The Maharajah's Monkey (13 page)

She had attracted the others who now all crowded around me. Shaking them off, I walked over to the window so I would have more light. I smoothed the map out and carefully held it up, stretched between my two hands. There was silence in the room, as we breathed in the aroma of this old legend. I could just imagine the missionary venturing across the seas many centuries ago to the court of the great Mughal king, Emperor Akbar. There he had heard tales of marvelous doings. Whispers of mysterious rites and secrets.

This map was special. But it did not belong to my father, or aunt or the Maharajah. I knew that only I, Kit Salter, could feel the call of time and magic swirling beneath the surface of the rough parchment,
the presence of the fakir who had inscribed these secrets. It was beautifully designed, covered with ultramarine lakes and mountains with icy white-inked tips. I looked at them and was drawn into the map. I felt a longing, deep inside me, a sort of wrenching in my gut and snarling in my heart.—

It was as if the map was pulling me. Somewhere, a voice whispered, there is something
better.
I would be … happier … oh, I didn't know. Along with the pull of a dream, I also felt sharply dissatisfied. I had to shake off my clinging friends and family and make a break for myself. I had to find out who I was, and what real freedom meant.

Was there really a promised land?

Abominable Cave—beware all ye who …

I was reading when my hands were joggled. I felt a sudden, sharp pain in my neck. I shrieked as a pair of claws grasped the map. There was something on my shoulder, yabbering in my ear, nails digging my flesh. I turned my head and I was inches away from a furry white face. It had leering ochre eyes, its raven-black pupils dilated. There was a tiny point of light in the center of each eye.

The monkey grinned away at me. A gibbering envoy from hell.

“No,” I screeched, pulling the map away from the creature. It grabbed back, ripping the parchment in half.

A lightning bolt of pain streaked across me, causing my legs to buckle for an instant.

Yelling guards rushed toward us, as the monkey gave a harsh cackle. But the soldiers were too far away. It was up to me. My hands gripped the monkey's leg, but it wriggled out of my grasp, clawing viciously at my arms. Its tail lashed me across the face, making my scar throb. With three bounds it was at the wall, a blur of white fur. The Maharajah screamed and a sentinel raised his gun and fired. The bullet missed the monkey by a millimeter and embedded itself in the wall. The beast skittered upward and vanished through the window.

The pain inside me was such I staggered against the wall and collapsed in a heap. My map! That foul creature had vanished with half of
my
map! It was as if half my heart had been wrenched away.

Guards rushed to the window, others poured out of the room. Too late. When I looked out of the window the monkey had disappeared, a puff of smoke melting into the midday sun. The great gardens were spread out like a jigsaw puzzle, palms, jacarandas and banyans shimmering in the heat, the trickle of the fountain. Dimly I spied a couple of dancing girls, loitering under the trees in their purdah gardens. Otherwise nothing. Or, rather, too much, with the caw of crows, the cackle of chickens, the slow munching of the sacred cows who wandered freely where they would, even monkeys swinging through the trees. Too much life here to single out one malevolent creature.

“What happened?” the Maharajah asked, his eyes bulging.

“It was some kind of animal, Your Highness,” the Dewan said.

“A monkey,” I spat. “A disgusting little thief.”

“Find that monkey!” the Maharajah shouted at the guards, who scattered out of the door.

My father, clutching the journal in his limp hands, was close to tears. There was a feeling of jangled nerves in the room, for the odd incident had upset us all.

“We still have half the map,” I said dully, leaning on the window frame for support.

“And the journal,” my father murmured.

The Maharajah intervened. “Borrow this thing,” he said, waving my father to the journal. “You are a great scholar. God willing you will find answers to these mysteries.”

“This country doesn't agree with me, Kit.”

“A whole country can't disagree with you, Papa! It's a place, not a person.” I spoke with an effort, for the loss of half my map was still a physical ache.

“The heat. The food … and that monkey! Nothing is right.”

After the hullabaloo in the treasure vaults I had gone to my room to change into formal clothes for luncheon and then joined father in the north-facing study adjoining his bedroom. The inevitable punkah wallah was pulling his creaking fan. Dark shutters kept out the worst of the sun's glare. I couldn't really sympathize
with father's woes. His rooms were pleasant and airy, the best in the lodge. Sure, like Rachel, he
was
suffering from “Delhi belly.” But he hadn't been c
hosen
, only to have it split, torn, snatched away.

