Long time friends will know that I do not require my fantasy damsels to be as over the top girly-girl as Emma. It si appropriate for this story, though. I may post a superheroine story or a spy girl story down the road. I don't in the least mind a feisty damsel. But I do like a stereotypically feminine heroine from time to time....
Chapter 5 – India
(When we last left Emma, she had been brusquely kidnapped at Chiang Mai airfield, her volunteer protector, Serge Hainault, left for dead in front of her aeroplane. Whisked off to the jungle, she was now tied up in a coracle heading straight for the deadly rocks of the Huai Kaew waterfall!)
Tightly tied in your fetching travel outfit of a brown cropped leather jacket, form fitting cream jodhpurs and sleek leather boots, you squirm and twist desperately, but helplessly, as the little boat drifts downstream to your doom. Your filthy cleave gag stifles any chance of calling for help; not that there is anyone in this wilderness to hear you anyway. You can only look up at the canopy of tall trees which recede as you float downriver. The sound of the waterfall getting louder is the only hint of the terrible danger you are in. Were it not for that, your situation would be surprisingly peaceful!
But somewhere, above your head, the rapids are approaching. You twist and turn in more futile efforts to escape, but the fiends have bound you far too tightly. Once again, you are in desperate peril! Your blue eyes well up with tears, turning them to sapphires of despair as you realize how hopeless it all is. Even Serge – poor Serge! – can’t save you now!
As the stream picks up the little flat-bottomed coracle starts to spin in the eddies of the increasingly turbulent stream. The boat spins 180 degrees, giving you a momentary look at the hellish, roiling waters no more than a hundred yards ahead of you! Then the boat spins back, giving you a view only of the peaceful river upstream. But now you can link the sound of the falls with the distance to them, making your exact state of peril abundantly clear and knowable!
You rock your shoulders to and fro, tugging at your wrist bonds, flexing your legs in more pointless efforts to loosen your fiendishly tight restraints. No use at all! Your boots squeak as you rub them in their close bonds, and the cords dig into your wrists as you strain with desperate efforts. But it’s absolutely hopeless!
The coracle starts to spin around more and more as you approach the falls, giving you a giddy view of the banks, the river, the nearing waterfall! The roar of the falling water is the only constant, as it grows in volume and menace! You are maybe 60 yards, then 50, then 40 with each turn of the little boat! You can’t help sobbing in frustration and fear as you writhe impotently, bound so helplessly in your sleek outfit in the drifting coracle!
It all looks hopeless now, You surrender to you fate, hoping it won’t hurt as much as it seems it might. The little boat starts rocking as well as turning as the stream turbulence mounts. The roar of the rapids is infernally loud now, drowning out even your own thoughts as you are petrified in pure mortal terror of you imminent destruction!
One more spin brings the sickening realization that you are now less than 30 yards from the rapids. The little coracles rocks, shot left and right by the swirling eddies as well as occasionally making terrifying accelerations and sudden decelerations toward gnashing rocks ahead! You think you’re going to be sick with all the queasy motions that are ever more erratic. Your chest heaves with a massive gasping sob at the…the….unfairness of it all!
At that moment, you hear a rough rasping sound at the bottom of the boat, as wood grates on rock. The rapids are almost upon you! You are spun around violently as one side of the coracle runs aground but the other is shot forward, spinning the keel-less craft like a top, careening wildly, As it spins it tilts downstream, giving you a horrifying view of the hellish maw of rocks that are now right in front of you! Then just as suddenly the boat bounces off a submerged rock in the stream, and is thrust like a slingshot off to the side, where the coracle is cast upon shallow shale near the bank. The coracle rolls and yaws, then…..stops! Miraculously, the boat has run aground just before the lip of the rapids! You can’t see it, but you can just imagine the flat bed of rock shimmering just under the surface of the water, holding you back, however tenuously, from your destruction!
You heave a sigh of relief, before you realize that your salvation is only temporary. The stream continues to tug the coracle away from the rocky shelf on which it now lies. The river is so turbulent, one false shift of weight at the wrong moment could send you back out into the main current of the river, and over the edge! You squirm gingerly in your tight bonds, unwilling to struggle too hard to free yourself in case your very exertions take the boat of its impromptu moorings! Oh, it’d just torture, not being able to really try to get free, but knowing that if you don’t, you still might be carried into the stream!
You wriggle as much as you dare while the coracle swings back and forth in the partial current. You shudder every time it seems that the boat is about to break free of the shale. But it’s hopeless: this is almost worse than just getting it over with and going over the edge to your demise!
You immediately try to recant that thought as a particularly strong swirl of current lifts the boat up a fraction of an inch too far – and you can feel the coracle start to grind its way off the river bed! You scream involuntarily into your gag, helpless at the end, as the boat is unclenched from the rock!
