her arms gripped his legs. I didnt mean to kill her, James. I was angry because I thought she had stolen my diamond broach. I questioned her about it and she looked guilty. She kept denying it. He stepped away. So you killed her for a broach? Well, it wasnt just that, James. I was enraged because I suspected that you and Chandrima had some sort of romantic liaison. What! Have you lost your mind? What are you talking about? I saw you, James, through the study window. She stood by your desk and you held her hand. What! When was this? About two weeks before you left for your trip. Walking in the garden, I happened to glance through the window and saw you both. Theres no denying it. And youve been very distracted lately. I just knew there was something going on. So when Chandrima refused to admit to stealing my diamond broach, I lost my temper. I picked up the vase and I hit her. I didnt mean to kill her. It just happened. I was so consumed with jealousy. What? There is no romantic liaisonw ait, I remember it now; Chandrima had just scalded herself on the stove. She came into the study and I asked her to show me her burnt hand. I examined it for Gods sake. Ive never had any affair with Chandrima.
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But youve been so distracted. I have been distracted, yes. Distracted with the plantation and distracted because of our disjointed relationship. You seem to have a completely different set of values to me, absorbed in your prejudice, with no regard for the people that are dependent on us, or any culture that is not your own. That is why we have drifted apart. You have pushed me away. Do you not see that? I was true to you absolutely, Annabelle. I have never strayed from our union. It is you that has broken it He wiped his face with his sleeve. How could you have done such a thing; to have taken a life and then sent another to the gallows to save your skin? Youre sending a woman to her death, to cover your crime. How much of a sin is that in Gods eyes? I know that I have sinned and I will forever beg the Lord for forgiveness for what I have done. Eyes closed, Annabelle knelt, her hands clasped together in front of her. But how can that be true, Annabelle? Just a few minutes ago, you were quite prepared to lie. If I had not confronted you you would have let Usha go to the gallows, would you not? Even now I dont know how I can save her, except for you to take her place. She screamed, clawing forward, like a wounded animal fighting for its life. No James, you cant do that. You have to help me, Im begg ing you. I panicked. Hitting Chandrima was an accident. I lost control. I didnt realise I had hit her so hard. But then when she slumped down, I panicked and the first thing I could think of was to save me. Shes only a coolie. Shes only a coolie! His voice was thunder, for here was the final admission. There was no regret. Her soul had been consumed by dark forces. You foolish woman, where is your remorse? Eh? You say you have sinned and ask the Lord for forgiveness. But even at this final hour when your action is exposed you still cling to the depravity. You still condone the sacrifice of another to hide your sin, and why? Because shes only a coolie, she has no value, she is expendable?

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The flames of Hell burned in his belly. He clenched at his side, vomit spilling onto the floor. His body wilting, he forced himself upright. When did things go wrong with you, Annabelle? How did this corruption seep so invasively through your soul that it destroyed the goodness that lay before. Tears flowed down his cheeks. I dont know what to say Please, James. Her scream rocked the room sending him stumbling backwards. He held himself up against the wall, turning away. No, how can I call you my wife, fo r you are not the woman I knewand what am I to do? You shou ld hang for this, by rights, yet I consider myself obliged, at least for Buckinghams sake, to protect youbut our marriage is finished and will be forever more. The fire of his ordination raged amidst the sadness in his heart. He turned to her again, trying to control the shaking inside. I will do everything in my power to get that poor woman released from jail for I could not live with myself if she were to perish for a crime she did not commit. He strapped his hand to his forehead, pulling at the front of his hair. Oh Annabelle, I hope that the Lord has mercy on you for what you have done. Purpose shut out his grief. He staggered from the room. One thing alone mattered now, saving Ushabut how?

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13 An Incorrigible Magistrate
As a spider issues forth with thread as from fire little sparks come forth so too from this self are issued forth all living energies, all gods, all created beings of that, the final teaching is said to be the truth of truth Beneath appearances of seeming world living energies are truth of them, this is truth. Translation from Brihadaranyaka Upanishad 2.1.20 Truths discovery is a journey of often twisted convolution, its voice unheard in a labyrinth of distorted passage. Rothwell wondered how he might extract Usha from her misjudgement without implicating his wife. To turn Annabelle in would require him to harden his soul to the emotional legacy of their union and ignore his obligation to Buckingham, two monumental impediments that he could not imagine overcoming. Even were he to do this, the voice of truth might still remain unsung, however. Whites were protected, beyond the law. Non-whites, in this case a coolie, were expendable. Braithwaite would most probably refuse to accept that Annabelle had committed the crime or dismiss it regardless. But if Usha were to hang and Rothwell had not come forward with the real perpetrator of the crime, how might he then live with his conscience? The legacy of his debt to Buckingham had brought him face to face with an intractable conundrum. Rothwell stepped into Braithwaites office unable to conceive of what he was about to say, his promise to Usha seemingly in tatters. Mr Rothwell, we meet again, boomed the incorrigible magistrate. I hope you will temper your language on this occasion.
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Thank you for seeing me so soon after our recent meeting, Rothwell replied, determined to keep things civil between them. Fiery accusations would only drive Braithwaite to bloody mindedness. Even though the mans interpretation of the law was repugnant he would try to negotiate. So, what did your wife say? There does appear to have been some misunderstanding, Mr Braithwaite. I believe my wife was confused at the time. It does appear that she has identified the wrong person. What was he supposed to say? That she should have identified herself? Well, present me with the real culprit, and I might reconsider the verdict. Otherwise, it stands. As I said before, the case is closed. A coolie is a coolie is a coolie, if you get my drift. We have a coolie, who has been convicted. The law has been upheld. Rothwell was reminded of the words of Oliver Wendell Holmes: The mind of a bigot is like the pupil of an eye, the more light you pour on it, the more it will contract. How extraordinary that a man with such blinding contraction could be entrusted with such magisterial influence! But we have an innocent woman here. My wife has confirmed to me that she was mistaken in her identification. The woman did not receive a fair hearing. You did not even call her at her own trial. A miscarriage of justice will prevail if she meets her sentence. I hope youre not suggesting that the conviction was unlawful, Mr Rothwell. Her opinions were accounted for by the special constable. Braithwaite swivelled around in his chair. His eyes fixed on Rothwell. Please understand this fact, Mr Rothwell. Coolies have no rights in this land. If they come here, they must abide by our rules and regulations. The case is closed. I am finished discussing it. Good day, Mr Rothwell. I have other matters to attend to. But where is the justice, Mr Braithwaite? What sort of civilised society are we if we send an innocent woman to her death? Calm evaporated in the face of the intransigence. Yet Rothwell himself walked a fine line between right and wrong, knowing what he did about the real culprit in this affair.
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We are done, Rothwell. Justice has been served as far as this coolie is concerned. There is no right of appeal. I am finished, sir. Braithwaite rose and showed him the door. Rothwell began to shake, a wave of panic welling up inside. Backed into a corner, he had to find a way of obtaining Ushas release. The pragmatist in him rose, hang the principles! What would it take to have the conviction quashed, Mr Braithwaite? Ive already told you. Find me the real culprit and I could consider it. And is there any other way? Driven by the madness, Rothwell stepped into unchartered territory. Braithwaite stopped in his tracks, mischief flickering in his eyes. What did you have in mind? A lump the size of a bowling ball grew in Rothwells throat. He ignored it. Perhaps the payment of a sum of money to your good self? It is a possibility. How much did you have in mind? Unable to meet the mans eyes, Rothwell paradoxically enjoyed the taste of corruption. What amount would facilitate a release do you imagine? Five thousand pounds? Rothwell glanced up. The amount was shocking. Braithwaites face showed no expression, an everyday business transaction was in the making. Five thousand pounds, delivered to me in cash and I will sign a release paper, but on the understanding that we never had this conversation, Rothwell. If you ever attempt to declare that we did, I will bring the full force of the legal process down on your head, do you understand? He understood. The man was dangerous. Peop les lives rested in his hands. The loss of innocence is a slippery spiral, beginning slowly the descent accelerates without our notice. Rothwell plunged into purgatory, the taste of evil in his mouth. He recalled the gleam of satisfaction in the eye of his business associate. Liverpool Shipping Company, buy in before its too late.
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Rothwell ignored the confidentiality of the tip-off, the fact that he broke the rules. Only greed flowed in his veins as he scampered to buy the stock, hungry for the profit. Was this now any better? Was it pragmatic or had he become accustomed to the taste? Rothwell found that he no longer cared; he had run out of options. Strangely, it was his alter ego who once again spoke for him. I do understand, Mr Braithwaite, Ill arrange your money. Leave it with me. Rothwell ducked out of Braithwaites office, his cheeks on fire. He had achieved his intention, but at what price? The monetary cost was large. Was the cost to his integrity much larger? He imagined that he headed down a dark tunnel, blind to his descent. No longer did he walk in the Garden of Eden. He ate from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. But did the apple taste sweet or bitter? Rothwells ability to pay Braithwaite was a testament to his previous lack of ethical adherence. His investment remained exclusively in his corrupted stock, the Liverpool Shipbuilding Company. If he sold all of his shareholding he would be able to raise the 5,000 necessary to pay the bribe, a perilous course of action, since it would leave him without funds to support the plantation. But this was an emergency. What was money in comparison to saving a life? Even if the plantation went bankrupt he would not regret the decision he had made, surely? Seeing Usha again knowing that he had engineered a means of obtaining her release was a relief beyond measure. He ignored the iniquity that lay behind it. The fulfillment of his obligation was all that mattered. You speak to Memsahib? Her face lit up at his approach. Yes, Usha, I spoke to Memsahib. Memsahib said it was a mistake. It was far from the full story, but the best he could manage in the circumstances.
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Usha threw herself at his feet, her frail body filled with agitation. Thank you, Sahib. You save me! Yes. Rothwells smile was tempered by the dereliction that lay within. Usha rose from her haunches. Warming eyes swam in a sea of gratitude. Sahib, you save me three times: at Umgeni River, at Erskine plantation, and now. She held up three fingers and beamed. You are my Surya, Sahib. The reference opened a window to his euphoria. I believe you may be right, Usha, there is something special about our friendship. Perhaps I was sent to help you? Colour invaded her cheeks. We have friendship, me not just coolie, Sahib? No, not just coolie. What is special, Sahib? Special means good friend. He frowned, struggling for words, wanting to tell her his feelings, but constrained. No, more than thatvery good friend. I think so, Sahib. I think so too, Usha. He closed his eyes to her embrace, feeling the warmth of her touch, the rhythm of her pulsating heart. He knew at that moment that he took the right course. How could he have followed any other? Withdrawing, he fumbled in his bag. Usha, I brought you food and water. She grasped his arm. I give you my word, Usha, the magistrate will release you. I will make sure of it. I understand, Sahib. Is good, Sahib. Her eyes held their former radiance. A sun had illuminated the darkened horizon. The tug in his heart held him to her, but he pulled away. A promise needed to be delivered: a simple instruction to his broker in London to sell his shares, and a rather unseemly transfer of the proceeds into Braithwaites grubby little hands.
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Mr Rothwell, I forgot to ask you to sign the visitor notice before. The constable handed him a parchment. Rothwell scrawled his signature and noticed something unusual. The sheet listed Usha as Usha Acharya, not Usha Dasi as he had understood. A mistake? Had someone written down the name incorrectly? He glanced down at his watch and rushed out into the street. The telegraph office was about to close.

