A terrifying thought struck Fedor. Lal Chandra was not concealing
anything from him, did not hesitate to show him a man whom he had seen alive
the day before and who had been strangled in such a fashion.
This could only mean that Lal Chandra considered Fedor as good as dead.
When the job was finished Fedor would be strangled just as efficiently as
this poor creature had been. For an instant Fedor thought he could feel the
noose round his neck. He swallowed convulsively. Without thinking, he took a
step towards Lal Chandra.
The Brahman glanced at him in alarm. The silent duel lasted for no more
than a second. Then Fedor pulled himself together, turned and asked in a
toneless voice what he was to do next.
Lal Chandra calmly approached the corpse and plunged the sharp tip into
the brown shoulder.
"Stick your tip into his foot," he ordered.
"I ought to stick it into you," went through
Fedor's mind. "But where would that get me? There are probably thugs in
the next room. Never mind, your turn will come."
Fedor silently pushed the tip of the cable into the dead man's foot-and
leaped aside with a cry. The man's leg had jerked, bent at the knee and then
jerked forward as though it was about to kick Fedor.
Lal Chandra's laughter rang out beneath the vaulted ceiling of the
laboratory.
"Scared, Russian warrior?" he asked mockingly. "Don't be afraid. He
cannot harm you."
Fedor took a deep breath. He gave the Brahman a challenging look and
said: "I am a man of war accustomed to dealing with living adversaries." He
added in Russian: "May the dogs sniff at you, you murderer!"
Later, Fedor found an opportunity to tell Jogindar Singh about the
horrifying experiment.
"That means he is gathering thugs," said the elderly carpenter. "Well,
thugs are mortal. When the time comes we'll see whether the goddess Kali is
pleased by the death of her priests."
NEWCOMERS IN LAL CHANDRA'S HOUSE
A long caravan passed through the iron gate leading out of Lal
Chandra's garden. In front went eight elephants loaded with the wooden and
metal parts of the water-wheel and the big lightning machine. After the
elephants came several two-horse carts carrying the workmen. Fedor, Jogindar
Singh and Bharati rode in the first cart. Far behind rolled carts drawn by
longhorn oxen, carrying materials that would not be needed at once. The slow
oxen would reach the temple only on the third day. The elephants and the
horse-drawn carts would arrive there in about twenty hours.
The caravan crossed rivers and small streams that were beginning to dry
up. Each time the elephants entered a stream they behaved the way elephants
always do, sucking up water with their trunks and then spraying it over
their heads and backs.
"What wonderful animals!" Fedor exclaimed. "So clever and so
industrious."
"Aren't there elephants in your country?" Bharati asked.
"No," said Fedor, suppressing a sigh. "They're fine animals but I'd
willingly never see another elephant again if only I could return home."
Jogindar Singh glanced at Fedor, noting the sad expression on his face.
"Is there anyone waiting for you at home?"
"Yes, of course. My mother, my father and my sister."
"No wife or children?"
Fedor gave a wry smile. "When you're in the navy you don't have much
time to build a nest of your own."
"Father," said Bharati, "the foreigner is weary from the long journey,
yet you plague him with questions."
Fedor stretched out a hand and gently touched the girl's shoulder. With
a graceful movement she freed her shoulder from his hand.
The cart shook as it rumbled across the stony, practically dry, bed of
one of the numerous tributaries of the Ravi. On the other side they halted,
unharnessed the horses, and settled down to rest in the shade of a large
tree.
The carpenter built a fire and Bharati began to prepare their evening
meal. It was still so light that the flames looked pale.
Fedor picked up a dry stick and started to whittle it.
"If you have courage you can escape from here," the old man said all of
a sudden in a low voice.
"Escape?"
Jogindar Singh squeezed Fedor's arm above the elbow.
"Speak softly. There are many alien ears here. Listen carefully. The
river on which the Kali temple stands flows into the Indus. If you sail down
the Indus for ten days you will reach the sea."
"The sea?" Fedor whispered.
"Just before it enters the sea the Indus divides into many arms," the
carpenter went on. "If you follow the northernmost arm you will reach the
sea near the village of Karachi. But if you take the southernmost arm and
then sail along the coast to the southeast you will come to the Island of
Diu. The Portuguese seized it long ago and have built a fortress there. Do
you know the Portuguese?"
Fedor rubbed his brow with his hand, straining his memory to recall the
Portuguese maps he had seen in France when he was studying navigation there.
"But Diu is somewhere far to the south. About 500 sea miles from
Karachi."
"I do not know how to measure that distance," said Singh, "but it is no
longer than the voyage down the Indus. Look." He took the stick Fedor had
been whittling and sketched, in the sand, a plan of the route along the
coastline.
Fedor sprang to his feet and walked around the campfire. The sea! He
could hear the hurricane wind roaring in his ears and see the blue expanses
shining in the sun. The sea! Only the sea route could bring him home.
Suddenly he remembered where he was. He sat down and picked up the
stick again. As he whittled he said, his voice discouraged, "Thank you for
your kind advice. But I cannot go to sea in a nutshell."
"Listen further." Singh moved closer to him. "Draw me the plans and
I'll build you just the kind of boat you want," he whispered. "There will be
a great deal of work going on at the Kali temple, and I'll be able to
deceive Lal Chandra's men. They won't notice anything." The old carpenter
fell silent. Then he said, "But before you make your escape you must tell us
everything you know about the miracles Lal Chandra is preparing."
Soon after, the caravan set out again. Jogindar Singh fell asleep
inside the cart. Fedor sat on the box in front, gazing thoughtfully at the
road, white in the moonlight, which stretched ahead. He could see only one
thing before his eyes- a sturdily built boat with low sails. It must have a
sliding keel, like those on Turkmen feluccas. Then no squall could overturn
the boat. Oh Lord, could freedom really be so near?
Suddenly he heard soft weeping. He turned round to look into the dark
depths of the cart, which was covered with linen cloth. It was Bharati!
Fedor felt ashamed of himself. There he was, rejoicing like a child and
forgetting all about her!
He stroked her hair and patted her shoulder in the darkness.
"Darling," he whispered. "Did you think I would go anywhere without
you? Don't be afraid. Your seas are warm, and I'm a good sailor. I'll take
care of you. We'll make our way to Russia. Then everything will be fine."
The girl gave a sob and raised her tear-stained face.
"How can I leave Father?" she whispered.
"Why, we'll take him along too! When the time comes we'll tell him
everything. He'll understand."
Bharati shook her head sorrowfully. "No, he won't go anywhere. He won't
leave his people. And I can't leave him."
Fedor fell silent, overwhelmed by despair.
The caravan reached the temple at dawn. Fedor sprang down to the ground
at once. He felt light-headed from lack of sleep and his thoughts were
confused and disconnected.
From dawn to dusk sweat poured from the slaves of Lal Chandra and from
the Sikh artisans as they laboured beneath the merciless sun. They drove
piles for a dam into the bed of the dried-up stream just above the
waterfall, and hacked through the rocky bank so that the water behind the
dam could reach the chute. In the hollow leading to the temple they set up
thick logs to support the chute. They made a frame for the water-wheel.
Fedor was so busy from morning to night that he hardly ever saw
Bharati. He had no chance to talk with her father except about the dam or
the chute, for Lal Chandra's overseers were always close by.
"Will Jogindar Singh be able to handle the job without you if we return
to the house for a few days?" Lal Chandra asked Fedor one evening. "Yes, of
course."
"I want you to talk to him tomorrow morning and tell him what to do.
Give him and his men an assignment for each day. I want you to be prepared
to leave tomorrow evening, as soon as the heat abates."
The next morning Fedor handed Jogindar Singh several drawings and took
him aside to explain what they were about. They seated themselves on planks
laid across the posts which would support the chute. There was no one
nearby. As they examined the drawings Fedor discarded one of them. The
carpenter took the crumpled sheet from him and smoothed it out on his knee.
It was a drawing Fedor had made during a sleepless, lonely night, a sketch
of a sailboat with a sliding keel.
"This sketch is all to no purpose," Fedor muttered gloomily. "I don't
need a boat at all because I love your daughter and she cannot leave you at
such a time." Jogindar Singh closed his eyes. "We'll do everything we can to
save you before the festival," he said finally, after a long silence. "But
anything could happen-"
Many changes had taken place in Lal Chandra's mansion. Here, there and
everywhere Fedor saw strangers who spoke dialects he could not understand.
These were itinerant fakirs. They showed one another the miracles they were
preparing to perform at the festival in honour of the renovated temple. They
completely ignored Fedor and he was able to see what was behind their
miracles.
One morning three men with heavy sacks appeared at the gate and asked
to see Lal Chandra. They were ragged and emaciated, with long hair and
matted beards, their dark-skinned bodies were covered with scratches and
bruises.
Ram Das learned afterwards that they were just back from the Himalayas.
Lal Chandra sent them there at a time when the stars were propitious to lay
large cakes of rare, precious resins on top of the highest snowy peaks in
order to bring the resins closer to the stars. They had spent some time
there in the mountains- suffering from the intense cold, living on scanty
rations, and trembling in fear of the mountain spirits. Of the seven whom
Lal Chandra had sent, four perished in the fissures of glaciers or fell over
precipices. This was all that Ram Das was able to learn. He predicted that
no one would ever again see the three men who had returned with the resins.