At that moment, when all seems lost, you hear something heavy and made of metal fall into your little boat, by your bound feet, with a firm clank sound, You are delirious with terror , but to your surprise, the boat is suddenly stopped in its tracks, held in place at the far end of the coracle. It takes you a moment to comprehend, under the circumstances, but the boat is being reeled to shore! The metal object was some sort of grappling hook thrown at the last second to save you!
You look up, and see Serge, of all people, his head roughly bandaged, pulling you to safety. His clothes are torn and bloodied. He staggers to the edge of the river bank once your boat is safely aground, and he kneels into the water to rip off your gag.
“Serge! Oh, thank you!” you stammer, unable to say any more, so overcome are you at your last minute reprieve from disaster!
Serge looks down at you, with labored panting as he smiles with as much aplomb as he can muster. He tries to doff his hat to you, but only rustles his bandage and winces with pain as he does so. He recovers quickly, and says “Apologies, mademoiselle, for being so late with your rescue. My injuries…..” he reels for a moment just thinking about them.
At that moment you see several Asian men coming up behind him. It might be the goons who kidnapped you! “Serge! Look out behind you!” you shout. Serge slowly gets up to his feet and wheels around in a parody of drunkenness brought on by shock and blood loss.
He chuckles. “My dear Miss Davies, these are a delegation from Sang Ka Lok Ceramics – the real delegation! May I present Mr Tirin Swamasrikreunbpata; Mr Kiet Coirayadaram, and Mr Daw Kruensridat.” The three lean but short men bow politely. Tirin seems oldest, with a face beginning to show lines from the sun. Kiet and Daw are junior, but smiling and seemingly unstressed despite the desperate race to save you. All three have kindly, honest faces.
You twist a little in your bonds. “I’d shake your hands, gentlemen, but….” The Thai men jump to your aid and immediately start untying you.
Serge says, “And now, my dear….if you will forgive my appalling manners, I must pass out now.” Exhausted, he crumbles to the ground as the Thais lift you out of the boat. You are unsteady on your feet for a moment but you rush over to Serge.
“We’ve got to get him to a hospital!” you exclaim.
“Yes, but he would not hear of it until you were rescued,” says Tirin, who guides you away from the river bank while the other two lift Serge up to his feet and walk him away from the river.
“But…how did you find me?” you ask.
“We arrived to find Monsieur Hainault lying on the ground. We bandaged him up and he said you were in great danger. So we followed the road and from a distance saw the bad men placing you in the boat. We immediately deduced their plans, but they were too many and far too heavily armed for us to challenge. We raced downstream to stop your boat before…..”
You are led to another large automobile. Serge is in a daze as Kiet and Daw place him in the back of the automobile. Tirin gently guides you into the seat in front of Serge. “We shall tend to him at the clinic next to the factory.”
You look worriedly at Serge, who is very pale from blood loss.
“Have no fear, Achara,” Tirin says. “He will be all right. But he will have to rest here for many days, perhaps weeks.”
You are reassured. “What did you call me?’ you ask innocently.
“Achara – it is a name for you, it means ‘pretty angel’,” Tirin says with a gracious smile that is meant to say, “you are safe now.”
You blush from the compliment. “Thank you,” you say softly.
“Mai ben rai,” says Tirin. “That’s a handy phrase in Thai by the way – it means anything from “don’t mention it” to “it’s OK” to “don’t worry about it”.”
“How do you say thank you?” you ask.
The Thais beam. “As a girl you say ‘khorb khun kaa’.”
“Then khorb khun kaa for finding me in time!” you say.
You drive by a huge Buddhist temple complex whose exterior is entirely covered in gold. It is a stupefying sight, with rows upon rows of statues around the perimeter of the main building. “That is Wat Doi Suthep,” Kiet explains from the back as your jaw nearly drops at the magnificence of it.
You head into town and every so often, between low rise buildings, another massive temple will suddenly emerge around a corner. One is exceedingly delicate, with ornately painted walls and a separate chedi of stone that sweeps up into a golden spire. You guides tell you this is Wat Chiang Men – the oldest temple in the city.
And then you see another beautiful temple, this one like waves of stone piled up to the sky. “Wat Chedi Luang,” observes Tirin. You soon cross a river – the Mae Ping – and head into a more modern and spread out part of the city.
You are soon at a huge complex that you quickly understand to be the Ceramics factory. Once inside the gates of the immense grounds, with soothing trees in lining the street and low buildings housing the ceramics works, the car heads to the left toward a white washed building that is clearly the factory infirmary. “Monsieur Hainault will have the best care here,” Tirin says as the car pulls up to the front of the infirmary. Kiet and Daw help orderlies get Serge onto a canvas stretcher; he is whisked into the inside of the building. “There is little you can do for your friend now. Perhaps I could give you the tour of Sang Ka Lok, as intended by your uncle, as a way of taking your mind off such a terrible event as occurred earlier?”
You smile, and despite it somehow seeming wrong to leave Serge, you realize it is best if you check on him after he has had rest and attention. You agree to a tour.