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14 A Waking of the Dead


Traversing a crowded West Street thoroughfare at speed required agility and a certain element of luck. Rothwell weaved across without collision and stepped into the telegraph office. The clerk behind the desk was engrossed in paperwork. Good afternoon. Im James Rothwell. I need to send an urgent telegraph to London. Ah, Mr Rothwell, this is fortuitous, we happened to receive a telegraph for your good self earlier today. I was about to arrange for a messenger to deliver it to the plantation, so you have saved us a journey. The clerk handed him the slip. Rothwells eyes bulged. The sender was not one of his family as he might have expected, but Masons Dobey and Partners, his broker in London, the very broker he was about to contact to request the sale of his stock. The message was short and shocking in its content. Bad news: Liverpool Shipping Co. has filed for bankruptcy with losses and crippling debts. Shares expected to have little value. Will try to recover monies, but likely to be minimal, if anything. Disaster! Paralysis gripped his body. Rothwell stiffened from the pounding in his head. His hopes of raising the 5,000 had vanished. He had known that the company was stretched, having borrowed a considerable sum of money from the banks to expand, just at a time when overseas ship builders gained market share, but he had had no idea how seriously. Why the blazes had his broker not advised him to sell earlier? He hung his head. Was this rough justice for his greed? Recompense for Buckingham? The gods had offered false hope only to bring it crashing down? He scribbled a reply to Masons Dobey and Partners requesting further information on any recovery from the liquidators. The request was futile. He knew that liquidation invariably provided no
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value for the shareholders. Damnation, he cried, raisin g his fist to the air. How on earth would he now raise the money for the bribe? Out of the telegraph office he stumbled trying to fight the spinning sensation in his head. He thought of Usha and the shattering of her expectation. The poor woman would hang because of his stupidity. Aargh He cried out to a world that worked against him. What could he do? Paying the bribe appeared impossible. With the plantation mortgaged beyond its ability to repay, he had no assets to borrow against. Dawkins would certainly refuse any increase in the debt. Without a bribe, he would need to produce the real culprit: Annabelle. He had already determined that this was an unworkable option, for a whole host of reasons, not the least being the likelihood that Usha would still be hung, a scapegoat to cover Braithwaites malpractice. Slumped on the steps of the telegraph office, Rothwell shut his eyes to the terror of his predicament. The light of his passage had been eclipsed by the shadow of a dead moon. Chandrimas death had triggered a chain of events that spiralled down into a black void. Only the cold reality of Ushas death beckoned. Consumed by darkness, he stared ahead, seeing nothing The sound of the street broke in. A mass of people traversed up and down West Street. His gaze drifted absentmindedly to a man crossing the muddy quagmire. Reaching Rothwells side of the carriageway, the man, an Indian turned side-on and began to head away from where Rothwell sat. As he turned Rothwell caught - from about twenty yards - a passing view of the side of the mans face. Although otherwise absorbed, he nevertheless recognised, in that brief glimpse, something that reminded him of someone, something in the jawline, the way it dropped delicately down to the chin. Then it struck him, it was the same jawline as Ushas. She had the same delicate configuration. It was partly why her face was so exquisitely enchanting. Her oval face drew down to a delicate pointed chin that perfectly framed her mouth. Rothwell brightened; the man had become more than just a passing interest. He looked again at the mans back. Did he know him? He had the likeness of
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his manservant, Krishnan! But Krishnan had perished in the African bush after the battle of Isandlwana. Rothwell stood up and began walking quickly. The man certainly had Krishnans walk. No, surely it couldnt be? It must be a coincidence, someone similar in appearance to his dear-departed friend. To put his mind at rest he called out Krishnan! fully expecting the man to ignore him. To hi s astonishment, the man turned around. A sharp pain pierced his head. By God, it was Krishnan! Had he returned from the dead? Krishnan, is that you? Rothwells gullet was throttled, as if filled with gravel. He felt instantly foolish. How could it be Krishnan? The man stared directly into the sun, shielding his eyes to better see the stranger who had addressed him. Lieutenant Rothwell, Sahib? Rothwell ran forward. Transfixed, he stood in front of the man. Krishnan, it is you. My God, I thought you were dead. I thought you died in the bush, that the Zulu got you? The wizened brown face broke into a broad toothless grin. They tried, Sahib. They ran after me. I ran many miles as fast as I could. Then got lucky, Sahib. I hide for two days. But what happened to you? I looked for you everywhere. I go back to India, Sahib, but wife tell me that daughter come to Durban to find me, so I come back. Did you find her? No, Sahib. I am looking. I come back a week ago. The street spun around, everything a blur. Rothwell thought of Usha. She had come to Natal to find her father. Then he remembered Krishnans side-on glance. The jaw line, it was uncanny. He and Usha had the same configuration, a strange coincidence no doubt, but he remembered Krishnan speaking of his daughter. He tried to remember something was familiar. Krishnan, how old was your daughter when you first left India? I remember you telling me a story about her.

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Yes, Sahib, she was six. I put her on my knee and feed her honey and tell her story about the baby girl that can fly. I very much want to find her, Sahib, if she is alive. The baby girl that could fly, that was it. Extraordinary! Usha had told him the same story, her sitting on her fathers knee when she was a little girl. Rothwell realised the remarkable similarities. Could this really be true? His mind flashed back to the visitor form at the jail. Your surname, Krishnanits Acharya isnt it? Yes, Sahib, you remember, Sahib. Krishnan, is your daughters name Usha? Yes Sahib. How do you know? The name on the form; she must have used her family name of Acharya rather than her adopted widows name of Dasi. Rothwell laughed. His face filled with tears. It all made sense; all this time he had known her father without realising it. What is it Sahib, why are you weeping? Unable to speak, Rothwell was gripped by tremor. Shafts of pain pierced his heart, the extraordinary divination of his passage apparent. The three of them had been thrown together by the gods in a confusion of circumstance. Fate had conspired for him to rescue Usha from the Umgeni River and then to take over the plantation. The death of the moon goddess had been ordained so that he would be sitting outside the telegraph office as Krishnan had crossed the street, so that he would recognise the family resemblance between Krishnan and Usha. Were they not pawns in a grander scheme of cosmic intervention? He wrapped his arms around Krishnan and held him tight. His bond with Usha was his bond with Krishnan. The warmth of the daughter was contained in the fathers embrace, they were inextricably interwoven. Sit down, Krishnan. His voice undulated with the emotion of his discovery. This will come as a shock but I think I know where your daughter is. Brown wizened skin paled to iciness. Sahib, you know Usha?

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I didnt realise it until just nowthe story about the baby girl that can fly, and then seeing you crossing the street, I saw her in you Krishnan, you have the same profile, the same jawline. Sahib? I not understand. Krishnan let me explain. I left the army, you see, after Isandlwana. I went back to England, but then I inherited a plantation, so I came back. Usha worked at the plantation when I arrived. But how you know she is my Usha, Sahib? Because I found out today that her name is Acharya. Before, she used the name Dasi, her widow name. She told me she came to India to find her father. She told me the story about the baby girl that could fly. She was six, bouncing on her fathers knee, whilst he fed her honey! Its the same story, Krishnan! Dont you see? Everything fits. She has to be your daughter. Krishnan slumped onto the step, his face a shadow of its former self. Are you alright Krishnan? Do you understand what Ive just said? Its your daughter, Usha. It has to be her. Krishnans voice was a whisper, barely audible. Sahib, I think I understand. Rothwell had expected jubilation, but the poor man sat drooped over, the legacy of his separation apparently absorbing him. A full minute passed before he raised his head. I see Usha now, Sahib? I come to the plantation? A further spasm of pain wrenched through Rothwells heart. Engrossed in the marvel of his discovery, he had forgotten the blackness of the end game. How would he tell Krishnan? Oh, Krishnan, Im sorryif only it were that easy. Rothwell placed his hand on his friends shoulder. Intended as a gesture of compassion, it served to lend him support for strength had ebbed from his limbs. Im afraid the news is bad. Is she dead, Sahib? Tell me she is not dead. No, Krishnan. Thank God she is not dead. His eyes watered, the strain in his chest drawing the breath out of him. But she might be if we cant do something. Krishnans eyes darkened, as if demons had entered his soul. How Sahib?
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Rothwell steeled himself to the tremor gripping his body. Recently I was away on business. When I returned I discovered Usha had been accused of a crime that she did not commit. An Indian woman, Chandrima, was killed at the plantation. My wife mistakenly accused Usha of the murder, but Usha is innocent. She did not kill Chandrima. Who kill this Chandrima? His cheeks reddening, Rothwell paused. Although his throat was filled with fever, he was ever the pragmatist. All I can say is that my wife made a mistake. It was not Usha. However the magistrate has convicted her and he will not change the sentence unless I can pay him a large sum of money. This is why I was at the telegraph office. I was arranging to sell my investment when I discovered that the company in which I had invested has gone bankrupt my shares are worthless. I no longer have the money to pay the bribe. I understand Sahib, but what is Ushas sentence? She stay in jail long time? Rothwell gripped Krishnans arm. The news is the worst possible she is to hang. Usha will hang if I cannot find the money. Struggling to remain stoic, Rothwell could no longer hold back. Tears flowed openly down his face. You say hang, Sahib? Rothwell nodded his head. He had no more words. He stumbled without direction in a maelstrom of barbed shadows. Krishnan stood transfixed, as if struck by a thunderbolt from the heavens. Sahib, what can we do? I dont know, Krishnan Rothwell forced himself to continue. I had a plan, but now it h as collapsed. Eyes closed, Krishnan began to chant the Om. Rothwell watched as the Indian slipped into a trance like state, his breathing becoming less rushed, his ashen grey face warming. The mantra seemed to absorb his palpitation. The chanting continued for several minutes before his eyes opened and the contemplation was ended. What is she like, my daughter?
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It was the saddest question that an estranged father could ask about the daughter he is about to lose forever. Rothwell struggled to answer for he had no inner calm; his grief gripped him like a fury. She is beautiful, Krishnan, kind, intelligent and loving. She has your nature and she looks like you - the chin. His eyes watered as he pictured Ushas enchantment, her eyes dancing like the fractured light of the dawn. Thank you, Sahib. I think you try take care of her, yes? I tried my hardest. He hung his head, for the image was an illusion. The fractured light had splintered into nothingness. Can I see her, Sahib? She is in jail, here? No, Krishnan, they wont let you in. They only let me visit her because I am her employer. He paused to wipe his streaming eyes. I will tell her that I have found you. Perhaps later; you see I made her a promise. A blind man stands before the dawn, but sees only a dark veil. Rothwell searched for reason, but found only emptiness. A firecracker exploded, its fizzle ripping through Krishnans eyes. Sahib, the diamond! What? The diamond you find when bury soldier, Sahib? Yes, Id forgotten. What happened to it? Do you have it? No Sahib, I put in cave. You buried it? When Zulu chase, I hide in cave. I put diamond in hole in cave, but then Zulu come and I run. And you left the diamond, you forgot it? Yes. Where is the cave? I not know, Sahib, near Isandlwana, maybe 15 miles. After I escape Zulu, I am too frightened to return to cave. Is very dangerous, Sahib too much Zulu. Rothwells eyes burned anew. Was there a way through the murky entanglement? The diamond, dont you see, Krishn an, we have to find it to save Usha. Its fate. I meet you here today just when Ive lost the
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money to save Usha, and you, her father remember the diamond. It is pre-determined passage, it must be! What is pre-deterpassage? I mean the gods. We follow a path, a cosmic destiny. You came today because Usha needed you! Perhaps the gods sent you, I dont know? Warmth lit Rothwells face, his eyes reflecting the sun as a beam of golden brilliance. Krishnan smiled through crooked teeth. Yes, Sahib, I see . We find diamond for Usha? Yes Yes Hallelujah! Rothwell leapt up and embraced Krishnan, before pausing. Do you think you can remember? I try, Sahib. My God, I hope so. Meet me at the train station in one hour. I will tell Usha the amazing new s. Well catch the train tonight to Pietermaritzburg and then travel from there. In one hour, understand? We have to move quickly, we havent much time. Ok, very good, Sahib. I meet you. Rothwell had imagined he would be revisiting Usha with the worst possible news, but divine intervention had brought a miracle. He entered the cell with fire rekindled in his belly. Usha, extraordinary news! His words cascaded like a flash flood rushing through a parched donga. Usha smiled, her eyes filling with expe ctancy. Am I free, Sahib? No not yet, I am trying to find the money for your release. I will explain, but listen, Usha. He paused, his lungs ingesting a gulp of musty air. First I have a question. Your father, is his name Krishnan? Yes Sahib. How you know this? An aurora lit the sky. Krishnan Acharya, your father, I just met him. By some miracle he is alive, Usha! He was my manservant in the army. I have known him for years. I did not realise the connection before. The charge sheet you see, you are listed as Usha Acharya.
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Rothwells heart ached with love. He hugged her, but she drew back, her body tensed, her eyes clouded in confusion. Yes, Acharya is my family name, but how you know he my father? Many Krishnan, many Acharya. He stepped forward to grasp her shoulders. Because you look like him, Usha! You have the same jawline. Its what makes your face so beautiful. And Krishnan told me before - the story about the baby girl that could fly, about the little girl sitting on his knee. He fed you honey. Its the same story you told me, Usha! Her face was ashen. Did she not believe him? Your father fought with me at the battle of Isandlwana. I thought he had been killed, but he survived and went back to India. Then, when he discovered that you had come to Africa to find him, he came back. Hes here, Usha, right here in the town. I spoke with him a few minutes ago! Surely she must believe him? ____ Usha stared into her saviours eyes - flashing like the burning orbs of Agni - and saw the truth in them. Her tremor was the shift of ancient bedrock, her tears a monsoonal downpour. Oh, Sahib. Is he with you? Can I see him? The prospect sent a sharp pain through her frame. She stiffened, a confused image of her father flashing once again into her mind. Would she remember him after all this time? He is here, but he is not allowed to enter the jail, but you will see him as soon as you are released, Usha. And then he was touching her, the soft caress of a lover. He loves you immensely, Usha. He is overjoyed and of course, shocked to have found you. No longer could she contain herself. She threw her arms around her sun god, immersing in the miracle of his deliverance. Finally she had crossed the fire of ill portent, the long years of abandonment had ended, she would be inauspicious no longer, and all because of him, her saviour. For a few glorious moments she was submerged in the radiance of his divinity. But then he was stepping back from
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her. His face was dark. Had the wrath of the houglis not been fully tempered? Listen, Usha. You will be released, but it is not as simple as I had hoped. Sahib? We have a problem with the money, Usha. The shares I hoped to sell, they have no value. Sahib, I not understand. Why did he speak of money? No money. The shipping company is ended. Sahib? But it is a lucky day that I met your father again, Usha. Once again he held her. After the battle at Isandlwana we dug a grave to bury one of my soldiers. Whilst digging we found a large diamond in the earth. Krishnan, your father, and I became separated when the Zulu attacked. He escaped and buried the diamond near a cave where he hid from the Zulu. Your father and I will travel tonight into the interior to try and recover the diamond; then use it to pay off the magistrate. A heavy weight pushed down on Ushas chest. She had assumed her release would be straight forward. Why did he speak of paying the magistrate when she was innocent? The walls of her dark cell began to close in again. You did not tell me Sahib? What, Usha? About money. Her heart raced. Shadows masked the radiance of her sun god. His face was now sunken, as if gripped by remorse. Im sorry, I should have told you, Usha. I didnt want to worry you. Its complicated; the law here is bad for Indians. He clasped her shoulders, his fingers digging into her. Usha, I have made you a promise and I will get you out. What if you not find diamond? We will find the diamond. It is destiny, Usha, you see. You have to trust in that or else we are lost. She clung to him, fear gripping her belly. A prophecy had come to her, and it was dark and lonely: the sun dipped into the gloom of an eternal night. Surya would not be returning.
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And then he was gone. A tear drifted down her face and fell to the flagstone below.

