Dreams from the Witch House: Female Voices of Lovecraftian Horror Page 20

  “Dily!” cries Bridget, leaping to her partner’s side, but the doctor is already sliding, slipping into the black chasm. She screams, once, and then we hear a terrible thump.

  Bridget is there, kneeling, peering down, calling Dr. Sangare’s name. There is no response. I peek over the edge; it’s impossible to see anything.

  A growl turns my attention behind me. Three jackals have gained the top of the mound. One barks. Another snarls. I think about what color the snarl might have been, in my mind, before my color-sense changed. Before I could only see one color in my mind. One color that meant one thing.

  They advance. I make my decision.

  I push Bridget into the blackness. She screams as I jump in after. But of course, I do not make a sound as I fall.

  §

  I used to hear in color, and count and smell, too. The sound of Mother patting out parathas was warm golden yellow, the smell of our yak a fresh green; a pile of five stones was maroon, but a pile of seven, pale purple. I didn’t see these colors, not exactly… Zopa, our yak, was creamy white and warm brown, and stones were… stone-colored. Just the same, I knew the colors were there, hovering at the edges of my understanding of the world, but vital to it. When I thought hard about certain things, I could sense the color in my mind. It was never distracting; in fact, it often helped me remember things, like how many sheepskins I’d last seen in the barn.

  All that changed when I went to see where the star struck near the base of Chomolungma, Mother of the World, which visitors call Mount Everest. The night before, we all had seen it streaking through the sky, its tail redder than the War God’s skin. Everyone was curious, of course, but some people in our village refused to go see what had fallen—the old-timers in particular said that if it had been cast out of Heaven, it was not for man to look upon. Those of us who would go went anyway, laughing at them, and at their children, sour-faced and resentful at being kept at home.

  The crater was smoking like a cup of su cha on a cold morning when we came upon it, but in spite of all the dead trees and blackened stones the earth was not too warm to walk on. Still, the strangeness of it put off many of our party, and they stood well away from the lip of the depression.

  Something did seem wrong… it was the shadows, as if the sun shone differently upon that place than elsewhere. My sister begged me not to go nearer, and many agreed we should turn around. I would not listen, and went to see, walking over the hot earth until at last I saw what lay at the center. It was a rough, vaguely spherical stone not much smaller than a wagon-wheel. I approached the steaming boulder, and saw a long fissure ran along it.

  I am not sure what I thought I might see if I gazed into its depths, but gaze I did. What lurked within was of such a strange nature! I would call it a color… but it was not a color I knew.

  No one else looked within, in part because I am told once I saw this sight I uttered a wordless cry and staggered back before collapsing. And the next day, when others from our village went to inspect the place, the object, and whatever had lurked within it, had unaccountably disappeared.

  This was all told to me afterwards; I lay unconscious for nearly a week. And when I awoke, I found that either I or the world had changed. Whatever it was, color or something else, I had been blinded by it, in part. I still saw, but from that day forth I no longer felt the blue-green comfort of the number nine, or knew the crimson warmth of the sound of cattle lowing.

  It had also taken my voice from me. I could not say a word after waking from that strange, dreamless slumber. Before I got used to silence, I would try, only to become so overwhelmed with the memory of what I had seen that it seemed to me the world spun faster under my feet, and I was in danger of falling off it. I quickly trained myself to not speak—or think about speaking, and not long after that, I found I would rather keep silent… for I discovered that seeing what I had seen had not only taken something from me, but given me something in return.

  I first noticed it when grandmother passed me my plate of dal bhat one night. Her hand shook in a strange way, spilling the hot lentils on my lap. Later, when I was resentfully scrubbing out my chhuba, I thought about her, and how the color, that color, had infused the memory, clinging to her as a butterfly clings to a flower in a stiff wind. I did not understand the significance, but as long as I thought of her, the color was there.

  A day later, a spasm shook her. She messed herself, and then she started making a sound halfway between a groan and a cry. There was nothing anyone could do. She wailed and grunted all night. When the dawn broke, she finally stopped, but it was because she had died.