Tirin walks your through the impressive kilns and sculpting wheels, showing you the myriad varieties of wares for which the factory is justly renowned. Your mind is still on your ordeal, though. You ask Tirin, “Do you know who those men were who attacked us today?”
Tirin pauses. “Although Thailand is prosperous, times are hard nearby. Men from Laos and Cambodia come across the border, especially in the north where the terrain is more rugged and where the ethnicities are more mixed. Here in Chiang Mai all sorts can mix freely without scrutiny. The men who attacked you are known brigands – bad men, who will hire themselves out for bad work. The question you should ask is: who hired them?”
You puzzle over that question through the rest of the tour. Who would have a reason to eliminate you, especially in a way that would seem like an accident? The only thing you can think of that would be worth going to that trouble would be Uncle Ned’s fortune!
All of a sudden it dawns on you – it is so obvious: nearly being sold into slavery in Hong Kong, the horrible attempted sacrifice at Hue , and now this crude attempt at eliminating you. Someone else must be in line for the fortune! But it can’t be a family member – Uncle Ned has no other family, and….
Osgoode. It’s so obvious now. The perfidious lawyer is behind it all! You suddenly feel very vulnerable, out in the wilds of Asia , your only protector (whom you have known for all of 48 hours) hospitalized, and an enemy able to assault you from a thousand miles away through a network of henchmen and ruthless mercenaries.
You turn to Tirin. “I think I know who is behind this – Uncle Ned’s lawyer, Osgoode.”
“That is bad,” your gracious Thai host replies. “You should not stay here for long. Osgoode was always a problem for us – he has many servants here.”
Your heart sinks. “What can I do?”
“You are not far from India now – British territory, and farther away from Osgoode. I know that Edward-kun did not entrust his factories in India to Osgoode, but ran them directly. I think you will be safer there.”
“And Serge?” you ask hopefully.
“Monsieur Hainault will have to stay here. He cannot move. Emma-kun, you must be brave. We can escort you to the airfield and get you out of here. I was meant to tell you that your uncle meant you to go from here to Chittagong , in Burma , where his assistant, Aung-Hla, will guide you. Meet him at the Great Mosque!”
“Thank you, Tirin-kun,” you say, picking up on the honorifics. You are led to a spacious if Spartan room inside the factory grounds. At least it’s safe, with thick walls and loyal personnel guarding you as you rest.
You have a delicious Thai meal that night: tom kha gai (chicken and coconut soup) , hor muk (steamed fish in banana leaves; duck jungle curry with sticky rice, pad puk ruam mit (mixed vegetables in soy sauce) and khao neow mu-muang (mango with sweet rice) for dessert. You eat eagerly after your latest tribulations, but are impressed with the emphasis on presentation – the meal in that respect is to your mind almost European.
You sleep like a log in the cool and pleasant air of the highlands. Refreshed, you check in on Serge after the morning. You thank him again for his rescuing you – twice. “Think nothing of it, mademoiselle – someone so fair will always be rescued, the universe requires it.” Serge groans as even this required effort. “But cherie, I can no longer escort you. You must make your way to Burma , and then to India proper, as Tirin suggests. You will be safer under British law.”
The next morning, a large contingent of personnel from the ceramics factory guides you to the air strip. They examine every inch of the De Havilland to make sure it has not been sabotaged; satisfied, they allow you to board it. You are once again in your sleek and tight fitting flying outfit, and for all your justified trepidation, you want to see this through. By now you are worried about Uncle Ned – perhaps he is in trouble, too?
The propeller of the De Havilland Tiger Moth begins to spin as the engine sputters to life, then emits a healthy, happy droning sound. Your companions remove the blocks form the aeroplane’s wheels. You wave to them as you taxi to the end of the air strip, and take off into a clear blue morning. You have a spectacular and uneventful flight over the lush mountains of the Shan States that form the border between Siam and Burma . In a few hours you cross over the watershed, and are once again in British air space, deep valleys of glittering blue streams cutting into verdant sharp hills and uplands . You relax a little – you are now in the territory of the Raj – Osgoode would hardly dare assault you now!
You descend into the lush and humid valley of the Irrawaddy, toward the white city of Mandalay for refueling. You sweep gracefully over the huge white stupas of the Sandamani Paya, a startlingly beautiful Buddhist complex set amidst deep green trees on the Mandalay Hills. You touch down with ease on a crystal clear day, and relax as your plane is refueled for the next stage of your journey.
You soon are ready to take off again, and it’s another trip over steep hills, as your course changes from northwest to almost due west, toward the coast of the Bay of Bengal . After a few enjoyable hours of flying, the mountains give way to a spectacular view of the littoral. At the edge of visibility, in a pink afternoon haze, you can make out the buildings and minarets of a great city – Chittagong – against the light blue of the Indian Ocean .