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15 Enmeshed in Darkness
What if you not find diamond? Ushas words reverberated inside Rothwells head. They had only 10 days to find it and no other option to fall back on. He had asked her to put her trust in fate, but what if a tantalising hope had been proffered only destined to flounder? A haunting premonition came to him This had been their last embrace. He would never see his Usha alive again. A wave of sadness gripped him. He stifled a tear and hurried to his horse. If the gods were indeed with them then he had a promise to fulfill. His horses flanks sweated with the exertion of the canter. Rothwell pulled up in the driveway and dismounted by the stone steps of the manor house. The thought of facing Annabelle filled him with dread. What could he say to her? And of course there was the problem of Royston. How should he deal with the scoundrels threat? Even if he had the money to pay him off which he didnt such a course of action could only be futile. The blaggard would certainly renege on any deal and return to extract more money at a later date. Thoughts of Royston were dismissed. More pressing matters demanded attention. Rothwell ran upstairs and packed some clothes. Although intent on avoiding Annabelle, he wondered that there was no sign of her. A chilling thought ran through his mind. What if she had had a showdown with Royston? Part of him still cared for her in spite of everything. Perhaps something terrible had happened? His heart fluttering, he began to search the house, becoming ever more frantic as he realised that she was nowhere to be found. In the study, he discovered waiting on the desk a letter to him in Annabelles hand. He tore open the enve lope and read the scrawled text.
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My darling James, I beg that someday you can forgive me for what I have done. I have sinned in the eyes of the Lord and I deserve nothing but your condemnation. I implore you to believe me. I would do anything to take back my actions, to redeem the past. A coward, too afraid to come forward, I take flight for England, loving you with all my heart in the hope that one day you might come to forgive me for what I have done. I suffer the fire of eternal damnation for my sins and a broken heart, for our parting pains me more than anything. Annabelle. Slumped against the wall, tears rolled down Rothwells face as he contemplated the end of his marriage. An estranged and desolate Annabelle no doubt waited at the quay to board a ship for England. Although he ached inside, he had no compulsion to stop her leaving. His heart now followed another path. With unsteady hands, he slipped the letter into his jacket pocket and walked to the cabinet. His pistol lay in the top drawer. He and Krishnan headed into the unknown. Who knows what danger waited to imperil their passage? He shuddered as he held the weapon, dark memories flooding back into his mind. This was the pistol he had used at Isandlwana, the pistol he had fired to save Krishnan in the gully. He closed his eyes to the searing pain in his temples. Barbs of African spears entered his chest Buckingham was before him, crying out, his face contorted. Shoot the bastard, he yelled, desperation filling his eyes. Rothwell shivered. However much he struggled to shake off his torment, the anguished face never left him. Like a shroud of doom, it forever haunted him. A terrible thought struck him. Had he now failed Buckingham a second time? Should he run after Annabelle and forgive her? How could he, when Usha waited, expectant, trusting in him? And then suddenly he knew. The gods worked in mysterious ways. Krishnan had not perished in the wilderness. Destiny had decreed that he must save Krishnan that day instead of Buckingham. There was purpose to this whole bloodied mess.
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Buckinghams death, tragic, despairing and tortuous though it was, had been necessary so that a father could be reunited with his estranged daughter. And yet his every action was a fools errand if he could not save Usha. If he and Krishnan failed to find the diamond, and Usha hung for a crime that she did not commit, then the whole macabre escapade would have been for naught. Fate would merely have played a game of twisted entanglement. Compelled to grasp the light, Rothwell refused to believe that darkness could be the reality, the end game of all this bloodied confusion. For him to succumb to its inevitability was to recognise that all action is futile; that life has no purpose, that the dawn of a new day will never arrive to break the shroud of night. He held to his trust that the great chasm of nothingness could be crossed, that the gods offered him a window, through which he had choice to find the truth in himself. Absorbed in his universal examination, Rothwell ran out of the door, when the devils own voice interjected. Wheres my money, Rothwell? I hope youre not slipping away with that renegade wife of yours? Rothwell mounted his horse before venting his fury. Ah Royston its timely bumping into you. Ive had an illuminating conversation about you. Im sure you remember Mr Dawkins at the bank? You might be interested to know, he has acquired some disturbing information with regard to my uncles affairs very disturbingin fact quite shocking. What are you talking about, Rothwell? I hope you do not attempt to create diversion. It wont work, you know. Do you want me to go to the authorities? Royston hissed, but fear had entered the venomous snake, white replacing the red in its eyes. Does the word embezzlement mean anything, Royston? You see, Ive known for quite some time about your little tricks. Dawkins has the dossier. Im sure the authorities will be very interested to see the evidence dont you; both here and in Mauritius? 15 years isnt it, the sentence for embezzlement? Id watch your back if I were you, Royston. Good day! Rothwell dug his heels into the sides of the horse and cantered down the track, leaving Royston standing aghast. Rothwell smiled.
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The fork of the snakes tongue had been lanced such that it was no longer venomous.