Soon after, a tall, portly Brahman in white robes appeared in the
mansion. Lal Chandra treated him with great deference. On the morning of the
Brahman's arrival Lal Chandra sent Fedor away for the whole day.
Fedor had a great many things to keep him busy. On Lal Chandra's orders
he stretched the plaited copper cables covered with resin-impregnated silk
from the lightning machine into the garden, to the pool at whose edge he and
Bharati used to sit in the evenings.
Posts which had been soaked in oil were set up on both sides of the
pool. Copper bars attached to the posts were lowered into the water. At the
ends of the bars there were highly polished concave copper mirrors that
faced one another in the water.
An enormous, tower-like barrel, fourteen feet in diameter and a good
thirty-five feet high, made of sheets of copper, stood beside the pool.
Fedor had drawn the plans of the barrel only a short while before, at the
Kali temple, and he was amazed to see it completed when he returned to Lal
Chandra's house. For two days in a row men had scooped water out of the
pool, had climbed up to a platform on top of the copper barrel, and had
poured more than 10 000 pails of water into it. Then Lal Chandra himself had
climbed to the top of the barrel and sprinkled several bags of spices and
gums into the water.
A thick copper chain hung from the platform into the water. Similar
copper cables covered with silk connected the barrel and the chain with
clips at the pool.
Fedor knew that the force produced by the lightning machine could pass
anywhere along metal, but not through silk and wood soaked in oil.
He also knew that this force was strongly drawn to the ground, from
which all metal parts had to be kept away.
Lal Chandra and Fedor carefully examined all the connections.
"Strike the gong to set the machine in motion," Lal Chandra said in his
gentle voice.
The imposing Brahman strolled towards the pool. Lal Chandra
deferentially explained something to him in a language Fedor did not
understand. They both kept their eyes on the surface of the pool.
Near one of the bars the water bubbled and boiled as though it were
being heated by invisible fires. At the other bar the water was far less
turbulent but a faint, strange-smelling mist was rising from it.
Lal Chandra picked up the free end of a wire and, holding it at arm's
length, brought it up to the bar where the water was bubbling.
There was a crackle, a flash of lightning, and a great pillar of fire
shot out of the water.
Fedor leaped aside; he stared flabbergasted at the bright pillar of
flame. The flame shrank in size but it remained as bright as ever. If anyone
had told Fedor that water could burn he would not have believed it. Yet now-
"Break the path of the mysterious force," Lal Chandra commanded.
One of the cables ran through a wooden frame to which a copper bar was
attached at one end by a hinge, while the other rested on a copper plate.
Fedor tugged at a silk cord, and the bar rose. Lightning streaked
between the bar and the plate for an instant.
The water near the bar immediately stopped bubbling and the flame died
down.
"Now open the path to the force," Lal Chandra said.
Fedor released the cord. The copper bar dropped to the plate. Again the
water bubbled and seethed, but there was no flame.
Lal Chandra picked up a clay pitcher of fragrant oil and, tipping it
cautiously, poured some oil into the water above the mirror attached to the
bar.
The oil instantly flowed through the water to the other side of the
pool. They could see the oil forming a ball as it stopped above the opposite
mirror.
With Fedor's help Lal Chandra lifted a huge pitcher containing at least
three pails of the same fragrant reddish oil and poured it into the pool.
Instead of spreading across the surface the oil sank into the water and
flowed in a long stream to the opposite mirror. A fairly large-sized ball of
oil had now formed there.
Lal Chandra picked up a ladle with a long handle and dipped out the
oil. The mysterious force did not strike him.
Fedor was so impressed by everything he had seen that he could not get
it out of his mind. That night he lay awake a long time. "I must get to the
bottom of it, no matter what," he resolved.
Fedor lay in bed with open eyes, unable to fall asleep. Scenes from the
past went through his mind. How fed up he was with this foreign land! How he
wished he were home!
More than five years had passed since Prince Bekovich-Cherkassky's
detachment met its doom. He had been in the service of Lal Chandra for
nearly five long years.
"I'll probably be granted a good long furlough if I ask for it as a
reward for what I've gone through," he reflected. "Then I can have a holiday
at home. Mother and Father probably think I am dead. Father Pafnuty must
have conducted a funeral service."
Sleep was out of the question. Fedor rose from his bed. In a loin-cloth
and a thin shirt he stepped across the windowsill to a covered gallery that
ran round the inner courtyard. There it was somewhat cooler than in his
room. Fedor leaned against the railing and again gave himself up to thought.
Suddenly he heard voices. He pricked up his ears and listened. They
were speaking a language he did not know, the language in which Lal Chandra
talked to the fakirs. He recognized Lal Chandra's gentle voice. Sometimes it
was interrupted by an imperious, sharp, threatening voice. Fedor realized it
was the voice of the Brahman who had been present during the experiment with
water, fire and oil. He must be an important person.
The third voice was unfamiliar. It spoke more rarely than the other two
and repeated the same phrase, in the same tone, in reply to everything the
Brahman said.
The voices were coming from a window on the upper storey of an
intricate tower that rose above the central hall in which the altar to Kali
stood.
The tower was a square, ledged pyramid covered with sculptured figures
of elephants, horses and many-armed gods. Fedor had always thought the tower
was purely ornamental since there was no way of entering it from the house.
But now, in the middle of the night, a faint light glowed in the window and
it was from there that the voices came.
Something urged Fedor to act. He slipped back over the windowsill into
his room, took his knife from its hiding place in the bedding, and tucked it
inside his loin-cloth. Then he returned to the gallery, scrambled up a post
to its flat roof, and from there made his way to the roof of the house.
As he approached the tower Fedor realized that the window with the
light in it was all of forty feet from the roof. Well, in for a penny, in
for a pound! Clinging to the high-reliefs of gods and sacred animals, Fedor
clambered upwards from ledge to ledge. It was a moonless night, and he
thought it unlikely anyone would notice his white-shirted figure against the
white masonry of the tower.
Clasping the stone body of a deity, Fedor cautiously peered through the
window.
An oil lamp illuminated a round room. The floor was covered with rugs
on which bright cushions were scattered.
An imposing-looking old man was seated on cushions in front of a low
table covered with papers and rolls of parchment. His thin, deeply wrinkled
face, framed in long grey hair, was impassive.
In front of the old man, their backs to Fedor, stood Lal Chandra and
the distinguished Brahman. Lal Chandra was now shouting in a high-pitched,
venomous voice. The elderly Brahman's voice was also savage. But the old man
kept calmly repeating the same words.
Fedor glanced about the room with curiosity. The shelves along the
walls and the tables were covered with glassware and instruments, and a
small lightning machine stood in the corner.
So this was where Lal Chandra got his ideas, thought Fedor. He did not
invent his "miracles" himself but took the ideas for them from this old man
whom he kept locked up and whom he forced to create all those mysteries for
his own purposes.
Now the two Brahmans were evidently trying to force the old man to tell
them something.
Suddenly the old man rose to his feet. Tall and thin, he looked at the
two Brahmans scornfully from beneath thick grey eyebrows. He began to speak,
slowly and calmly. Judging by their expressions, Lal Chandra and his
distinguished companion found his words unpleasant.
As the old man moved, Fedor saw something glitter behind his back.
Looking more closely, he saw a thin chain leading from the man's belt to a
ring attached to the wall.
A feeling of pity mingled with anger swept over Fedor. How he wanted to
spring into the room and throw himself on those two torturers. His hand
involuntarily sought his knife.
"I'll strike that aristocratic viper first," he thought. "Then I'll
settle with Lal Chandra, may the dogs sniff at his corpse. But what next?
With all those menials everywhere I won't be able to get out of the house.
There are probably guards inside the tower too."
The aristocratic Brahman said something to Lal Chandra in a low voice.
Lal Chandra bowed and went out through a small door under the vaulted
ceiling. A second later a tall fakir with a caste mark on his forehead
entered. Placing the palms of his hands together, he bowed to the Brahman.
Then he went up behind the old man and, taking a thin cord out of his robe,
wound it round the neck of his victim, carefully passing it under the old
man's grey beard. He twisted the ends of the cord round his hands, raised
his right leg, and thrust his knee into the old man's back.
Fedor saw red. Without thinking, he sprang onto the windowsill. Another
leap, and he was in the room. He landed a powerful uppercut to the bearded
chin of the executioner.
The blow flung the fakir against the wall, where he crumpled into a
motionless heap.
Fedor turned to the Brahman and, snatching out his knife, stabbed him
in the chest.
Both the knife and Fedor's hand passed through the Brahman's chest as
if it were thin air. Fedor fell forward, and his body also passed freely
through the body of the Brahman. All he felt was a faint warm wave of air.
The Brahman was incorporeal!
"Ah-h-h!" Fedor screamed in horror. "Begone, demon!"
The Brahman dashed to the thick, iron-bound wooden door. Without
opening the door he passed straight through it and vanished.
"Rise, young man. Time is precious," said the old man in Hindi. "Do you
understand me?"
Fedor, who was still sitting on the floor, looked about wildly. He was
shaking. He brought his trembling hand to his forehead and quickly crossed
himself.
"Rise," the old man repeated imperiously. "Rise and bar the door."
Fedor obeyed, muttering "Begone, demon! Begone, demon!" under his
breath.
"Now hand me that vessel."
Like a sleepwalker, Fedor moved over to a shelf, took down a vessel of
red glass, and handed it to the old man.
The old man folded the middle section of the chain in two and dipped it
into the vessel, from which acrid smoke arose.
