stripped of everything he possessed. He could let the Russian go free, of
course. But where would he go to? Sadreddin grew angry with himself. The
faithful should never take pity on infidel dogs.
No, he had not fed and nursed the Russian to let him go just like that.
He would find a different way out.
One night at the end of summer Sadreddin prepared a basket of
provisions and put the basket and Fedor into his covered cart. Casting
fearful glances to right and left, he drove through the sleeping hamlet.
He had not concealed his plans. Fedor knew that the kindly Uzbek was
taking him to some place far away from Khiva to sell him.
"Are you a gunner?" he asked Fedor for the hundredth time as the cart
rolled along.
Fedor, who had learned a little Uzbek, nodded.
"Can you do a blacksmith's work?"
Again Fedor nodded absentmindedly. He was wondering what to do. It
would not be hard to overpower sluggish Sadreddin and take the horse and
cart and food away from him. But what next? It must be all of 800 versts to
Guryev. Travelling by cart it would take him a month to reach that city. But
it would be risky to follow the road. On the other hand, setting out across
the desert, without knowing where the wells were, would mean certain death.
Sadreddin knew that Fedor had no way of escaping, and so he travelled
along slowly without taking any precautions.
They reached Bukhara in two weeks' time. There Sadreddin sold Fedor to
a merchant from Kashgar for a good price. He spent the money on Bukhara
merchandise.
"You have brought good luck to my house," he told Fedor in parting.
"You fetched a good price.
If I can return home with these goods without being robbed, my family
will live well. For this, Allah will help you, even though you are an
unbeliever."
The swarthy Kashgar merchant, who had been told Fedor's history,
laughed into his thick black beard. Poor Sadreddin thought the price he had
been paid for Fedor made him a rich man. He had no idea of the true value of
a strong young man who had been trained in the arts of warfare and
metallurgy.
The merchant treated Fedor well, even giving him a horse to ride, for
he knew that Fedor would not attempt to escape from the caravan. He also
gave Fedor sheets of paper and a copper inkpot on a chain to hang at his
belt. When the caravan set up camp for the night Fedor would take his pen,
made of a split reed sharpened at the end, and, in a hand grown unaccustomed
to writing, would describe the landmarks and details of the journey. In
Astrakhan not so long ago he had envisioned his travels to distant India
from Khiva to gather information about that country. Now he was actually on
his way to India but as a slave instead of a scout of the tsar. Still, who
could tell? These notes might yet prove useful.
Fedor had decided to conceal his homesickness and bitterness and bide
his time.
It took the caravan three weeks to reach the mountains. For ten days
they climbed higher and higher along a narrow path. It grew colder. Fedor's
heart leaped with joy at the sight of snow, but it made him more homesick
than ever for the snowy plains of Russia.
Finally they made their way over the pass and descended into the
flowering Vale of Kashmir, following the river Gilgit to its confluence with
the Indus. They crossed the Indus and some of its tributaries. Several weeks
later they entered the city of Amritsar, a big commercial centre.
So this was India! It was a land of strange buildings, unfamiliar
trees, colourful bazaars and copper-skinned people, some half-naked, some
dressed in white robes. Fedor drank in the marvellous sights with unfeigned
curiosity.
The Kashgar merchant decked Fedor out in new clothing and gave him an
opportunity to rest up. But at the inn he locked Fedor into his room and
ordered the servants to guard him, not so much because Fedor might escape as
because someone might try to steal him.
One day the merchant brought a tall, thickset Hindu, all dressed in
white, to see Fedor. The Hindu looked him up and down intently, then smiled
and seated himself cross-legged on a carpet, making a sign to Fedor to be
seated too.
During the years he spent in the East Fedor adopted many of the customs
of the region, but nothing was harder for him to learn than to sit on the
floor in Indian fashion, with the soles of his feet lying on his thighs.
"Sprek je de Nederlandse taal? the Hindu asked.
Fedor was amazed to hear him speak Dutch.
"You have nothing to worry about," said the Hindu. "If what the
merchant says about you is true you will have a fine life."
The Hindu then proceeded to question Fedor. He asked him about dams and
water wheels. They discussed European politics and Russia's war with Sweden.
Fedor was surprised to find himself conversing with a highly-educated man.
Finally the Hindu turned to the Kashgar merchant. Although Fedor did
not understand a word of what they said it was clear they were bargaining.
This went on for a long time. At times the merchant, accustomed to bazaars,
would raise his voice to a scream. The Hindu kept his voice low but firm.
Then there came the moment when he unwound his broad sash and removed a
small purse and scales with a single tray and a weight suspended from an
ivory rod. From the purse he took two precious stones that sparkled with
greenish lights. He dropped the gems into the tray, and, holding the loop of
the ivory rod in his left hand, he moved the weight along the rod with his
right hand to balance the scales.
The Kashgar merchant looked at the mark at which the weight stopped,
then carefully picked up the stones and examined them, first one and then
the other, against the light. He bowed respectfully and without saying a
word started unwinding his sash to put the jewels away inside it.
"You can see how much you are worth," the Hindu remarked in Dutch.
Fedor did not like the idea of being sold for such a high price. He
knew little about precious stones but realized that if he were ever ransomed
the ransom would be high. His family was not rich. They would hardly be able
to raise such a sum. The tsar had seen him only once or twice and probably
would not remember him. If the Foreign Board were asked to pay a ransom,
would it consent?
"Now fortify yourself with food," the Hindu said to Fedor. "There is
not much time and we have quite a distance to travel."
A servant at the caravansarai brought in a bowl of rice and mutton
similar to the Uzbek pilau, and a pitcher filled with a cold liquid. Fedor
and the Kashgar merchant set about their meal. The Hindu rose and moved
towards the door.
"Why doesn't he have something to eat too?" Fedor asked in a low voice.
"Sh-h," the merchant whispered. "He's a Brahman. They never eat with
other castes. Besides, they don't eat meat and many other things."
"Who is he?" Fedor asked.
The merchant's reply was vague. "He must be an important person. All I
know is that his name is Lal Chandra and he comes from the Punjab, not so
very far away from here."
By evening Lal Chandra's covered wagon was some distance from Amritsar.
The driver, bare to the waist, urged on the horses. Lal Chandra dozed,
reclining against rug-covered cushions. Fedor lay on the floor of the wagon,
his thoughts far away, in distant Russia.
They drove through Lahore and then followed the bank of a river.
Afterwards they turned west and rode for a long time across a desert tract
that looked like the land in the vicinity of the Sea of Aral. They crossed
the beds of dried-up rivers. They followed the bank of one of these streams
and finally halted in front of an iron gate in a high stone wall.
The gate swung open to allow the wagon to pass through, then swung
shut. Fedor looked out but he could see no one beside the gate. Nor was
there anyone on the long road that wound through a park in which unfamiliar
trees grew. The hot air was filled with a heady fragrance, evidently from
the big, bright flowers. The wagon stopped before a tall stone mansion with
many niches in which stood strange creatures carved of stone.
Lal Chandra slowly descended from the wagon. Fedor sprang out after
him, stretching his stiff legs. Lal Chandra led him along a narrow, vaulted,
dusky passage into a large cool room where a big statue of polished stone
stood. Fedor had never seen anything like it, not even in his most horrible
nightmares. Three steps led up to a low pedestal on which sat a woman with
her feet tucked under her. Her face was unbelievably beautiful, her eyes
were blind, and her lips were curved into an enigmatic, frightening smile.
The woman had six arms. Two arms ended in hands folded peacefully in her
lap, two were bent at the elbow and raised, and two were thrust forward
menacingly. She had three pairs of breasts. Lal Chandra placed the palms of
his hands in front of his face and prostrated himself before the statue. He
remained motionless for a long time.
"He obviously isn't Moslem," Fedor thought, "if he is praying to this
idol."
Finally the Hindu rose and bowed three times before the goddess. Then
he led Fedor into a small room that resembled a monk's cell, with bare stone
walls and a vaulted ceiling. Slanting rays of sunshine coming through a
window near the ceiling provided the illumination. In the floor was a pool
filled with water, evidently running water.
"I do not know whether your gods prescribe ablutions," said Lal
Chandra, "but I must purify myself before attending to my affairs. You may,
too, if you wish."
Fedor promptly removed his clothing and sank with pleasure into the
cool water. He began to splash noisily, not noticing the Hindu's frown.
After the ablutions Lal Chandra led Fedor along another passage into a
large, bright room with windows looking out on a garden. The windows did not
have either glass or mica in them but were covered by intricately carved
shutters with interstices through which the light came. Here, too, there was
a statue of the six-armed goddess. Smaller than the first one, it was made
of copper and stood on a high marble support.
Low tables lined the walls. The shelves above them were filled with
fancifully shaped glass, clay and metal vessels, scales, sandglasses and
water clocks.
In a corner there was a stove. The curved necks of copper vessels
jutted out of its sides.
Fedor's attention was caught by a monstrous object on a platform in the
middle of the hall, opposite the statue of the goddess with six arms.
Moulded copper columns, ornamented with carvings of plants and animals,
supported a horizontal shaft whose necks rested on copper wheels half a foot
in diameter. An enormous disc of some black material was mounted in the
middle of the shaft. It was covered with radially distributed plates, narrow
and shining, that might have been made of gold. At one end of the shaft was
a pulley encircled by a round, woven strap. The ends of the strap went into
openings in the floor.
Fedor stood in front of the bulky machine trying to grasp its purpose.
He had never seen anything like it before.