194

16 The Edge of the Abyss


Behold the rays of Dawn, like heralds, lead on high the Sun that men may see the great all-knowing god. The stars slink off like thieves, in company with Night before the all-seeing eye, whose beams reveal his presence, gleaming like brilliant flames, to nation after nation with speed, beyond the ken of mortals, thou O Sun! Translation from the Rig Veda Panting heavily, Rothwell approached the station. The figure of a thin Indian man squatted on the edge of the wooden platform ahead. Krishnan! A wrought iron locomotive pulled noisily into the station, the blast of compressed steam from its funnel making Rothwell jump. Krishnans chanting ceased . Roused from his apparent spiritual contemplation, he lifted his head, his eyes readjusting to what Rothwell imagined was more earthly consideration. Are you well, Krishnan? Rothwell called, advancing along the platform. Yes, Sahib, I was in prayer. It helps me to believe that all will be well. I admire your faith, Krishnan. I wish I could fin d such peace within. Maybe I teach you the incantations, Sahib? Krishnan rocked his head from side to side, the apparent merriment belying the solemnity of his countenance. That would be interesting Krishnan. Rothwell extended his arm to hug his friend. When all this is over, however it turns out, I want you to do that. He lingered in the hold, the spiritual sanctuary of the embrace bringing him solace. The warmth of ethereal absolution was fleeting. Worldly troubles dominated his thoughts. A call at the bank had placed Dawkins on notice about Royston and a
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conversation with Braithwaite had confirmed their arrangement. He had ten days to find the hidden diamond or else Usha would hang. He clung to his fragile hope that they might find it. * Up winding gullies laboured the locomotive in search of the interior Natalian plateau. Eyebrows raised, Krishnan gazed intently through the window. We travel in circles. Rothwell turned to examine Krishnans profile and smiled weakly. Yes, the line was engineered to avoid tunnels and bridges. It follows the contours. Contours, Sahib? The hills. He motioned with his hand. It is expensive to blast through rock. How far to Pietermaritzburg, Sahib? About 70 miles I believe. I wish this line had been comp leted earlier. It would have saved us a lot of time. Sahib? The trek up to Isandlwana. Krishnan smiled with clouded eyes. Maybe not good that we get there fast, Sahib? Rothwells face darkened. Youre right Krishnan. Perhaps not, given what happened do you ever think of that day? Yes Sahib. Is very bad memory. I pray. The Om bring calmness. That is good, Krishnan. I wish I had your depth of spirituality. You must pray to your god, Sahib. He will help you. From the window Rothwell searched for direction. The rugged escarpment of the plains offered only confusion. He was thankful when his somber reverie was interrupted. We stay night in Pietermaritzburg? Er yes, Krishnan, I think so. It will be t oo late to continue tonight. Tomorrow we can hire horses and ride up to Rorkes Drift. Yes Sahib.
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Rothwell lapsed back into the darkness of his contemplation. He closed his eyes and was at once enriched by the warmth of Ushas embrace, but then an icy shiver interrupted. A sinister voice was whispering in his ear: Shoot the bastardShoot the bastard. Please god, make it go away. He hummed, trying to block out the demons. * Rorkes Drift was reached by early afternoon the following day. The memory of Rothwells desperate struggle into the garri son hung like a grey shroud, the twisted irony being that he now passed purposefully unnoticed. Crossing the Buffalo River, he and Krishnan slipped back into Zululand. Riding hard, they headed north achieving the foothills of Isandlwana by midday of the second days riding. A wave of foreboding coursed through Rothwells ve ins. The eerie darkness of the sphinx hung like an affliction. Past stone cairns he rode, the silence of a thousand graves haunted by the echo of blood curdling chants. Dear Lord, how did it come to this? Across the barren landscape lay the bloodied shadow of the umnyama. He prayed that its enduring legacy did not propel him and Krishnan along a path of similar fate. His desire to leave was every bit as keen as that terrible day of the dead moon, perhaps even more so now that he knew the extent of its haunting. Spurring furiously, he drove the horse onwards, the darkest recesses of his memory beckoning. Here, Krishnan shouted, finding the gully. Rothwell followed him down, trying to control the heaving in his chest. A pile of stones marked the grave where Jones lay buried, but there was no sign of Buckinghams body. The ghost of his spirit lingered, however, like a curse. The smell of betrayal lay in Rothwells nostrils. Heavy drumbeats - the lament of fallen souls boomed inside his head. It was all he could do to hold himself in the
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saddle. He knew he had to get out of there. To tarry would have been to descend into oblivion, forever smitten by the fury of the dead. Blindly, he followed Krishnans trail of escape. The hand of death lay on Rothwells shoulder, but still he clung to life, the thought of Usha driving him forward. Miles of featureless rolling hills made perspective difficult, however. Is this the way? Rothwell shouted, the pounding in his head continuing. I think so, Sahib. Is difficult. I run from Zulu. But there are no cliffs. Where is the cave? I not know, Sahib. Can you describe it, Krishnan? Was the cave in a large rock? Maybe near a river? Krishnans eyes sharpened. River. Big rock above river. Cave in big rock. Many trees, Sahib. He extended his arm. Must climb steep hill to reach cave. The vast plain offered no sign of a river or cliff configuration. At dusk they camped and continued the search the following morning. But that day was luckless also and with no map, they ranged further and further into unchartered territory - away from Isandlwana and the gully. Rothwell could not determine whether this was a blessing or merely a step along the passage of their destruction. One thing of which he was certain: they searched for a grain of rice in a sackful. Eventually, throat parched, face puckered with lines of ingrained sweat, he jumped down from his horse. The sands of time slipped away. Krishnan, is there anything that you can remember about the cave? Anything at all that might help us? Krishnan dismounted, frowning. Suddenly his eyes found a new intensity. Ah, Sahib! He opened the buckle of his saddle bag and pulled out a piece of old bone, handing it to Rothwell. I find in cave, Sahib. And you kept it all this time? Yes Sahib.
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I can see why, its beautiful, an ancient arrowhead. You can tell from the crude formation of the head and the glue that has been used. Here, see! My goodness. Rothwell took a deep breath and gazed upwards. You know what this means, Krishnan? No, Sahib. The cave you hid in must be prehistoric, used by the ancient Zulu, a place of significance. The modern day Zulu may know where it is. Krishnan shifted his head from side to side. Yes, Sahib, but how we ask Zulu? Zulu put spear in us, no? Rothwells smile flattened to a grimace. I know. That is the problem. Its a long shot, but were running out of alternatives. Krishnan dug his fingers into his chin, his eyes narrowing. No speak Zulu, Sahib. Rothwell searched the horizon. Teeth gritted, he fought back the tears that welled up inside. What else can we do Krishnan? We only have until the 25 th; five more days. Maybe we pray, Sahib? Rothwell glanced across hoping to find answers in his friend, but Krishnans face was drawn, shorn of its previous serenity. They camped that night before resuming the search the next morning. Rothwell awoke to the realisation that every day, every hour now was critical. Around mid-morning, they found a small stream running down one of the gullies carved into the rolling plateau. They followed it for a time before abandoning the trail. Damnation! Rothwell muttered, glaring at nothingness. Suddenly he spotted two boys - Zulu - herding cattle in the distance. Krishnan! Come on! He spurred his horse. This might just be the break-through they needed. Charging across the hill, he managed to coral the Zulu between some rocks. Jumping down, he lunged at them. One boy slipped through his fingers, but the second wasnt so swift. Rothwell grabbed his arm and pinned him to the ground. The boy screamed. Pass me the arrow head, Krishnan. Quickly!
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Rothwell loosened his grip sufficiently for the boy - no longer screaming - to sit up. Iklwa, Rothwell said, giving the boy the arrow head. Iklwa, he said again, this time making the action of throwing a spear. Although swaying with abject fear, the boy seemed to understand. Iklwa, he repeated back, the whites of his eyes flashing from his dark face. Rothwell pointed to the rocky escarpment up the hill. Cave. The boy stared blankly at him. Cave, Rothwell said, louder this time, wishing that he knew the word in Zulu. He released the boy and crouched over him, pretending to huddle, circling his arms around as if he were encased. The boys eyes lit up. He seemed to understand. Sibudu, he shouted, pointing at the foothills on the horizon. Rothwell took back the arrowhead and pointed to it, then to the foothills, following the direction of the boys arm. Iklwa, Sibudu? he said, making first the throwing then the crouching action. He had to be sure that the boy understood the association. Sibudu, Sibudu, the boy said, the briefest of smiles entering his frightened face. Rothwell stood and backed away. He smiled. Thank you, you go. The boy remained transfixed, like a captured animal incredulous at its release. Krishnan, have we any food in the saddle bag? Krishnan presented the boy with a small bag of mealie-rice, bowing and pressing his palms together in the Namaste greeting. Rothwell made a similar thank you gesture with his hands. Thank you, you go. The young Zulu jumped up, grabbed the bag out of Krishnans hands and raced down the hill like a bolting impala. Come on Krishnan, we havent much time before he alerts others. I just hope he hasnt sent us on a false chase.
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Towards the foothills they rode. A new sense of urgency invigorated Rothwell, yet he had no reason to suppose that the Zulu had understood, that he had not said anything to save his skin. For better or worse, this was their only prospect, however. Anything? Rothwell shouted an hour later, peering at the rock formation around them. Krishnan shook his head. Damn, Rothwell muttered. The boy had spun them a yarn, it was a lost cause. Then he heard a rumbling sound. Rothwells pulse began to race. Rushing water! Listen. Do you hear that? Ten minutes later he and Krishnan peered over the top of a ridge. A torrent of white water cascaded through a deep channel below them. What do you think? Does it look familiar? No Sahib. Which way? Both up and down river seemed equally plausible. Krishnan jiggled his head. I not know, Sahib. Maybe up. Earlier euphoria had dissipated, the task seemed hopeless. They followed the ravine for about half an hour keeping to the upper slopes, when Krishnan shouted. Sahib, this is it. He pointed to a sandstone cliff on the far side of the river channel, the steep slope leading up to it covered with forest. A frisson of excitement rushed through Rothwells veins. Are you sure? Yes Sahib. Sparkle had returned to Krishnans eyes, his head danced from side to side. Rothwell followed him, guiding his horse down the ravine until they reached the edge of the fast flowing river. Here, Sahib. They rode the horses through a shallow part of the channel and onto a rock platform. A chasm in the rocks about six feet in width separated them from the other side, through which a torrent of white water rushed.
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Can we jump it? I think so, Sahib. Krishnan backed up and ran the horse at speed. He jumped, landing with inches to spare on the other side. Rothwell followed, a shower of fine spray dousing him as he cleared the ravine. The rumble of tumbling water boomed. Rothwell had to shout to be heard. Where, Krishnan? Krishnan jumped from his horse and began to climb the scree slope leading up to the cliff face. We climb. He scrambled twenty yards before pointing upwards. Sibudu, Sibudu! Rothwell squinted through the splintering aurora. A black recess lay in the cliff wall almost half way up. The Sibudu! No wonder the ancient Zulu had used it. Only reachable by climbing the rock face, the cave was a perfect refuge. He clambered up the incline in Krishnans wake, his feet slipping on the loose rocks. About fifty feet up, a lip of a rock overhung. He pulled himself over and rolled into the cave entrance. Krishnan scrabbled about on all fours in a corner of the gloomy chamber. Is it herethe diamond? Rothwells chest heaved from the exertion of the climb, the musty air doing little to calm his breathing. Krishnan was too absorbed with his digging to look up. Yes Sahib, is here. Rothwell peered into the darkness, unsure how far back the cave extended. The spirits of ancient warriors pervaded, he imagined that the earth was littered with their primeval artifacts. Through the filtered light he saw Krishnan finish his digging and reach into the hole. Shaking, eyes shimmering with the intensity of a full moon, Krishnan emerged, a small cloth bag clutched in his soiled hands. His mouth was fixed open, he had no words. Hands faltering, Rothwell struggled with the drawstring. The bag open, he extracted the gemstone. A beam of sunlight caused a wondrous flash. Instantly he was back laughing with Buckingham in the gully
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Rothwell, the gods must be smiling on you. A quiver of sorrow invaded Rothwells heart. If they hadnt found the diamond, then spent timing digging for more, his friend might have been alive today. Oh Krishnan thank heaven. His words a whisper, Rothwell sank to his haunches and began to weep. Krishnan wrapped his arms around his shoulders. An age apparent passed before either man spoke. I believe the gods are with us, Rothwell muttered quietly. His thoughts were with Usha languishing in her cell. He wished that he could somehow tell her that she was safe. Yes Sahib. Brahman blesses us with his presence. Rothwell nodded. Come on, we need to make tracks. He shuffled outside and scanned the bushveld from the ledge. The question is which way do we go? What do you think? Krishnan peered out. We follow the sun West, Sahib? Rothwell shielded his eyes to the piercing light. Rolling plains extended to the horizon from the caves vantage point . I dont know, Krishnan. Isnt it better that we follow the river to the coast and then head south? The river must flow to the sea. It might take longer, but at least we know where we are headed. But no train, Sahib. I know, Krishnan. Making it back to Rorkes Drift would be quicker, but what if we get lost? Ive no idea where we are. What about Zulu, Sahib? Either way carries the risk of Zulu. If we follow the river, at least we have an idea where we go, yes? Krishnan nodded. Alright Sahib. Rothwell began to climb down, hoping that they made the right choice. His was an educated guess. He had no idea how far north the river would emerge at the coast, and therefore the distances involved. They retrieved the horses and began to follow the winding passage of the river. You have the diamond, dont you? Rothwell asked, only half in jest. Yes Sahib. I not lose it this time!
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Lets keep to the ridgeline, well avoid the wooded slopes of the gorge, Rothwell said, guiding his horse up the slope. They rode for several hours, making slow progress. A rocky ledge served as a campsite that night. They lit no fire, not wishing to alert any passing Zulu to their presence, their elevation offering some protection from the marauding scavengers. Rothwell awoke early on the Tuesday morning, pain wrenching his belly. With Ushas hanging scheduled for Friday morning, they had just three days to make it back to Durban. His elation at finding the diamond had been replaced by a deep seated angst. How far was it? The river above which they camped would need to widen considerably across many miles of country to be of a size that might reach the sea. Breaking camp early, they rode as hard as the horses could bear; the same on the following day. But then disaster struck. Help Sahib! Rothwell reeled around to find that Krishnans horse had lost its footing in the scree and tumbled over. The Indian was trapped under the flailing animal. He pulled up his horse and rushed to assist. Pushing with all his strength he managed to lift the horses hind quarters sufficiently for Krishnan to drag himself out. Are you alright? Yes Sahib. What about your leg? Krishnan ran his hand down his shin, crying out in pain. No, is alright I think. Are you sure? Try walking on it. Krishnan limped a few steps. Is better. The horse righted itself and hobbled a few steps, as if mimicking Krishnan. The horses neighing, however, suggested that she was in considerably more pain. Her hind fetlock is twisted, Rothwell said, grabbing the reins. Its no good, she wont walk again. Well have to put her down. He slipped his pistol out of its holster and took aim. The action made him shudder. The last time he had fired it had been to kill the Zulu attacking Krishnan in the gully.
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Krishnan jumped up behind Rothwell on the one remaining horse. Rothwells heart pounded. It was an eerie flashback to their escape from Isandlwana. As then, they faced a life or death struggle for survival, except that this time it was Ushas life that they held in their hands. Rothwell imagined her waiting in the cell, trusting in his promise, yet with each passing day becoming ever more frantic, slowly imagining the impossible - that he might have forsaken her. With time running out, and still no sign of the coast, they did not pitch camp. Rothwell rode through the night. Progress was slow in the twilight and predators blocked their path. A pack of hyenas surrounded them in the middle of the night forcing Rothwell to unleash his pistol. The carnivorous frenzy provoked by the blooded animal provided a diversion for their escape. The next morning a party of Zulu tracked up the river gully. Krishnan, keep down. Look! They had more than likely heard the shot. Rothwells pulse raced as they ducked down behind the ridge, waiting, hoping that they hadnt been seen, only an anxious ten minutes later considering it safe to continue their journey. Tracking eastwards, the terrain flattened, the river widening into a broad alluvial plain. Rothwell imagined that they must be nearing the coast. An hour later, Krishnan tapped him on the shoulder. Look, Sahib. The blue sheen of the Indian Ocean glistened in the distance! Thank God, but was it too late? They emerged in virgin country, at a point on the coast further north than anywhere Rothwell had seen before. He could only guess at how far south they would need to travel. Durban might be fifty miles or more. Rothwell guided the horse towards the coastal dunes, weaving a passage through thick clusters of silver oak and wild banana trees. Reaching the ocean, they dismounted to snatch a meal and a drink from their supplies. A watery sun dipped towards the inland horizon, nightfall fast approaching. Well need to ride through the night, Krishnan. Rothwell held his hand to his furrowed brow, the enormity of the task weighing heavily. He regretted not taking Krishnans advice to pursue the inland route. Surely it would have been quicker than this?
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Sahib, maybe is better if I walk? Horse is faster with one rider. Yes, Krishnan, I think so. Ill take the diamond and ride as quickly I can. You keep walking. Once you reach Verula m youll be able to take the train. Ill meet you at the plantation, about 10 miles north of Durban. Ask for directions when you arrive at Umgeni. If you get lost, head for the railway station in Durban and I will find you. Yes, Sahibgood luck, I pray for you. Thank you Krishnan, Im praying also. Krishnans hand danced as much as Rothwells in their parting. Both men recognised the gravity of the situation. Rothwell rode hard. The heavens had granted him a full moon and the horse found firm footing along the open sand dunes, often right at the edge of the breaking waves. Swift passage along the open beaches was followed by more tortuous progress through dense dune forest, the headlands forcing him inland. The first shafts of dawn entered the distant ocean horizon with many miles remaining to reach Durban, however. He drove forward, his body aching, his thoughts filled with increasing foreboding. A glance at his watch revealed that it was now half past eight. Only 30 minutes before Usha was set to walk to the gallows. All of their endeavour would be in vain if he couldnt arrive back in time to pay Braithwaite. In horror, Rothwell realised that he had run out of time. Stabbing pain pierced his chest, but he kicked his heels into the sides of the horse, ever more urgently spurring the animal to nobler deeds. His horse tracked over the next dune, mouth frothing, flanks steaming, and stumbled. He knew that the end was nigh. How much longer could the animal last? He galloped around the next copse of forest, his heart sinking, when huts appeared in the distance. Verulam! Civilisation! Surely there must still be a chance? Rothwell coaxed the horse the final hundred yards into the small settlement and pulled up at the railway station, a wooden shed with a corrugated iron roof that marked the end of the railway line northwards from Durban. The station was deserted, with no sign of any locomotive. He glanced
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down at his watch. Nine oclock. He ran out of the station courtyard and across to the inn on the opposite side of the thoroughfare. A sleepy hotelier opened the door to his hammering. I need a horse. I dont have one to hire, only my own. Ill buy it. But its not for sale. 20 says it is, or I swear Ill knock your bloody head off, Rothwell shouted, pulling the note from his tunic pocket. Deaths warrant hung like a portent of doom. Rothwell blocked out the pain wrenching inside and focussed on the gallop. A fresh quartet of legs and the boon of a track through the jungle meant that, god willing, the remaining twenty miles could be covered in an hour or so. The coldness of reality set in. Tears streamed down his face for he knew that his quest was but a fools delusion. A gallows end beckoned. Usha walked to the scaffold, heaving with tremor, to the very last clinging to her trust in him. He closed his eyes to the touch of a loving embrace, the aura of an enchantment that was now lost for ever and his heart shattered into pieces. Usha was dead. He had failed her. His descent into the black abyss was complete. The umnyama had exacted its final bloody revenge.