  For a time, I worried I had killed her. I carried the weight of it like a faggot of wood until I saw the color again, in my mind, when my father’s brother by marriage went to another village to trade, and stayed away longer than expected. A day later, a party was sent out to find him, only to discover he had been crushed beneath a falling tree while camping for the night. It was not clear when the accident had occurred, but I thought it unlikely I had caused it.

  Just the same, I felt no relief, for I knew then the awful truth about what it meant to see that color in my mind. It was a terrible thing, live among those I loved, knowing when they must die.

  When Dr. Sangare and Bridget arrived in our village, asking for a guide to Leng, it surprised my family when I volunteered to escort the two strange women to that dangerous land from whence few ever returned. I helped them to understand as best I could that I wanted to go—made the point that my knowledge of English would be a boon to their little expedition. In the end, they accepted my gestured explanations, and let me go, though reluctantly.

  For the first time since I was struck dumb I was grateful that I could not communicate the truth. How could I explain that I would rather focus my attention on those whom I did not care if they died?

  §

  The expedition started off well enough. Dr. Sangare and Bridget were excellent travelers, willing to wake up early, help fix meals, and best of all, they kept to a reasonable pace and therefore never suffered from the altitude or the distance. They had packed more than necessary, but everyone always does; I knew that from hearing my cousins talk about guiding hikers. But my companions hadn’t taken all that much more than they needed, and they always carried some of their own gear.

  They were kind and friendly, always making sure I was eating and drinking enough, and never making fun of me when they did something I found bizarre, or vice versa. I knew that trekkers were often rude to their guides, so I felt lucky. It made the journey much more enjoyable than I expected.

  They knew about me only what the other English-speakers in my village had told them—that I had learned English from a monk who had come to our monastery all the way from Kathmandu, that I had often trekked through the Himalayas, and knew the pass that would take them through to Leng. They told me similarly little of themselves, but I put together a kind of history from their conversations, so I knew that Dr. Sangare had traveled to England from a country called Mali in order to study medicine. But, as women were not allowed at the university, she had learned to dress and act like an Englishman in order to earn her degree, and liked it so much she retained her suits even after she left.

  Or rather, was asked to leave. After only a year. Pretending to be a man had gotten her in the door, but she could not pretend away the color of her skin. The other students had made life difficult for her, stealing her books, humiliating her in class, preventing her from accessing the various laboratories open to the student doctors. In order to get enough experience in dissecting corpses she’d ended up needing to exhume her own. When she was caught, instead of seeing her dedication for what it was, her college had shown her the door. Dr. Sangare was of the opinion they’d been only too glad to see the back of her; almost grateful to her for giving them a reason to do so, so early in her career.

  Bridget was possessed of as checkered a past. She had had many trades, most of them involving some degree of law-breaking, an
d was possessed of many skills, the majority of them illegal. She was a survivor, cunning and wise, but kind and cheerful too.

  Dr. Sangare had opened an unlicensed women’s clinic after being dismissed, helping working women with illnesses picked up in any number of common ways, as well as providing family planning services. It was there that she’d met Bridget, and while one was dark and the other fair, one educated and one world-wise, each had seen herself in the other.

  The capital Dr. Sangare used to open her clinic had come largely from the sale of certain personal effects she had claimed from those bodies she had procured while still in medical school. Unfortunately, given her chosen clientele’s lack of solvency, she didn’t make enough to keep herself in medicine and meals and to also bribe the lawmakers into looking the other way when they realized what she was doing.

  Bridget stuck by Dr. Sangare even after the scandal, offering her a place to stay when her clinic was shut down and her assets were all seized. While living together they discussed the sensational news regarding a Dr. Carter’s recent expedition to Egypt—as well as the estimated value of what he had discovered. Dr. Sangare knew how to rob a grave, and Bridget knew how to get by on not a lot, even in unfamiliar places, so they decided almost that very night to try something similar. The pockets of the unwary and the graves of the damned supplied everything they needed to get to someplace with deeper pockets and more fabulous graves. And in order to make the most from their efforts, they decided that they would keep the expedition to just the two of them.

