The Linnet Bird: A Novel (56 page)

“I know the woman created a story to save herself and her cowardly lover. I went to the jail. I told the soldier there. I told him you weren’t guilty.”

The Pathan turned back to his horse, and I lowered myself to the floor, leaning against the wall. Finally he threw down the wet grass and let the bush close over the opening. “It grows late. We will stay here tonight. In the morning you will go back to Simla.”

I turned away. The pain in my shoulder grew to a steady pitch.
Faith. Oh, Faith.

I
REALIZED
I
HAD
cried out. I opened my eyes to see the Pathan kneeling over me. He held a small branch, its end flaming, in my face. I turned from the heat. One small corner of my mind wondered how he had made fire. The floor of the cave was damp and cold.

Earlier I had tried to curl up into myself, tried to find a level spot, but the pain in my shoulder was unbearable. A sickness came over me, a heat and thirst so strong that I couldn’t stop the small sounds that came from my lips. I sat up at one point but sensed I was alone in the cave. It was too dark to make out any form but I couldn’t hear breathing from either man or horse. Had he left already? I heard my teeth chattering; in spite of the heat from my body, I shivered. And then he was there, with his flaming branch.

“Water,” I said, in English, but there was no water, only a tugging on my left shoulder, and the sound of tearing fabric, and a strange sizzling, and then it was as if a huge beast had attacked my shoulder, and I screamed as it tore and chewed at the flesh, and the flame grew brighter and brighter until I was lost in its light.

“C
OME.
Y
OU MUST
awaken now,” I heard, and opened my eyes. There was a smoldering pile of twigs in the cave, throwing off a dim light.

“It is almost morning. I must go, before they begin to search for you again,” the Pathan said.

I stared at him, unable to focus, partly because of the near darkness, but also because my eyes wouldn’t work properly. I kept blinking, trying to clear them, but the lids were weighted. They closed.

“I removed the small ball from the back of your shoulder. It will heal.”

I opened my eyes again, turning my head to look at my shoulder; even that slight movement brought a fresh pain, but not the same burning of the night before. A muddy poultice was smeared on my bare shoulder, front and back. My sleeve hung in torn strips.

“Come,” he said, and led his horse out of the cave.

I followed him, stumbling. I put my hand to my face and felt dried blood. The sun hadn’t risen, but the sky had lost its blackness. “You must walk that way,” he said, pointing. “Your people will find you.”

He leapt onto his horse with one easy movement. “There is a stream, not far from here. You will come to it if you stay in the direction the sun moves.”

I nodded, my head so heavy that even that slight movement was difficult, and walked away from the Pathan. It was difficult to keep my balance.

“No,” he immediately called. “Look at where the lightness comes into the sky. You go in the wrong direction.”

I looked back at him, trying to understand where he wanted me to go, but in the cold dawn he and his horse shimmered as if underwater, or being consumed by flames. I saw the ground come up to meet me. Time buzzed in my head, the noise finally receding as the Pathan lifted me, putting me on his horse as easily as if I were a child. My skirt bunched up about my thighs as my legs stretched wide over the bare back of the black Arab. I grabbed hold of its thick mane, the hair coarse in my fingers. And then the Pathan swung up behind me, his arms, on either side of me holding the rope tied through the horse’s bit, prevented me from sliding off.

W
E RODE AT A STEADY
gallop for what felt like hours. I was so relieved to be taken back to Simla that I allowed myself to relax against him, squinting against the burning light of the rising sun, which cast an orange light over everything as we rode. My head was strangely light and yet so heavy it was an effort to keep my chin from falling toward my chest. And the thirst was worst of all; my tongue was too dry to even lick my lips. I tried not to think of Faith, tried not to think of how all this would be talked of back in Simla, or worse, of Charles, who had trusted me with his wife. I grew aware of wetness on my cheeks, and I wondered at this. Tears? I didn’t cry. I disgusted myself with my feebleness and closed my eyes tightly, willing myself to be strong.
You have survived worse than this, Linny. Much worse.

And then we stopped, and I opened my eyes, expecting to see the familiar landscape around Simla. Holding me by my right upper arm, the Pathan slid me off the horse. My legs were wobbly, and there was a painful numbness between them.