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17 The Gallows
Just as the Sun, the whole worlds sight, is not affected by outside, defective sight; so too, the one self in all beings is not affected by worlds misery. It is outside. Translation from Katha Upanishad Usha sat motionless in the corner of her dark cell. Lacking the energy to chant the mantra out loud, she repeated the Om silently in her head. The verses lent scant comfort, however. Her ablution was impure. The dirty water did not wash away the stains. Atman could not be felt. With no powder for a tilak, she dipped her fingers into the black earth and smeared three bands of ash across her forehead. However, there was no respite from the pain in her chest, the great void in which she was about to fall loomed ever larger. Filling with despair, she resigned herself to the inevitable. Something terrible must have happened. If Rothwell were still alive, he would surely have made it back to rescue her. She trusted her guardian with her life, but as the final hours ticked by, a terror gripped her soul. He would not return. Her premonition had been true. Suryas light had been snatched away. He would never know of her adoration. If only she had had the courage to tell him. Her lifes ambitions to find love and to find again the father whom she had lost were both now inexorably shattered. Her hope that the shroud of inauspiciousness bequeathed her by the deities might lift had been false. A trick of fate had undone her. She had not killed Chandrima. How could she have done when she had never harmed a living soul? Usha searched for meaning, but her contemplation was angry and confused. There was no truth in it. There was no enlightenment. She saw the flames of an Indian widows burning, but no reincarnation.
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Then, voices, the sound of steps, the jangling of keys Blindly she stumbled, her mind frozen. She saw the rope squeezing around her neck, wrenching her wind pipe, tearing the breath out of her. She saw the eternal darkness of the unknowing.

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18 Making Ablution
Just as a mirror stained by dust shines brilliantly when cleaned; so also the embodied ego, when it sees the selfs true nature, comes to be at one, fulfilled, set free from misery and grief and by the nature of the self, as by the lamp, of the absolute that which is this subtle lotus flower is a home. In it is a subtle inner space just as great as the space of all the world is this inner space within the heart. Translation from Shvetashvatara Upanishad 2.14-15, 8.1.3 Rothwell dragged his body up the steps and threw open the door to Braithwaites office. Has she gone? Am I too late? There was no expectancy in his question, only painful resignation, he already knew the answer. Braithwaite glanced up from his desk, his face lacking expression. What happened to you, Rothwell? You look terrible. So, its all over? Rothwell whispered, holding him self up by the door frame. You look like youre all over. Put me out of my misery. I need to know. Is she hanged? His was the cry of a man who has lost everything. Braithwaite smirked, apparently finding humour in Rothwells condition. Is who hanged? What sort of sick joke was this? For gods sake, man. Usha Acharya, is she hanged? The coolie? Yes, the coolie.
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Dont mess with me Braithwaite or I swear Ill--- Youll do what, Rothwell? Rothwell lumbered across the room, filled with murderous intent. He would tear the bastard apart, limb from limb. Wait, Rothwell, wait! Braithwaite backed away, cowering behind the desk. Its not too late. You would have been, but the hangman is ill. I stayed the execution pending the arrival of his deputy travelling from Pietermaritzburg. I was about to reconvene since the replacement has just this minute arrived. Rothwell stopped in his tracks, his head thundering. Was this some horrible nightmare? Did the depraved man play tricks with him, even now? What? Youre saying shes still alive? She hasnt been hung? Get a grip on yourself, Rothwell. Youre going to pieces man. Ive just told you she hasnt. Rothwell stumbled in confusion. So, shes alive? he muttered, the room continuing to spin around him. Braithwaite waved a parchment. Hereseethe death warrantI havent signed it. I was about to, youre just in time. A passage of light had entered the tomb of the dead. Rothwell sank to his knees. Thank God, I thought I was too late. Braithwaite shifted uncomfortably. Are you alright, man? Rothwell attempted to stand. His legs buckled underneath him, forcing him to grasp the edge of Braithwaites desk. Shes in the cell? Yes, but it wouldnt have been for long. Braithwaite cheeks flushed purple. My God, Rothwell, you must have considerable regard for this coolie. I do Braithwaite; I do have considerable regard for her. Rothwell took a deep breath, trying to draw life back into his body. I have your money Braithwaite. He paused to brace himself. Or at least I will have, as soon as I can make a transac tion at the bank.
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He arched his back, ignoring the stiffness in it. Five thousand pounds, I assume you will keep to your side of the bargain? Of course, Rothwell, but I need the cash on my desk. You have an hour. I will hold off the sentence until then, but you are just in time. Rothwell lurched precariously to the door, before turning. I will return. I guarantee it. Dont do anything or --- Or what, Rothwell? Rothwell smiled wryly, raising his hand. Wait till I come back. He had it on the tip o f his tongue to say Or Ill throttle you, but refrained. Nothing would stop him from fulfilling his promise. He stumbled out of Braithwaites office. Ignoring his instinct to rush to Usha, he forced his aching legs along West Street in the direction of the Natal bank. He knew he hadnt much time. Surely nothing could now upset his plans? Mr Dawkins, I have a diamond that I wish to deposit as a surety for a loan, until such time as I can arrange a sale. Very good, Mr Rothwell, Dawkins said, shaking Rothwells hand. Are you alright, sir you look distressed? Can I get you a glass of water? Rothwell slumped into the chair. Yes, thank you. Im very well now, Mr Dawkins. Ive been travelling overnight. So you have a diamond, Mr Rothwell. May I see it? Rothwell extracted the well-travelled gemstone from his pocket and handed it to Dawkins. My goodness, yes, very fine, certainly a magnificent stone, Mr Rothwell. In fact, I havent seen anything quite like this before. Leave it with me and I will have it authenticated. We can draw up the papers for your loan, if you could return, say tomorrow? No, you dont understand, Mr Dawkins, I need the money today, now in fact, sir. Ah, I see. Are you in some kind of financial difficulty, Mr Rothwell? Of a kind, I have a personal debt, which I have promised to repay. My honour is at stake, Mr Dawkins. Braithwaite had insisted
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that the bribe remain a secret. Rothwell could not afford to make mention of it. Well, this is all highly unusual, Mr Rothwell. Our p recious stones expert is not here today. As I said, I could have the stone authenticated by tomorrow, but Im afraid I could not possibly agree to provide a loan before the diamond can be properly valued. Life drained out of Rothwell. After all this, he could not fall at the very last hurdle, surely? He drew on his last reserves. Mr Dawkins, we have known each other for some while. I am an established customer of your bank through my plantation. You know I am good for the loan. I have an urgent need for the money and I ask you as a friend to waive the rules on this occasion. The stone is highly valuable as a deposit. I would not request this favour if this matter were not of the utmost importance. You have my word of honour, sir that I will make good the debt. Dawkins drew back his chair and examined him. Please God if you have any mercy. Alright, it is a considerable sum of money, but the diamond is convincing, and I appreciate the fact that you have always acted with the highest standards of personal integrity, Mr Rothwell. Even though it is well outside the parameters of our normal practice I will oblige you on this occasion. My clerk will draw up the papers for you to sign. The bank will need to assume proprietorship of the diamond such that in the event of the loan not being repaid, it becomes the banks asset. Of course, you may sell the diamond at any time provided the loan is repaid contemporaneously from the sale proceeds. Dawkins smiled. Please take a seat whilst I make the arrangements. Relief was palpable. Blood rushed back to Rothwells extremities. How long will it take Mr, Dawkins? My, you are in a hurry arent you, Mr Rothwell. Well do our best to keep it to twenty minutes. Thank you Mr Dawkins, I am deeply indebted to your good self.

