The Choir Boats (39 page)

Afsana could not hold back her tears any longer. She struggled to
keep her body erect. Barnabas could not speak to comfort her. After
a while, Afsana said, “My mother — Rehana — died five years ago,
when I was fifteen years old. May Allah have mercy on her soul.”

Barnabas clung to the bench, as the garden whirled around him.
He tried to focus on the carnations beside the bench, looking for land
in a storm, but they were hard to see in the darkness. He wanted to
beg forgiveness but could not find words that might encompass his
guilt, much less expiate it. All those years in the office on Mincing
Lane he had imagined reconciling with Rehana, he duly apologetic,
she forgiving him after understandable first words of anger. Now
he understood how shallow those maunderings were. Rehana’s
anger, her rejection even, would have been preferable to the finality
and lack of recourse now available. He felt the nullity of cowardice
blossom within him. He tasted the thin, sour ullage of the betrayal
he had committed.

Looking at his daughter, Barnabas realized that Afsana had
imagined this scene for years and knew there would be little he could
say to still an anger built throughout a lifetime. He looked down at
the palempore vest, with its glorious tree of life design, which had
seemed so appropriate an hour ago, and cursed himself.

Afsana stood up and said, “My mother loved you to the end.
She
forgave you.” She said no more but looked at him with her dark
eyes, and then turned and walked down the path leading to a door
opposite the one through which Barnabas had entered.

Barnabas sat a long time on the bench with a ghost’s forgiveness
and his daughter’s anger in his head. All he smelled, in the entire
perfumed winter garden, was sandalwood. He did not leave until the
sun had set completely.

Sally, Tom, and Fraulein Reimer had gone to visit Reglum in the
military hospital while Barnabas had spoken with the Queen. The
fraulein had insisted. In the hospital corridor, they met Dorentius
Bunce, who had just been in to visit.

Dorentius smiled at them and said, “Reglum is well enough to
challenge my citation of the paroemiographer Tassea Wamminax.
He is wrong, of course, but then Oxonians so often are.”

Reglum smiled when Isaak came bounding into the room. “Our
own
tes muddry
,” he said, wincing as he reached forward. “We could
have used you against the Wurm!”

Sally cried out to see Reglum, both for joy at his lively demeanour
and in pain at the sight of his bandages. “Oh Reglum,” she said but
did not get much beyond that for a minute. She looked at his strong
brown hand on the shining white linen, and at his fine nose, his hair
(which she noticed had been combed very recently, as if Reglum had
been expecting the visit), and she thought of the heroines in Fanny
Burney’s novels, before she stopped herself by introducing Tom.

Reglum used his free hand to shake the hand Tom stretched out.

How alike
, Reglum thought.
Same quick eye, same cheekbones.

Dashing chap
, Tom thought.
Would make a fine brother-in-law. But wait, there’s that other fellow, the one on the East Indiaman, what’s his
name again? James Kidlington, I think. Hold on, Kidlington is a thief
who has been transported to Australia, so maybe I am to have a Yountish
brother-in-law after all!

Fraulein Reimer stood silently until Reglum waved her forward.
The fraulein said, “
Kumsa-majirra’a-sasal
. I am pained to give pain,
and I beg your forgiveness.”

Reglum said in a grave voice, “Take comfort. My wound will
heal but your sense of guilt will only fester if you do not remove it
now. Please, do not feel guilt over your action, I beg you. Quite the
contrary — you saved my life, and those of Sally and Tom, besides
others.”

The fraulein bowed and said, “
Sehr danke, mein Herr.
”

“So, you see, I will be fine,” repeated Reglum. “Let us talk of other
things, something happier. Theatre, for instance: I understand
that you, Tom, are particularly fond of the stage. Thus, as soon as
I am able, I propose that you, Sally, and I visit the Palliatum to see
something. They are always doing farces and burlesques: you will
understand without grasping all the Yountish — and, by now, Sally
can almost translate better than I can!”

So, while Fraulein Reimer sat in a corner doing needlepoint, the
three young people discussed theatre: whether there was a Yountish
equivalent to Missus Siddons, whether Sisso-e-Haied or Pedrench
Lorimate matched Marlowe and Shakespeare. Reglum told Tom and
Sally about the pageants held at the
kjorraw
ceremonies during the
solstices. They agreed to translate and stage Buskirk’s “Hero of the
Hills” for one of the dinner-entertainments held by the Marines
in the spring. They agreed that Barnabas would make the best
Playdermon, the protagonist of the piece.