"It pleases me to see that here you have forgotten about contemptible
food," Lal Chandra said, touching Fedor on the shoulder. "But man is weak.
Pass through that door"-he pointed to a narrow opening in the wall- "and you
will find the kind of food to which you are accustomed. Then you will learn
what you are to do."
In the small adjoining room Fedor found a bowl of fried meat and
steamed vegetables on a low table. A narrow-necked pitcher stood on the
floor. There was no chair. "I suppose I'll have to get used to it," Fedor
said to himself with a sigh as he awkwardly squatted down beside the table.
The days in Lal Chandra's house passed slowly. Fedor wandered through
empty corridors and peeped into cool rooms. He never saw anyone in them. But
he knew that he had only to strike a bronze gong for a silent servant to
appear on the threshold.
The food was plentiful, but it brought Fedor no joy. He wanted to go
out beyond the wall to see what the locality looked like, but each time he
came to the gate he found it locked. Escape was impossible. Besides, Fedor
was hunted by the feeling that someone was watching his every step.
On the other side of the filigree shutters lay an alien night. The
silence was absolute. He longed to hear a sound, any sound, even the barking
of a dog. At times he was driven to such despair that thoughts of laying
hands on himself came into his mind. Cry out though he might, Russia would
never hear him. She was too far away, beyond high mountains and scorching
plains.
Fedor shook the shutters in fury. He pressed his tear-stained face to
the cold metal.
Lal Chandra visited him almost every day. He would enter, tall and
erect, in his white robe, and conduct a vague conversation on theological
topics. These talks made Fedor uncomfortable. At home he had never prayed
with any particular fervour and he had never had the time or inclination to
go into the subtleties of religion. He had felt that it was enough if he, as
a soldier, crossed himself before climbing into bed.
One day he was unable to restrain himself, and in the midst of Lal
Chandra's monotonous utterances he burst out: "I'm sick of all this dull
talk. You bought me to work. Well, give me something to do."
Lal Chandra was silent for a while. "Soon," he said, "I shall raise
before you the veil that shrouds a holy mystery which the gods reveal only
to the chosen."
"Couldn't your gods find anyone else but me?" Fedor asked derisively.
"Do not speak thus of gods about whom you know nothing. Only I possess
knowledge of this mystery. You will be my assistant. You are a foreigner,
without friends or relatives here, and therefore you are less dangerous to
me than a fellow tribesman."
"If I am initiated into this mystery you will not allow me to return
home when the opportunity comes. I don't want to know it."
"It will be of no use to you at home. It is important and awe-inspiring
only here," Lal Chandra replied evasively. "But you must not speak about it
to anyone. If you do, yours will be a horrible death." With those words he
walked out of the room.
Fedor stood motionless for a long time, lost in gloomy thought.
The next evening Lal Chandra softly entered Fedor's room and sat down
beside him.
"Which deity did you worship in your country?" he asked.
Fedor was at a loss. "The Holy Trinity," he wanted to say, but he could
not find the words in Dutch. "I believe in the holy three," he said.
"Three gods-The Trimurti," Lal Chandra repeated thoughtfully. "Do your
gods work miracles?"
"Of course they do. The Bible tells how Jesus Christ, the son of God,
turned water into wine and raised Lazarus from the dead. Then there's the
story in the Old Testament of a bush that burned but didn't burn up."
"Have you ever seen a miracle?"
"No, never."
"Now listen carefully, young man," Lal Chandra began. "When the gods do
not work miracles, men tend to forget that they must obey the high priests
implicitly. But we are not given to know why the gods fail for a long time
to remind us of themselves."
"Are you a priest?" Fedor asked in surprise.
"I am but a humble servant of Kali, the Goddess of Terror. I have been
chosen to be her instrument, so that men of the lower castes should be
convinced, through miracles, of the might of the gods, and resign themselves
to their lot of obedience and toil. As for our rulers, when they see a
miracle they will realize that they must obey the high priests. Do you
understand me, young man?"
"You mean that if your gods don't work miracles you'll-"
"Exactly. The gods, who have unveiled a small part of their mysteries
to me, may work miracles through me. For the gods are all-powerful. Come
with me. I will show you signs of their might."
Picking up a clay lamp, Fedor followed Lal Chandra into the big room in
which the strange machine stood. Lal Chandra clapped his hands thrice and
then issued an order to the servant who silently appeared before him.
The huge black disc rumbled as it started to rotate. Creaking, the
woven belt emerged from the floor and passed over the pulley.
"Are men down below turning it?" Fedor asked.
Lal Chandra nodded. The disc spun faster and faster. Its gold plates
merged into a glowing ring. A high-pitched hum filled the room.
Next Lal Chandra turned an ebony lever, and two sparkling bronze
spheres that were part of the machine drew closer and closer together.
Suddenly there was a dry crackle as a streak of bluish-violet lightning
flashed between the sphere. The air felt fresh and cool, as after a
thunderstorm.
While Fedor watched in fascination, lightning blazed in the dusk-filled
room. He felt his skin creep.
With a turn of the lever Lal Chandra separated the spheres. The
lightning ceased.
Lal Chandra gestured towards the bronze statue of the six-armed
goddess.
"Do not be afraid of the goddess. Embrace her."
"Horrible creature," Fedor muttered in Russian.
"Are you afraid?"
Fedor boldly put his arms around the bronze hips of the goddess. In the
same instant he was deafened and stunned, and flung to the floor. Crackling
lightning had sprung from the body of the goddess. A wave of freshness
struck his nostrils.
Fedor regained his feel, cursing roundly.
"Forgive my little joke," Lal Chandra said, his lips parting in a
smile. "1 simply wanted to show you the power which the goddess has given me
over lightning."
Fedor became aware of an itching sensation in the palm of his left
hand. Looking down, he saw a cut at the base of his thumb.
"Your goddess bites, damn it!" he exclaimed. He was trembling.
Lal Chandra smeared a fragrant salve on the cut and the pain subsided.
"Now you will learn the purpose to which you will be put," he said. "I
have heard that the art of building water-wheels is well known in your
country. Is this art known to you?"
The covered wagon, driven by the same half-naked coachman, travelled
across a barren tract for a long time before it came to a rocky road that
led to the bank of a small stream.
Lal Chandra stepped out of the wagon and Fedor sprang down after him.
They pushed their way through thickets until they reached the high bluff.
There, squeezed between rocky banks, the stream was very narrow and formed a
swift waterfall. Below the waterfall the stream was placid.
"Would this be a good place for a water-wheel?" Lal Chandra asked.
"Yes, a very good one," Fedor replied. "But does the stream flow all
the year round?"
"No, it dries up in summer. Anyway, we won't need it long, only during
the rains. Take the measurements you'll need to build a large wheel here."
Fedor looked round. On the other side of the stream, not far away,
stood a temple-like building with two towers.
"Will we be able to approach that temple later?" he asked. "I'll have
to if I'm going to take measurements."
"Of course. That temple is where the will of the gods is going to
manifest itself."
"Very well," said Fedor. "I'll get my sight-vane."
He went back to the wagon for his instrument, a shallow wooden bowl
with two tiny notches on the edges, diametrically opposite one another.
Picking up a clay pitcher and the sight-vane, Fedor approached the spot
where the water cascaded over the lip of the rocks. He placed the bowl on a
flat stone, filled the pitcher with water, and poured water into the bowl
until it was almost full. Then he lay down on the ground and turned the bowl
in front of his eyes so that both notches were in line with one of the
towers of the temple. By pouring more water from the pitcher into the bowl,
and carefully propping up the sides of the bowl with stones, he forced the
water to swell above the edges of the bowl. Then, closing one eye, he
concentrated on getting the nearest and farthest edges of the bowl to
coincide in height. Holding his breath lest he get out of line, he counted:
the water level was six rows of stones below the windows of the second
storey of the temple.
Then Fedor rose, rubbed his numb elbows, scrambled up the rocks to the
top of the waterfall, and repeated his observations there, after which he
descended to where Lal Chandra was waiting.
Next the two men waded across the stream and entered the abandoned
temple. Ahead of them strode the coachman, Ram Das, carrying a torch.
Bats flitted about under the vaulted ceiling. The flapping of their
wings nearly extinguished the torch. The air was damp and had a musty smell.
"Any snakes here?" Fedor asked. "You won't find cobras in damp, dark
places," said Lal Chandra. "But we are in the hands of Shiva and Kali."
The passage led into a room whose ceiling was so high that the light
from the torch did not reach the top. The sides of the room faded into
terrifying darkness.
On a three-tiered pedestal stood Fedor's old acquaintance, the goddess
Kali, with her six arms, three faces and six breasts, wrathful, inscrutable
and ready to act. The face that was turned to Fedor gazed across the room
with a strange expression in which an inviting smile was combined with a
threatening frown. The gaze was fixed on an equally enormous statue, with
four arms, standing on one leg, the other being bent at the knee, in a
dancing posture. This was the god Shiva, Kali's spouse.
Lal Chandra prostrated himself before the menacing goddess.
"What a handsome couple you make!" Fedor whispered to himself jokingly
in an effort to regain his composure. He was in the grip of a fit of
shivering caused either by the dampness or by the eerie atmosphere of the
place.
He glanced at Ram Das. As the driver stood there holding the torch his
face expressed neither fear nor religious devotion. He simply looked bored.
There may have been a trace of scorn in the look the half-naked slave gave
his master, Lal Chandra, lying prostrate before the sovereign over life and
death.
