A Singular Hostage.

by Thala.s.sa Ali.

To the memory of Sayed Akhlaque Husain Tauhidi, who showed me the Path to Peace through scattered pearls

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Among those who helped me with this book were Arthur Edelstein, who taught me to write fiction and my writing group, who made wonderful suggestions and bore with me every step of the way. My friend and agent Jill Kneerim, editor Danelle McCafferty, Peter Scholl, Lois Ames, and Bill Bell were the first to take the book seriously. Gillo Afridi, Tony Mahmood, Samina Quraeshi, and many other friends in the U.S., India, and Pakistan also offered me advice and encouragement. Kate Miciak, my meticulous editor at Bantam Dell, held my feet to the fire. I cannot praise or thank her enough. I also thank Sophie and Toby, my closest allies of all.

HISTORICAL NOTE

This story takes place in the north of India, now Pakistan, in 18381839, the first year of Queen Victoria's reign. By that year, Britain, through its proxy, the Honorable East India Company, controlled most of the Indian subcontinent. To the north, the Great Game-the nineteenth-century struggle between Britain and Russia for control of Central Asia-was gathering speed.By 1838, the British feared a Russian threat to their Indian territories. Determined to outwit the Russians by gaining political control of Afghanistan, Lord Auckland sent his armies to Kabul on a military adventure later known as the First Afghan War.Before launching his Afghan Campaign, Auckland took the extraordinary step of traveling twelve hundred miles across India to enlist the aid of the dying one-eyed Maharajah Ranjit Singh of the Punjab, whose independent military state lay between the British territories and Afghanistan. That year-long journey-on which Lord Auckland was accompanied by his two spinster sisters, his entire government, and a ten-thousand-man army-culminated in the great durbar durbar, or state meeting, at Firozpur, on the border between Britishcontrolled India and the Punjab.A treaty between the two was essential to the British campaign. Maharajah Ranjit Singh knew this and delayed signing the treaty for a month, forcing Auckland to send his troops across the mountain pa.s.ses into Afghanistan in deep winter.This story takes place during that month.***LORD Auckland, his sisters, his political secretary, and his chief of protocol are real historical figures, as are Maharajah Ranjit Singh and his Chief Minister. The durbar took place much as I have described it, and the subsequent movements of the British camp are generally accurate.Mariana Givens, Harry Fitzgerald, the baby Saboor and his family, and Saat Kaur, the Maharajah's youngest wife, are products of my imagination.[image][image]