“Cheer up,” I murmured. “We have the journal. That's the main thing.” I didn't really think this was true. The journal was interesting, but the map had been special and now it was only half a thing.

“Quite right,” Father replied brightening. The journal was lying on his desk, a leather-bound book of immense age and decrepitude. It looked as though it would fall apart at one touch. I moved toward it, intending to take a look but Father was there before me. Luckily his stomach chose this moment to give another twinge:

“Don't fiddle with that, Kit,” he murmured as he made off in the direction of the bathroom.

“I won't,” I promised. Once he had gone, I carefully picked up the notebook. I think it was fate that made it fall open! The first word I saw was Shambala—the map! The very thing I was interested in. I read rapidly:

My servant Jorge grows ever more fascinated by Shambala. He is entranced by the myth of the fountain of life; the spring of crystal-clear water that gushes forth eternally in Shambala. If ye drink from this
fount, they say, ye will never sicken or die. In this mountain paradise all is harmony and peace. While the world below sickens and evil blooms in men's hearts, Shambala is pure. One day, when war, plague and pestilence ravage the world, the king of Shambala will descend to save mankind.

A most pleasing story, though most clearly a story. Jorge, I fear, does not see it that way. He is obsessed with the myth of the shimmering ice city rising in the crystal mountains.

Ever since the accident that has left him disfigured, he dreams of his lost youth. I believe he seeks to regain his former beauty. This is the devil's work, I have told him. Those who aspire to the holy life should have no interest in such mortal snares. Alas, to no effect.

Earlier today when we had audience with the Great Emperor Akbar, holding court from the heights of his immense golden throne, we found also a strange, half-naked person there. This man was a pagan. An Indian magician-fakir of the most evil kind, one who claimed occult powers. I fear the Emperor was most beguiled by
his stories. To my horror I found young Jorge was equally enthralled.

Later when I came into our chambers I found Jorge. He blanched when he saw me, threw up his hands. I confess, I became angry and snatched something out of his hands. A map to Shambala. What strange writings upon it. The scribblings of these yogis if I am not mistaken. There is a—

“Kit!” Father's voice boomed in my ear. “What are you doing?”

I turned round. He was red-faced, furious.

“Sorry,” I muttered, hurriedly replacing the precious journal upon the desk.

“You must wear gloves when reading ancient manuscripts. The sweat on your fingers can destroy them!”

The arrival of the servant to tell us our carriage was ready saved me from more lectures. Along with the Maharajah and the Dewan we had been invited to luncheon with the Spraggs. It was sure to be tedious I thought, as we hurried through the gardens to the road where Rachel and the others were already waiting. The six of us crammed in one tikka-gharry, and clopped by the edges of the market, thronged with people who stopped and stared when they saw the royal crests. Once
I saw a pall of oily gray smoke and heard a low hubbub, which I thought must be from a fire. It was burning bodies from the ghats—the funeral pyres by the river. Soon we pulled up outside the British Residency, a grand, colonnaded building, built in pinkish stone, surrounded by a wilting lawn. We were ushered inside by a footman in a magnificent red and white livery, wearing a turban decorated with a sort of scarlet fan.

When we arrived there were already some twenty people, including the Maharajah, the Dewan and Mr. Prinsep, seated around a gleaming ebony table. Above the table, to the left of the enormous crystal chandelier, was the biggest punkah I'd yet seen. Never mind palm leaves, this one must have been made of a whole palm tree. It was operated by two liveried boys, each pulling a strand of palm. Mrs. Spragg, in a fussy satin gown, presided. She was attended by her forgettable husband and her golden-haired son Edwin, dressed up in a suit just like his papa. How sweet he looked. How deceptive appearances are.

I made a slight vomiting noise at Edwin's saintly appearance to my friends. Waldo grinned back at me, then contorted his face, mimicking Edwin's prim expression.