"By killing the high priest you will confer a great blessing on the
people. But you cannot do it with an ordinary knife. If we are not
interrupted you will understand. I shall make your knife suitable for that
purpose."
The old man lifted the chain out of the vessel and examined the links ,
which had grown quite thin. He tore the chain apart. Then, dragging the end
of the chain behind him, he hurried over to the lightning machine. He picked
up the ends of wires leading from the machine and connected them to several
copper vessels. Next he quickly re-arranged some silver rings round which
wires had been wound.
"Quick, your knife!"
Fedor stood staring at the machine with unseeing eyes. The old man
seized him by the collar of his shirt and shook him energetically.
"Wake up! Wake up! Do you understand me?"
Fedor nodded weakly.
"Give me the knife! Now turn the handle!"
Fedor turned the handle, producing a shower of blue sparks. The old man
thrust the blade of the knife into one of the rings. A faint aureole shone
round the knife.
"Turn faster!"
The aureole grew brighter, then suddenly died out.
"That's enough! Now grasp the knife by the blade."
Fedor saw his fingers pass through the blade as though it were made of
air. With a cry, he drew back his hand and stumbled towards the window.
"I was told you were a warrior but I see you are a cowardly old woman!"
the old man cried furiously. This brought Fedor to his senses.
Hesitatingly, he picked up the knife by the handle. It was an ordinary
handle, solid all the way through. He touched the tip of the blade with the
palm of his hand. His palm passed through it and reached the handle.
"The blade can now injure no one except the high priest," said the old
man. "But for him it means death."
Voices came from below. Looking out, Fedor saw that the yard was filled
with men carrying torches.
"Now listen to me," said the old man. "As long as I preserve my secret
my life is safe. No matter how hostile they are they will not harm me, for
my death would be more terrible to the high priest than his own death. This
is not the first time they have tried to frighten me by pretending to
strangle me. You have nothing to fear either until they carry out their
plans. They need you to build things for them."
Footsteps and voices were heard outside the door.
"Remember that only this knife can strike down the high priest," the
old man whispered rapidly. "Now it is still too early. But you will slay him
when the time is ripe. Hide the knife outside the window. I'll find a way of
getting it to you. Do you understand me?"
"Yes."
Fedor thrust his head and shoulders out of the window and slipped the
knife into a hollow in the stone carving. The old man also thrust out his
head, felt for the knife with his hand, and gave a satisfied nod. Then he
returned to his place and seated himself on his cushion, concealing the
broken chain.
All of a sudden the high priest entered the room through the barred
door. He gave Fedor an icy glance.
"When you raised your hand against me, foreigner, you did not know what
you were doing", he said. "Therefore, I forgive you. Only by complete
obedience can you atone. Now, unbolt the door!"
Fedor stared at him in terror. Fighting down his fear, he went to the
door and pushed aside the bolt.
Lal Chandra entered, followed by servants carrying torches. At a sign
from their master two of them lifted the motionless body of the fakir and
carried him out.
"You do not know our customs, young man," Lal Chandra said in an even
voice. "It was your Karma that brought you here. I advise you not to meddle
in our concerns, which are beyond your comprehension."
Thus ended a night that had been a nightmare. But it had an
unexpectedly happy ending for Fedor.
The next day Lal Chandra took Fedor back to the temple of Kali.
The summer heat began to abate. Monsoonal winds from the ocean piled up
dark rain clouds. The first rains fell in the mountains.
Lal Chandra went about with a worried expression on his face. He drove
the builders to exert themselves to the maximum. Time was running out. The
stream would start to rise any day now.
The dam, flood-gate and chute were ready.
So was the water-wheel. Long wooden shafts now ran from it through an
opening in the temple wall into a room just off the main hall. Attached to
each shaft were ten wooden discs, each fourteen feet in diameter, covered
with a smooth, shiny coat of a rare resin.
On either side of the discs were gold-leaf plates across which swept
brushes of fine gold thread.
Not far from the machine stood twelve enormous copper vats. All this
was connected by an intricate system of copper cables wrapped in
oil-saturated cloth. Copper bars with ebony handles had been inserted into
the cables at intervals. They were used to help switch the mysterious force
to wherever it was wanted.
In the main hall of the temple there was a sunken pool in front of the
statue of Kali. The copper cables connected with the concave mirrors were
hidden in the water of the pool.
Day by day the stream rose. Barred by the dam, it filled the rocky
gorge and raced over the open spillway with a roar.
After that memorable night two sturdy fakirs openly followed Fedor
wherever he went. At night they slept outside the door of his room in the
temple. It was utterly hopeless to try to tell Jogindar Singh about the
incorporeal Brahman, for the fakirs brazenly squatted beside them and
listened to everything they said.
Could the incorporeal man have been just a nightmare? Again and again
Fedor recalled how the knife in his hand had gone through that wraith. Fedor
was not a coward. He had gone into battle time and again without flinching.
But he felt helpless when it came to mysterious forces.
Fedor also recalled the old man in the tower and the knife he had
turned into air before Fedor's eyes. Fedor tried to remember how it had
happened. While he was turning the lightning machine the old man had thrust
the knife into some twisted wires. The lightning machine was somewhat
different from Lal Chandra's. Fedor vaguely recalled that the old man had
said the high priest could not get along without him. Did that mean the old
man was the one who had made the high priest incorporeal?
He also recalled the terrified face of the incorporeal high priest when
he, Fedor, had rushed at him with the knife. Why should he have been
terrified? Perhaps he had not been incorporeal long and was not yet used to
it.
Fedor's head was in a whirl. He simply had to tell the Sikhs about the
miracle. Ram Das was the one to tell it to. But Lal Chandra had sent Ram Das
off on an errand.
He never should have listened to the old man. Instead of hiding the
magic knife he should have plunged it into that incorporeal high priest and
been done with it.
Fedor was sitting alone in his room late one evening when he suddenly
heard a deep roar outside. He dashed out of the room. His guards, sleeping
beside the door, sprang to their feet and ran after him.
The roar was coming from the chute. Fedor realized that the water gate
had been raised and water was now rushing towards the wheel. He ran into the
main room of the temple. In the darkness he easily found the narrow door
behind the six-armed goddess and stepped into the secret room where the
lightning machine stood. He saw what he had expected to see. The discs were
whirling at a tremendous rate, making a soft, swishing sound. The gold
plates had merged into circles; they reflected the reddish light of the oil
lamps. The air in the room was filled with the freshness that accompanies a
thunderstorm.
Six men, none of whom Fedor had ever seen before, were tinkering with
the machine. Lal Chandra stood to one side watching. He had not heard Fedor
enter.
A sense of deep injury engulfed Fedor. He had put so much hard work
into building the machine! He had invented so many things connected with it!
Yet they had not even called him to watch the trial run.
Forgetting everything except his resentment, Fedor tugged at Lal
Chandra's wide sleeve.
Lal Chandra started in fright.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, turning round to face Fedor.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Fedor shouted.
"You are not needed any more." Lal Chandra's voice was no longer
gentle.
Fedor seized the Brahman by the collar and shook him.
"I'm not your slave! I'm a lieutenant in the Russian Navy!" he shouted
angrily. He spoke in Russian, as he always did when excited. "I'll shake the
wits out of you."
Lal Chandra screamed hoarsely. The men turned round, dropped what they
were doing, and flung themselves on Fedor. Fedor fought back furiously. The
Indians were unfamiliar with fist fighting, and he knocked them down one
after another. But they immediately rose to their feet and attacked him
again.
Lal Chandra bent down and scuttled through the low door. Fedor tore
himself away from the clinging hands of his attackers and dashed after him.
Lal Chandra ran back and forth, hampered by his long robe. For a moment the
two men raced round the grim goddess like children, changing their direction
all the time.
Men carrying torches appeared, and half a dozen of them fell on Fedor.
But he tore loose once more and, making a leap, caught Lal Chandra by the
sleeve. With the deepest satisfaction he drew back his arm and smashed his
fist into Lal Chandra's cheekbone. The Brahman fell backwards into the pool.
The last thing Fedor remembered was the sensation of being strangled.
When he recovered consciousness he was lying in his room. His head rang and
his arms ached. He went to the door and gave a pull. It was locked from the
outside.
Fedor saw no hope of ever being set free.
Twice a day he was brought a bowl of meagre fare. Lal Chandra's men
kept a close watch over him.
One evening he was sitting on the floor of his vaulted room, beside a
low table, going over his notes by the light of an oil lamp. He had started
a diary long ago, while on the way to India. But what was the use of these
notes now? His eyes wandered sadly around the dusk-filled room. He would
never be able to escape from here.
He closed his eyes and let his head drop into his hands.
A pebble suddenly fell on the floor. Fedor gave a start and jumped to
his feet. A faint rustling came from somewhere above his head. Lifting his
eyes, he saw a swarthy bare arm thrust through the ventilation opening.
"It's starting," he thought in alarm. "They'll let snakes down through
holes or sprinkle poison on me."
"Fedor," a voice softly called. Fedor's heart lightened as he
recognized the voice of Ram Das. How had he made his way through such a
narrow passage? He must have removed some bricks.
"Let me hear your voice," said Ram Das from behind the wall.
"It's me, all right. Who else could it be? Listen to what I have to
say, Ram Das." Fedor quickly told him what had taken place in the tower.
"Did you say the Brahman is incorporeal?" Ram Das interrupted him. "Did
you say he can pass through solid walls?"