You land at the airfield outside Chittagong , where a prim Bengali is standing ready to greet you. He dressed more for the London Stock Exchange than rumble-tumble Chittagong – charcoal grey pin-stripe business suit, vest, bowler hat, and, incongruously, a black umbrella. There is not a cloud in the sky – just the haze of a hot afternoon.
“Aung Hla at your service, Miss Davies!” said the Bengali man. “Mr Nesbitt -- your Uncle Edward -- sent me to greet you!”
You smile, taking off your leather flying helmet and letting your long black hair cascade around your face and down your back. The delightful day flying, and – for once – finding the contact you expected at the airfield – makes you a bit giddy with a sense of achievement.
“Thank you for coming to the airfield,” you say, smiling. “I was told you were going to meet me at the Grand Mosque!”
Aung Hla is diminuative, several inches shorter than you, but wiry, with quick black eyes and an easy smile. “Ah, yes, but after all your tribulations, Mr Nesbitt said we should take no chances and bring you safely to him.”
Your heart leaps up at the thought of finally meeting dear Uncle Ned. “Is Uncle Ned in Chittagong ? Please, take me to him!”
“That I shall, Miss Davies!” Aung Hla replies briskly. “Please, this way. I will send assistant to bring your bags later.”
You follow Aung Hla’s lead as he takes you to a waiting car, another big black saloon, but a modern, proper 1931 Alvis 12/50 saloon. Aung-Hla sits in the passenger area next to you, as a driver turns the ignition and begins the drive into Chittagong .
You marvel at the busy city, with its maze of low buildings, endless series of tiny markets for fish, produce, and goods. The car often has to slow down for pedestrian and bicycle traffic as you wind your way into the city.
You approach a giant building complex, with onion shaped spiraled domes and red walls. This must be the Grand Mosque! ”Are we meeting my uncle there?” you ask.
“No, Miss Davies, sadly, you cannot enter the mosque dressed for flying,” Aung Hla says. “We will see Mr Nesbitt in his hillside home.”
“Oh, all right,” you say, a little disappointed that you won’t be able to enjoy the splendour of the impressive mosque. Out of the corner of your eye , as you pass near one entrance to the mosque, you see a tall Westerner, grey-haired, so very familiar. It’s Uncle Ned!
“Oh!”you exclaim. “Wait! There he is!”
“You must be mistaken, Miss Davies,” Aung Hla says calmly. “Mr Nesbitt is waiting for us at home.”
You turn around and look out the back. Uncle Ned sees the car go by, recognizes it, and sees you in the back! He starts waving frantically and tries to chase after your car!
“No! I am sure it is him! He was waving at the car to stop!” you say, more insistent now.
You turn to look at Aung Hla to reason with him. You are shocked to see he is holding a gun pointed straight at you!
“What is the meaning of this?” you exclaim.
“Apologies, Miss Davies. My employer wishes to see you,” the Bengali says.
“Your employer? Uncle Ned is your employer!”
“Not any more!” says Aung Hla. “Someone is paying a higher wage!”
“I demand that you let me go!” you say, indignant and also increasingly afraid.
Aung Hla smiles slowly and crookedly as the driver accelerates through the crowds. “You are coming with us!” he says. “Turn your back to me now, Miss Davies, and put your hands behind your back!”
Aung Hla’s menacing proddings soon convince you that resistance would be foolhardy in the extreme. You comply reluctantly, putting your hands behind your back where the villain can easily bind them. You feel strong cords being looped around your wrists, your shoulders sagging as you realize that once again you have fallen into a trap.
“Uncle Ned will stop you!” you vow defiantly, twisting your wrists pointlessly, testing your bonds and finding them tight and unyielding.
“I doubt that!” says the Bengali, chuckling as the car drives up in front of a freight area in the rear of the Chittagong train station. Unlike the passenger entrance in front, which is chaotic enough but at least a public space, the freight stalls in back resemble little more than an enormous loading dock, with a vast, labyrinthine open air market in goods legal and illegal spreading out from the rail platforms.
“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice quavering with alarm. “I demand that you let me g—ummmppphhhhffff!” Your plea is cut short as Aung Hla stuffs a wad of cloth in your mouth, filling it up with a stale taste of rough hemp and dust. He thrusts a scarf between your teeth and pulls the ends into a tight cleave, sealing the gag in. You feel the corners of your mouth pulled back as he tightens the cleave mercilessly.
“Mmpphhfff!” you beg, now frightened at the sinister intentions of your new captor. You try to kick as the car comes to a halt, hoping to make a desperate bid for help from the car. But Aung Hla is too fast for you, and pulls your legs up hard on the seat, forcing you into an almost reclining position as he ties your booted ankles together.
“Heh heh heh, no more trouble from you, Miss Davies!” he hisses as he knots your ankle bonds. You squirm, desperately but hopelessly, but the ropes holding you are far to strong and tight for you to have even the slightest chance of escape!