At 2:00 A.M., Shaikh Waliullah Karakoyia opened his eyes. Years of offering his prayers at the ppointed hours had given him a delicate sense of the pa.s.sage of time. Sometimes he allowed himself to imagine that, should he be sent to the windowless dungeons of the Lah.o.r.e Citadel, whose walls shut out the call to prayer, he would still know when to wash himself and stand before his G.o.d.He shivered and reached for his shawl. Moonlight filtered its way through the latticework balcony outside and fell like coins on the prayer rug that lay ready, pointing west to Mecca, its corner turned back to avert evil. Wooden curtain rings clicked softly as he padded through a doorway to the little table that held his water vessel and bra.s.s basin. The water was cold as he washed for the postmidnight prayer, a prayer optional to all save those schooled in the mystical traditions of Islam."G.o.d is great," he murmured, as he dried his face.Facing the wall so that no creature might come between him and G.o.d, the Shaikh stood straight, his hands folded, his eyes half-closed."In the name of Allah Most Gracious, Most Merciful:Praise be to Allah, Cherisher and Sustainer of the Worlds;Most Gracious, Most Merciful,Master of the Day of Judgment.Thee alone we worship, Thee alone we ask for help.Guide us to the straight path: the path of those whom Thouhast favored;Not of those who have earned Thy wrath, nor of those whohave gone astray."As he recited, he abandoned himself to his dreams: mind pictures so dazzling that he found them difficult to describe, even to the most advanced members of the mystic brotherhood he had led for more than twenty-five years.Eyes on the mat before him, the Shaikh moved through the slow dance of his prayer. He bent, straightened, and bowed, his forehead to the tiles beneath the threads of his prayer mat, as his fellow Muslims had done for thirteen hundred years, the venerable Arabic coming in whispered cadences in the moonlight.BY sunrise, the rain that had poured in torrents before dawn had nearly ceased, leaving only a faint light to shine on the Shaikh's house and on the cobbled square upon which it stood.The light strengthened and found its way into the narrow lanes and bazaars of Lah.o.r.e City. It spread over the wet pavilions and courtyards of Maharajah Ranjit Singh's Citadel, the great marble fort that shared with the city the protection of its ancient fortified wall.In an octagonal tower set into the Citadel's northwest corner, the Maharajah's youngest hostage was refusing a cup of milk.Saboor would not drink from the cup the servant girl held out invitingly. Compressing his lips, he turned his head away."Oh, Saboor Baba," the girl crooned, looking about her cautiously as she held out the cup, "drink this, it is sweet.""No," said the child firmly, and trotted away, his little shoulders bouncing. Reaching the safety of the bed where his mother sat loosening her hair, he crouched beside her and followed the servant with round, anxious eyes."What is the matter, my darling?" His mother pursed her lips and made a kissing sound. "Why don't you want your milk? You love your milk." c.o.c.king her head, Mumtaz Bano studied Saboor and smiled. Auburn hair cascaded over her shoulder and lay in a shining coil in her lap."Oh, Reshma, is Saboor not the sweetest baby in all of Lah.o.r.e?" she asked in her child's voice."Yes, Bibi," murmured the servant girl, her head swaying in agreement. The cup she held trembled, making little waves in the milk.But Saboor would not have his milk. He crawled beneath the bed, his bare feet disappearing from view. There he sat, obstinately refusing his breakfast."Well, then, your ammi ammi will have to drink it instead," his mother said. "Ammi loves warm sweet milk." will have to drink it instead," his mother said. "Ammi loves warm sweet milk."Mumtaz Bano reached for the cup, heavy embroidered silk falling back from a delicate wrist. The servant, her eyes widening, tried to take it back. "No, Bibi. This milk is for Saboor," she protested, but Mumtaz Bano would have it. She made a polite but commanding gesture.As his mother took the cup from Reshma's fingers, Saboor crawled hurriedly from his hiding place, his mouth open, his breathing rapid. At the edge of the bed he dragged himself upright at his mother's knee, his face fiushed, in time to see her lift the cup to her mouth and swallow.For a moment there was silence. Then Saboor began to scream."What is the matter, my darling?" Mumtaz Bano asked, reaching out and stroking Saboor's face with her free hand, but he could not answer. He could only scream and shake his head back and forth, his mouth stretched open as far as it would go, his eyes screwed shut. The servant girl stood immobile, her hands pressed over her ears to shut out the child's voice. Then, mumbling an excuse, she s.n.a.t.c.hed him up and fied.Without stopping outside the door for her slippers, Reshma fiew, the child shrieking on her hip, past other rooms whose languid occupants scarcely looked up. Breathing hard, she climbed a fiight of stone stairs to the outer door and ran out across a damp courtyard to the ladies' garden.They were alone. A nearby fountain burbled. Reshma set Saboor down on its cold marble edge, then wiped tears and mucus from his face. The grinding, desperate sound of his screams told her that his heart was breaking."Why do you cry?" she asked him, her voice trembling. "Nothing has happened. Nothing."Guards shared a water pipe near the tower door. Shielded from their eyes by a cypress tree, Reshma tugged her unclean veil over her head and crouched beside the child, willing him to fall silent. Now, her terrible work gone all wrong, she could only wait until Saboor's mother fell, unknowing, into deadly sleep. Later, when the body was discovered and Reshma questioned, she would swear that she and the child had been outdoors all along.Saboor's mouth was still stretched wide, although he gave only a single, drawn-out cry. Reshma reached toward him, then drew her hand away.Today's evil had begun a year ago, with jealousy and whispers, after the old Maharajah ordered Saboor and his mother to the Citadel from their home in Shaikh Waliullah's house half a mile away. Only Saboor's presence, the Maharajah had insisted, would protect him from illness and death. Saboor was, after all, the grandson of Shaikh Waliullah, a man whose mysterious abilities were known to all.A myna bird shrieked in the cypress tree overhead. Reshma wrapped her fingers around her knees. Saboor's mother, whom Reshma had once envied for her beauty and her station, now lay mortally poisoned in her bedchamber. If Saboor had been helpless to save her, what use was he to the Maharajah?Reshma looked down at the child. If he did possess special powers as people claimed, they had done him no good: they had only brought him to his present exile among the Maharajah's many queens, and the loss of his pretty mother.He was quiet now. Reshma lifted him to her lap where he lay hiccuping and listless, refusing to meet her gaze. She bit her lip. What would the Maharajah do when he learned of Mumtaz Bano's death? Aware of the jealousies swirling within his household, would he guess the truth: that the poisoned cup had been meant not for the mother but for her child, his favorite, his tiny magician, his pearl of pearls?Reshma looked past the tree at the guards who now dozed beneath a portico, their forearms shading their eyes. The Maharajah, at least, was far away, encamped on his border with his bejeweled court, awaiting his meeting with the English people. It was his youngest queen whom Reshma feared more, Saat Kaur, whose own infant son had failed to attract the Maharajah's love. The queen waited in a downstairs room for the screams that would herald Saboor's death. How was Reshma to explain her failure?She wiped Saboor's wet face with a corner of her veil. How different he looked now, his brightness gone, his soft, questioning look replaced by blank exhaustion. Before today, save for the old Maharajah with his constant demands, Saboor's sole companion had been his lonely young mother. Alone and friendless now, how would he survive?Reshma closed her eyes against her tears, but they seeped from beneath her lids and trickled down her cheeks. Why had she, who had never deliberately caused harm, consented to be the bearer of the poisoned cup? Was it her terror of the young Queen's rages? Had her own deprivation, her bondage, made her hard?"Forgive me, Saboor," she whispered. "Forgive me."A new fear clutched at her. Saboor had refused his milk. He had crawled as fast as he could from beneath the bed when his mother had taken the cup. Had he been trying to stop Mumtaz Bano from drinking the poison? Had he known Had he known?She glanced at the silent child. It could not be possible. SaboorBaba, after all, was only one and a half years old.