The expression on the slave's face sobered Fedor. He resumed his
scrutiny of the goddess. Suddenly he startled in horror. From her graceful
neck hung a chain of human skulls.
"The foul murderess!" he exclaimed in Russian. Ram Das did not
understand the words, but the wrathful tone prompted him to level a long,
thoughtful glance at Fedor.
A few minutes later Lal Chandra led Fedor through a series of intricate
passageways to the stairs leading up into one of the towers. Fedor climbed
up the weathered, sand-sprinkled steps to the ninth storey. Looking down
from a window, he saw Lal Chandra at the foot of the tower. Fedor took out
his length of string, in which he had tied knots at intervals of one foot,
attached a stone to the end, and began paying out the string, counting the
knots. When the stone reached the sixth row of bricks below the
second-storey window Lal Chandra gave a shout. Fedor stopped paying out the
string, leaned far out of the window, and saw that the row of bricks he had
noticed when he made his second measurement was at the seventy-fourth foot.
"That means the waterfall is seventy-four feet high," he thought. "I
wonder how far it is to the ground."
He allowed the string to run out until the stone at the end touched the
ground. The distance was about ninety feet.
Fedor now forgot about everything but the unusual and interesting job
ahead of him. He was in such high spirits that when he descended and saw the
silent torch bearer he clapped him on the shoulder. "We'll make a wonderful
wheel!" he exclaimed happily.
Ram Das moved forward without a word. But after taking a few steps he
stopped, glanced round, lifted his torch high to illuminate everything
around them, and then gestured to Fedor.
"Do you understand what I say?" he asked in a Moslem dialect.
"I do," Fedor replied in Uzbek.
"Do not rejoice like a new-born calf. You will live just as long as you
are needed to finish this job. Do you understand that?"
A shudder ran through Fedor.
"But what can I do? How can I escape?" he asked tonelessly.
"It is too early to talk of such things. I will find a suitable time
and place to talk with you. But now, silence!"
The torch-bearer moved forward. A few minutes later they emerged into
the bright sunshine. Ram Das threw the torch, which had burned low, into the
stream. The flame hissed and went out.
Lal Chandra smiled at Fedor.
Man is a strange creature. Sometimes Fedor would wake up in the middle
of the night and, recalling Ram Das's grim words, give way to despair. But
when morning came his fears would evaporate, whether because of his carefree
Russian nature or because he was carried away by the work.
As he sat over the sketches and calculations of the huge water-wheel he
sang to himself. At times these Russian songs were sad, at times they were
gay.
Now the days passed more quickly. Fedor learned to speak the local
dialect. Lal Chandra often travelled to the old temple to supervise the
restoration work that had been begun there. Fedor was no longer alone behind
the high wall. The courtyard was now filled with artisans busy fashioning
parts for the wheel under his direction.
The courtyard had been turned into an open-air workshop, with forging
furnaces and a copper-smelting furnace. In the middle of the yard the
contours of a giant wheel seventy-two feet in diameter had been traced on
the hard-packed ground, as at a shipyard.
Sometimes Fedor actually felt as though he were in the shipyards or in
the courtyard of the Smolny palace at St. Petersburg, except that here there
was none of the joking, bickering or singing characteristic of Russians at
work.
Carpenters were making parts of the rim and the buckets of the wheel.
The swiftly falling water would turn the wheel, which would convert this
simple, comprehensible form of energy into another form, into mysterious,
darting lightning.
The gigantic rim was made of the finest hardwood. Copper and iron
bindings fastened the joints.
Once grey-bearded Jogindar Singh, the foreman of the carpenters, came
up to Fedor. The two men communicated in an incredible mixture of Uzbek,
Indian and Dutch.
"I want to ask you how thick the wheel axis will be," said the
carpenter. As Fedor started to explain, a graceful girl in a sky-blue sari
that left one shoulder bare approached them. The girl said something to
Jogindar Singh that Fedor did not understand, gave Fedor a fleeting glance
of curiosity, and ran off.
"It is now noon," said Jogindar Singh. "My daughter has summoned me to
dinner. May we have the honour of your company?"
Fedor agreed eagerly. He wanted a chance to talk to that quiet,
understanding man. Also, he wanted another glimpse of the girl.
Lal Chandra's workmen lived near the workshop, in tents set up among
the trees in the big garden. They lived here with their families since they
had no right to leave the premises until the job was finished. Each family
prepared its food over a fire in front of its tent.
On the way, Jogindar Singh and Fedor washed their hands in a large pool
of running water.
As they entered the tent the girl uttered a low cry and ran out. After
a moment she returned carrying a black lacquered tray covered with bright
flowers, and placed it on a mat spread on the floor. On the tray lay a mound
of boiled rice over which a fragrant spicy sauce had been poured.
Then the girl brought in hot flat cakes and a brass pitcher of cold
water mixed with the slightly astringent juice of a fruit unfamiliar to
Fedor. The girl moved lightly and quickly. She sat down beside her father,
and Fedor looked at her dark, slanting eyes and thin brown arms. She dropped
her eyes.
Jogindar Singh settled down to his dinner. Fedor also dipped his
fingers into the rice.
"I thought you Hindus weren't supposed to eat in front of other
people," he said.
"That rule is followed by those who divide people into jaties," or
castes," said the elderly carpenter.
"To which caste do you belong?"
"I'm a Sikh and so are all the others working here," said the
carpenter, gazing intently at Fedor. "We do not divide people into castes."
"Does that mean you do not recognize Brahmans?"
"We do not believe in future reincarnation," Jogindar Singh replied
evasively. Just who are you? Moslems?"
"No."
It was obvious that the carpenter did not want to answer his questions,
so Fedor ate in silence. He washed down the rice with water from the
pitcher. From time to time he stole glances at the girl, wondering how old
she was. He decided she could not be more than eighteen, and he was just
about to ask what her name was when her father began to speak.
"Look here, foreigner. I do not know how you came to the Punjab but I
can see "'it was not because you wanted to."
"Wanted to?" Fedor laughed bitterly. " I was sold, like an ox."
"Do not put your trust in Lal Chandra," the carpenter went on. "He is
your enemy. He is our enemy too."
"Then why do you work for him?" "We work for him because- Listen, we
Sikhs were forced off our land. Everything was taken away from us." Jogindar
Singh's eyes glittered angrily. "But that is not for long! We Sikhs will
gather our forces-"
The light pouring through the entrance to the tent was suddenly cut
off. Fedor turned round to see Ram Das standing there.
"You've found a suitable place for such talk, old man," the coachman
remarked derisively.
"There are no strangers here," the carpenter replied quietly. "Only our
brethren live in the garden."
"In the garden! That damned house is full of Lal Chandra's spies," Ram
Das said as he squatted beside the tray of food.
Fedor looked at the coachman's frowning, sharp-featured face and again,
as in the temple, a chill ran down his spine.
"Foreigner, you are as trusting as a child," Ram Das said. "Lal Chandra
has given you a nice toy to play with and you forget that your end is near."
Fedor paled. "What can I do?" he asked. "As long as I am building the
wheel no one will touch me. Afterwards, if I have to, I'll stand up for
myself."
"No one is going to challenge you to a duel. You don't know the customs
of the Brahmans. Instead of dying a useless death why do you not remain
alive and help us? Jogindar Singh, send your daughter out of the tent. She
must not listen to the talk of men."
The Punjab was an arid semi-desert in the north-western corner of
fabulous, fertile India. It was inhabited by stern, warlike men who passed
their lives in a grim struggle against drought in order to earn an austere
living for themselves and a life of luxury for their rulers.
The Punjab, along the border, had the most extensive trade contacts
with other countries and was the part of India that was most often invaded.
Alexander the Great's weary warriors came to the Punjab in the year 327 B.
C. Later the region was invaded by the Persians and the Afghans.
The Punjab, accustomed to foreigners, to foreign merchants and to
foreign conquerors, became the centre of the Sikh community.
Sikhism was a monotheistic religion that rejected castes, mortification
of the flesh, priests, temples and public worship. The Sikhs wanted a better
life in this world, and did not believe in reincarnation.
Shortly before Fedor Matveyev landed in the Punjab, the Sikhs had risen
up against the subahdars, Moslem viceroys of the Mogul dynasty, and the
local feudal rajahs. The uprising had been drowned in blood, with mass
executions.
Although the Sikhs had suffered defeat and bitter losses, and had (been
deprived of their lands, they had not lost heart. Feigning submissiveness,
they gradually gathered forces for another uprising.
Those were troubled times in the Punjab. The dynasty of Great Moguls
was clearly on the wane. The Punjab rajahs, whom Lal Chandra served, were
preparing to seize power from the weakened hands of the Mohammedan rulers.
But the blood-stained spectre of another Sikh uprising haunted the rajahs
and Brahmans. As a counter-measure they prepared to work miracles that would
distract the people from the sobriety of the Sikh religion, convince them of
the might of the old Hindu gods, and persuade them to resign themselves to
obeying Hindu rulers.
The Brahmans had long possessed a variety of miracles demonstrating the
power of their gods. The miracles were performed by wandering fakirs,
ascetic wonder-workers and hypnotisers of wide experience. They tortured
themselves in public by driving needles into their bodies, walking barefoot
over burning coals, and allowing themselves to be buried alive.
The idea behind it all was that man can endure whatever trials life may
bring him.
But it had become difficult to astound the grim people of the Punjab
with the old, familiar miracles in which fakirs pierced their bodies,
charmed snakes or turned themselves into towering palm-trees.