The driver opens the rear door to the saloon and spreads a luxurious Persian Qom rug on the ground in front of the door. The driver and Aung Hla quickly carry you out of the automobile and place you athwart the carpet at one end. They then start to roll you up! In an instant you are wrapped up in the carpet, unable to move at all, barely able to breathe!
You feel yourself being lifted and carried. You hear the squawking of the vendors outside the train station, then the incomprehensibly vague calls on the speakers of the stationmasters, then you know you are being lifted into a train compartment. Suddenly the raucous and confusing sounds and smells are gone. All is quiet. You feel yourself being placed on a floor. Then, without warning, the carpet is unceremoniously unwound and you are flung, bound and gagged, onto the floor of what must be a private car on a train!
Your eyes adjust to the light, after having been in the dark rolled up in the carpet for some time. You are in a sumptuously decorated room, with brocaded drapery over the window and oak paneling on the walls. Nautically themed oil paintings combine with Hindu silk screen prints to give a bizarrely exotic, though culturally hybrid, feel to the room. It is all very overblown, very out of date Anglo-Indian style of the Diamond Jubilee – sleek Art Deco has not seen the light of day here yet!
You have little time to assess the retro taste of your captors, for Aung Hla and the driver pull you up and drag you by the arms to a heavy chair bolted down on one heavy central support to the floor. The fiends take up more ropes, and quickly tie your shoulders and waist to the back of the chair. They also take your bound ankles, pull them back savagely, and lash them to the chair support. You glare at them for all the indignities you have endured.
Aung Hla nods to the driver, who departs the room. The traitor then turns to you, leaning in toward you, his hands on the arms of the chair. “Your Uncle Ned won’t save you, pretty little Emma Davies! You want to know why?”
You hear a whistle and feel the train start to move. You eyes open wide with alarm. Where are the fiends taking you?
“That’s right,” Aung Hla says. “We’re going far away from your uncle. He won’t even know what city you’re in. My employer has a special fate prepared for you!” The Bengali’s exact but accented diction lends extra menace to his threat.
“Mmmpphhff!” you say, squirming in your tight and unbreakable bonds.
“Those nice men in Chiang Mai did not betray you, Emma!” the villain says smugly. “They really thought I was trustworthy. I was going to abduct you in the Grand Mosque, but your uncle announced that he would make a surprise appearance – it seems he had heard of your perils and had decided to make sure you were safe in Chittagong . That meant a change of plans for me – so I met you at the airfield instead.”
You squirm some more, already knowing that escape is impossible. You mew into your gag, hoping that Aung Hla can be convinced to rejoin your side. Aung Hla grins evilly as you struggle, but your sad, pleading eyes and pathetic writhing seem not to affect him.
“I will leave you here, Miss Davies. My employer will surely want to see you soon. Don’t go wandering…hah hah hah hah!”
You glower as Aung Hla leaves the room. You hear the door lock. You resume your desperate struggles, but all you do is make the ropes bite into your delicate wrists. Your leather boots squeak as you tug and twist with yoru legs in futile attempts to free your ankles.
The train is now chugging along nicely – although the curtains are drawn, you must be out of the city now – on your way to a dubious destination.
You’ve got to find a way out! You look around the room, but there is no implement that could possibly be used to cut your way free. You tug firmly at your bonds, and try to tip the chair over with your body weight – anything to give you some hope of freedom. Nothing works. You slump in your chair, defeated and as helpless as ever!
The train maintains a steady clackety clack over the ramshackle rails of the Raj. You start to sob, dejected and hopeless.
After some time miserably tied to the chair, you hear the door unlock. In steps a tall bony man with a thin mustache – a man you recognize from Hong Kong: Osgoode!
“Good day, Miss Davies!” Osgoode said, pouring himself a cognac into a snifter and sitting deftly in another chair, admiring you in your captivity. “I’d offer you a drink, but…” he let his sentence die with a mocking smile. “Don’t you enjoy the romance of trains? The thrill of unknown destinations, exotic locales….”
You look into his beady eyes and see nothing but evil, avarice, and despite in them. You are chilled to the bone – you are utterly in the clutches of this unspeakable fiend! You look away, fighting back the urge to cry.
Osgoode continues. “You’re going to die, Emma. You know that, I hope. You’ve been lucky so far, but now – I will make sure of it personally – you are going to die.”
You shoot a look of frustration and rage and him and thrash in your bonds, squealing through your gag . The lawyer laughs as you exhaust yourself.
“Emma, your last voyage, currently underway, is up the Ganges Plain, toward New Delhi . We are going a little beyond Delhi , where we have a special feast awaiting you! Now, I am afraid we want you refreshed for your final appearance, so I think now is about the right time for a nap, don’t you think?”