As a watery light filtered into her tent, Mariana Givens awoke with a start. Overhead, rain whispered against canvas.

She sat up and pushed her hair from her face. Why had she awakened so suddenly? Had an unusual sound, a voice, come from outside?

As she reached for her boots, a familiar scuffiing at her doorway signaled the arrival of Dittoo with her coffee. She dropped the boots, fiung herself down impatiently, and dragged the covers to her chin. Feigning sleep was the only way she could prevent Dittoo from talking to her. Even among Indian servants, Dittoo could win a prize for talking.

She breathed evenly, watching through her lashes as he pushed his way inside, past the heavy blind that served as a door, bringing with him a wave of damp chill and the scent of cooking fires. His bare feet on the striped rug made wet sounds that grew louder as he advanced toward her bed, wheezing a little, the tray rattling in his hands.

She forced herself not to wince as the tray clanked noisily onto her bedside table. Above her, Dittoo cleared his throat. Mariana had thought of asking the advice of the Governor-General's two sisters regarding Dittoo's habit of standing over her while she was in bed, but had refrained, knowing they would only insist that he be sent immediately away. Whatever the sisters might think, Mariana was certain Dittoo's behavior had nothing to do with her being twenty and unmarried.

When he turned, she opened her eyes and watched him shuffie toward the door, his shoulders stooped under their usual invisible burden, then remembered what had awakened her. It had been the silence outside her tent. Where were the coolies who daily dismantled the red canvas boundary wall in her corner of the state residence compound? Where were the shouts of the men, the grunts of their pack animals?

Her tent fioor was wet, the air damp and cool. She remembered the sound of rain pounding on the roof in the night. That was it, the rain!

"Dittoo," she called after him, making a mental note never to do it again, "are we traveling today?"

He swung back, beaming. "That is what I wanted to tell you, Memsahib. They do not know as yet. Everything depends upon the big elephant. I heard them saying-"

"Thank you, Dittoo," she said, and waved him away.

The blind closed behind him. Mariana sat up. She scooped up her boots and banged them upside down against the side of her bed, then looked down, as she always did, to see if some interesting creature had tumbled out of one of them.

The red wall outside her tent would be taken down only if the camp's biggest baggage elephant proved able to carry his load. If she hurried, she might see the elephant for herself.

Hopping first on one foot and then the other, she fought her way into her boots, shrieking at the cold water that squirted up through the holes in the striped cotton rug under her feet. After fiinging off her nightdress and grappling with her stays, she b.u.t.toned herself into her favorite tartan gown, pushed a handful of brown curls inside her matching tartan bonnet, and tied its ribbons carelessly under her chin. She ignored the ewer and basin waiting on their stand. There was no time to wash her face: she had an elephant to visit.

Leaving her coffee steaming untasted, she hurried across the soaking rug, Miss Emily's voice sounding in her ears. "How many times must I warn you, my dear," Miss Emily had said only yesterday afternoon while regarding Mariana severely over her reading spectacles, "that you must not not forget your position. forget your position. Never Never allow a native to see you confused, upset, or less than allow a native to see you confused, upset, or less than perfectly dressed perfectly dressed."