That was why Lal Chandra was preparing new miracles of a kind never
seen or heard of before.
Fedor Matveyev had .plenty to think about.
At home, in Russia, he had known that their family owned some two dozen
peasant households, that those peasants belonged to his father. The house in
which the Matveyevs lived was much like a peasant's hut, while the family's
food differed from that of their peasants only in that there was more of it.
However, the lighting in the Matveyev home came not from splinters but from
tallow candles, which, true, his frugal mother insisted on using sparingly.
The Matveyevs occupied the best pews in the tiny church, and Father
Pafnuty never missed an opportunity to sing the praises of the Matveyev
family in his prayers.
Tallow candles and prayers did not, of course, matter so much as having
a familiar, stable way of life. Father owned the peasants. The peasants
ploughed, planted, reaped and threshed the grain, and then brought it to the
barn of their owner. Thus it had been for centuries, and thus it would
always 'be. There had always been masters and there had always been slaves.
But now, in a foreign land, Fedor was himself a slave. Not a slave like
the servants of Lal Chandra, true, but still a slave. When Ram Das openly
urged him to take the side of the Sikhs, Fedor was thrown into the greatest
confusion.
He recalled his father's stories about the peasant uprising under
Stepan Razin, which had so terrified the big landowners. Now Indian peasants
were planning the same thing against their masters and, besides, against
their gods. How could a man who belonged to the nobility think of making
friends with rebels?
For that matter, Ram Das was a fine one, pretending to be a humble
slave! He was, Fedor guessed, practically the leader of these Sikhs.
The Sikhs had placed their trust in him. They had told him that an
uprising was planned for the day the Brahmans arranged a festival to
celebrate restoration of the temple of the goddess Kali. The \Sikhs had told
him that he must help them.
But how could he bring himself to help rebels?
Besides, what if they were lying when they said that as soon as he
finished his work on the water-wheel he would be killed? What if they were
simply trying to frighten him?
Should he go to Lal Chandra and tell him the whole story? No, he
couldn't do that either.
There was no one to advise him.
Fedor's soul was in turmoil.
Jogindar Singh asked Fedor to come to the smithy with him.
"Kartar Sarabha wants to make you a gift," he said.
Thickly-bearded Kartar Sarabha, the blacksmith, smiled broadly. "You
have taught me many useful things that I did not know. In gratitude I want
to make you a present of a knife. A man should not go about unarmed. I'll
work while you look on."
This, Fedor realized, was a sign of great trust in him, a foreigner.
Craft secrets were being shown to him.
The blacksmith picked up a bunch of short wires and sorted them,
bending and unbending each one. Fedor noticed that some were made of soft
iron and others of firm steel. The steel wires were hard to bend.
After making his selection and tightly tying the ends together, Sarabha
heated the middle of the bunch in the forge and tied it neatly into a knot.
Then he heated it again and began to hammer it with rapid but careful blows.
The wires were welded together into a bar.
After a few more heatings the blacksmith began to pound with all his
might.
"Come tomorrow before dinner. We'll finish it," he said, tossing his
tongs into a trough of water.
The next day Fedor was presented with a blade that had been polished
and fitted into a handsome ivory handle. Examining the knife, he gave an
exclamation of surprise. Smoky ornamentation with wavy lines ran the length
of the bluish-grey steel blade. This was Indian damask steel, famous for its
hardness and elasticity.
Fedor found himself drawn more and more often to the tents of the
Sikhs. He liked these plain, stern men with whom he could talk frankly. Most
of all, he was drawn to Bharati, the daughter of the grey-bearded carpenter.
Bharati giggled when Fedor tried to converse with her in a hodgepodge of
languages. She was merry and bubbled with life, unlike the people around
her.
On stifling evenings Fedor and Bharati sat by the side of the pool,
dangling their bare feet in the cool water. Fedor would absentmindedly
launch into a long story in Russian. The girl listened intently, her dark
head bent and her big eyes glowing.
He told her about his distant homeland with its forests and snow, and
rivers whose waters turned white and hard as stone in winter. He talked of
great ships with tall masts and white sails taut in the wind, and the
thunder of the cannon at Hango-Udd. Of the green meadows in spring, and the
song of larks high in the blue sky.
Did Bharati understand him? Probably she did, for it was not the words
that mattered.
From time to time she gave Fedor a sidelong glance. In the starlight
his face with its turned-up nose, his fair hair tossed back, and his brown
beard, soft and curly, made him look, in her eyes, like a god of the North.
She knew that in daylight his eyes were as blue as the water in the ocean.
When Fedor caught himself speaking Russian he fell silent in confusion,
then shifted to his usual gibberish. Bharati laughed, splashing her brown
legs in the pool, but then she would suddenly stop splashing and sit in
silence for a long time. Or else she would start telling Fedor, in her West
Punjab dialect, about her life, about the travels with her father, about the
winter monsoons that blow from the land and the summer monsoons that blow
from the ocean and bring rain, about the hot deserts and the swampy jungles.
As Fedor listened to the half-understood words pronounced in a
high-pitched, flute-like voice, he gazed at the girl's dark, elongated eyes,
the black braids hanging over her shoulder, and her strong, slender arms.
Now Fedor got down to designing the big lightning machine that would be
placed in the temple of Kali. He still knew nothing about the terrible force
that had thrown him to the ground that day. He remembered that jolt as a
combination of the cold bronze hips of the goddess Kali, the crackle of blue
lightning, the smell of a thunderstorm, and the sensation that his body was
being pierced by thousands of needles. The instant of pain was followed by a
strange shivering and a metallic taste in his mouth.
Fedor understood that neither the six-armed Kali nor any other deity
had anything to do with shafts and gears. It was just that the Brahman knew
something which others did not know.
The mysterious force, as Fedor now realized, was produced by the
revolving of the disc, and it could travel anywhere along metal. Lal Chandra
knew how to accumulate that force in metal vessels filled with a liquid; the
bronze statue of Kali was hollow and filled with the same liquid.
Fedor was dying to learn the Brahman's secret and carry it home to
Russia with him. He did not yet know how to discover the secret, or how to
escape afterwards, but he was already wondering how he could get to see the
tsar and tell him about the supernatural force.
Sometimes Lal Chandra burned spices and gums in a bowl standing on a
tripod, from which came odorous smoke, while Fedor helped him to move the
bronze spheres of the machine together and apart. Different spices produced
different kinds of lightning, from very weak flashes to streaks that leaped
across a wide gap between the two spheres.
The smell of the burning spices and gums reminded Fedor of incense and
church, there was something godly about it. But sometimes there was such a
stench that even intrepid Lal Chandra covered his nose, extinguished the
fire in the bowl, and aired the premises. Such a stench could not,
naturally, be associated with divine guidance.
Fedor realized more and more clearly that Ram Das was right and that
Lal Chandra was contemplating some evil deed. He was not calling forth
lightning for the sake of science, or burning his infernal spices merely to
glorify his many-armed idols.
One day the corpse of a middle-aged man, thin hut well-built, was
brought into the laboratory on a stretcher. A table with a heavy black
marble top was placed beside the lightning machine. Two thick, flexible
cables woven of bronze wires were attached to the bronze spheres. Bands of
thin silk soaked in a resin of some kind were wound round the cables.
Needle-sharp silver tips were soldered into the free ends of the silk bands.
At a sign from Lal Chandra the servants placed the naked corpse on the
marble top of the table and silently vanished.
Lal Chandra threw a pinch of spice into the smoking bowl on the tripod.
Greenish clouds of smoke filled the room with a pungent odour.
Next the Brahman picked up one of the cables.
"Take the other but be careful not to touch the tip," he told Fedor.
The disc of the lightning machine revolved faster and faster. The gold
plates merged into a glowing arc. The room was filled with a monotonous
humming.
Fedor held the cable with both hands, the sharp-pointed end sticking
out like a spearhead. Lal Chandra slowly moved his sharp end of the cable
towards Fedor.
There was a crackle as a blinding streak of blue lightning leaped
between the two ends. A spectral light illuminated the clouds of green
smoke. Fedor stood perfectly still. He was accustomed to flashes of
lightning. Lal Chandra swept the end he was holding to one side, and the
lightning, with a final crackle, ceased. Still holding the cable, he went
over to the marbletopped table and pulled off the cloth covering the face of
the dead man.
Fedor gave a start of horror. The face was a terrifying bluish-white.
The tip of the tongue protruded between convulsively twisted lips. The
wide-open glassy eyes held an expression of terror. Round the neck ran a
blue furrow- the clear mark of a woven noose.
Fedor at once remembered the Sikh stories of the abominable sect of
thugs. Their "sacred" nooses hidden beneath their robes, members of the sect
roamed the highways and the city streets in the evening, lying in wait for
victims. Holding the noose by the ends in both hands, the thug crept up from
behind, threw the noose round the neck of a lone passer-by, twisted it into
a knot in a quick movement and, thrusting a knee into the victim's back,
pulled the noose tight.
This was done to propitiate the wrathful goddess Kali.
Fedor had also learned from the Sikhs that such thugs had never
appeared in the Punjab, where the cult of the terrible Kali was not held in
esteem.
Lal Chandra's domain lay far from any community, and the servants did
not leave the grounds of the mansion. This meant that the man, one of Lal
Chandra's slaves-Fedor recognized him in spite of his distorted features-was
not the accidental victim of a fanatic. He had been strangled on the
grounds, inside the high wall, for some transgression, or simply because Lal
Chandra needed a corpse.
course. But where would he go to? Sadreddin grew angry with himself. The
faithful should never take pity on infidel dogs.