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Dawkins was true to his word. Some twenty anxious minutes later, Rothwell emerged from the bank clutching a wallet with 5,000 inside. He entered the magistrates office. I have your money, Braithwaite. Braithwaite raised his eyes from his desk, his face wooden. This transaction never happened, Rothwell. If you mention it to a living soul I will deny it and pursue you for ever more. Am I clear? I have friends in high places and considerable authority in this town. You must be a very rich man indeed, Braithwaite was on Rothwells lips, his thoughts laced with invective, but he held his tongue. I agree to your condition, Braithwaite. I just want the woman freed. In anticipation I have prepared the coolies release papers. Braithwaites manner was matter of fact, as a ships captain releases a consignment of cargo to the dock. Rothwell placed the wallet on the table. He couldnt bring himself to hand it to the fellow directly. In silence, he followed the rotund form of the man around to the jail. Constable, release the coolie, Acharya. A mistake has been made in the identification. She is free to go. Here is the signed release document. Braithwaite spoke without a flicker of hesitation. Who would have questioned the integrity of the man? Rothwell stepped into the cell. Usha was huddled in the corner. He rushed to embrace her. Usha, its alright, youre safe. Her body was cold to his touch; she was spellbound, as if in a condition of absolute terror. Though he held her in his arms, she seemed unable to comprehend that it was him. Was she delirious? He grasped her shoulders and turned her face towards him. Usha, its me Rothwell. Youve been released. Do you understand? Her eyes saw nothing, like a person who has died with their eyes open. Oh God please no.
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He began to rub her arms and her back, desperately trying to infuse life back into her. She remained impassive, without feeling. Perhaps the trauma had affected her sanity? She had no reaction to anything. Suddenly he was frightened for her. What if she could not be resuscitated? Then he was shouting. Usha, its me, Rothwell. Ive come to take you home. Its all over, youre free. Please wake up. He hugged her, transferring the warmth of his body into hers, willing her back to life. A minute, then he pulled back to examine her. A faint spark flickered in her eyes. Thank heavens! Is that you, Sahib? Her voice was rasping, like the dead awakening. He held her close again. Yes Usha. Its me. Youre safe, Usha. Youre free. Free, Sahib? Did she understand? Yes, Usha, free. Suddenly he was beaming. Warmth radiated from his face. Ill take you to your father, Krishnan. Hes waiting at the plantation - at least I hope. She was silent once again, seemingly unable to comprehend the reality of her rescue. He examined her face and then held her, hard, too hard. Their bodies locked together, almost now suffocating the shallow breaths from her revitalised lungs. It was a miracle! She was safe. The light shifted and urgency filled him. He must extract her from the gloom of the cell. Even now something might arise to constrain her freedom. What if Braithwaite walked back in and told them he had made a mistake? Usha, get up. Too weak to rise unaided, he acted as her crutch, positioning his arm under her shoulder so that she might stagger up the stone steps. They reached the light of day. Stumbling, but more alert now, he guided her towards the horse. I walk, Sahib? What? A wave of emotion overtook him, the tears he had held back finally pouring down his face.
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I have trekked for days across the African veld, ridden all night, and scrambled to save you from the gallows, and you imagine Im going to let you walk? Through quivering lips he laughed. You will ride, behind me. Let me jump up. I will pull you up. Can you hitch up your sari? ____ The horse trotted slowly down West Street. Usha held tightly to Rothwells waist. She squinted. The light was blinding to one so long encased in darkness. Wind rushed to her face, billowing out her long dark hair. She smiled, the enchantment of her new found freedom infusing her soul. A miracle had occurred. Saved from the fires of damnation, she was truly Suryas cons ort astride his golden chariot? You find diamond, she shouted over his shoulder. Would her sun god hear her through the roar of the rushing air? He had. He leaned towards her, his words drifting like the lyrics of a melody, capsules of magical sound. Yes, we found the diamond It took many days We followed the river to the sea I thought I was too late, Usha. The horse crossed the Umgeni, the river where he had first saved her. She gripped him even harder, her thoughts turning to the deathly embrace of the black water below. He must have registered the clench of her fingers, for he craned his neck and smiled. The first time we met. Fate dont you think? Yes, Sahib, I think, she shouted back, disbelieving that she now held the stranger who had appeared from nowhere to rescue her that day, her first in Africa. Along the red dirt track they cantered, a canopy of acacia trees unfolding on either side. Eyes streaming in the wind, Usha clung ever more urgently to her protector, her sun god. Now reunited, how could she ever be parted from such a man? His shining light had delivered her from a catastrophe to which she had seemed inextricably fated. Surely their paths were joined, they fulfilled their
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cosmic destiny: Surya to Ushas, the brilliance of their dawn spectacle shimmering across the night landscape? For a few precious moments she held him, yearning, adoring in secret, wishing in her fancy that she might forever enjoy the radiance of their ethereal union. * Krishnan sat in prayer, making his ablution at the water basin, all the while unaware of the miracle of light that rushed across the skyline towards him. To have lost forever the daughter he had abandoned - having come so close to saving her - was sorrow more than he could bear. Amidst the chaos he searched for reason, but found no answers. The Om tasted bitter in his mouth for the gods punished him, his torture a fitting recompense for his desertion. The sound of a horses hooves disturbed him from his tumult. Sunlight streamed across his eye line. His vision was blurred. Were there two riders in the distance? Yes! A glorious moment, Rothwell Sahib had succeeded in rescuing Usha. No! His expectation collapsed. Only one rider sat on the horse. What was he thinking? Of course they had failed. Rothwell Sahib could not possibly have reached Durban in time. He dropped his head into his hands and wept, the death of his beloved Usha driving a lance through his heart. Footsteps made him glance up. Rothwell Sahib had dismounted and a young Indian woman sat on the horse behind him: an apparition surely? But then the apparition took on an earthly appearance and stepped to the ground. He leapt up, stars spinning in his head. She had grown into a beautiful young woman, but he knew instantly that his little nymph stood before him. Usha, he cried, tears rushing down his crumpled face . ____

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Usha heard her fathers voice and burst into tears. Older, more haggard than she remembered as a girl, his face was instantly recognisable, she had not forgotten it! Father! she cried, her bare feet landing on the ground. Her embrace captured the desolation of a fathers estrangement. She clung, her convulsing body hard against his, the breath squashed out of her, as if anything less risked eternal separation. Surely even the gods would not dare to wrench him away from her again?

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19 Nirvana
Sadness and joy reigned in equal measure at the Rothwell plantation. The memory of Chandrima remained ever present. The legacy of her death hung like a pall across the manor house. Rothwell could not shake off the umnyama that embraced him. Buckinghams sacrifice shrouded his conscience. With no news from England, he remained in ignorance of Annabelles condition. Yet whilst he grieved for the end of his marriage, Africa - for good or bad - now captured his soul. If only he might resolve the confusion in his head. However much he considered it, lifes purpose, his place in the great order of things, continued to tax him. Was the journey he travelled of his own making or did he merely follow a path that was fixed: the gods played to satisfy an idle curiosity, but any struggle to change the outcome was in vain. This could not be the reality of lifes crossing, surely? If it were, then enlightenment had no purpose. Unexplored, the truth could never be found. No, Rothwell trusted in his belief that the darkness could be navigated; that the gods challenged him to open his eyes to the blindness; that from darkness came wisdom; from pain came awareness of self. An understanding of this basic premise was a start, but when would he know that he had found this truth, that his journey of discovery was complete? For a long time Rothwell remained immersed in the shadow of the unknown. One morning he awoke to a revelation. On the banks of the Umgeni River, In the gully, In the plantation fields, Riding across the sand dunes, Had he not reached his nirvana in all of these places? Was Usha not the truth in his life? Was his love for her not the light at the end of his crossing? Blind to the aurora, he had allowed the legacy of his adversity to prevent him from taking that final step: to reach up
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and grasp the light that shone down. The blind man opened his eyes that morning to see that he could longer bear to keep his love buried. ____ Usha had glimpsed her nirvana, but constrained by her position had been unable to grasp it. Rothwell was adored, but from a distance. She prayed for the moment when they might be in each others arms yet wondered if that dream might ever be fulfilled. Would she ever be Parvati to her adoring Shiva? Love, once true, can never be broken. She knew that he would always capture her heart. Every day she wished that she might tell him. Her sadness was that she could not find the courage within herself to do so. Without a sign from him she wondered indeed whether the glow in her heart would ever be reflected in his. A sense of entrapment gripped her. Forever close to him yet apart, misery dampened the sparkle of her enchantment. Would it end in disaster as she had foreseen? Each morning became much the same as the next: fetching his tea, clearing away, bringing news of her fathers market garden across the valley. She would find any excuse to interrupt his breakfast on the veranda, to be close to him - as close as a chamber maid and some while interpreter might presume. But something in the air made her realise that this morning was different. She set down the tray on the cast iron veranda table and shaded her face with her hand. Light rippled through the trees like shimmering waves. We have a history together Usha? His question startled her. She turned to a look that was flushed. Was he embarrassed, angry even? Yes Sahib, I think so. You do good things for me. I very grateful, Sahib. Usha, I want to talk to you. His face was more heavily lined than usual, uncertainty lingered in his eyes. Something had changed. She stiffened. Yes Sahib.