"Yes."
"You saw it with your own eyes?"
"Yes."
"Are their gods really so powerful?" There was a note of fear in Ram
Das's voice.
"All is lost," thought Fedor in despair. "The Sikhs were my only hope.
When they see this miracle at the festival they'll give up all resistance."
"Listen, Ram Das, but that's not all." Fedor hurriedly related how the
old man had given the blade of his knife the property of penetrability.
"Can the incorporeal Brahman really be slain with that knife?" came Ram
Das's hollow-sounding voice.
"Yes, yes, he can! The knife is hidden in a crack in the wall outside
the old man's window. Be sure to get it, Ram Das."
"The old man is kept under such heavy guard that it's hard to break
through to him. But I'll do whatever I can to help you. You must be
prepared. Goodbye. I must go now."
The roads were thronged. From Gujarat and Rajputana in the south, from
the foothills of the mountain ranges in the north, and from Lahore and Delhi
in the east crowds of people converged on the river Sutlej, a tributary of
the Indus, where the miracle had taken place.
In the land where lived the apostate Sikhs, who had rejected the gods
of the Brahmans, these gods had decided to remind men of their existence.
The goddess of love and death, the awe-inspiring Kali, was displaying
mysterious powers in a long-abandoned temple.
That was what friendly men told the pilgrims at crossroads and villages
on the way. These men distributed food and pointed out the route. Closing
their eyes as though in prayer, they related that a certain pundit had
attained the highest knowledge. Although he had repudiated his body he was
still visible, and hence he was called the Mahatma Ananga, the "great soul
without flesh".
Tales were told at roadside campfires of how Mahatma Ananga, gathering
his faithful pupils about him, had begged the gods, through Kali, who had
close ties with humans, to bring accord to an earth torn by dissent.
In response, the gods had given a sign. When the body of a pupil of the
Mahatma Ananga, who had died in the cause of the highest knowledge, was
brought to the temple of Kali, the goddess had refused to accept his death.
The body of the righteous man had been lying in trepidation at the feet
of the ruler over life and death for many days. Kali refused to accept his
death.
Since the goddess kept a strict account of those who were born, coming
from their past incarnation, and those who died, passing into the next
incarnation, the return to life of the righteous man would have to be paid
for by the sacrifice of another life.
The day of the sacrifice had been appointed. On that day awe-inspiring
Kali would show one and all the power of the ancient gods.
The pilgrims arrived in large groups, keeping close together. To lag
behind was dangerous. The elusive brotherhood of Thug assassins had already
strangled several people to death in honour of their goddess.
There were crowds of people all around the temple. The hollow between
the temple and the bank of the stream was closely packed with tents and
primitive shelters.
Bright sunlight illuminated a colourful scene: white-robed men, women
in flowered veils, bronze faces and bodies, countless carts. Temple
attendants distributed an infusion of thorn apple leaves among the pilgrims,
to "free them from their sins." This was a narcotic that temporarily
deprived people of their reason and memory. They also distributed a beverage
made of poppy-seed called "the tears of oblivion". They were particularly
generous with bhang, a beverage made from the juice of the tender tops of
Indian hemp mixed with an infusion of nutmeg and cloves.
Clouds of flies hovered above the camp of the pilgrims. The odour of
fragrant spikenard mingled with the smells of food, human and animal sweat,
aromatic incense, the smoke of camp-fires, and the wormwood-like odour of
narcotics.
The pilgrims grew more and more excited. They demanded miracles.
The Sikhs, bearded and in turbans, did not take part in the religious
frenzy. They camped to one side and seemed to be waiting for something.
People scowled at them because the Sikhs were apostates. Knowing, however,
that the Sikhs did not recognize the philosophy of Ahimsa, or non-injury of
animal life, they took care to give them a wide berth.
In the evening innumerable campfires burned bright as people made their
evening ablutions and cooked food. Temple attendants distributed rice and a
powerful mixture of opium and bhang. The excitement that now swept through
the crowd was even stronger than in the daytime. To the beat of drums inside
the temple a Brahman emerged to announce that the temple was now open. A
howling crowd surged in through the doors, filling the vast hall and all the
passages. The Sikhs were the last to enter. They took up places along the
walls, none of them mingling with the crowd.
Semi-darkness reigned inside the temple. The oil lamps cast quivering
shadows on the sinister faces of the goddess, on the garland of human skulls
round her bronze neck, and on her belt, an interlacing of chopped-off hands.
The rubies in her eye-sockets glowed.
A human body lay motionless at the feet of the goddess, its outlines
vague beneath the white shroud.
Suddenly the drums fell silent. An imposing Brahman (appeared on the
small open space between the pool and the goddess. He waited until the crowd
was quiet, then said in a resounding voice:
"Brothers, do not be surprised at what your eyes will see. Keep calm,
for each has his own Karma and the gods are all-powerful. Let us praise the
great Kali. May the gods show us miracles to strengthen our faith!"
There was a faint crackle in the dead silence.
Suddenly, flames leaped up out of the bowls on the tripods around the
pedestal of the goddess. A murmur of astonishment ran through the crowd.
The Brahman pressed his hands together in prayer and turned to the
statue.
"Oh mighty one, oh black-faced one! She who tramples on the
decapitated!" he intoned. "Manifest your will, for through you the Creator,
the Preserver and the Destroyer rule us! Give us life or give us a merciful
reincarnation!"
His last words were drowned by peals of thunder. Dazzling streaks of
lightning flashed through the clouds of smoke, in the direction of the
crowd, from the pointed fingers of the terrible goddess, from the tips of
her pointed nipples, and from the ends of her long eyelashes.
The crowd was gripped by terror. Shouting and pushing, people hurried
towards the exit. But their way was barred by crackling blue flashes of
lightning that came from the bronze lances decorating the archway.
"Oh you of little faith!" intoned the Brahman. "Why are you frightened?
Did I not announce that the will of the gods would be manifested to you?"
The lightning stopped, and the crowd ceased to mill about. Silence fell
as the people timidly pressed closer to one another. Suddenly cries came
from the hall:
"Look, a dead man!"
"This man is dead too!"
"Death has entered the temple!"
Here and there in the crowded hall lay the bodies of those who had been
struck by lightning.
"Frightened, you of little faith?" the Brahman shouted. "How can flight
save you from the will of the gods? Does not death at the hands of Kali give
the chosen a better incarnation? Pray! Beg the goddess to open your eyes!"
Where space permitted in the tightly-packed crowd, people prostrated
themselves, their hands pressed together devoutly.
"Now gaze on this!" the Brahman commanded. "The Mahatma Ananga himself,
the man without flesh, will appear before you!"
The Brahman stepped to one side, his hands pressed together in front of
his face.
A sigh of wonderment swept through the temple as a man in a long white
robe came into sight straight out of the pedestal. He silently spread his
arms, blessing the pilgrims, and strode into the crowd. People separated to
let him pass, but he did not need an opening. He walked straight through the
crowd, straight through people. They realized that he was incorporeal. Some
tried to grasp the hem of his robe to kiss it but their fingers passed
through the fabric as though it were woven of air.
There were cries of awe-stricken horror beneath the vaulted ceiling of
the temple. Men fell to their knees to kiss the floor where the Incorporeal
Brahman had walked.
After passing through the amazed crowd Mahatma Ananga returned to the
Kali pedestal. With an imperious gesture he commanded silence. Then he began
to speak.
"The gods have liberated me from the flesh that oppresses man. I am
incorporeal. No human weapon can harm me. I need neither food nor drink. Yet
I am alive. My soul has not been reincarnated. This is the gift of the gods
to those who obey them implicitly. But what do you live for, you who are
wrapped up in concern for your pitiful bodies? A handful of rice is more
precious to you than Nirvana."
He talked for a long time, wrathfully condemning those who preferred
the miserable blessings of the present life to future reincarnation.
Untouchables must stop the practice of adopting Mohammedanism or
Christianity. The gods would not forgive those who failed to keep the faith.
The apostate Sikhs had not resigned themselves to their fate. They wanted to
gain possession of lands that belonged, by the will of the gods, to the
Brahmans. They must repent and return to the ancient faith before it was too
late. Otherwise the gods would punish them so sternly that no trace of them
would remain. The patience of the gods was exhausted. They were incensed.
Through him, Mahatma Ananga, they had resolved to manifest their will and
punish the recalcitrants and apostates.
While all this was going on Fedor Matveyev languished in the machine
room next door, his arms chained to rings in the wall.
The enormous discs revolved and hummed rhythmically. Lal Chandra stood
with his eye at a tiny hole in the wall, watching what was going on in the
hall. From time to time, without turning round, he said something, and his
assistants did his bidding, moving the copper bars back and forth to open
and shut the path of the mysterious force.
From the way they moved the bars Fedor could imagine what was taking
place in the temple. He could hear the roar of the crowd and the awe-struck
cries as the miracles were performed.
He himself had built these machines whose lightning would soon reduce
him to ashes. His friends, the Sikhs, were somewhere near, but what could
they do? They were lost in the frenzied crowd. Besides, they too might
succumb to the Brahmans at sight of the miracles.
Two fakirs approached Fedor, untied his bonds and, gripping him by the
arms, thrust him through the low door into the hall. He found himself facing
the Incorporeal Brahman. On the other side of the pool was a sea of heads,
malicious grimaces and hateful eyes.