No, he had not fed and nursed the Russian to let him go just like that.
He would find a different way out.
One night at the end of summer Sadreddin prepared a basket of
provisions and put the basket and Fedor into his covered cart. Casting
fearful glances to right and left, he drove through the sleeping hamlet.
He had not concealed his plans. Fedor knew that the kindly Uzbek was
taking him to some place far away from Khiva to sell him.
"Are you a gunner?" he asked Fedor for the hundredth time as the cart
rolled along.
Fedor, who had learned a little Uzbek, nodded.
"Can you do a blacksmith's work?"
Again Fedor nodded absentmindedly. He was wondering what to do. It
would not be hard to overpower sluggish Sadreddin and take the horse and
cart and food away from him. But what next? It must be all of 800 versts to
Guryev. Travelling by cart it would take him a month to reach that city. But
it would be risky to follow the road. On the other hand, setting out across
the desert, without knowing where the wells were, would mean certain death.
Sadreddin knew that Fedor had no way of escaping, and so he travelled
along slowly without taking any precautions.
They reached Bukhara in two weeks' time. There Sadreddin sold Fedor to
a merchant from Kashgar for a good price. He spent the money on Bukhara
merchandise.
"You have brought good luck to my house," he told Fedor in parting.
"You fetched a good price.
If I can return home with these goods without being robbed, my family
will live well. For this, Allah will help you, even though you are an
unbeliever."
The swarthy Kashgar merchant, who had been told Fedor's history,
laughed into his thick black beard. Poor Sadreddin thought the price he had
been paid for Fedor made him a rich man. He had no idea of the true value of
a strong young man who had been trained in the arts of warfare and
metallurgy.
The merchant treated Fedor well, even giving him a horse to ride, for
he knew that Fedor would not attempt to escape from the caravan. He also
gave Fedor sheets of paper and a copper inkpot on a chain to hang at his
belt. When the caravan set up camp for the night Fedor would take his pen,
made of a split reed sharpened at the end, and, in a hand grown unaccustomed
to writing, would describe the landmarks and details of the journey. In
Astrakhan not so long ago he had envisioned his travels to distant India
from Khiva to gather information about that country. Now he was actually on
his way to India but as a slave instead of a scout of the tsar. Still, who
could tell? These notes might yet prove useful.
Fedor had decided to conceal his homesickness and bitterness and bide
his time.
It took the caravan three weeks to reach the mountains. For ten days
they climbed higher and higher along a narrow path. It grew colder. Fedor's
heart leaped with joy at the sight of snow, but it made him more homesick
than ever for the snowy plains of Russia.
Finally they made their way over the pass and descended into the
flowering Vale of Kashmir, following the river Gilgit to its confluence with
the Indus. They crossed the Indus and some of its tributaries. Several weeks
later they entered the city of Amritsar, a big commercial centre.
So this was India! It was a land of strange buildings, unfamiliar
trees, colourful bazaars and copper-skinned people, some half-naked, some
dressed in white robes. Fedor drank in the marvellous sights with unfeigned
curiosity.
The Kashgar merchant decked Fedor out in new clothing and gave him an
opportunity to rest up. But at the inn he locked Fedor into his room and
ordered the servants to guard him, not so much because Fedor might escape as
because someone might try to steal him.
One day the merchant brought a tall, thickset Hindu, all dressed in
white, to see Fedor. The Hindu looked him up and down intently, then smiled
and seated himself cross-legged on a carpet, making a sign to Fedor to be
seated too.
During the years he spent in the East Fedor adopted many of the customs
of the region, but nothing was harder for him to learn than to sit on the
floor in Indian fashion, with the soles of his feet lying on his thighs.
"Sprek je de Nederlandse taal? the Hindu asked.
Fedor was amazed to hear him speak Dutch.
"You have nothing to worry about," said the Hindu. "If what the
merchant says about you is true you will have a fine life."
The Hindu then proceeded to question Fedor. He asked him about dams and
water wheels. They discussed European politics and Russia's war with Sweden.
Fedor was surprised to find himself conversing with a highly-educated man.
Finally the Hindu turned to the Kashgar merchant. Although Fedor did
not understand a word of what they said it was clear they were bargaining.
This went on for a long time. At times the merchant, accustomed to bazaars,
would raise his voice to a scream. The Hindu kept his voice low but firm.
Then there came the moment when he unwound his broad sash and removed a
small purse and scales with a single tray and a weight suspended from an
ivory rod. From the purse he took two precious stones that sparkled with
greenish lights. He dropped the gems into the tray, and, holding the loop of
the ivory rod in his left hand, he moved the weight along the rod with his
right hand to balance the scales.
The Kashgar merchant looked at the mark at which the weight stopped,
then carefully picked up the stones and examined them, first one and then
the other, against the light. He bowed respectfully and without saying a
word started unwinding his sash to put the jewels away inside it.
"You can see how much you are worth," the Hindu remarked in Dutch.
Fedor did not like the idea of being sold for such a high price. He
knew little about precious stones but realized that if he were ever ransomed
the ransom would be high. His family was not rich. They would hardly be able
to raise such a sum. The tsar had seen him only once or twice and probably
would not remember him. If the Foreign Board were asked to pay a ransom,
would it consent?
"Now fortify yourself with food," the Hindu said to Fedor. "There is
not much time and we have quite a distance to travel."
A servant at the caravansarai brought in a bowl of rice and mutton
similar to the Uzbek pilau, and a pitcher filled with a cold liquid. Fedor
and the Kashgar merchant set about their meal. The Hindu rose and moved
towards the door.
"Why doesn't he have something to eat too?" Fedor asked in a low voice.
"Sh-h," the merchant whispered. "He's a Brahman. They never eat with
other castes. Besides, they don't eat meat and many other things."
"Who is he?" Fedor asked.
The merchant's reply was vague. "He must be an important person. All I
know is that his name is Lal Chandra and he comes from the Punjab, not so
very far away from here."
By evening Lal Chandra's covered wagon was some distance from Amritsar.
The driver, bare to the waist, urged on the horses. Lal Chandra dozed,
reclining against rug-covered cushions. Fedor lay on the floor of the wagon,
his thoughts far away, in distant Russia.
They drove through Lahore and then followed the bank of a river.
Afterwards they turned west and rode for a long time across a desert tract
that looked like the land in the vicinity of the Sea of Aral. They crossed
the beds of dried-up rivers. They followed the bank of one of these streams
and finally halted in front of an iron gate in a high stone wall.
The gate swung open to allow the wagon to pass through, then swung
shut. Fedor looked out but he could see no one beside the gate. Nor was
there anyone on the long road that wound through a park in which unfamiliar
trees grew. The hot air was filled with a heady fragrance, evidently from
the big, bright flowers. The wagon stopped before a tall stone mansion with
many niches in which stood strange creatures carved of stone.
Lal Chandra slowly descended from the wagon. Fedor sprang out after
him, stretching his stiff legs. Lal Chandra led him along a narrow, vaulted,
dusky passage into a large cool room where a big statue of polished stone
stood. Fedor had never seen anything like it, not even in his most horrible
nightmares. Three steps led up to a low pedestal on which sat a woman with
her feet tucked under her. Her face was unbelievably beautiful, her eyes
were blind, and her lips were curved into an enigmatic, frightening smile.
The woman had six arms. Two arms ended in hands folded peacefully in her
lap, two were bent at the elbow and raised, and two were thrust forward
menacingly. She had three pairs of breasts. Lal Chandra placed the palms of
his hands in front of his face and prostrated himself before the statue. He
remained motionless for a long time.
"He obviously isn't Moslem," Fedor thought, "if he is praying to this
idol."
Finally the Hindu rose and bowed three times before the goddess. Then
he led Fedor into a small room that resembled a monk's cell, with bare stone
walls and a vaulted ceiling. Slanting rays of sunshine coming through a
window near the ceiling provided the illumination. In the floor was a pool
filled with water, evidently running water.
"I do not know whether your gods prescribe ablutions," said Lal
Chandra, "but I must purify myself before attending to my affairs. You may,
too, if you wish."
Fedor promptly removed his clothing and sank with pleasure into the
cool water. He began to splash noisily, not noticing the Hindu's frown.
After the ablutions Lal Chandra led Fedor along another passage into a
large, bright room with windows looking out on a garden. The windows did not
have either glass or mica in them but were covered by intricately carved
shutters with interstices through which the light came. Here, too, there was
a statue of the six-armed goddess. Smaller than the first one, it was made
of copper and stood on a high marble support.
Low tables lined the walls. The shelves above them were filled with
fancifully shaped glass, clay and metal vessels, scales, sandglasses and
water clocks.
In a corner there was a stove. The curved necks of copper vessels
jutted out of its sides.
Fedor's attention was caught by a monstrous object on a platform in the
middle of the hall, opposite the statue of the goddess with six arms.
Moulded copper columns, ornamented with carvings of plants and animals,
supported a horizontal shaft whose necks rested on copper wheels half a foot
in diameter. An enormous disc of some black material was mounted in the
middle of the shaft. It was covered with radially distributed plates, narrow
and shining, that might have been made of gold. At one end of the shaft was
a pulley encircled by a round, woven strap. The ends of the strap went into
openings in the floor.
Fedor stood in front of the bulky machine trying to grasp its purpose.
He had never seen anything like it before.