  How they settled on Leng I never did find out. All I heard was that they had “obtained” a map allegedly showing the burial valley of Leng’s ancient warrior queens; after we made it over the pass, it was toward this we headed. I was never as convinced of its existence as they were, but I hoped it was real. Though I was appalled by Dr. Sangare’s grave-robbing, and alarmed by Bridget’s nonchalance about having been a hired killer, thief, and prostitute at various times in her life, I came to respect them both for their determination and passion. I came to like them.

  I like to think they came to respect me and like me, too.

  §

  I awaken, tasting dirt and blood. I spit out a tooth, which bounces away and disappears. It is black down in the pit; I see nothing but a patch of sky through the hole we tumbled through.

  I feel around in the darkness, and cut myself before discovering our lantern, shattered in the fall. Were I able, I’d curse, for the hot gush between my thumb and forefinger makes me aware of the sticky blood on my face, in my eyes; the scrapes all over my body.

  I find some bit of ragged cloth and wrap my hand, which makes it easier to get one of our emergency candles lit. The brightness sets my eyes watering, but eventually I can see enough to look around.

  We are in a conical cave. Cobwebs cling to everything, and the floor is littered with dusty chunks of masonry. The most interesting thing is the staircase, spiraling to the hole above along the side of the structure. I frown at it, as I feel my aches and pains from the fall.

  My two companions are slumped on the floor. I trot over to them. They are both breathing, but Bridget’s arm is twisted under her body in a way that sets my stomach rolling. She will need medical attention. Fortunately, there’s a doctor close at hand.

  I drizzle some of our precious water onto Dr. Sangare’s face, getting a little in her mouth. She sputters and licks her lips, then gingerly pushes herself to a seated position.

  “Krishna!” She looks around. “Are we safe?”

  I nod.

  “How did you get down here?”

  I point skyward.

  “You jumped?” She seems annoyed. “Now we’re all stuck!”

  I point at the stairs. Her eyes widen.

  “You knew?”

  I shook my head.

  “What a damn fool thing to do!”

  I raise an eyebrow, folding my arms over my chest. She sighs.

  “What I mean is thank you.” She winces, stretching out her legs. The knee of her trouser has been ripped away, and her black flesh beneath is red and pink with blood. “At the very least we’re safe from those jackals in here.”

  I point at Bridget. Dr. Sangare gasps, and pulls herself over to her partner.

  “She’s still out cold! We need to get her up.”

  I pour water into Bridget’s mouth. She does not stir.

  Dr. Sangare frowns. She looks worried. I am not. If Bridget were in real danger, I’d know.

  “Bridget!” She shakes the girl. “Come on!”

  “Gngh,” says Bridget, eyelids flickering. “Ow.”

  We get her up, and take a look at her arm. It is definitely broken.

  “We’ll have to set it,” Dr. Sangare says, frown deepening.

  I can see how much pain Bridget is in already, and hold up a single finger. While they watch, mystified, I pack a chillum with hash. I pantomime how to smoke.

  “What…” Bridget winces. “I suppose I can’t ask why.”

  I consider this and point to my arm, making a wracked expression, as if I’m in pain.

  “I see.” She looks to Dr. Sangare, who shrugs. “Well, I suppose I’ll try it…”

  I help her get the pipe lit off the candle, and encourage her as she hacks and coughs on the thick smoke. When we see the relaxation on her face, we know it’s time.

  Dr. Sangare puts her belt between Bridget’s teeth, a wise precaution. It is my job to hold her as Dr. Sangare sets the bone. She screams, but recovers quickly, as Dr. Sangare splints the arm and then constructs a makeshift sling from a scarf. When she’s finished, I pass out some goat jerky.

  “Well, that’s done,” mumbles Bridget, through a mouthful, “but even if the jackals are gone, I’m afraid I’ll need to rest a bit.”

  “I suppose I’ll do some exploring,” says Dr. Sangare, finishing her portion with one enormous bite. “This place must have been made by people for some purpose. Let’s see if they left anything behind.”