We were in a long, lush valley. Flowers bloomed everywhere—wild tulips, purple and white irises, yellow mustard. The mountains, enormous and powerful, rose beyond the pine forest at the border of the meadow. And a narrow strip of river lay in front of us, glimmering in the sun. I walked unsteadily to it, falling to my knees on the muddy bank and scooping water into my mouth with my right hand. When I had drunk as much as I could, I gingerly patted water around my tender nose, flaking away the dried blood. Then I bent lower, wanting to wash the cracked poultice off my shoulder.

“No. Leave it,” the Pathan said, leading his horse to the water. “It will heal faster if covered.”

I stood while his horse drank and he squatted and splashed water into his mouth and then over his neck and face and hair. Afterward he turned to the east and performed the prayers I had seen our Muslim servants carry out.

“How near is Simla?” I asked when he had risen, although instinctively I knew if we had ridden this far we would have been there by now. But perhaps the strange fever and unrelenting pain in my shoulder had confused me. Perhaps we had been riding for only a short time after all.

“I have not brought you to Simla.”

My legs would hold me no longer. I crouched on the hard, damp earth of the riverbank, closing my eyes. “Faith,” I whispered, rocking back and forth, closing my eyes. “Oh Faith, what have I done?” I sat, heavily, on my bottom, and put up my knees. I rested my right arm on them and lowered my forehead to it. “Where are we, then?” I asked, speaking to the ground.

“We are near Kulu.”

“Kulu,” I said, trying to remember if I had ever heard of it. But I realized my only knowledge of India this far north was of the Himalayas, the northwest frontier, and the Afghan border. “Is it still India?” I was whispering now.

“Yes,” he said. “Kulu is on the border of Kashmir.”

“Why have you brought me here?” I raised my head and looked up at him. The sun was behind his head, and I couldn’t make out his features.

He didn’t answer, and I lowered my head to my knees again.

“I know you speak the truth,” he finally said. “I heard your voice, while I was prisoner of the red-coated
ferenghi,
although I only understood some of your words.” He stopped, as if unsure of how to continue. “You tried to save my life. And so I could not be responsible for you losing yours.”

I looked at him again.

“I could not risk taking you any closer to Simla. But I could not leave you, so weakened and unable to help yourself. You need water, and you are ill from the injury caused by the bullet. If the
ferenghi
did not find you within a day, or perhaps two . . .” He brushed at his horse’s mane with his fingers. “So I will take you into Kashmir, to a camp there. We will ride the rest of today and tomorrow. At the camp you will gain strength, and I will arrange for you to return to Simla with someone who can lead you safely.”

I did not know what to say. Kashmir. What did I know of Kashmir? I could only think of reading of high, snow-covered mountains, of thick pine forests.

“You have nothing to fear,” he said.

“I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid of you,” I repeated, louder than was necessary.

He dipped his head, then led his horse to a small thicket and secured the rope. I heard him call the horse Rasool. He disappeared into the bush, returning eventually with wild mushrooms and berries caught in the bottom of his torn shirt. I saw that the shirt, although torn and filthy, had been made with tiny, careful stitches. He wore a brightly embroidered open vest over it. The sash around his waist was thick, woven with bright red and orange threads. His full black trousers were tucked into high leather boots.

I considered not taking the handful of mushrooms and berries he held to me, his fingernails broken and dirty, the hands covered with scars, but then wondered why I would refuse. What good would arrogance, stubbornness, do me now? None. Better to drink water and eat what he offered, for I was far from anyplace safe and familiar, feverish and in pain. If I was to have any hope of returning to Simla, it would be because of this Pathan.

A
FTER WE HAD RESTED
and Rasool had grazed, the Pathan put his hands around my waist and swung me up again. This time he rode in front of me. As he urged Rasool to a gallop, I grabbed his sash, hooking my hands over it to keep from falling. I tried to look around as we raced through open fields and along gentle hills, but I had to concentrate on gripping my knees and keeping my fingers digging into the sash. Only my thin skirt and even thinner petticoat and lawn drawers were between me and Rasool. We stopped at rushing streams to drink every few hours, and I slid off the horse, walking a bit to try to keep my legs from stiffening. They were rubbery and uncooperative, my inner thighs chafed. Once I went behind a bush to relieve myself, not caring about the Pathan’s nearness.