You moan and shake your head, but Osgoode has a white rag ready, along with a bottle of chloroform. He soaks the rag, and clamps it over your nose and mouth. You squirm, trying to avoid the soporific fumes, but bound as you are you cannot resist for long. Soon he has the rag over your nose and mouth, you inhale as you must, and immediately begin to feel sleepy. In a matter of moments, you slump, unconscious, in the chair.
…
Your eyes flutter as you begin to awaken. You are outdoors. A soft breeze wafts across your body as it reclines on wicker of some kind. Your clothes shift gently in the cool, pleasant zephyr….You realize you are no longer in your flying outfit. Your leather jacket, jodhurs, and boots are gone. You are wearing something silk, something layered, soft – tight across the uppers arms and chest, flowing elsewhere. You look down. You are dressed in a beautiful violet coloured sari.
You try to get up. At that moment the pleasantness is gone, for you realize you are tightly bound, your arms over your head, your ankles tied together and also lashed down to the wicker cot – or frame. You are barefoot, save for small bells strapped like a bracelet around your ankles. The sari is so diaphanous you feel almost naked in places– silly, as the violet silk is quite opaque and your clothing both sensuous and modest.
You try to call for help, but you are tightly cleave gagged, as before. You look around -- and are dumbstruck at the vision to your left.
A vast courtyard in white marble surrounds an elongated rectangular pool. On the far side of the esplanade is the most famous building in Asia – the white marble walls, the delicate, domed architecture. All of a sudden it hits you – the location, the wicker, the reason for the sari.
You are tied to a funeral pyre in front of the Taj Mahal.
You start to squirm desperately, hoping the wicker is soft enough to bend or break. But your efforts are in vain. You are inextricably tied on top of a pile of wicker, firewood, and other combustibles.
You look to the right and see Osgoode climbing the ziggurat of wood atop which you are trapped. “Ah Emma, I have arranged a special celebration for you. You may know that in some Hindu families, when the husband dies, the wife is burned alive as part of his funeral. Ah, you say, but you are not married? A mere technicality. You see, I found a family where the wife, reasonably not wanting to be immolated, fled to Nepal . The family felt that they were dishonoured unless someone would be willing to take the wife’s place. I volunteered you, my dear!”
You squeal in horror and arch your back helplessly in more attempts to find a weakness in your bonds. But there is none!
“No one can save you now, Emma. You’ll be happy to know, the family thinks you’re prettier than the girl who fled. So you are advancing their karma. And of course, with you dead, I’ll get Ned’s money, so in a way you’re going to advance my karma, too!”
You look at Osgoode with desperate, pleading eyes. But the greedy lawyer merely wants to savour his victory.
“Ah, I think the procession is coming. Enjoy this quaint heathen ceremony. I know I will!”
You see a large solemn procession of Indians, men in saffron shirts and white trousers, each bearing lit torches. Weeping and wailing women follow them, all heading toward you….
Is this the end? Is Emma doomed to be a Hindu sacrifice? Stay turned for the answers to these burning questions!
(When we last left Emma, she had been brusquely kidnapped at Chiang Mai airfield, her volunteer protector, Serge Hainault, left for dead in front of her aeroplane. Whisked off to the jungle, she was now tied up in a coracle heading straight for the deadly rocks of the Huai Kaew waterfall!)
Tightly tied in your fetching travel outfit of a brown cropped leather jacket, form fitting cream jodhpurs and sleek leather boots, you squirm and twist desperately, but helplessly, as the little boat drifts downstream to your doom. Your filthy cleave gag stifles any chance of calling for help; not that there is anyone in this wilderness to hear you anyway. You can only look up at the canopy of tall trees which recede as you float downriver. The sound of the waterfall getting louder is the only hint of the terrible danger you are in. Were it not for that, your situation would be surprisingly peaceful!
But somewhere, above your head, the rapids are approaching. You twist and turn in more futile efforts to escape, but the fiends have bound you far too tightly. Once again, you are in desperate peril! Your blue eyes well up with tears, turning them to sapphires of despair as you realize how hopeless it all is. Even Serge – poor Serge! – can’t save you now!
As the stream picks up the little flat-bottomed coracle starts to spin in the eddies of the increasingly turbulent stream. The boat spins 180 degrees, giving you a momentary look at the hellish, roiling waters no more than a hundred yards ahead of you! Then the boat spins back, giving you a view only of the peaceful river upstream. But now you can link the sound of the falls with the distance to them, making your exact state of peril abundantly clear and knowable!
You rock your shoulders to and fro, tugging at your wrist bonds, flexing your legs in more pointless efforts to loosen your fiendishly tight restraints. No use at all! Your boots squeak as you rub them in their close bonds, and the cords dig into your wrists as you strain with desperate efforts. But it’s absolutely hopeless!
The coracle starts to spin around more and more as you approach the falls, giving you a giddy view of the banks, the river, the nearing waterfall! The roar of the falling water is the only constant, as it grows in volume and menace! You are maybe 60 yards, then 50, then 40 with each turn of the little boat! You can’t help sobbing in frustration and fear as you writhe impotently, bound so helplessly in your sleek outfit in the drifting coracle!