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Sit down, please. He cleared his throat and examined the tablecloth. Do you feel comfortable with me, Usha, being in the house, just you and me, now that the others are gone? She began to quake, her cheeks reddening. Yes, Sahib, I like. Lord Krishna, make him not want her to leave. And, how do you feel about me, Usha? Do you see me as Sahib, your employer or someone else? Her heart now racing, she paused, afraid to say what we wanted to - that she loved him. I am your friend, Sahib, I like you. I like you too, Usha, I feel close to you. I think we have a special bond. She averted her gaze from a face full of contortion. Yes Sahib. Usha, I dont know how to say this, and please dont be offended if I say the wrong thing. I would be deeply saddened if anything happened to upset things between us. She glanced up. His cheeks were flushed red-hot. Surely they mimicked hers? Yes Sahib. Do you think we could be more than friends? The thumping in her chest reached gargantuan proportions. What did he mean? Was this finally the moment she had dreamed of? Should she tell him she loved him? Its alright Usha, you dont have to answer. I just want us to be close. Her head spun, but she forced herself to confront his troubled eyes. Seize the moment. Reach out to him. Is close like love, Sahib? Do you love me, you say? A panic gripped her. No doubt he would think her naive. But then he was grasping her arm, his eyes directly holding hers. Usha, I do love you, I find more and more that I love you. I think I always have loved you without realising it, ever since that time that I pulled you from the river. Tears rolled down her face mirroring his.
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Oh, Sahib, I love you too. I love you for long ti me, but not tell you. I wait see if you love me. He opened his arms. She rushed in, holding him, adoring him, finally able to give herself to him. Oh, my beautiful Usha. What fools we have been? We have both loved the other, but been too afraid to say. Then he was bending down and guiding her lips to his own. She kissed him, long, hard, the intensity of the dawn brilliance rushing in her veins. He swept her up in his arms and carried her upstairs. Between the cotton sheets she threw herself into his embrace. A golden nirvana! The emblazonment of their adoration lit the cosmos. Finally Usha knew. She was the goddess of the dawn, the light after darkness, the joy after sorrow, the divine consciousness after long striving. She had not been misnamed.

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20 A coolie no longer
Through the drapes, the rays of an early morning sun filtered. Usha awoke. Drapes, she didnt have drapes! She raised herself up from the bed and glanced at the pale tousled-haired form lying in the bed next to her. Rothwell Sahib! Fever coursed through her body. Of course, they were lovers. Finally she was Parvati to her adored Shiva. A vision of golden splendour flashed before her. She eased herself back down to the covers, softly so as not to wake him, but then sat bolt upright again. Had last night really happened? The sharp jawline and tranquil closed eyes opposite her in the bed confirmed it. Hare Krishna! A beam of exaltation broke across her face. Fluttering invaded her belly. She had been married before, but Rothwell Sahib was her first love. Fear and loathing had been her only feelings for her husband. She had been a child then, anyhow. Now she was older, wiser, like a woman dare she imagine an equal to the man who lay beside her? Her mind reached out to the consideration for she had ambition beyond the comfort of his embrace. She would be his Annabelle. Had she not as much right to the recognition as any woman? The white masters might treat her as a coolie slave brought in to do their bidding, but she was a Brahmin, born of high caste, from a culture steeped in spiritual richness, a culture dating thousands of years. Had the ancient scriptures not defined Usha, her namesake as the embodiment of divine consciousness? Rothwell stirred and opened his eyes. Morning, Sahib, she said, drawing up the covers to her chin. He blinked, as if momentarily not seeing her. Usha! He sat up, his arms reaching out to touch her. Good morning, Sahib. James, please call me James. Sahib makes you sound like a maid. He paused to clear his throat. I know you were, but things are different now, arent they? Yes SahiberJames.
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She flushed at her continued deference. Old habits died hard. His name sounded strange on her tongue. She frowned. He would think her stupid. Ah, she muttered, determ ined to put such girlish thoughts aside. Are you alright, Usha? YesJames. She reached across and, with new-found boldness, grasped his hand. I very happy. He leaned over and kissed her. Surprisingly her cheeks did not blush. Her mouth lingered on his. It felt natural to do so. Well, this is a turn up for the books, isnt it? She frowned, not understanding. Sorry, an expression, I mean it is incredible that we are togetherafter everything that has happened. A tear slipped from her eye. The salty stickiness tickled on her cheek. Her instinct was to wipe it away. She raised her hand to do so, but then let it fall again. What did it matter if she showed her emotion? It is, yes, she replied softly, almost dreamily. She thought of Chandrima. A shiver ran through her, but then she saw Chandrimas smile. She pictured herself in the yard telling Chandrima about James and watching her fall off the pangat in shock - and excitement. * Usha hoped that her new-found euphoria and the passage of time might assuage the demons of her past. Her dream that night dispelled any such expectation. Usha skipped lightly down the stone steps. From the fire ahead leapt the flames of her damnation. Please dont let me burn, Sati shrieked, the goddesss beckoning arms scorching into striated lines of crusted flesh. Usha rushed forward - the pain of her alter ego searing her soul - then stopped in her tracks. Sati was no longer. Chandrima stood before her emblazoned by the fury.
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She did this, Chandrima yelled, her sweet face crumpling into despair. Who, Satiwhat are you saying? Usha cried into the darkness. No, no, do you not see? Are you blind to the truth of your destiny. Chandrimas screams ripped through Ushas head. She raised herself from the bed and scurried quickly down the stairs, fearful of waking her beloved James. Confused reigned in her thoughts. Surely the gods had brought them together for a purpose?

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21 Forces of darkness
Usha abandoned herself to the embrace of her sun-lit union, the beams of its enchantment infusing her with Shakti. The lingering clouds of disillusion were never far away, however. She could not erase the darkness from her thoughts. Usha sat one morning, her gaze pitched to the shadows outside. A shuffle of footsteps interrupted her contemplation. I miss her. Who? Chandrima. His face darkened. I know. I not mean in sad way. I mean in happy way. I miss her laughing. Moisture had welled up in his eyes. Perhaps she shouldnt have mentioned it, but then things needed to be said. What I not understand, James. He smiled through watery eyes. What? Chandrima, how she die? His face hardened. Was that fear in his eyes? He turned away. I dont know, Usha. Perhaps we will never know. She touched his arm. His skin was cold. Her brow knitted. She wanted to ask about Annabelle. How could he love her - Usha - if he still pined for his wife? She let her hand fall to the covers. One thing at a time, she thought. They were both feeling their way. I make you tea? He turned to her, his eyes warming from their iciness. You dont have to do that, Ill make you some. He leapt out of bed and pulled on his robe. Youre not a maid any longer. So what am I? Her question had slipped off her tongue, but the sight of his blush made her regret her directness. Had she not put him in an impossible situation?

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He returned to the edge of the chaise longue and took her hand. You are everything to me, Usha. It is difficult. Annabelle and I are estranged, but still married. I wish it were othe rwise. I wish it were otherwise. What did that mean? Did it mean he would marry her? She imagined so. The yearning in his eyes suggested that it must be his intention. Is alright, James, as long as we togetheris difficult for me also. Yes? A surge of irritation rose within her. Had he not understood? Why was she the one always to defer, to set her interests aside? My father not happy. Who Krishnan, why ever not? She paused, her mouth tightening, unsure whether to continue. Tears floated into her eyes. He say I should not live here, I should live with him. Rothwell sat upright, his face one of alarm. What, in his cottage? In Umgeni? Why, I dont understand? Her cheeks reddened. How could he be so insensitive? She dropped her head. Is difficult for Indian woman to live with white man; it bring disgrace on family. He stiffened. Why, because of a mixing of the races? Isnt that what I have been fighting for all this time: equal status, fairer treatment for the workers on the plantation? I know James, but take time. She glanced up to eyes that burned. This was unchartered territory. Does Krishnan say this? What could she say? Her eyes held the floor. He does, doesnt he? Rothwell sighed and clasped his hand to his head. Im sorry, Usha, I hadnt realised, Im an idiot. He reached out and lifted her face up to his. Has anyone else being saying such things? An ache throbbed in her temples. There are some on plantation. She had muted her description. Tongues had lashed her. Sleeping with the infidel had been the accusation of many. Well, well see about that. Her thoughts were dark. You not stop it, they not understand.
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He stared at her, eyes filled with pain. What can I do? Its not been easy for me either. Ive had a bucketful of innuendo. Innu? People talking. What they say? His chest heaved, a sharp breath drawing in. The same as Krishnan, probablymore: that its not right, that I disgrace my heritage. Some crass man in the street called me a coolie-lover and spat in my face. Dark patches underscored his eyes. He brushed his hand away, as if sweeping. Im sorry. I didnt want to tell you that. Its nothing. She made to stand but wobbled on her heels. Everything seemed to be collapsing around her. You want be with me? He lunged forward and clasped her to his chest. Of course, I love you Usha, I love you with all my heart. I dont give a damn what people say. Bugger the lot of them! Standing, he walked to the chest of drawers and yanked open the drawer, before slamming it shut. I can handle it; its you Im worried about. It pains me to hear that you are the object of such discrimination. She shook. When she spoke her voice was scratchy. I not care, James. All my life I struggle against people who make badness for me. Oh Usha. He ran and held her - hard. The sound of his chest pounded in her ear, as if magnified by a doctors stethoscope. That is why I am here for you, Usha. I wont make badness for you, I promise. I will cherish you like no other. Of course she believed him. Had he not rescued her from the rope? Was he not her Surya? Their love transcended all. Brahman saw no colour in a mans skin when he passed absolution.