The sight of the feast spread on the white tablecloth cheered me. I had thought Mrs. Spragg might serve some
rather soggy food, but she clearly had a good native cook. Dozens of silver trays heaped with fried potato patties, crispy savory biscuits, more of the bhajis I had grown to love. Fowl, chicken, that delicious fragrant rice. Mangoes and sweetmeats. Pitchers of ice-cold lemon sherbet. My stomach was already rumbling.

No one else was going to do it, so I slipped into the empty chair next to Edwin, as the waiters filled our glasses with frosty lemon sherbet. For a while I concentrated on eating the starter, watery mulligatawny soup. Once I'd finished my bowl I could get on to some decent food.

“Father always says—” Mr. Prinsep began but Mrs. Spragg interrupted.

“Is that the tenth Baronet Prinsep of Prin Towers?”

“Rather,” said Mr. Prinsep coloring a little. “Well, Father has old-fashioned views about things, I'm afraid. That's why he shipped me out to the colonies. Thought I might contract an unfortunate marriage, you see. Thinks I'm too much of a romantic. I've to prove myself for three years at a proper job before he gives me my inheritance.”

Over the soup tureen I could see Miss Minchin, straining to catch their conversation. I'd never seen her so blooming. I've never been one for romance, for all the soggy sentiment that gushes around lovers. I have to
admit Mr. Prinsep's attentions had worked wonders on my governess. It had smoothed out her harsh lines, transformed her frowns into blushes.

Now her smile suddenly froze and I knew she had overhead Mr. Prinsep's remarks.

“Looks like he's not going to be her Prinsep Charming after all,” Waldo said softly.

“That's a
terrible
joke,” I muttered.

“He'll probably marry some Indian princess, if he's out here for three whole years,” Isaac added.

“Don't you know anything?” I asked. “Indian princesses are not allowed to meet foreigners, let alone marry them! They have to live in separate—”

I stopped in the middle of my remarks for I noticed that my governess had turned pale and was swaying slightly in her seat. Suddenly she dropped her spoon, with a clatter that turned several heads.

“Miss Minchin. Pray, what is the matter?” Edwin stood up, and leaned across the table as if to assist my governess, his whole body a picture of angelic dismay.

Trust that dratted boy to call the attention of the whole table to Miss Minchin.

“Pray do not bother. It is stuffy in here … nothing altogether.” Miss Minchin visibly tried to pull herself together. “Some air.”

“Here. Have this.” Edwin handed my governess his
tumbler of lemon sherbet. “Just the thing to beat this heat.”

My governess reached across the table, her hand trembling, to take the glass. A little of the liquid slopped over the side of the rim on to the white tablecloth. It was a dark golden color. Too dark. The cogs of my brain slowly whirred into action. Lemon sherbet. The acid yellow of freshly ripened lemons. The—

“WAIT!” I yelled.

Leaping to my feet I overturned my bowl of mulligatawny soup on to the tablecloth. I knew Edwin. I'd seen his hands flickering a blurred moment ago. For a minute I was afraid of making a fool of myself.

“DON'T TOUCH IT,” I shouted.

Rows of heads turned along the table. I glimpsed Mr. Prinsep, his mouth gaping open like a goldfish, my aunt's open mouth, the Maharajah's wavering hands, Waldo trying to restrain me. Every single person in the room was watching me, Edwin and Miss Minchin. Even the waiter opposite me had frozen in the act of ladling out curry.

“THE LEMON SHERBET IS POISONED.”

There were varying degrees of disbelief on the faces around the table. Someone screamed, while the Dewan rose thunderously from his chair.

“Quiet!” I snapped and turned to Mrs. Spragg's angel.
“Hold out your hand, Edwin,” I demanded.

All eyes were on the drama. The Dewan had sat back down and was watching me.

“She's demented,” the boy replied in a surly voice, but he didn't open his left hand which was clenched tightly shut around something. “That scratch has infected her brain.”

Mrs. Spragg jumped up to declare her outrage. But she was sitting too far away to intervene and I had no intention of dropping this.

“I saw Edwin put something in the sherbet,” I said slowly, in a cold voice. “Powder from a box.” I seized the boy and tried to pry open his fingers, while the little devil wriggled under my grasp. I managed to force them open and there, clasped in his sweaty little hand, was a minuscule silver box.