"This wretched foreigner wished to deprive me of life," the Incorporeal
anything from him, did not hesitate to show him a man whom he had seen alive
the day before and who had been strangled in such a fashion.
This could only mean that Lal Chandra considered Fedor as good as dead.
When the job was finished Fedor would be strangled just as efficiently as
this poor creature had been. For an instant Fedor thought he could feel the
noose round his neck. He swallowed convulsively. Without thinking, he took a
step towards Lal Chandra.
The Brahman glanced at him in alarm. The silent duel lasted for no more
than a second. Then Fedor pulled himself together, turned and asked in a
toneless voice what he was to do next.
Lal Chandra calmly approached the corpse and plunged the sharp tip into
the brown shoulder.
"Stick your tip into his foot," he ordered.
"I ought to stick it into you," went through
Fedor's mind. "But where would that get me? There are probably thugs in
the next room. Never mind, your turn will come."
Fedor silently pushed the tip of the cable into the dead man's foot-and
leaped aside with a cry. The man's leg had jerked, bent at the knee and then
jerked forward as though it was about to kick Fedor.
Lal Chandra's laughter rang out beneath the vaulted ceiling of the
laboratory.
"Scared, Russian warrior?" he asked mockingly. "Don't be afraid. He
cannot harm you."
Fedor took a deep breath. He gave the Brahman a challenging look and
said: "I am a man of war accustomed to dealing with living adversaries." He
added in Russian: "May the dogs sniff at you, you murderer!"
Later, Fedor found an opportunity to tell Jogindar Singh about the
horrifying experiment.
"That means he is gathering thugs," said the elderly carpenter. "Well,
thugs are mortal. When the time comes we'll see whether the goddess Kali is
pleased by the death of her priests."
NEWCOMERS IN LAL CHANDRA'S HOUSE
A long caravan passed through the iron gate leading out of Lal
Chandra's garden. In front went eight elephants loaded with the wooden and
metal parts of the water-wheel and the big lightning machine. After the
elephants came several two-horse carts carrying the workmen. Fedor, Jogindar
Singh and Bharati rode in the first cart. Far behind rolled carts drawn by
longhorn oxen, carrying materials that would not be needed at once. The slow
oxen would reach the temple only on the third day. The elephants and the
horse-drawn carts would arrive there in about twenty hours.
The caravan crossed rivers and small streams that were beginning to dry
up. Each time the elephants entered a stream they behaved the way elephants
always do, sucking up water with their trunks and then spraying it over
their heads and backs.
"What wonderful animals!" Fedor exclaimed. "So clever and so
industrious."
"Aren't there elephants in your country?" Bharati asked.
"No," said Fedor, suppressing a sigh. "They're fine animals but I'd
willingly never see another elephant again if only I could return home."
Jogindar Singh glanced at Fedor, noting the sad expression on his face.
"Is there anyone waiting for you at home?"
"Yes, of course. My mother, my father and my sister."
"No wife or children?"
Fedor gave a wry smile. "When you're in the navy you don't have much
time to build a nest of your own."
"Father," said Bharati, "the foreigner is weary from the long journey,
yet you plague him with questions."
Fedor stretched out a hand and gently touched the girl's shoulder. With
a graceful movement she freed her shoulder from his hand.
The cart shook as it rumbled across the stony, practically dry, bed of
one of the numerous tributaries of the Ravi. On the other side they halted,
unharnessed the horses, and settled down to rest in the shade of a large
tree.
The carpenter built a fire and Bharati began to prepare their evening
meal. It was still so light that the flames looked pale.
Fedor picked up a dry stick and started to whittle it.
"If you have courage you can escape from here," the old man said all of
a sudden in a low voice.
"Escape?"
Jogindar Singh squeezed Fedor's arm above the elbow.
"Speak softly. There are many alien ears here. Listen carefully. The
river on which the Kali temple stands flows into the Indus. If you sail down
the Indus for ten days you will reach the sea."
"The sea?" Fedor whispered.
"Just before it enters the sea the Indus divides into many arms," the
carpenter went on. "If you follow the northernmost arm you will reach the
sea near the village of Karachi. But if you take the southernmost arm and
then sail along the coast to the southeast you will come to the Island of
Diu. The Portuguese seized it long ago and have built a fortress there. Do
you know the Portuguese?"
Fedor rubbed his brow with his hand, straining his memory to recall the
Portuguese maps he had seen in France when he was studying navigation there.
"But Diu is somewhere far to the south. About 500 sea miles from
Karachi."
"I do not know how to measure that distance," said Singh, "but it is no
longer than the voyage down the Indus. Look." He took the stick Fedor had
been whittling and sketched, in the sand, a plan of the route along the
coastline.
Fedor sprang to his feet and walked around the campfire. The sea! He
could hear the hurricane wind roaring in his ears and see the blue expanses
shining in the sun. The sea! Only the sea route could bring him home.
Suddenly he remembered where he was. He sat down and picked up the
stick again. As he whittled he said, his voice discouraged, "Thank you for
your kind advice. But I cannot go to sea in a nutshell."
"Listen further." Singh moved closer to him. "Draw me the plans and
I'll build you just the kind of boat you want," he whispered. "There will be
a great deal of work going on at the Kali temple, and I'll be able to
deceive Lal Chandra's men. They won't notice anything." The old carpenter
fell silent. Then he said, "But before you make your escape you must tell us
everything you know about the miracles Lal Chandra is preparing."
Soon after, the caravan set out again. Jogindar Singh fell asleep
inside the cart. Fedor sat on the box in front, gazing thoughtfully at the
road, white in the moonlight, which stretched ahead. He could see only one
thing before his eyes- a sturdily built boat with low sails. It must have a
sliding keel, like those on Turkmen feluccas. Then no squall could overturn
the boat. Oh Lord, could freedom really be so near?
Suddenly he heard soft weeping. He turned round to look into the dark
depths of the cart, which was covered with linen cloth. It was Bharati!
Fedor felt ashamed of himself. There he was, rejoicing like a child and
forgetting all about her!
He stroked her hair and patted her shoulder in the darkness.
"Darling," he whispered. "Did you think I would go anywhere without
you? Don't be afraid. Your seas are warm, and I'm a good sailor. I'll take
care of you. We'll make our way to Russia. Then everything will be fine."
The girl gave a sob and raised her tear-stained face.
"How can I leave Father?" she whispered.
"Why, we'll take him along too! When the time comes we'll tell him
everything. He'll understand."
Bharati shook her head sorrowfully. "No, he won't go anywhere. He won't
leave his people. And I can't leave him."
Fedor fell silent, overwhelmed by despair.
The caravan reached the temple at dawn. Fedor sprang down to the ground
at once. He felt light-headed from lack of sleep and his thoughts were
confused and disconnected.
From dawn to dusk sweat poured from the slaves of Lal Chandra and from
the Sikh artisans as they laboured beneath the merciless sun. They drove
piles for a dam into the bed of the dried-up stream just above the
waterfall, and hacked through the rocky bank so that the water behind the
dam could reach the chute. In the hollow leading to the temple they set up
thick logs to support the chute. They made a frame for the water-wheel.
Fedor was so busy from morning to night that he hardly ever saw
Bharati. He had no chance to talk with her father except about the dam or
the chute, for Lal Chandra's overseers were always close by.
"Will Jogindar Singh be able to handle the job without you if we return
to the house for a few days?" Lal Chandra asked Fedor one evening. "Yes, of
course."
"I want you to talk to him tomorrow morning and tell him what to do.
Give him and his men an assignment for each day. I want you to be prepared
to leave tomorrow evening, as soon as the heat abates."
The next morning Fedor handed Jogindar Singh several drawings and took
him aside to explain what they were about. They seated themselves on planks
laid across the posts which would support the chute. There was no one
nearby. As they examined the drawings Fedor discarded one of them. The
carpenter took the crumpled sheet from him and smoothed it out on his knee.
It was a drawing Fedor had made during a sleepless, lonely night, a sketch
of a sailboat with a sliding keel.
"This sketch is all to no purpose," Fedor muttered gloomily. "I don't
need a boat at all because I love your daughter and she cannot leave you at
such a time." Jogindar Singh closed his eyes. "We'll do everything we can to
save you before the festival," he said finally, after a long silence. "But
anything could happen-"
Many changes had taken place in Lal Chandra's mansion. Here, there and
everywhere Fedor saw strangers who spoke dialects he could not understand.
These were itinerant fakirs. They showed one another the miracles they were
preparing to perform at the festival in honour of the renovated temple. They
completely ignored Fedor and he was able to see what was behind their
miracles.
One morning three men with heavy sacks appeared at the gate and asked
to see Lal Chandra. They were ragged and emaciated, with long hair and
matted beards, their dark-skinned bodies were covered with scratches and
bruises.
Ram Das learned afterwards that they were just back from the Himalayas.
Lal Chandra sent them there at a time when the stars were propitious to lay
large cakes of rare, precious resins on top of the highest snowy peaks in
order to bring the resins closer to the stars. They had spent some time
there in the mountains- suffering from the intense cold, living on scanty
rations, and trembling in fear of the mountain spirits. Of the seven whom
Lal Chandra had sent, four perished in the fissures of glaciers or fell over
precipices. This was all that Ram Das was able to learn. He predicted that
no one would ever again see the three men who had returned with the resins.
Soon after, a tall, portly Brahman in white robes appeared in the
mansion. Lal Chandra treated him with great deference. On the morning of the
Brahman's arrival Lal Chandra sent Fedor away for the whole day.