Mariana took an impatient breath and stepped out into a misty early morning.

Her tent was well located. Tucked sideways into a front corner of the Governor-General's own residence compound, it had a clear view of the residence tents and a good, if distant, view of the princ.i.p.al gate, a folded entrance in the red canvas wall that enclosed the entire compound. Intriguing sounds often drifted into her tent from the other side of the wall, causing Mariana to spend much time imagining the various origins of the people and animals pa.s.sing by on the avenue outside.

Smooth, shiny mud marred only by Dittoo's footprints covered the distance from her modest doorway to the compound's center. There, arranged in a square, the three riotously patterned tents of Lord Auckland and his two unmarried sisters, and a dining tent large enough to seat twenty, billowed wetly in the dawn breeze.

Beside Mariana's tent, the red canvas wall stretched away toward the guarded gate. Holding her skirts away from the mud, she hurried along the wall.

She should have waited in her tent until the march. That was the rule for ladies traveling in camps. If there was no march, a lady waited until nine o'clock before going across to the dining tent for breakfast. She then returned to her tent to read or write letters until lunch. After lunch, she paid calls, in this case upon Miss Emily or Miss Emily's younger sister, f.a.n.n.y, in their their tents. Before dinner, she went out for a ride. Mariana knew these rules because Miss Emily had repeated them to her countless times. tents. Before dinner, she went out for a ride. Mariana knew these rules because Miss Emily had repeated them to her countless times.

But Mariana would not shut herself away behind canvas. Ladylike idleness would certainly drive her mad. Besides, she would miss everything, and it was her duty to learn all about the camp, and about India. If she did not, her twice-weekly letters to Papa would never be good enough.

She risked a glance toward the residence tents. There was no sign of activity: no tattletale ladies' maid carried things across the compound, no English-speaking native manservant stood watching her. If she could get past the gate, then across the avenue and back again without being seen, she would be safe from Miss Emily's glares at breakfast.

She followed the wall, avoiding the stout guy ropes pegged to the ground every eight feet. The wet ropes and the gusting wind reminded her of the dream from which she had awakened. In her dream she had shivered in the prow of an unfamiliar ship as it sailed headlong through a dense fog toward a destination she could not guess.

It seemed odd to dream of a ship as she lay in a tent on the flat plain of northwestern India, a thousand miles from the sea, but odd as it seemed, the dream had come twice, perhaps three times, before.

Beside her, the ruddy canvas was stained with rain. High, grimly heavy, designed to keep out thieves, to Mariana's eye the red wall blocked out too much of the excitement of living in a traveling camp. Even the Eden sisters felt the same. "It would be almost worth the horror of discovering a knife-wielding savage under one's bed to be able to see more of the avenue from our tents," Miss Emily had remarked only last week as she, Miss f.a.n.n.y, and Mariana negotiated the entrance.

By 6:00 A.M., the folded entrance, like the wall, should have been collapsed on the ground, tended by coolies coiling guy ropes and rolling up sections of canvas. Like the wall, the entrance was still standing.

Ignoring the salutes of the sentries, Mariana pa.s.sed through and emerged onto the avenue. A hand to her eyes, she peered up and down the avenue's length toward the flat open plain at one distant end and the orderly horse and elephant lines at the other.

The wide avenue looked much as it had last evening, lined with office tents and the tents of senior government officials. Only the great durbar tent, missing from its place opposite the guarded entrance, had been replaced by an empty rectangle of churned mud where several hundred coolies stood watching something she could not see.

She hurried toward them.

The big elephant, Dittoo had informed her, was nearly twelve feet tall. The largest of the hundred twenty-seven baggage elephants attached to the British camp, he was the only animal strong enough to carry the durbar tent, the great reception tent essential to Lord Auckland for the entertainment of native princes. The elephant's name, Dittoo had said, was Motu. Such an elephant as Motu, Dittoo had added, was born only once in a hundred years.

Rain was Motu's sole enemy. The tent, an enormous weight when dry, became an intolerable burden after a soaking rain. As it was unthinkable for the Governor-General to be without his durbar tent, and as Motu was unable to carry it more than one day's march at a time, the elephant was never left behind. If after a rain Motu could not carry his burden, Lord Auckland and his spinster sisters, the British government of India, ten thousand soldiers, thirty-odd thousand government officials, shopkeepers, servants and coolies, and countless pack animals waited, squatting in the mud, until he could.