It all looks hopeless now, You surrender to you fate, hoping it won’t hurt as much as it seems it might. The little boat starts rocking as well as turning as the stream turbulence mounts. The roar of the rapids is infernally loud now, drowning out even your own thoughts as you are petrified in pure mortal terror of you imminent destruction!
One more spin brings the sickening realization that you are now less than 30 yards from the rapids. The little coracles rocks, shot left and right by the swirling eddies as well as occasionally making terrifying accelerations and sudden decelerations toward gnashing rocks ahead! You think you’re going to be sick with all the queasy motions that are ever more erratic. Your chest heaves with a massive gasping sob at the…the….unfairness of it all!
At that moment, you hear a rough rasping sound at the bottom of the boat, as wood grates on rock. The rapids are almost upon you! You are spun around violently as one side of the coracle runs aground but the other is shot forward, spinning the keel-less craft like a top, careening wildly, As it spins it tilts downstream, giving you a horrifying view of the hellish maw of rocks that are now right in front of you! Then just as suddenly the boat bounces off a submerged rock in the stream, and is thrust like a slingshot off to the side, where the coracle is cast upon shallow shale near the bank. The coracle rolls and yaws, then…..stops! Miraculously, the boat has run aground just before the lip of the rapids! You can’t see it, but you can just imagine the flat bed of rock shimmering just under the surface of the water, holding you back, however tenuously, from your destruction!
You heave a sigh of relief, before you realize that your salvation is only temporary. The stream continues to tug the coracle away from the rocky shelf on which it now lies. The river is so turbulent, one false shift of weight at the wrong moment could send you back out into the main current of the river, and over the edge! You squirm gingerly in your tight bonds, unwilling to struggle too hard to free yourself in case your very exertions take the boat of its impromptu moorings! Oh, it’d just torture, not being able to really try to get free, but knowing that if you don’t, you still might be carried into the stream!
You wriggle as much as you dare while the coracle swings back and forth in the partial current. You shudder every time it seems that the boat is about to break free of the shale. But it’s hopeless: this is almost worse than just getting it over with and going over the edge to your demise!
You immediately try to recant that thought as a particularly strong swirl of current lifts the boat up a fraction of an inch too far – and you can feel the coracle start to grind its way off the river bed! You scream involuntarily into your gag, helpless at the end, as the boat is unclenched from the rock!
At that moment, when all seems lost, you hear something heavy and made of metal fall into your little boat, by your bound feet, with a firm clank sound, You are delirious with terror , but to your surprise, the boat is suddenly stopped in its tracks, held in place at the far end of the coracle. It takes you a moment to comprehend, under the circumstances, but the boat is being reeled to shore! The metal object was some sort of grappling hook thrown at the last second to save you!
You look up, and see Serge, of all people, his head roughly bandaged, pulling you to safety. His clothes are torn and bloodied. He staggers to the edge of the river bank once your boat is safely aground, and he kneels into the water to rip off your gag.
“Serge! Oh, thank you!” you stammer, unable to say any more, so overcome are you at your last minute reprieve from disaster!
Serge looks down at you, with labored panting as he smiles with as much aplomb as he can muster. He tries to doff his hat to you, but only rustles his bandage and winces with pain as he does so. He recovers quickly, and says “Apologies, mademoiselle, for being so late with your rescue. My injuries…..” he reels for a moment just thinking about them.
At that moment you see several Asian men coming up behind him. It might be the goons who kidnapped you! “Serge! Look out behind you!” you shout. Serge slowly gets up to his feet and wheels around in a parody of drunkenness brought on by shock and blood loss.
He chuckles. “My dear Miss Davies, these are a delegation from Sang Ka Lok Ceramics – the real delegation! May I present Mr Tirin Swamasrikreunbpata; Mr Kiet Coirayadaram, and Mr Daw Kruensridat.” The three lean but short men bow politely. Tirin seems oldest, with a face beginning to show lines from the sun. Kiet and Daw are junior, but smiling and seemingly unstressed despite the desperate race to save you. All three have kindly, honest faces.
You twist a little in your bonds. “I’d shake your hands, gentlemen, but….” The Thai men jump to your aid and immediately start untying you.
Serge says, “And now, my dear….if you will forgive my appalling manners, I must pass out now.” Exhausted, he crumbles to the ground as the Thais lift you out of the boat. You are unsteady on your feet for a moment but you rush over to Serge.
“We’ve got to get him to a hospital!” you exclaim.
“Yes, but he would not hear of it until you were rescued,” says Tirin, who guides you away from the river bank while the other two lift Serge up to his feet and walk him away from the river.
“But…how did you find me?” you ask.