Fedor had a great many things to keep him busy. On Lal Chandra's orders
he stretched the plaited copper cables covered with resin-impregnated silk
from the lightning machine into the garden, to the pool at whose edge he and
Bharati used to sit in the evenings.
Posts which had been soaked in oil were set up on both sides of the
pool. Copper bars attached to the posts were lowered into the water. At the
ends of the bars there were highly polished concave copper mirrors that
faced one another in the water.
An enormous, tower-like barrel, fourteen feet in diameter and a good
thirty-five feet high, made of sheets of copper, stood beside the pool.
Fedor had drawn the plans of the barrel only a short while before, at the
Kali temple, and he was amazed to see it completed when he returned to Lal
Chandra's house. For two days in a row men had scooped water out of the
pool, had climbed up to a platform on top of the copper barrel, and had
poured more than 10 000 pails of water into it. Then Lal Chandra himself had
climbed to the top of the barrel and sprinkled several bags of spices and
gums into the water.
A thick copper chain hung from the platform into the water. Similar
copper cables covered with silk connected the barrel and the chain with
clips at the pool.
Fedor knew that the force produced by the lightning machine could pass
anywhere along metal, but not through silk and wood soaked in oil.
He also knew that this force was strongly drawn to the ground, from
which all metal parts had to be kept away.
Lal Chandra and Fedor carefully examined all the connections.
"Strike the gong to set the machine in motion," Lal Chandra said in his
gentle voice.
The imposing Brahman strolled towards the pool. Lal Chandra
deferentially explained something to him in a language Fedor did not
understand. They both kept their eyes on the surface of the pool.
Near one of the bars the water bubbled and boiled as though it were
being heated by invisible fires. At the other bar the water was far less
turbulent but a faint, strange-smelling mist was rising from it.
Lal Chandra picked up the free end of a wire and, holding it at arm's
length, brought it up to the bar where the water was bubbling.
There was a crackle, a flash of lightning, and a great pillar of fire
shot out of the water.
Fedor leaped aside; he stared flabbergasted at the bright pillar of
flame. The flame shrank in size but it remained as bright as ever. If anyone
had told Fedor that water could burn he would not have believed it. Yet now-
"Break the path of the mysterious force," Lal Chandra commanded.
One of the cables ran through a wooden frame to which a copper bar was
attached at one end by a hinge, while the other rested on a copper plate.
Fedor tugged at a silk cord, and the bar rose. Lightning streaked
between the bar and the plate for an instant.
The water near the bar immediately stopped bubbling and the flame died
down.
"Now open the path to the force," Lal Chandra said.
Fedor released the cord. The copper bar dropped to the plate. Again the
water bubbled and seethed, but there was no flame.
Lal Chandra picked up a clay pitcher of fragrant oil and, tipping it
cautiously, poured some oil into the water above the mirror attached to the
bar.
The oil instantly flowed through the water to the other side of the
pool. They could see the oil forming a ball as it stopped above the opposite
mirror.
With Fedor's help Lal Chandra lifted a huge pitcher containing at least
three pails of the same fragrant reddish oil and poured it into the pool.
Instead of spreading across the surface the oil sank into the water and
flowed in a long stream to the opposite mirror. A fairly large-sized ball of
oil had now formed there.
Lal Chandra picked up a ladle with a long handle and dipped out the
oil. The mysterious force did not strike him.
Fedor was so impressed by everything he had seen that he could not get
it out of his mind. That night he lay awake a long time. "I must get to the
bottom of it, no matter what," he resolved.
Fedor lay in bed with open eyes, unable to fall asleep. Scenes from the
past went through his mind. How fed up he was with this foreign land! How he
wished he were home!
More than five years had passed since Prince Bekovich-Cherkassky's
detachment met its doom. He had been in the service of Lal Chandra for
nearly five long years.
"I'll probably be granted a good long furlough if I ask for it as a
reward for what I've gone through," he reflected. "Then I can have a holiday
at home. Mother and Father probably think I am dead. Father Pafnuty must
have conducted a funeral service."
Sleep was out of the question. Fedor rose from his bed. In a loin-cloth
and a thin shirt he stepped across the windowsill to a covered gallery that
ran round the inner courtyard. There it was somewhat cooler than in his
room. Fedor leaned against the railing and again gave himself up to thought.
Suddenly he heard voices. He pricked up his ears and listened. They
were speaking a language he did not know, the language in which Lal Chandra
talked to the fakirs. He recognized Lal Chandra's gentle voice. Sometimes it
was interrupted by an imperious, sharp, threatening voice. Fedor realized it
was the voice of the Brahman who had been present during the experiment with
water, fire and oil. He must be an important person.
The third voice was unfamiliar. It spoke more rarely than the other two
and repeated the same phrase, in the same tone, in reply to everything the
Brahman said.
The voices were coming from a window on the upper storey of an
intricate tower that rose above the central hall in which the altar to Kali
stood.
The tower was a square, ledged pyramid covered with sculptured figures
of elephants, horses and many-armed gods. Fedor had always thought the tower
was purely ornamental since there was no way of entering it from the house.
But now, in the middle of the night, a faint light glowed in the window and
it was from there that the voices came.
Something urged Fedor to act. He slipped back over the windowsill into
his room, took his knife from its hiding place in the bedding, and tucked it
inside his loin-cloth. Then he returned to the gallery, scrambled up a post
to its flat roof, and from there made his way to the roof of the house.
As he approached the tower Fedor realized that the window with the
light in it was all of forty feet from the roof. Well, in for a penny, in
for a pound! Clinging to the high-reliefs of gods and sacred animals, Fedor
clambered upwards from ledge to ledge. It was a moonless night, and he
thought it unlikely anyone would notice his white-shirted figure against the
white masonry of the tower.
Clasping the stone body of a deity, Fedor cautiously peered through the
window.
An oil lamp illuminated a round room. The floor was covered with rugs
on which bright cushions were scattered.
An imposing-looking old man was seated on cushions in front of a low
table covered with papers and rolls of parchment. His thin, deeply wrinkled
face, framed in long grey hair, was impassive.
In front of the old man, their backs to Fedor, stood Lal Chandra and
the distinguished Brahman. Lal Chandra was now shouting in a high-pitched,
venomous voice. The elderly Brahman's voice was also savage. But the old man
kept calmly repeating the same words.
Fedor glanced about the room with curiosity. The shelves along the
walls and the tables were covered with glassware and instruments, and a
small lightning machine stood in the corner.
So this was where Lal Chandra got his ideas, thought Fedor. He did not
invent his "miracles" himself but took the ideas for them from this old man
whom he kept locked up and whom he forced to create all those mysteries for
his own purposes.
Now the two Brahmans were evidently trying to force the old man to tell
them something.
Suddenly the old man rose to his feet. Tall and thin, he looked at the
two Brahmans scornfully from beneath thick grey eyebrows. He began to speak,
slowly and calmly. Judging by their expressions, Lal Chandra and his
distinguished companion found his words unpleasant.
As the old man moved, Fedor saw something glitter behind his back.
Looking more closely, he saw a thin chain leading from the man's belt to a
ring attached to the wall.
A feeling of pity mingled with anger swept over Fedor. How he wanted to
spring into the room and throw himself on those two torturers. His hand
involuntarily sought his knife.
"I'll strike that aristocratic viper first," he thought. "Then I'll
settle with Lal Chandra, may the dogs sniff at his corpse. But what next?
With all those menials everywhere I won't be able to get out of the house.
There are probably guards inside the tower too."
The aristocratic Brahman said something to Lal Chandra in a low voice.
Lal Chandra bowed and went out through a small door under the vaulted
ceiling. A second later a tall fakir with a caste mark on his forehead
entered. Placing the palms of his hands together, he bowed to the Brahman.
Then he went up behind the old man and, taking a thin cord out of his robe,
wound it round the neck of his victim, carefully passing it under the old
man's grey beard. He twisted the ends of the cord round his hands, raised
his right leg, and thrust his knee into the old man's back.
Fedor saw red. Without thinking, he sprang onto the windowsill. Another
leap, and he was in the room. He landed a powerful uppercut to the bearded
chin of the executioner.
The blow flung the fakir against the wall, where he crumpled into a
motionless heap.
Fedor turned to the Brahman and, snatching out his knife, stabbed him
in the chest.
Both the knife and Fedor's hand passed through the Brahman's chest as
if it were thin air. Fedor fell forward, and his body also passed freely
through the body of the Brahman. All he felt was a faint warm wave of air.
The Brahman was incorporeal!
"Ah-h-h!" Fedor screamed in horror. "Begone, demon!"
The Brahman dashed to the thick, iron-bound wooden door. Without
opening the door he passed straight through it and vanished.
"Rise, young man. Time is precious," said the old man in Hindi. "Do you
understand me?"
Fedor, who was still sitting on the floor, looked about wildly. He was
shaking. He brought his trembling hand to his forehead and quickly crossed
himself.
"Rise," the old man repeated imperiously. "Rise and bar the door."
Fedor obeyed, muttering "Begone, demon! Begone, demon!" under his
breath.
"Now hand me that vessel."
Like a sleepwalker, Fedor moved over to a shelf, took down a vessel of
red glass, and handed it to the old man.
The old man folded the middle section of the chain in two and dipped it
into the vessel, from which acrid smoke arose.