"It pleases me to see that here you have forgotten about contemptible
food," Lal Chandra said, touching Fedor on the shoulder. "But man is weak.
Pass through that door"-he pointed to a narrow opening in the wall- "and you
will find the kind of food to which you are accustomed. Then you will learn
what you are to do."
In the small adjoining room Fedor found a bowl of fried meat and
steamed vegetables on a low table. A narrow-necked pitcher stood on the
floor. There was no chair. "I suppose I'll have to get used to it," Fedor
said to himself with a sigh as he awkwardly squatted down beside the table.
The days in Lal Chandra's house passed slowly. Fedor wandered through
empty corridors and peeped into cool rooms. He never saw anyone in them. But
he knew that he had only to strike a bronze gong for a silent servant to
appear on the threshold.
The food was plentiful, but it brought Fedor no joy. He wanted to go
out beyond the wall to see what the locality looked like, but each time he
came to the gate he found it locked. Escape was impossible. Besides, Fedor
was hunted by the feeling that someone was watching his every step.
On the other side of the filigree shutters lay an alien night. The
silence was absolute. He longed to hear a sound, any sound, even the barking
of a dog. At times he was driven to such despair that thoughts of laying
hands on himself came into his mind. Cry out though he might, Russia would
never hear him. She was too far away, beyond high mountains and scorching
plains.
Fedor shook the shutters in fury. He pressed his tear-stained face to
the cold metal.
Lal Chandra visited him almost every day. He would enter, tall and
erect, in his white robe, and conduct a vague conversation on theological
topics. These talks made Fedor uncomfortable. At home he had never prayed
with any particular fervour and he had never had the time or inclination to
go into the subtleties of religion. He had felt that it was enough if he, as
a soldier, crossed himself before climbing into bed.
One day he was unable to restrain himself, and in the midst of Lal
Chandra's monotonous utterances he burst out: "I'm sick of all this dull
talk. You bought me to work. Well, give me something to do."
Lal Chandra was silent for a while. "Soon," he said, "I shall raise
before you the veil that shrouds a holy mystery which the gods reveal only
to the chosen."
"Couldn't your gods find anyone else but me?" Fedor asked derisively.
"Do not speak thus of gods about whom you know nothing. Only I possess
knowledge of this mystery. You will be my assistant. You are a foreigner,
without friends or relatives here, and therefore you are less dangerous to
me than a fellow tribesman."
"If I am initiated into this mystery you will not allow me to return
home when the opportunity comes. I don't want to know it."
"It will be of no use to you at home. It is important and awe-inspiring
only here," Lal Chandra replied evasively. "But you must not speak about it
to anyone. If you do, yours will be a horrible death." With those words he
walked out of the room.
Fedor stood motionless for a long time, lost in gloomy thought.
The next evening Lal Chandra softly entered Fedor's room and sat down
beside him.
"Which deity did you worship in your country?" he asked.
Fedor was at a loss. "The Holy Trinity," he wanted to say, but he could
not find the words in Dutch. "I believe in the holy three," he said.
"Three gods-The Trimurti," Lal Chandra repeated thoughtfully. "Do your
gods work miracles?"
"Of course they do. The Bible tells how Jesus Christ, the son of God,
turned water into wine and raised Lazarus from the dead. Then there's the
story in the Old Testament of a bush that burned but didn't burn up."
"Have you ever seen a miracle?"
"No, never."
"Now listen carefully, young man," Lal Chandra began. "When the gods do
not work miracles, men tend to forget that they must obey the high priests
implicitly. But we are not given to know why the gods fail for a long time
to remind us of themselves."
"Are you a priest?" Fedor asked in surprise.
"I am but a humble servant of Kali, the Goddess of Terror. I have been
chosen to be her instrument, so that men of the lower castes should be
convinced, through miracles, of the might of the gods, and resign themselves
to their lot of obedience and toil. As for our rulers, when they see a
miracle they will realize that they must obey the high priests. Do you
understand me, young man?"
"You mean that if your gods don't work miracles you'll-"
"Exactly. The gods, who have unveiled a small part of their mysteries
to me, may work miracles through me. For the gods are all-powerful. Come
with me. I will show you signs of their might."
Picking up a clay lamp, Fedor followed Lal Chandra into the big room in
which the strange machine stood. Lal Chandra clapped his hands thrice and
then issued an order to the servant who silently appeared before him.
The huge black disc rumbled as it started to rotate. Creaking, the
woven belt emerged from the floor and passed over the pulley.
"Are men down below turning it?" Fedor asked.
Lal Chandra nodded. The disc spun faster and faster. Its gold plates
merged into a glowing ring. A high-pitched hum filled the room.
Next Lal Chandra turned an ebony lever, and two sparkling bronze
spheres that were part of the machine drew closer and closer together.
Suddenly there was a dry crackle as a streak of bluish-violet lightning
flashed between the sphere. The air felt fresh and cool, as after a
thunderstorm.
While Fedor watched in fascination, lightning blazed in the dusk-filled
room. He felt his skin creep.
With a turn of the lever Lal Chandra separated the spheres. The
lightning ceased.
Lal Chandra gestured towards the bronze statue of the six-armed
goddess.
"Do not be afraid of the goddess. Embrace her."
"Horrible creature," Fedor muttered in Russian.
"Are you afraid?"
Fedor boldly put his arms around the bronze hips of the goddess. In the
same instant he was deafened and stunned, and flung to the floor. Crackling
lightning had sprung from the body of the goddess. A wave of freshness
struck his nostrils.
Fedor regained his feel, cursing roundly.
"Forgive my little joke," Lal Chandra said, his lips parting in a
smile. "1 simply wanted to show you the power which the goddess has given me
over lightning."
Fedor became aware of an itching sensation in the palm of his left
hand. Looking down, he saw a cut at the base of his thumb.
"Your goddess bites, damn it!" he exclaimed. He was trembling.
Lal Chandra smeared a fragrant salve on the cut and the pain subsided.
"Now you will learn the purpose to which you will be put," he said. "I
have heard that the art of building water-wheels is well known in your
country. Is this art known to you?"
The covered wagon, driven by the same half-naked coachman, travelled
across a barren tract for a long time before it came to a rocky road that
led to the bank of a small stream.
Lal Chandra stepped out of the wagon and Fedor sprang down after him.
They pushed their way through thickets until they reached the high bluff.
There, squeezed between rocky banks, the stream was very narrow and formed a
swift waterfall. Below the waterfall the stream was placid.
"Would this be a good place for a water-wheel?" Lal Chandra asked.
"Yes, a very good one," Fedor replied. "But does the stream flow all
the year round?"
"No, it dries up in summer. Anyway, we won't need it long, only during
the rains. Take the measurements you'll need to build a large wheel here."
Fedor looked round. On the other side of the stream, not far away,
stood a temple-like building with two towers.
"Will we be able to approach that temple later?" he asked. "I'll have
to if I'm going to take measurements."
"Of course. That temple is where the will of the gods is going to
manifest itself."
"Very well," said Fedor. "I'll get my sight-vane."
He went back to the wagon for his instrument, a shallow wooden bowl
with two tiny notches on the edges, diametrically opposite one another.
Picking up a clay pitcher and the sight-vane, Fedor approached the spot
where the water cascaded over the lip of the rocks. He placed the bowl on a
flat stone, filled the pitcher with water, and poured water into the bowl
until it was almost full. Then he lay down on the ground and turned the bowl
in front of his eyes so that both notches were in line with one of the
towers of the temple. By pouring more water from the pitcher into the bowl,
and carefully propping up the sides of the bowl with stones, he forced the
water to swell above the edges of the bowl. Then, closing one eye, he
concentrated on getting the nearest and farthest edges of the bowl to
coincide in height. Holding his breath lest he get out of line, he counted:
the water level was six rows of stones below the windows of the second
storey of the temple.
Then Fedor rose, rubbed his numb elbows, scrambled up the rocks to the
top of the waterfall, and repeated his observations there, after which he
descended to where Lal Chandra was waiting.
Next the two men waded across the stream and entered the abandoned
temple. Ahead of them strode the coachman, Ram Das, carrying a torch.
Bats flitted about under the vaulted ceiling. The flapping of their
wings nearly extinguished the torch. The air was damp and had a musty smell.
"Any snakes here?" Fedor asked. "You won't find cobras in damp, dark
places," said Lal Chandra. "But we are in the hands of Shiva and Kali."
The passage led into a room whose ceiling was so high that the light
from the torch did not reach the top. The sides of the room faded into
terrifying darkness.
On a three-tiered pedestal stood Fedor's old acquaintance, the goddess
Kali, with her six arms, three faces and six breasts, wrathful, inscrutable
and ready to act. The face that was turned to Fedor gazed across the room
with a strange expression in which an inviting smile was combined with a
threatening frown. The gaze was fixed on an equally enormous statue, with
four arms, standing on one leg, the other being bent at the knee, in a
dancing posture. This was the god Shiva, Kali's spouse.
Lal Chandra prostrated himself before the menacing goddess.
"What a handsome couple you make!" Fedor whispered to himself jokingly
in an effort to regain his composure. He was in the grip of a fit of
shivering caused either by the dampness or by the eerie atmosphere of the
place.
He glanced at Ram Das. As the driver stood there holding the torch his
face expressed neither fear nor religious devotion. He simply looked bored.
There may have been a trace of scorn in the look the half-naked slave gave
his master, Lal Chandra, lying prostrate before the sovereign over life and
death.