Mariana reached the muddy s.p.a.ce and swept to a stop, craning to see over the pushing, half-naked coolies. A few turned to watch her. Oh, please let the big elephant be able to carry his load! How could she bear any more delays in the journey, when she was on pins and needles to meet Ranjit Singh, the legendary Sikh ruler of the Punjab?

From where she stood, she could see nothing. Hesitating only a moment, she plunged into the crowd.

"Hattho, hattho, move out," she commanded, and the coolies obliged, pushing against each other to open a narrow pathway through their ranks.

She was nearly there. Ahead of her, someone called out orders. An animal grunted. Staccato shouting erupted nearby. An elephant's trunk waved in the air. She had never looked closely at this elephant. How high would twelve feet be? Would he be strong enough to lift the wet tent even after- "Miss Givens! Miss Givens Miss Givens!"

Mariana froze in midstep. A fair-haired Englishman had appeared, standing on a bale of baggage a little distance away. He waved a blueuniformed arm.

She could not avoid him. Collecting herself, she waved in return. The mist had now become a soft rain that soaked through the shoulders of her gown. Why Why, if she must be caught alone outdoors, mingling with half-naked coolies at six in the morning, must she be caught by Lieutenant Fitzgerald of the Bengal Horse Artillery, the first man she had liked in the whole camp whole camp?

She braced herself and started toward him, tucking a damp strand of hair into her bonnet as she walked. Should she avert her unwashed face from his when she reached him? No, it was too late for that.

Fitzgerald and a dozen young officers, all suitable marriage prospects, had been invited three evenings before to the Governor-General's dining tent.

Fitzgerald had sat across from her at dinner. Mariana had seen immediately that he was a possibility, with his square, handsome face and high Roman nose, his hair smoothed unfashionably with pomade. After the soup he had put back his head to laugh at someone's remark, and that gesture, the angle of his head, the shape of his mouth, had caught her eye. Later, risking a glance, she had found him looking at her speculatively over the chicken frica.s.see.

His expression gave nothing away, but his look had excited and disturbed her. For the rest of dinner she had labored to converse with the man beside her, rationing her glances across the table, but Fitzgerald had not met her eyes again.

"Miss Givens," Fitzgerald called again, over the crowd's noise, frowning as he climbed down from his bale, smart in his uniform, "surely you should not be here. If you will wait a moment, I shall escort you to your tent."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Mariana shouted back, "but I have come to see the elephant."

As she approached him, he looked at the front of her gown, then glanced hastily away. She glanced down and saw a telltale bubble of cloth poking up where she had missed a b.u.t.ton.

Her whole gown must be b.u.t.toned wrong. Her hair was coming loose from her bonnet. She bit her lip and raised her eyes to find the lieutenant smiling.

He offered his hand. "Since you have come to see the elephant," he said, "you had better climb up here with me. This promises to be interesting."

She scrambled to the top of the bale, breathing in the rain-soaked mustiness of his wool uniform, feeling the warm pressure of his fingers.

Steadying her by her elbow, Fitzgerald pointed. "There he is."

Mariana looked out over the crowd and drew in her breath.

In front of them, ringed by coolies, a ma.s.sive bull elephant struggled to rise to his feet, the Governor-General's rolled-up durbar tent creaking and swaying on his back.

A mahout mahout straddled the elephant's neck, beating at the huge head with an iron prod, shouting at him in Bengali, while the crowd, already liberally splashed with mud, argued and speculated and laid wagers. Ignoring them all, the big elephant steadied himself while he searched for purchase in the gla.s.sy mud, and then, with a fearful, trembling effort, heaved his tottering burden upward. straddled the elephant's neck, beating at the huge head with an iron prod, shouting at him in Bengali, while the crowd, already liberally splashed with mud, argued and speculated and laid wagers. Ignoring them all, the big elephant steadied himself while he searched for purchase in the gla.s.sy mud, and then, with a fearful, trembling effort, heaved his tottering burden upward.

At the last instant, a great hind leg gave way. Mariana felt Fitzgerald stiffen beside her. The coolies groaned. Overbalanced by the sodden canvas, the elephant rolled, squealing, onto his side, scattering the coolies like so many chickens and sending his mahout scrambling for balance.

