9308-3953

“Their families would certainly claim them, man,” Norton said in an offended tone.
“But in many cases whole families perished, “Seal responded. “And thus there was no
one to demand the return of any remains. Cawnpore happened in the midst of a military emergency,”
he added, with a guilty look in Everlee’s direction, as if the young politician from England had come
to India to pass judgment on them all. “And in times of war, the reclaiming and identification of
bodies can be a dicey business, even civilian bodies.” Then his eyes nervously fluttered toward the
infuriated Norton, who clearly did not like the notion that they were standing above a hole crammed
with skeletons, the slight frames of women and children among them.
Everlee waved his hand dismissively, as if to indicate it did not matter either way, and
both of the men fell silent. It was hard to say which of them was correct – most likely Seal, since
experience had taught Everlee that the darkest explanation was generally the one that was also closest
to the truth. But he was shaken by the image, bodies piled upon bodies, fusing throughout the years
into one undignified and inhuman mass of calcium and rubble, an finger sticking out here and there, a
vine poking its way through a lonely eye socket, some wayward pocketwatch or wedding ring the
only remaining evidence of what had once been an individual life.
The vines, he thinks, stepping closer to the well and steeling himself to look into the
leafy green pit. They grow to cover all these things that we cannot bear to look upon. Cannot bear
to remember.
“Would you care to lay flowers?” Norton inquired. He no doubt meant to speak
respectfully, but his deafness had rendered him incapable of discriminating between levels of volume
and the question came out in a shout. “We have brought them, you know. Wreaths waiting down in
the carts.”
“No,” said Everlee, stepping back, his hand grazing a plump green leaf as he retreated.
“It would appear that nature has provided all the tribute that Cawnpore will ever need.”
***
The dropper hovers. She glances around but no one is watching her. This time she does
not bother to calculate the dosage or worry about whether the bitter syrup of the suicide tree will
bring death within minutes or hours.
She squeezes and then sits back with a satisfied sigh.
***
They ate informally, at various times and places around the cluster of tents. Miss
Hoffman’s girls started with their familiar curry, but then slowly began to branch out to the other
dishes. They were tentative at first, approaching the unfamiliar foods from the side, as one might
approach a sleeping animal, and sampling only a spoonful. But soon they were enthusiastically
gobbling down the salads and terrines, carrying their heaping plates out to the lawn where their
headmistress had put down blankets for their use.
“So at least we can rest assured that there is nothing wrong with the curry,” Rayley said
drily, observing the scene. “Or any of the other dishes, for that matter. It is a heartwarming thing to
observe the appetites of the young, is it not?”
“We must find a way to cut Adelaide out of the herd,” Trevor said, glancing about. “For
it seems Miss Hoffman has temporarily relaxed her vigilance. I don’t see her at all, do you?”
Rayley shook his head and looked up the hill where small parties of people, in straggling
groups of two or three, were at last beginning their pilgrimage toward the well. He had imagined
some sort of maudlin ceremony, for he had seen a great pile of wreathes in one of the carts and his
brief stint at the Byculla Club had been enough to convince him that its membership contained its fair