Reglum grew serious. “The events at the Temple . . .”

Sally walked to him, and put her hand on his good shoulder for
a moment, saying, “Later, another time. We must make plans, but
they can wait until you are better, Lieutenant Bammary.”

“What better time to make plans than when I am bed-bound?”
protested Reglum, but he laughed.

Sally said, “I brought you two bound volumes of the latest
Edinburgh Review
. When you have finished them both, we will come
back to visit, but not before.”

“I can read with exceptional speed, especially when need drives
me,” answered Reglum.

Sally blushed a little, collected Isaak, and said her goodbye.

Looking as far removed from Playdermon as possible, Barnabas
that evening said to Tom and Sally, “You have a cousin. Her name
is Afsana.”

Sally put her arms around her uncle’s neck, while her mind leaped.
Sally turned to Nexius and would not be put off by his evasions.
She used Yountish when he pretended his English was insufficient.
The Captain Emeritus yielded the story step by step under Sally’s
examination.

Rehana had been ashamed and terrified when she learned that
she was with child. Nearly three months after Barnabas’s departure,
she revealed her plight to her parents. Her father, Adnan, had not
said a word at first but went into the garden and had every tree and
bush uprooted, every flowerbed ripped out. He threatened to cast
her out but her mother, Yasmin, had prevailed upon him not to and,
in the end, mother and father gathered Rehana to them. Still, such
a violation would bring great shame on their house, most especially
if Barnabas did not come back to Bombay. They could not now wait
the eighteen months or more it would take for Barnabas to return
to London, conclude his business there, and sail back to Bombay: the
scandal would be upon them much sooner.

At that point, they turned to their mutual friend, Sitterjee
the Parsee, for counsel. Sitterjee, the Yountish agent in Bombay,
suggested they travel to Khodja relatives in Oman, away from
prying eyes and wagging tongues in Bombay. The hope was to
have the child there and reunite with Barnabas in Bombay, where
the wedding would take place. A scandal it would be, regardless,
having the child born before the wedding, but not the debacle that
would ensue should Barnabas not return. Adnan and Yasmin seized
on this as the only viable plan and sailed with Rehana to Oman,
telling everyone that they were looking after their trading interests
and would return in about one year. Rehana gave birth to Afsana
in Oman, and awaited word that Barnabas was on his way back to
Bombay.

Sally stopped Nexius at this point, and asked, “Why didn’t Adnan
and Yasmin send a message to Uncle Barnabas, inform him that he
was . . . that he would soon have a child?”

Nexius shifted in his chair, and said, “By the Mother, they
wanted to. In fact, they did send such a message, but it was never
delivered.”

Barnabas sat up with a strangled cry. Sanford put his arm around
his partner’s shoulder.

Nexius continued, “I am truly sorry to have to be the bearer of
this news. Please know that I was not part of this. I am a soldier, not
one of the politicians. It gives me pain to cause you pain.”

Barnabas asked, “What happened?”

“The Learned Doctors ordered Sitterjee to intercept the message,”
said Nexius. “He would not do that, said that was going too far, but
the Doctors insisted. I admired old Sitterjee, a man of honour. He
still refused. So the Doctors sent one of their own to steal the letter
and destroy it.”

“Who? How?”

“A tough ship had arrived in Pash not long before your departure
from Bombay back in 1793 by your calendar. The gateway was well
north in the Indian Ocean in the 1790s, so the ship was not far from
the Malabar Coast, within easy reach of Bombay. When he learned
that Rehana bore your child, Sitterjee sent an alarm call on the
ansible-box to alert the tough ship.”

“Why?”

“All our agents in Pash knew that the Learned Doctors were
interested in those families with the special talent for far-feeling
and the longing for places unseen. They had tracked Belladonna
Brownlee in Edinburgh, then you, Barnabas, first in London and
then in Bombay. Standing instructions to let the Learned Doctors
know when one of you has a child.”

Sally raised an eyebrow, and said, “So why the alarm call?”