What a perfect scene for today's letter to her father. Mariana turned to Fitzgerald, her face alight. "This is what I like about India: real Indian things, not imitation English things. We try so hard to be English, with our tents and food and furniture, but it doesn't-"

"I am sorry, Miss Givens," Fitzgerald interrupted, letting go of her elbow, his gaze traveling past her as if he were looking for someone, "but I must inform General Cotton at once of the elephant's failure." He swung himself to the ground and held up a hand, looking both military and apologetic. "Allow me to help you down."

She looked at the elephant a moment longer, impressing his picture into her memory, then took the hand Fitzgerald offered.

When she reached the ground, he raised an elbow to take her arm. "I must see you to your tent, Miss Givens. It's too far for you to walk alone."

His hair gleamed as he bent to her. He had missed a spot on his cheek while shaving. His eyes, like hers, were green. He smiled crookedly.

Tempted to accept, Mariana hesitated. In the ten minutes it would take to reach her tent, they would converse. She could learn much about him in ten minutes; but what of the toppled elephant that breathed harshly behind her in the mud, the tent still roped to the wooden frame on his back? Could he get up again? Was he hurt? Dear Papa, waiting at home in Suss.e.x for her letters, must be told.

"That is kind of you, Lieutenant," she replied, "but I shall stay here a moment longer. I wish to have a word with this elephant's driver."

Fitzgerald took his arm away. "A word with his mahout?" he repeated, frowning. "But how can you-ah, of course, you speak their languages." He hesitated. "But surely I should not leave you alone here." He looked over his shoulder, as if seeking help.

Mariana planted her feet in the mud. "I came here alone, Lieutenant Fitzgerald," she replied. "But I am sure," she added, looking him full in the face, "that we shall see one another again soon." She glanced away, certain she had held his gaze too long.

He hesitated again, then bowed. "I am flattered that you remember my name, Miss Givens. And you will be all right here?"

Mariana nodded, her lips pressed together, then offered him her wide, impulsive smile.

He smiled in return. "Then I shall tell no one I have seen you."

When she looked back, he had gone.

The elephant still lay on his side, weighed down by the sodden tent, a gray mountain with one visible, bloodshot eye. The mahout moved around him, crooning as he went, a large, wicked-looking knife in his hand, slicing a rope here and a strap there, expertly loosening the animal's load.

He started when Mariana cleared her throat.

He was smaller than she was, and wiry. His shoulders moved awkwardly when he greeted her, as if he were unused to foreigners.

"What is your elephant's name?" she asked, in her careful Urdu. Being English, she was ent.i.tled to be imperious. She chose to be civil.

"It is Motu, Memsahib," he replied over his elephant's whistling breath, departing from his own language to answer her. His face was deeply seamed. The whites of his eyes were the color of old ivory.

She nodded. "Motu. And yours?"

"Hira Lal."

Behind Hira, the elephant twitched and raised his trunk. Without an apology, the mahout turned from Mariana and went back to his work.

Well, then, she would speak to his back. She raised her voice.

"Why are you cutting all the ropes? Won't they be angry with you?"

"What do I care for their ropes?" Hira's fingers shook as he cut through a thick leather strap. "I told them we should not try to move the tent today." His own voice rose. "I told them Motu would fall. I warned them of the danger to Motu."

"Danger?" Mariana took a step closer. "What danger?"

Hira made one last cut and the load fell away like a huge, cold sausage. Motu lay still for a moment, then rolled onto his knees, the empty frame still tied to his back.

The little man turned to face Mariana. She could not imagine how he could bear the chill, wearing only a loincloth and a strip of worn cotton. He was covered from his carelessly tied turban to his bare feet in the pungent smell of elephant. "An elephant's spine is delicate," he told her. "If something causes the load to shift, the frame may shift, and press upon the spine. Such accidents cripple or kill elephants. An elephant must never fall when loaded."

When his face relaxed, Mariana saw how frightened he had been.

At Hira's command, Motu lumbered to his feet and towered above them both. It was the unusual length of his legs, like four great tree trunks, that made him so tall. While Mariana watched, he bent his front legs and lowered his face to his mahout. Hira Lal spread his arms and took hold of the two great ears, then set one foot high on the elephant's trunk, mounted in one nimble motion, and seated himself twelve feet above the ground.

"How long have you been his mahout?" Mariana tilted her head upward, a hand on her bonnet, not wanting them to leave.

"Since he was small," Hira replied. The heavy elephant prod appeared in his hand. "I hope," he said, "that we die at the same time. We are used to one another."

Shivering at the thought, she turned back toward the avenue.