"By killing the high priest you will confer a great blessing on the
people. But you cannot do it with an ordinary knife. If we are not
interrupted you will understand. I shall make your knife suitable for that
purpose."
The old man lifted the chain out of the vessel and examined the links ,
which had grown quite thin. He tore the chain apart. Then, dragging the end
of the chain behind him, he hurried over to the lightning machine. He picked
up the ends of wires leading from the machine and connected them to several
copper vessels. Next he quickly re-arranged some silver rings round which
wires had been wound.
"Quick, your knife!"
Fedor stood staring at the machine with unseeing eyes. The old man
seized him by the collar of his shirt and shook him energetically.
"Wake up! Wake up! Do you understand me?"
Fedor nodded weakly.
"Give me the knife! Now turn the handle!"
Fedor turned the handle, producing a shower of blue sparks. The old man
thrust the blade of the knife into one of the rings. A faint aureole shone
round the knife.
"Turn faster!"
The aureole grew brighter, then suddenly died out.
"That's enough! Now grasp the knife by the blade."
Fedor saw his fingers pass through the blade as though it were made of
air. With a cry, he drew back his hand and stumbled towards the window.
"I was told you were a warrior but I see you are a cowardly old woman!"
the old man cried furiously. This brought Fedor to his senses.
Hesitatingly, he picked up the knife by the handle. It was an ordinary
handle, solid all the way through. He touched the tip of the blade with the
palm of his hand. His palm passed through it and reached the handle.
"The blade can now injure no one except the high priest," said the old
man. "But for him it means death."
Voices came from below. Looking out, Fedor saw that the yard was filled
with men carrying torches.
"Now listen to me," said the old man. "As long as I preserve my secret
my life is safe. No matter how hostile they are they will not harm me, for
my death would be more terrible to the high priest than his own death. This
is not the first time they have tried to frighten me by pretending to
strangle me. You have nothing to fear either until they carry out their
plans. They need you to build things for them."
Footsteps and voices were heard outside the door.
"Remember that only this knife can strike down the high priest," the
old man whispered rapidly. "Now it is still too early. But you will slay him
when the time is ripe. Hide the knife outside the window. I'll find a way of
getting it to you. Do you understand me?"
"Yes."
Fedor thrust his head and shoulders out of the window and slipped the
knife into a hollow in the stone carving. The old man also thrust out his
head, felt for the knife with his hand, and gave a satisfied nod. Then he
returned to his place and seated himself on his cushion, concealing the
broken chain.
All of a sudden the high priest entered the room through the barred
door. He gave Fedor an icy glance.
"When you raised your hand against me, foreigner, you did not know what
you were doing", he said. "Therefore, I forgive you. Only by complete
obedience can you atone. Now, unbolt the door!"
Fedor stared at him in terror. Fighting down his fear, he went to the
door and pushed aside the bolt.
Lal Chandra entered, followed by servants carrying torches. At a sign
from their master two of them lifted the motionless body of the fakir and
carried him out.
"You do not know our customs, young man," Lal Chandra said in an even
voice. "It was your Karma that brought you here. I advise you not to meddle
in our concerns, which are beyond your comprehension."
Thus ended a night that had been a nightmare. But it had an
unexpectedly happy ending for Fedor.
The next day Lal Chandra took Fedor back to the temple of Kali.
The summer heat began to abate. Monsoonal winds from the ocean piled up
dark rain clouds. The first rains fell in the mountains.
Lal Chandra went about with a worried expression on his face. He drove
the builders to exert themselves to the maximum. Time was running out. The
stream would start to rise any day now.
The dam, flood-gate and chute were ready.
So was the water-wheel. Long wooden shafts now ran from it through an
opening in the temple wall into a room just off the main hall. Attached to
each shaft were ten wooden discs, each fourteen feet in diameter, covered
with a smooth, shiny coat of a rare resin.
On either side of the discs were gold-leaf plates across which swept
brushes of fine gold thread.
Not far from the machine stood twelve enormous copper vats. All this
was connected by an intricate system of copper cables wrapped in
oil-saturated cloth. Copper bars with ebony handles had been inserted into
the cables at intervals. They were used to help switch the mysterious force
to wherever it was wanted.
In the main hall of the temple there was a sunken pool in front of the
statue of Kali. The copper cables connected with the concave mirrors were
hidden in the water of the pool.
Day by day the stream rose. Barred by the dam, it filled the rocky
gorge and raced over the open spillway with a roar.
After that memorable night two sturdy fakirs openly followed Fedor
wherever he went. At night they slept outside the door of his room in the
temple. It was utterly hopeless to try to tell Jogindar Singh about the
incorporeal Brahman, for the fakirs brazenly squatted beside them and
listened to everything they said.
Could the incorporeal man have been just a nightmare? Again and again
Fedor recalled how the knife in his hand had gone through that wraith. Fedor
was not a coward. He had gone into battle time and again without flinching.
But he felt helpless when it came to mysterious forces.
Fedor also recalled the old man in the tower and the knife he had
turned into air before Fedor's eyes. Fedor tried to remember how it had
happened. While he was turning the lightning machine the old man had thrust
the knife into some twisted wires. The lightning machine was somewhat
different from Lal Chandra's. Fedor vaguely recalled that the old man had
said the high priest could not get along without him. Did that mean the old
man was the one who had made the high priest incorporeal?
He also recalled the terrified face of the incorporeal high priest when
he, Fedor, had rushed at him with the knife. Why should he have been
terrified? Perhaps he had not been incorporeal long and was not yet used to
it.
Fedor's head was in a whirl. He simply had to tell the Sikhs about the
miracle. Ram Das was the one to tell it to. But Lal Chandra had sent Ram Das
off on an errand.
He never should have listened to the old man. Instead of hiding the
magic knife he should have plunged it into that incorporeal high priest and
been done with it.
Fedor was sitting alone in his room late one evening when he suddenly
heard a deep roar outside. He dashed out of the room. His guards, sleeping
beside the door, sprang to their feet and ran after him.
The roar was coming from the chute. Fedor realized that the water gate
had been raised and water was now rushing towards the wheel. He ran into the
main room of the temple. In the darkness he easily found the narrow door
behind the six-armed goddess and stepped into the secret room where the
lightning machine stood. He saw what he had expected to see. The discs were
whirling at a tremendous rate, making a soft, swishing sound. The gold
plates had merged into circles; they reflected the reddish light of the oil
lamps. The air in the room was filled with the freshness that accompanies a
thunderstorm.
Six men, none of whom Fedor had ever seen before, were tinkering with
the machine. Lal Chandra stood to one side watching. He had not heard Fedor
enter.
A sense of deep injury engulfed Fedor. He had put so much hard work
into building the machine! He had invented so many things connected with it!
Yet they had not even called him to watch the trial run.
Forgetting everything except his resentment, Fedor tugged at Lal
Chandra's wide sleeve.
Lal Chandra started in fright.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, turning round to face Fedor.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Fedor shouted.
"You are not needed any more." Lal Chandra's voice was no longer
gentle.
Fedor seized the Brahman by the collar and shook him.
"I'm not your slave! I'm a lieutenant in the Russian Navy!" he shouted
angrily. He spoke in Russian, as he always did when excited. "I'll shake the
wits out of you."
Lal Chandra screamed hoarsely. The men turned round, dropped what they
were doing, and flung themselves on Fedor. Fedor fought back furiously. The
Indians were unfamiliar with fist fighting, and he knocked them down one
after another. But they immediately rose to their feet and attacked him
again.
Lal Chandra bent down and scuttled through the low door. Fedor tore
himself away from the clinging hands of his attackers and dashed after him.
Lal Chandra ran back and forth, hampered by his long robe. For a moment the
two men raced round the grim goddess like children, changing their direction
all the time.
Men carrying torches appeared, and half a dozen of them fell on Fedor.
But he tore loose once more and, making a leap, caught Lal Chandra by the
sleeve. With the deepest satisfaction he drew back his arm and smashed his
fist into Lal Chandra's cheekbone. The Brahman fell backwards into the pool.
The last thing Fedor remembered was the sensation of being strangled.
When he recovered consciousness he was lying in his room. His head rang and
his arms ached. He went to the door and gave a pull. It was locked from the
outside.
Fedor saw no hope of ever being set free.
Twice a day he was brought a bowl of meagre fare. Lal Chandra's men
kept a close watch over him.
One evening he was sitting on the floor of his vaulted room, beside a
low table, going over his notes by the light of an oil lamp. He had started
a diary long ago, while on the way to India. But what was the use of these
notes now? His eyes wandered sadly around the dusk-filled room. He would
never be able to escape from here.
He closed his eyes and let his head drop into his hands.
A pebble suddenly fell on the floor. Fedor gave a start and jumped to
his feet. A faint rustling came from somewhere above his head. Lifting his
eyes, he saw a swarthy bare arm thrust through the ventilation opening.
"It's starting," he thought in alarm. "They'll let snakes down through
holes or sprinkle poison on me."
"Fedor," a voice softly called. Fedor's heart lightened as he
recognized the voice of Ram Das. How had he made his way through such a
narrow passage? He must have removed some bricks.
"Let me hear your voice," said Ram Das from behind the wall.
"It's me, all right. Who else could it be? Listen to what I have to
say, Ram Das." Fedor quickly told him what had taken place in the tower.
"Did you say the Brahman is incorporeal?" Ram Das interrupted him. "Did
you say he can pass through solid walls?"