The expression on the slave's face sobered Fedor. He resumed his
scrutiny of the goddess. Suddenly he startled in horror. From her graceful
neck hung a chain of human skulls.
"The foul murderess!" he exclaimed in Russian. Ram Das did not
understand the words, but the wrathful tone prompted him to level a long,
thoughtful glance at Fedor.
A few minutes later Lal Chandra led Fedor through a series of intricate
passageways to the stairs leading up into one of the towers. Fedor climbed
up the weathered, sand-sprinkled steps to the ninth storey. Looking down
from a window, he saw Lal Chandra at the foot of the tower. Fedor took out
his length of string, in which he had tied knots at intervals of one foot,
attached a stone to the end, and began paying out the string, counting the
knots. When the stone reached the sixth row of bricks below the
second-storey window Lal Chandra gave a shout. Fedor stopped paying out the
string, leaned far out of the window, and saw that the row of bricks he had
noticed when he made his second measurement was at the seventy-fourth foot.
"That means the waterfall is seventy-four feet high," he thought. "I
wonder how far it is to the ground."
He allowed the string to run out until the stone at the end touched the
ground. The distance was about ninety feet.
Fedor now forgot about everything but the unusual and interesting job
ahead of him. He was in such high spirits that when he descended and saw the
silent torch bearer he clapped him on the shoulder. "We'll make a wonderful
wheel!" he exclaimed happily.
Ram Das moved forward without a word. But after taking a few steps he
stopped, glanced round, lifted his torch high to illuminate everything
around them, and then gestured to Fedor.
"Do you understand what I say?" he asked in a Moslem dialect.
"I do," Fedor replied in Uzbek.
"Do not rejoice like a new-born calf. You will live just as long as you
are needed to finish this job. Do you understand that?"
A shudder ran through Fedor.
"But what can I do? How can I escape?" he asked tonelessly.
"It is too early to talk of such things. I will find a suitable time
and place to talk with you. But now, silence!"
The torch-bearer moved forward. A few minutes later they emerged into
the bright sunshine. Ram Das threw the torch, which had burned low, into the
stream. The flame hissed and went out.
Lal Chandra smiled at Fedor.
Man is a strange creature. Sometimes Fedor would wake up in the middle
of the night and, recalling Ram Das's grim words, give way to despair. But
when morning came his fears would evaporate, whether because of his carefree
Russian nature or because he was carried away by the work.
As he sat over the sketches and calculations of the huge water-wheel he
sang to himself. At times these Russian songs were sad, at times they were
gay.
Now the days passed more quickly. Fedor learned to speak the local
dialect. Lal Chandra often travelled to the old temple to supervise the
restoration work that had been begun there. Fedor was no longer alone behind
the high wall. The courtyard was now filled with artisans busy fashioning
parts for the wheel under his direction.
The courtyard had been turned into an open-air workshop, with forging
furnaces and a copper-smelting furnace. In the middle of the yard the
contours of a giant wheel seventy-two feet in diameter had been traced on
the hard-packed ground, as at a shipyard.
Sometimes Fedor actually felt as though he were in the shipyards or in
the courtyard of the Smolny palace at St. Petersburg, except that here there
was none of the joking, bickering or singing characteristic of Russians at
work.
Carpenters were making parts of the rim and the buckets of the wheel.
The swiftly falling water would turn the wheel, which would convert this
simple, comprehensible form of energy into another form, into mysterious,
darting lightning.
The gigantic rim was made of the finest hardwood. Copper and iron
bindings fastened the joints.
Once grey-bearded Jogindar Singh, the foreman of the carpenters, came
up to Fedor. The two men communicated in an incredible mixture of Uzbek,
Indian and Dutch.
"I want to ask you how thick the wheel axis will be," said the
carpenter. As Fedor started to explain, a graceful girl in a sky-blue sari
that left one shoulder bare approached them. The girl said something to
Jogindar Singh that Fedor did not understand, gave Fedor a fleeting glance
of curiosity, and ran off.
"It is now noon," said Jogindar Singh. "My daughter has summoned me to
dinner. May we have the honour of your company?"
Fedor agreed eagerly. He wanted a chance to talk to that quiet,
understanding man. Also, he wanted another glimpse of the girl.
Lal Chandra's workmen lived near the workshop, in tents set up among
the trees in the big garden. They lived here with their families since they
had no right to leave the premises until the job was finished. Each family
prepared its food over a fire in front of its tent.
On the way, Jogindar Singh and Fedor washed their hands in a large pool
of running water.
As they entered the tent the girl uttered a low cry and ran out. After
a moment she returned carrying a black lacquered tray covered with bright
flowers, and placed it on a mat spread on the floor. On the tray lay a mound
of boiled rice over which a fragrant spicy sauce had been poured.
Then the girl brought in hot flat cakes and a brass pitcher of cold
water mixed with the slightly astringent juice of a fruit unfamiliar to
Fedor. The girl moved lightly and quickly. She sat down beside her father,
and Fedor looked at her dark, slanting eyes and thin brown arms. She dropped
her eyes.
Jogindar Singh settled down to his dinner. Fedor also dipped his
fingers into the rice.
"I thought you Hindus weren't supposed to eat in front of other
people," he said.
"That rule is followed by those who divide people into jaties," or
castes," said the elderly carpenter.
"To which caste do you belong?"
"I'm a Sikh and so are all the others working here," said the
carpenter, gazing intently at Fedor. "We do not divide people into castes."
"Does that mean you do not recognize Brahmans?"
"We do not believe in future reincarnation," Jogindar Singh replied
evasively. Just who are you? Moslems?"
"No."
It was obvious that the carpenter did not want to answer his questions,
so Fedor ate in silence. He washed down the rice with water from the
pitcher. From time to time he stole glances at the girl, wondering how old
she was. He decided she could not be more than eighteen, and he was just
about to ask what her name was when her father began to speak.
"Look here, foreigner. I do not know how you came to the Punjab but I
can see "'it was not because you wanted to."
"Wanted to?" Fedor laughed bitterly. " I was sold, like an ox."
"Do not put your trust in Lal Chandra," the carpenter went on. "He is
your enemy. He is our enemy too."
"Then why do you work for him?" "We work for him because- Listen, we
Sikhs were forced off our land. Everything was taken away from us." Jogindar
Singh's eyes glittered angrily. "But that is not for long! We Sikhs will
gather our forces-"
The light pouring through the entrance to the tent was suddenly cut
off. Fedor turned round to see Ram Das standing there.
"You've found a suitable place for such talk, old man," the coachman
remarked derisively.
"There are no strangers here," the carpenter replied quietly. "Only our
brethren live in the garden."
"In the garden! That damned house is full of Lal Chandra's spies," Ram
Das said as he squatted beside the tray of food.
Fedor looked at the coachman's frowning, sharp-featured face and again,
as in the temple, a chill ran down his spine.
"Foreigner, you are as trusting as a child," Ram Das said. "Lal Chandra
has given you a nice toy to play with and you forget that your end is near."
Fedor paled. "What can I do?" he asked. "As long as I am building the
wheel no one will touch me. Afterwards, if I have to, I'll stand up for
myself."
"No one is going to challenge you to a duel. You don't know the customs
of the Brahmans. Instead of dying a useless death why do you not remain
alive and help us? Jogindar Singh, send your daughter out of the tent. She
must not listen to the talk of men."
The Punjab was an arid semi-desert in the north-western corner of
fabulous, fertile India. It was inhabited by stern, warlike men who passed
their lives in a grim struggle against drought in order to earn an austere
living for themselves and a life of luxury for their rulers.
The Punjab, along the border, had the most extensive trade contacts
with other countries and was the part of India that was most often invaded.
Alexander the Great's weary warriors came to the Punjab in the year 327 B.
C. Later the region was invaded by the Persians and the Afghans.
The Punjab, accustomed to foreigners, to foreign merchants and to
foreign conquerors, became the centre of the Sikh community.
Sikhism was a monotheistic religion that rejected castes, mortification
of the flesh, priests, temples and public worship. The Sikhs wanted a better
life in this world, and did not believe in reincarnation.
Shortly before Fedor Matveyev landed in the Punjab, the Sikhs had risen
up against the subahdars, Moslem viceroys of the Mogul dynasty, and the
local feudal rajahs. The uprising had been drowned in blood, with mass
executions.
Although the Sikhs had suffered defeat and bitter losses, and had (been
deprived of their lands, they had not lost heart. Feigning submissiveness,
they gradually gathered forces for another uprising.
Those were troubled times in the Punjab. The dynasty of Great Moguls
was clearly on the wane. The Punjab rajahs, whom Lal Chandra served, were
preparing to seize power from the weakened hands of the Mohammedan rulers.
But the blood-stained spectre of another Sikh uprising haunted the rajahs
and Brahmans. As a counter-measure they prepared to work miracles that would
distract the people from the sobriety of the Sikh religion, convince them of
the might of the old Hindu gods, and persuade them to resign themselves to
obeying Hindu rulers.
The Brahmans had long possessed a variety of miracles demonstrating the
power of their gods. The miracles were performed by wandering fakirs,
ascetic wonder-workers and hypnotisers of wide experience. They tortured
themselves in public by driving needles into their bodies, walking barefoot
over burning coals, and allowing themselves to be buried alive.
The idea behind it all was that man can endure whatever trials life may
bring him.
But it had become difficult to astound the grim people of the Punjab
with the old, familiar miracles in which fakirs pierced their bodies,
charmed snakes or turned themselves into towering palm-trees.