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22 In need of a miracle
Has he given you any indication? Ushas brow creased. Her back tightened. Why do you keep asking me, Father? My answer is the same. Krishnan shifted uneasily in the chair. I know he is a good man, but I cannot let this continue. Usha washed the dish in the sink, rubbing hard. Its not for you to decide. I love him and I want to be with him. Why cant you leave things alone? Because Im your father, thats why. A maelstrom whipped inside. She dropped the cup in the sink and turned to him. Well, you werent my father for most of my childhood. Why should I answer to you now? A deep scar lined his forehead. He stooped, as if winded by her accusation. Why couldnt she have held her tongue? She ran to him, her apron wet from the dishwater. Im sorry, Father, I didnt mean---- Away, out of my sight. How dare you speak to me like that! What would your Mother say? His eyes were filled with fury. What would she care? She slammed th e door in my face. I hate her. Usha ran from the room, the pain of years of abandonment etching into her face. * Whats wrong, you look miserable? Usha shut the manor house door hard and threw her bag to the floor. Is nothing, I lie down. She shielded her face from him, but at the second step of the winding staircase a hand grasped her shoulder, pulling her around. Oh Usha, youve been crying. Is it Krishnan?
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She nodded, blanching. Her lip crumpled, her anger intensifying. Why could he not have left her alone? Come here, Rothwell said, wrapping her in his arms. Oh darling, Im sorry, I wish I could make it better. Sadness rushed to the surface. Sobbing, she reached up and found his lips. Help me. Take away the pain. With lips that were angry, frenzied, she crushed up against him. Youre mine. He winced at her bite and stumbled back. Come, he muttered, grabbing her arm, pulling her up. She reached the landing, gasping for air. Intensity consumed her loins. I want you. She pushed him through the doorway and onto the bed. Her back lathered in sweat, she tumbled on top of him. Like a frenzied animal she gripped his shoulders, ripped off his shirt, thrust herself down on him. Now, she yelled, Now. Her mouth ground into him: hard, unyielding. Blood red lips were driven by anger: the anger of derision, the anger of the destitute, anger at the lashing of a widow. And then she was screaming and pummelling his chest with her fists. You are mine, not hers. Aargh, he yelled, his face contorting. He grabbed her wrists. Yes. Yanked forward, her blouse was ripped open. Ill bloody well have you. His kisses smothered her. Im yours and youre mine. His words evoked a fury. The room spun around in a blinding blur. Make me youre mine, she yelled, gripping his shoulders and pulling down hard with her fingers. I hate you, she yelled, pulling back from him. Shaking, she leapt off him and ran out of the room. A torrent of water ran down her face. ____ Rothwell lay panting on the bed. Lips swollen, his body ached with unresolved passion. Damn it. How could he resolve this? He
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loved her, more than he had loved anyone, yet everything worked to keep them apart. Even his friend, Dawkins had joined the forces of opposition. A dark crease scarred his forehead as he recalled the scene. * Noises in the community. The words stung, like a burn. All joviality had vanished from Dawkins demeanour. Hardened eyes glinted above reddened cheeks. So this is why Dawkins had called him in. What noises? Im sorry Rothwell, the banks shareholders arent happy. The two lines on Rothwells forehead hardened. Arent happy with what? Dawkins paused, his face now purple. You, and the coolie there Ive said it. What! Fire raged in Rothwells belly. He strode up to Dawkins desk and thumped his fist on the top. Shes not a coolie, shes Usha you know the woman I rescued fro m the gallows. Dawkins jumped back in his chair, his face blanching. Im sorry, Rothwell, its not me, Im all for emancipation of the workers. Rothwell glared at him. The hell you are. The board want to withdraw the financing. What are you talking about? The plantation mortgage, they want it repaid. Rothwells pupils dilated. He erupted, his words spewing like molten lava. And you support this? Sorry, Rothwell, I did my best, but I have no --- Damn you Dawkins. Rothwell kicked the empty chair sending it crashing into the wall. You and the coolie. Dawkins words rang in his head like a call to arms. An even greater fire raged within. He leapt across the desk and grabbed the man by the throat, intent on wringing his neck. Bah, rot in hell, youre not worth it, he yelled, arresting his hands. Pivoting on his heels, he slammed the door behind him.
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* The recollection made Rothwell shake even now. He paced from the bedroom. Downstairs, he found Usha. Huddled in a chair by the French windows, she stared silently to the acacia trees at the end of the garden, her eyes vacant, grey. He slumped to the floor and held her legs. I love you my darling. His words were scratched . A tear trickled down his cheek. A whisper came. I know. I always imagine us like Usha and Surya, riding in golden chariot. He rose up on his haunches. Her puffy eyes glistened, like early morning dew on a drooping flower. Do you? A golden chariot; how lovely. As child it was my dream. Its good to have dreams. He closed his eyes wishing for a golden aurora. The dark emptiness of chaos was his only vision. Oh Usha, I wish I had a magic wand that would make it true. She leant forward, her eyes filling with intensity. It is true. The gods say so. We make it so. Yes, he muttered, wanting to believe her. Youre right. We can live here, the two of us, cocooned in our magical oasis. Cocooned? You and me: Surya and Usha, the dawn of a new age. Her eyes lit like comets in the night sky. She cupped his face in her soft hands. Narada say: Follow your heart, Usha and all is well. Rothwell jigged his head from side to side and grinned. Narada? You very bad man, Mister Rothwell , make fun of wise old Indian. Rothwell threw his arms back behind his shoulders and laughed. I love Narada, he is wonderful. I speak to him all the time, Usha said. Really?
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Yes, he give me spiritual comfort. Rothwell ducked his head to one side. And I dont give you spiritual comfort? She whacked his arm. You give me trouble. Anyway, your comfort is different, more like She blushed. lover. Eyes closed, hidden radiance infused her cheeks. He leant over and touched his lips to hers, gently, as one caresses a precious thing. He could not lose her, not now, not after everything they had been through. Whatever it took, he would make it work. The sadness he had managed to mask over reared up again. What could he say? Without news of Annabelle there could be no resolution. And where would they go if he lost the plantation? He had no prospect of paying back the loan. Flickering open, the twinkle in her big brown eyes was immediately overtaken by a frown. James, why your face dark? His smile was forced. I was thinking about ushow we can be together. Lines of worry marked her face. Can we be together? Yes, he said determinedly. Yes, dont ever lose sight of that my darling. The sadness of the fallen filled her face. Her lips moved, but only the rustle of her breathing exuded, as if she mouthed the words of an unspoken mantra. I know, we must pray, he said, squeezing her hand. Oh that the gods might deliver them another miracle.

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23 Rising of a Dead Moon


Her wedding day! Usha peeped from the balcony at the throng assembled in the courtyard outside, the chain of her nose and ear ring catching on the cotton blind. A roar went up. The elephant procession approached. She squinted into the dusty haze. A man with flaxen hair and a golden robe sat high on the throne seat. The elephant below lumbered forward, each heavy footstep a jangle of tiny bells. Was this really happening? She had waited so long. Her husbandto-be waved at the house, beams of light darting from his face. Had he seen her through the shutters? She couldnt imagine how, yet his eyes held her yearning gaze. Quickly she pulled back. Surely it was bad luck if he had seen her? Heart racing, she skipped down the flight of stairs. Her sandals slipped on the shiny marble. Panting, she stopped. She would wait until he had alighted before she ventured another peep through the trellis abutting the stone column. Her furtive glance was unsuccessful. Where was he? Had she misjudged the timing? A throng of bodies impeded her view. Footsteps by the water fountain, a shadow flashing against the sparkling water. What was he doing? She wasnt supposed to meet him now. Too late, he was upon her. She shrieked and ran, tripping up over the pallu of her red bridal sari. Usha, are you ready? came a voice, an old voice, an Indian voice, not Jamess. The man wore the golden robe, but his hair was grey and thinning, not flaxen and full, his skin wrinkled, sickly, like a fallen Durian that has withered into the earth. She screamed. The horror of her first, arranged marriage was retraced. Her Indian husband was not burnt on the pyre. He had returned to reclaim her. The hand of her fate grabbed her. Once again the heat of the fire chapped her face. She was being pushed into the flames of her death.
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Usha, wake up, youre having a nightmare. The shake brought her to the room. James, she shrieked, throwing herself forward. His arms wrapped around, rocking her back and forth. Its alright, Im here. The motion could only partially sooth the hammering in her chest for angst gripped her soul. I think he was you, she gasped, struggling to draw in breath. Who? My dead husband. Oh my god, Im sorry Usha. Here, I have you now, its over. Suddenly cold, she clung to him, like ice. James, hold me. Slowly his warmth began to infuse her. Her shaking subsided. So, was I dead? he asked. Fear filled her eyes as she turned. No, I marry you. You come on elephant, but then it not you. My husband, Oorjit, is back from the dead. Rothwell stared to the wall. Its strange. I had the same dreamthat we married. When? The other night. Maybe gods send us message? Maybe. His face was sullen. Did he not recognise the musings of the deities? How could she have faith when he prevaricated? You have to give me timeto clear the path. Had he read her thoughts? He grasped her shoulders and made her face him. I will marry you, Usha, I promise. A rush of fervour caused her to quiver. How could she have ever doubted him? She clasped him to her breast. I love you, she whispered in his ear. I love you too, my Indian princess, he whispered back. *

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Usha unlatched the kitchen window. Narada, come in, she shouted into the garden. Narada broke his step and, still balancing the sack of grain on his shoulders, peered round. A grin broke out on his face. Usha! Rothwell Sahib want me to take to store room. Later! She closed the window and smiled. In future, she might be giving the orders: Rothwell Memsahib. No that sounded stupid. Usha Rothwell? She screwed up her nose. Quite ridiculous! The others would laugh behind her back. No, Usha she would remain, Memsahib by right if not by name. What would Chandrima have made of her elevated position? The thought made her smile. Usha spun around and shrieked. In the corner stood a shadowy, pale figure dressed in a torn sari. Chandrima! What? Why cant you be happy? Chandrimas face was ashen, filled with the pain of the underworld. No words came. He said he would marry me. The silence swayed Usha. Why would her friend not smile? The moon goddess clutched at the back of her head, her shriek ripping through Ushas body. Help me. Thrown to the floor, Usha saw only the darkness of eternal damnation. She awoke to the sound of screaming a mans. * His back to her, James stood in the study holding a letter. Her footsteps were frantic, the rumble of the floorboards causing him to spin around and drop the parchment to the floor. His face was gaunt, drained of blood, like the dead awakened. She gasped and rushed forward, her chest tightening as if crushed in a vice. James, whats happened? The air was filled with the silence of an empty tomb. Something was terribly wrong. James, she cried, her lip quivering. His mouth opened to speak, but nothing came out. What? Tell me, is Annabelle, is she dead?
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No. His father? Royston? What? she yelled, her voice shrillfilled with panic. He turned to face her. She shuddered. He was as stone: Shivas statue in the temple. Marble eyes shimmered without seeing. I have a son. What? The letter is from Annabelle. I have a son. Flashing light swirled in her head, like an aurora borealis. She braced against the table. I not understand. How can you? From the grave came his voice. Before all this happened: Chandrima, your imprisonment, Annabelle leaving---- You sleep with her? But you say marriage over? That is why Annabelle leave, no? Yes, noI mean yes. What you say? The night before I left for Mauritius, Annabelle and I slept together. His glance was full of injury. We were married. She was my wife. Ushas cheeks smoked like burning sulphur. Why she leave you? We fell out of love. When you come back? His face coloured to a deep crimson. Yes. He dropped his head. And Chandrima, she asked , glancing frantically over her shoulder. What about Chandrima? His shout made her jump. Tell me truth, she shr ieked, banging her foot down on the floor. Rigid he stood, like a man teetering on the edge of a precipice with no option but to fall. Oh God, please forgive me! It was Annabelle, Annabelle killed Chandrima. Darkness fell. Like the black smoke of a fire, it filled her lungs, drawing the breath from her. She collapsed to her knees, the room swinging around her. Through the confusion she fought, refusing to be cowed.
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You know this all time and you not tell me? He sank down, terror filling his eyes. Im sorry, Usha, I wanted to tell you. I couldntI couldnt find it in me to bring her to justice. Justice! The barbs of a widows taunts pierced her flesh. What justice when I sent to jail for Chandrima when Annab elle kill her? That is why I rescued you . Why do you think I ventured to the end of the earth to find the diamond? She stabbed her fingers into her belly. For me or for Annabelle? For you, I love you. Now she was screaming. So you marry me? How can I? I have a son. He yelled like a man possessed, a man who walked in the blackness of the night. Aargh, she cried. Gripped by the clutches of a maelstrom, she lurched forward. Her fists hammered into his chest, pummelling hard, blindly, the fury of demons in her. I hate you. Usha, please. No, she screamed. There is no Usha, only Nakti. She was no longer in the room. She was sprintingwildly. Red earth scoured her feet, trees flashed past. Through a blur of shadows she ran. An ever shrinking corridor held her in, like a hallucination. Her legs ached, her feet were blistered to a red raw, but still she could not stop. Rational thought no longer guided her. Dark forces drove her towards her destiny. The Umgeni riverbank! Head swirling, she stopped. Her feet sank into the black mud. Of course, it all made sense. The houglis would have their redress. Naktis soul was defiled. The darkness of the eternal beckoned. Forward she stepped, the water inching up her ankles, now her knees, now at her waist. The cold on her skin made her shiver, but strangely she smiled. Every step took her deeper into the comfort of the unknowing. Up to her neck now, she
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took one last look at the bank and slipped away, monsters devouring her soul. A dead moon glowed in the African sky. Finally complete was its rising.

THE END

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