"Yes."
"You saw it with your own eyes?"
"Yes."
"Are their gods really so powerful?" There was a note of fear in Ram
Das's voice.
"All is lost," thought Fedor in despair. "The Sikhs were my only hope.
When they see this miracle at the festival they'll give up all resistance."
"Listen, Ram Das, but that's not all." Fedor hurriedly related how the
old man had given the blade of his knife the property of penetrability.
"Can the incorporeal Brahman really be slain with that knife?" came Ram
Das's hollow-sounding voice.
"Yes, yes, he can! The knife is hidden in a crack in the wall outside
the old man's window. Be sure to get it, Ram Das."
"The old man is kept under such heavy guard that it's hard to break
through to him. But I'll do whatever I can to help you. You must be
prepared. Goodbye. I must go now."
The roads were thronged. From Gujarat and Rajputana in the south, from
the foothills of the mountain ranges in the north, and from Lahore and Delhi
in the east crowds of people converged on the river Sutlej, a tributary of
the Indus, where the miracle had taken place.
In the land where lived the apostate Sikhs, who had rejected the gods
of the Brahmans, these gods had decided to remind men of their existence.
The goddess of love and death, the awe-inspiring Kali, was displaying
mysterious powers in a long-abandoned temple.
That was what friendly men told the pilgrims at crossroads and villages
on the way. These men distributed food and pointed out the route. Closing
their eyes as though in prayer, they related that a certain pundit had
attained the highest knowledge. Although he had repudiated his body he was
still visible, and hence he was called the Mahatma Ananga, the "great soul
without flesh".
Tales were told at roadside campfires of how Mahatma Ananga, gathering
his faithful pupils about him, had begged the gods, through Kali, who had
close ties with humans, to bring accord to an earth torn by dissent.
In response, the gods had given a sign. When the body of a pupil of the
Mahatma Ananga, who had died in the cause of the highest knowledge, was
brought to the temple of Kali, the goddess had refused to accept his death.
The body of the righteous man had been lying in trepidation at the feet
of the ruler over life and death for many days. Kali refused to accept his
death.
Since the goddess kept a strict account of those who were born, coming
from their past incarnation, and those who died, passing into the next
incarnation, the return to life of the righteous man would have to be paid
for by the sacrifice of another life.
The day of the sacrifice had been appointed. On that day awe-inspiring
Kali would show one and all the power of the ancient gods.
The pilgrims arrived in large groups, keeping close together. To lag
behind was dangerous. The elusive brotherhood of Thug assassins had already
strangled several people to death in honour of their goddess.
There were crowds of people all around the temple. The hollow between
the temple and the bank of the stream was closely packed with tents and
primitive shelters.
Bright sunlight illuminated a colourful scene: white-robed men, women
in flowered veils, bronze faces and bodies, countless carts. Temple
attendants distributed an infusion of thorn apple leaves among the pilgrims,
to "free them from their sins." This was a narcotic that temporarily
deprived people of their reason and memory. They also distributed a beverage
made of poppy-seed called "the tears of oblivion". They were particularly
generous with bhang, a beverage made from the juice of the tender tops of
Indian hemp mixed with an infusion of nutmeg and cloves.
Clouds of flies hovered above the camp of the pilgrims. The odour of
fragrant spikenard mingled with the smells of food, human and animal sweat,
aromatic incense, the smoke of camp-fires, and the wormwood-like odour of
narcotics.
The pilgrims grew more and more excited. They demanded miracles.
The Sikhs, bearded and in turbans, did not take part in the religious
frenzy. They camped to one side and seemed to be waiting for something.
People scowled at them because the Sikhs were apostates. Knowing, however,
that the Sikhs did not recognize the philosophy of Ahimsa, or non-injury of
animal life, they took care to give them a wide berth.
In the evening innumerable campfires burned bright as people made their
evening ablutions and cooked food. Temple attendants distributed rice and a
powerful mixture of opium and bhang. The excitement that now swept through
the crowd was even stronger than in the daytime. To the beat of drums inside
the temple a Brahman emerged to announce that the temple was now open. A
howling crowd surged in through the doors, filling the vast hall and all the
passages. The Sikhs were the last to enter. They took up places along the
walls, none of them mingling with the crowd.
Semi-darkness reigned inside the temple. The oil lamps cast quivering
shadows on the sinister faces of the goddess, on the garland of human skulls
round her bronze neck, and on her belt, an interlacing of chopped-off hands.
The rubies in her eye-sockets glowed.
A human body lay motionless at the feet of the goddess, its outlines
vague beneath the white shroud.
Suddenly the drums fell silent. An imposing Brahman (appeared on the
small open space between the pool and the goddess. He waited until the crowd
was quiet, then said in a resounding voice:
"Brothers, do not be surprised at what your eyes will see. Keep calm,
for each has his own Karma and the gods are all-powerful. Let us praise the
great Kali. May the gods show us miracles to strengthen our faith!"
There was a faint crackle in the dead silence.
Suddenly, flames leaped up out of the bowls on the tripods around the
pedestal of the goddess. A murmur of astonishment ran through the crowd.
The Brahman pressed his hands together in prayer and turned to the
statue.
"Oh mighty one, oh black-faced one! She who tramples on the
decapitated!" he intoned. "Manifest your will, for through you the Creator,
the Preserver and the Destroyer rule us! Give us life or give us a merciful
reincarnation!"
His last words were drowned by peals of thunder. Dazzling streaks of
lightning flashed through the clouds of smoke, in the direction of the
crowd, from the pointed fingers of the terrible goddess, from the tips of
her pointed nipples, and from the ends of her long eyelashes.
The crowd was gripped by terror. Shouting and pushing, people hurried
towards the exit. But their way was barred by crackling blue flashes of
lightning that came from the bronze lances decorating the archway.
"Oh you of little faith!" intoned the Brahman. "Why are you frightened?
Did I not announce that the will of the gods would be manifested to you?"
The lightning stopped, and the crowd ceased to mill about. Silence fell
as the people timidly pressed closer to one another. Suddenly cries came
from the hall:
"Look, a dead man!"
"This man is dead too!"
"Death has entered the temple!"
Here and there in the crowded hall lay the bodies of those who had been
struck by lightning.
"Frightened, you of little faith?" the Brahman shouted. "How can flight
save you from the will of the gods? Does not death at the hands of Kali give
the chosen a better incarnation? Pray! Beg the goddess to open your eyes!"
Where space permitted in the tightly-packed crowd, people prostrated
themselves, their hands pressed together devoutly.
"Now gaze on this!" the Brahman commanded. "The Mahatma Ananga himself,
the man without flesh, will appear before you!"
The Brahman stepped to one side, his hands pressed together in front of
his face.
A sigh of wonderment swept through the temple as a man in a long white
robe came into sight straight out of the pedestal. He silently spread his
arms, blessing the pilgrims, and strode into the crowd. People separated to
let him pass, but he did not need an opening. He walked straight through the
crowd, straight through people. They realized that he was incorporeal. Some
tried to grasp the hem of his robe to kiss it but their fingers passed
through the fabric as though it were woven of air.
There were cries of awe-stricken horror beneath the vaulted ceiling of
the temple. Men fell to their knees to kiss the floor where the Incorporeal
Brahman had walked.
After passing through the amazed crowd Mahatma Ananga returned to the
Kali pedestal. With an imperious gesture he commanded silence. Then he began
to speak.
"The gods have liberated me from the flesh that oppresses man. I am
incorporeal. No human weapon can harm me. I need neither food nor drink. Yet
I am alive. My soul has not been reincarnated. This is the gift of the gods
to those who obey them implicitly. But what do you live for, you who are
wrapped up in concern for your pitiful bodies? A handful of rice is more
precious to you than Nirvana."
He talked for a long time, wrathfully condemning those who preferred
the miserable blessings of the present life to future reincarnation.
Untouchables must stop the practice of adopting Mohammedanism or
Christianity. The gods would not forgive those who failed to keep the faith.
The apostate Sikhs had not resigned themselves to their fate. They wanted to
gain possession of lands that belonged, by the will of the gods, to the
Brahmans. They must repent and return to the ancient faith before it was too
late. Otherwise the gods would punish them so sternly that no trace of them
would remain. The patience of the gods was exhausted. They were incensed.
Through him, Mahatma Ananga, they had resolved to manifest their will and
punish the recalcitrants and apostates.
While all this was going on Fedor Matveyev languished in the machine
room next door, his arms chained to rings in the wall.
The enormous discs revolved and hummed rhythmically. Lal Chandra stood
with his eye at a tiny hole in the wall, watching what was going on in the
hall. From time to time, without turning round, he said something, and his
assistants did his bidding, moving the copper bars back and forth to open
and shut the path of the mysterious force.
From the way they moved the bars Fedor could imagine what was taking
place in the temple. He could hear the roar of the crowd and the awe-struck
cries as the miracles were performed.
He himself had built these machines whose lightning would soon reduce
him to ashes. His friends, the Sikhs, were somewhere near, but what could
they do? They were lost in the frenzied crowd. Besides, they too might
succumb to the Brahmans at sight of the miracles.
Two fakirs approached Fedor, untied his bonds and, gripping him by the
arms, thrust him through the low door into the hall. He found himself facing
the Incorporeal Brahman. On the other side of the pool was a sea of heads,
malicious grimaces and hateful eyes.
"This wretched foreigner wished to deprive me of life," the Incorporeal