  She grabs a piece of firewood and makes a torch of it, tearing Bridget’s petticoat into strips to wrap around one end and dousing it all in the last of our lamp oil. Bridget giggles, watching this, but I make the concerned Dr. Sangare understand that this is normal, a side effect of the hash.

  Dr. Sangare begins to wave her torch about. We see there is a cavernous door in the wall; a corridor that slopes downward. We must be beneath ground level, but we can go yet deeper.

  She looks from the door to me. “Krishna—want to come?”

  I look from Dr. Sangare to Bridget. The girl nods.

  “I’ll be fine,” she says vaguely, helping herself to more jerky.

  Before I go, I wrap the remainder and tuck it out of sight. If the hunger comes on her, as it can with hash sometimes, I don’t want her eating everything we have left.

  The ceiling is much lower in the tunnel. Dr. Sangare and I pad along, her hunched over; me upright with my head only a few inches from the rock, winding our way deeper as we go. Our path is a spiral, curving in on itself, a continuation of the staircase leading out of the conical chamber above. I see Dr. Sangare checking her pocket watch every so often. She’s timing our descent. It occurs to me that this is a woman used to sneaking around in unfamiliar places.

  In unfamiliar graves.

  “I wonder what this place is,” she mutters. “It wasn’t on our map…”

  I cannot muse with her, but having looked at that map, which had only the vaguest markings, I am hardly surprised it left a few things off.

  Eventually the tunnel bottoms out. A low gate has been built into the living rock, two stone slabs topped with a third. There is a chamber beyond the portal, and Dr. Sangare immediately squats down, thrusting the torch within and peering about.

  I am more concerned by the hideous carving of a jackal-headed monster that sits atop the portal. Wings curve from its shoulder blades and teeth from its maw. It is hideous, sinister, and Dr. Sangare’s torchlight glints off the polished stones of its eyes in a
way that makes it look almost alive.

  I find it strange that no door blocks our passage. There is only this silent stone guardian protecting what lies within. I note there is some kind of writing carved at its cruel feet.

  “Coming?” asks Dr. Sangare. She seems excited.

  I point to the statue; the unfamiliar script. Dr. Sangare shrugs impatiently.

  “There’s gold in there,” she says, and darts inside.

  I consider whether I will go in after her, and that’s when I see it. The color. Like the halo of flames surrounding the glorious goddess Palden Lhamo, the color is all around Dr. Sangare in my mind’s eye. I cannot say anything, and when I think about trying the blackness appears behind my eyes with that telltale sensation of faintness.

  Something about this place has doomed her. She does not know it, but I do.

  I dart inside after her. Perhaps it isn’t too late.

  Once I’m through, I can’t think of the color in my mind, for I am overwhelmed with all the very real gold. It limns the cave and every object in it, red-gold and yellow-gold and orange-gold, depending on where Dr. Sangare’s torch is burning. She is running to and fro, staring at everything, mouth open.

  “Krishna!” she calls. Her voice is pitched higher than usual. “This is it! Look at it all!”

  I am looking. Heaps of coins, diadems, bangles, cloth of gold, gold and jewel-encrusted weapons, even mirrors, the golden backing riming the reflective glass like early ice along the edges of a frozen puddle. It is a queen’s barrow, such as my companions dreamed of finding.

  Dr. Sangare whoops and sings, racing from one pile to the next, selecting baubles and shoving handfuls of coins in her pockets. I sit back, dismayed, wondering what here could spell her doom. Is there a trap? A curse? Everything and nothing seems possible in that glimmering grave.

  She slings a heavy chain of gold links around my neck before I can stop her. “Very handsome!” she hoots, before going deeper to see what else she can see.

  I am still squatting near the entrance when I hear, “Krishna!” I lope quickly after her, worried, but when I find her amid the splendor I see that she is excited, not upset. She has found the queen—or at least a queenly-looking skeleton, perched upon a throne. She holds a sword in one hand, and some sort of idol in the other. The weight of a heavy crown has caused her clean white skull to list forward.