That was why Lal Chandra was preparing new miracles of a kind never
seen or heard of before.
Fedor Matveyev had .plenty to think about.
At home, in Russia, he had known that their family owned some two dozen
peasant households, that those peasants belonged to his father. The house in
which the Matveyevs lived was much like a peasant's hut, while the family's
food differed from that of their peasants only in that there was more of it.
However, the lighting in the Matveyev home came not from splinters but from
tallow candles, which, true, his frugal mother insisted on using sparingly.
The Matveyevs occupied the best pews in the tiny church, and Father
Pafnuty never missed an opportunity to sing the praises of the Matveyev
family in his prayers.
Tallow candles and prayers did not, of course, matter so much as having
a familiar, stable way of life. Father owned the peasants. The peasants
ploughed, planted, reaped and threshed the grain, and then brought it to the
barn of their owner. Thus it had been for centuries, and thus it would
always 'be. There had always been masters and there had always been slaves.
But now, in a foreign land, Fedor was himself a slave. Not a slave like
the servants of Lal Chandra, true, but still a slave. When Ram Das openly
urged him to take the side of the Sikhs, Fedor was thrown into the greatest
confusion.
He recalled his father's stories about the peasant uprising under
Stepan Razin, which had so terrified the big landowners. Now Indian peasants
were planning the same thing against their masters and, besides, against
their gods. How could a man who belonged to the nobility think of making
friends with rebels?
For that matter, Ram Das was a fine one, pretending to be a humble
slave! He was, Fedor guessed, practically the leader of these Sikhs.
The Sikhs had placed their trust in him. They had told him that an
uprising was planned for the day the Brahmans arranged a festival to
celebrate restoration of the temple of the goddess Kali. The \Sikhs had told
him that he must help them.
But how could he bring himself to help rebels?
Besides, what if they were lying when they said that as soon as he
finished his work on the water-wheel he would be killed? What if they were
simply trying to frighten him?
Should he go to Lal Chandra and tell him the whole story? No, he
couldn't do that either.
There was no one to advise him.
Fedor's soul was in turmoil.
Jogindar Singh asked Fedor to come to the smithy with him.
"Kartar Sarabha wants to make you a gift," he said.
Thickly-bearded Kartar Sarabha, the blacksmith, smiled broadly. "You
have taught me many useful things that I did not know. In gratitude I want
to make you a present of a knife. A man should not go about unarmed. I'll
work while you look on."
This, Fedor realized, was a sign of great trust in him, a foreigner.
Craft secrets were being shown to him.
The blacksmith picked up a bunch of short wires and sorted them,
bending and unbending each one. Fedor noticed that some were made of soft
iron and others of firm steel. The steel wires were hard to bend.
After making his selection and tightly tying the ends together, Sarabha
heated the middle of the bunch in the forge and tied it neatly into a knot.
Then he heated it again and began to hammer it with rapid but careful blows.
The wires were welded together into a bar.
After a few more heatings the blacksmith began to pound with all his
might.
"Come tomorrow before dinner. We'll finish it," he said, tossing his
tongs into a trough of water.
The next day Fedor was presented with a blade that had been polished
and fitted into a handsome ivory handle. Examining the knife, he gave an
exclamation of surprise. Smoky ornamentation with wavy lines ran the length
of the bluish-grey steel blade. This was Indian damask steel, famous for its
hardness and elasticity.
Fedor found himself drawn more and more often to the tents of the
Sikhs. He liked these plain, stern men with whom he could talk frankly. Most
of all, he was drawn to Bharati, the daughter of the grey-bearded carpenter.
Bharati giggled when Fedor tried to converse with her in a hodgepodge of
languages. She was merry and bubbled with life, unlike the people around
her.
On stifling evenings Fedor and Bharati sat by the side of the pool,
dangling their bare feet in the cool water. Fedor would absentmindedly
launch into a long story in Russian. The girl listened intently, her dark
head bent and her big eyes glowing.
He told her about his distant homeland with its forests and snow, and
rivers whose waters turned white and hard as stone in winter. He talked of
great ships with tall masts and white sails taut in the wind, and the
thunder of the cannon at Hango-Udd. Of the green meadows in spring, and the
song of larks high in the blue sky.
Did Bharati understand him? Probably she did, for it was not the words
that mattered.
From time to time she gave Fedor a sidelong glance. In the starlight
his face with its turned-up nose, his fair hair tossed back, and his brown
beard, soft and curly, made him look, in her eyes, like a god of the North.
She knew that in daylight his eyes were as blue as the water in the ocean.
When Fedor caught himself speaking Russian he fell silent in confusion,
then shifted to his usual gibberish. Bharati laughed, splashing her brown
legs in the pool, but then she would suddenly stop splashing and sit in
silence for a long time. Or else she would start telling Fedor, in her West
Punjab dialect, about her life, about the travels with her father, about the
winter monsoons that blow from the land and the summer monsoons that blow
from the ocean and bring rain, about the hot deserts and the swampy jungles.
As Fedor listened to the half-understood words pronounced in a
high-pitched, flute-like voice, he gazed at the girl's dark, elongated eyes,
the black braids hanging over her shoulder, and her strong, slender arms.
Now Fedor got down to designing the big lightning machine that would be
placed in the temple of Kali. He still knew nothing about the terrible force
that had thrown him to the ground that day. He remembered that jolt as a
combination of the cold bronze hips of the goddess Kali, the crackle of blue
lightning, the smell of a thunderstorm, and the sensation that his body was
being pierced by thousands of needles. The instant of pain was followed by a
strange shivering and a metallic taste in his mouth.
Fedor understood that neither the six-armed Kali nor any other deity
had anything to do with shafts and gears. It was just that the Brahman knew
something which others did not know.
The mysterious force, as Fedor now realized, was produced by the
revolving of the disc, and it could travel anywhere along metal. Lal Chandra
knew how to accumulate that force in metal vessels filled with a liquid; the
bronze statue of Kali was hollow and filled with the same liquid.
Fedor was dying to learn the Brahman's secret and carry it home to
Russia with him. He did not yet know how to discover the secret, or how to
escape afterwards, but he was already wondering how he could get to see the
tsar and tell him about the supernatural force.
Sometimes Lal Chandra burned spices and gums in a bowl standing on a
tripod, from which came odorous smoke, while Fedor helped him to move the
bronze spheres of the machine together and apart. Different spices produced
different kinds of lightning, from very weak flashes to streaks that leaped
across a wide gap between the two spheres.
The smell of the burning spices and gums reminded Fedor of incense and
church, there was something godly about it. But sometimes there was such a
stench that even intrepid Lal Chandra covered his nose, extinguished the
fire in the bowl, and aired the premises. Such a stench could not,
naturally, be associated with divine guidance.
Fedor realized more and more clearly that Ram Das was right and that
Lal Chandra was contemplating some evil deed. He was not calling forth
lightning for the sake of science, or burning his infernal spices merely to
glorify his many-armed idols.
One day the corpse of a middle-aged man, thin hut well-built, was
brought into the laboratory on a stretcher. A table with a heavy black
marble top was placed beside the lightning machine. Two thick, flexible
cables woven of bronze wires were attached to the bronze spheres. Bands of
thin silk soaked in a resin of some kind were wound round the cables.
Needle-sharp silver tips were soldered into the free ends of the silk bands.
At a sign from Lal Chandra the servants placed the naked corpse on the
marble top of the table and silently vanished.
Lal Chandra threw a pinch of spice into the smoking bowl on the tripod.
Greenish clouds of smoke filled the room with a pungent odour.
Next the Brahman picked up one of the cables.
"Take the other but be careful not to touch the tip," he told Fedor.
The disc of the lightning machine revolved faster and faster. The gold
plates merged into a glowing arc. The room was filled with a monotonous
humming.
Fedor held the cable with both hands, the sharp-pointed end sticking
out like a spearhead. Lal Chandra slowly moved his sharp end of the cable
towards Fedor.
There was a crackle as a blinding streak of blue lightning leaped
between the two ends. A spectral light illuminated the clouds of green
smoke. Fedor stood perfectly still. He was accustomed to flashes of
lightning. Lal Chandra swept the end he was holding to one side, and the
lightning, with a final crackle, ceased. Still holding the cable, he went
over to the marbletopped table and pulled off the cloth covering the face of
the dead man.
Fedor gave a start of horror. The face was a terrifying bluish-white.
The tip of the tongue protruded between convulsively twisted lips. The
wide-open glassy eyes held an expression of terror. Round the neck ran a
blue furrow- the clear mark of a woven noose.
Fedor at once remembered the Sikh stories of the abominable sect of
thugs. Their "sacred" nooses hidden beneath their robes, members of the sect
roamed the highways and the city streets in the evening, lying in wait for
victims. Holding the noose by the ends in both hands, the thug crept up from
behind, threw the noose round the neck of a lone passer-by, twisted it into
a knot in a quick movement and, thrusting a knee into the victim's back,
pulled the noose tight.
This was done to propitiate the wrathful goddess Kali.
Fedor had also learned from the Sikhs that such thugs had never
appeared in the Punjab, where the cult of the terrible Kali was not held in
esteem.
Lal Chandra's domain lay far from any community, and the servants did
not leave the grounds of the mansion. This meant that the man, one of Lal
Chandra's slaves-Fedor recognized him in spite of his distorted features-was
not the accidental victim of a fanatic. He had been strangled on the
grounds, inside the high wall, for some transgression, or simply because Lal
Chandra needed a corpse.