Nexius said, “Huhn. Sitterjee later said he should not have sent
it as an alarm, but at the time he was worried that Adnan might
banish his daughter or that Rehana in desperation might . . . might
commit suicide. Not like
hatmoi
. Here in Yount or there in Pash, the
Mother can find you. Or the Father, if you wish. But suicide, the loss
of both mother and child, that thought frightened Sitterjee.”

It was a while before Nexius resumed the story:

“Once the call went out to the tough ship, it could not be taken
back, no matter how much Sitterjee might regret it.”

Like my scream that night in Cape Town
, thought Sally.

“The tough ship brought the Doctors, who overpowered Sitterjee
and his second thoughts.”

Sally said, “That’s the how and the why, Nexius, but not the
who.”

Nexius said, “You have met him. Orgunonno Loositage. Of
course, he wasn’t Arch-Bishop back then.”

“Oh, horrible, horrible, horrible,” said Sally.

Nexius spread his scarred brown hands in front of him and
said, “Rehana thought the message had been sent. All she received
from London was a notice, sent by Barnabas’s uncle via the firm of
Muir, Graham, & Finlay, that Barnabas would not be returning to
Bombay.”

Rehana did nearly commit suicide upon that news but stayed her
hand for the love of her beautiful daughter. Rehana raised Afsana in
Oman; Adnan gave control of his Bombay business to his brother,
Mohsin, and stayed with his daughter and granddaughter. Afsana,
extraordinarily intelligent, was considered a seer by the time she
was ten. By the time she was thirteen, the local religious figures
saw her as a danger, possibly a djinn. Her grandparents and Rehana
decided to return to Bombay, where religious attitudes were more
flexible.

But Rehana and her parents only grew more concerned as Afsana
began to have visions about more than local and private matters.
Rumours grew in Bombay about a strange child living in Adnan’s
house, and some called for her expulsion. Afsana began to long for
Yount, though she did not know how to express her desire. Sitterjee
and the Doctors were aware of this. Sitterjee, wanting to right an old
wrong before he died, told Afsana about Yount, though he was very
careful to omit certain details about his role in earlier events. One
year after she had arrived in Bombay, Afsana received a box with a
key. Partly enthralled by the key and partly fearing that Afsana was
possessed by a devil, and concerned for her safety and theirs in the
face of growing animosity in the neighbourhood, Rehana and her
parents acquiesced to Afsana’s pleadings. Rehana bid her parents
goodbye and, accompanied by Sitterjee, took Afsana to Cape Town
and then on to Yount. The shock of the journey was too much for
Rehana, who died shortly after arriving in Yount.

Nexius concluded the story: “Afsana opened the second lock,
you see? But that was a double-edged sword for Loositage, since he
thinks always about the prophecy — the prophecy he has declared
heretical, of course! — relating to a dynasty founded by two Karket-soomi.”

Barnabas pushed back from the table. “I longed to come to Yount
and discover I am deceived!”

Nexius spread his hands wide and said, “Not so, I think, at least
not in all ways. Here you are and here is Afsana, your daughter —
that must be worth something!”

Barnabas, thinking of his daughter in the garden, turned away.
Sanford, a protective heron, walked his old friend out of the room.

Sally said, “Nothing has been as we expected it since we arrived,
Captain Nax. We trusted you.”

Nexius sighed and nodded. “And still do I hope. Loositage and
the Learned Doctors sometimes do things in ways that we Marines
disagree with. But please remember that we never promised heart’s
desire, only help in regaining it. You came because you wished
yourselves to come, and so did Afsana. I am just a soldier, Sally. You
have powers that are needed here, not just for Yount but to help
Karket-soom as well. Please, we need your help — we cannot find our
way home without you.”

Just before he exited, Nexius turned and spoke again: “Please, I
will be with you through anything and everything. I am not proud
of what happened in Bombay. I was only a young Marine onboard
that ship and knew not what Loositage did until much later. Still, it
troubles me. Sitterjee is not the only one in the story who seeks to
put right an old wrong.”

The next day, a Prannish-Day, Nexius was nowhere to be found.
Barnabas would not come out of his room, and Sanford stayed with
him. Sally went to the Lord-Chancellor, who agreed to arrange a
meeting for Sally and Tom with Afsana, that very afternoon as Sally
insisted. Tom and Sally entered the garden.