“We arrived to find Monsieur Hainault lying on the ground. We bandaged him up and he said you were in great danger. So we followed the road and from a distance saw the bad men placing you in the boat. We immediately deduced their plans, but they were too many and far too heavily armed for us to challenge. We raced downstream to stop your boat before…..”
You are led to another large automobile. Serge is in a daze as Kiet and Daw place him in the back of the automobile. Tirin gently guides you into the seat in front of Serge. “We shall tend to him at the clinic next to the factory.”
You look worriedly at Serge, who is very pale from blood loss.
“Have no fear, Achara,” Tirin says. “He will be all right. But he will have to rest here for many days, perhaps weeks.”
You are reassured. “What did you call me?’ you ask innocently.
“Achara – it is a name for you, it means ‘pretty angel’,” Tirin says with a gracious smile that is meant to say, “you are safe now.”
You blush from the compliment. “Thank you,” you say softly.
“Mai ben rai,” says Tirin. “That’s a handy phrase in Thai by the way – it means anything from “don’t mention it” to “it’s OK” to “don’t worry about it”.”
“How do you say thank you?” you ask.
The Thais beam. “As a girl you say ‘khorb khun kaa’.”
“Then khorb khun kaa for finding me in time!” you say.
You drive by a huge Buddhist temple complex whose exterior is entirely covered in gold. It is a stupefying sight, with rows upon rows of statues around the perimeter of the main building. “That is Wat Doi Suthep,” Kiet explains from the back as your jaw nearly drops at the magnificence of it.
You head into town and every so often, between low rise buildings, another massive temple will suddenly emerge around a corner. One is exceedingly delicate, with ornately painted walls and a separate chedi of stone that sweeps up into a golden spire. You guides tell you this is Wat Chiang Men – the oldest temple in the city.
And then you see another beautiful temple, this one like waves of stone piled up to the sky. “Wat Chedi Luang,” observes Tirin. You soon cross a river – the Mae Ping – and head into a more modern and spread out part of the city.
You are soon at a huge complex that you quickly understand to be the Ceramics factory. Once inside the gates of the immense grounds, with soothing trees in lining the street and low buildings housing the ceramics works, the car heads to the left toward a white washed building that is clearly the factory infirmary. “Monsieur Hainault will have the best care here,” Tirin says as the car pulls up to the front of the infirmary. Kiet and Daw help orderlies get Serge onto a canvas stretcher; he is whisked into the inside of the building. “There is little you can do for your friend now. Perhaps I could give you the tour of Sang Ka Lok, as intended by your uncle, as a way of taking your mind off such a terrible event as occurred earlier?”
You smile, and despite it somehow seeming wrong to leave Serge, you realize it is best if you check on him after he has had rest and attention. You agree to a tour.
Tirin walks your through the impressive kilns and sculpting wheels, showing you the myriad varieties of wares for which the factory is justly renowned. Your mind is still on your ordeal, though. You ask Tirin, “Do you know who those men were who attacked us today?”
Tirin pauses. “Although Thailand is prosperous, times are hard nearby. Men from Laos and Cambodia come across the border, especially in the north where the terrain is more rugged and where the ethnicities are more mixed. Here in Chiang Mai all sorts can mix freely without scrutiny. The men who attacked you are known brigands – bad men, who will hire themselves out for bad work. The question you should ask is: who hired them?”
You puzzle over that question through the rest of the tour. Who would have a reason to eliminate you, especially in a way that would seem like an accident? The only thing you can think of that would be worth going to that trouble would be Uncle Ned’s fortune!
All of a sudden it dawns on you – it is so obvious: nearly being sold into slavery in Hong Kong, the horrible attempted sacrifice at Hue , and now this crude attempt at eliminating you. Someone else must be in line for the fortune! But it can’t be a family member – Uncle Ned has no other family, and….
Osgoode. It’s so obvious now. The perfidious lawyer is behind it all! You suddenly feel very vulnerable, out in the wilds of Asia , your only protector (whom you have known for all of 48 hours) hospitalized, and an enemy able to assault you from a thousand miles away through a network of henchmen and ruthless mercenaries.
You turn to Tirin. “I think I know who is behind this – Uncle Ned’s lawyer, Osgoode.”
“That is bad,” your gracious Thai host replies. “You should not stay here for long. Osgoode was always a problem for us – he has many servants here.”
Your heart sinks. “What can I do?”
“You are not far from India now – British territory, and farther away from Osgoode. I know that Edward-kun did not entrust his factories in India to Osgoode, but ran them directly. I think you will be safer there.”
“And Serge?” you ask hopefully.
“Monsieur Hainault will have to stay here. He cannot move. Emma-kun, you must be brave. We can escort you to the airfield and get you out of here. I was meant to tell you that your uncle meant you to go from here to Chittagong , in Burma , where his assistant, Aung-Hla, will guide you. Meet him at the Great Mosque!”
“Thank you, Tirin-kun,” you say, picking up on the honorifics. You are led to a spacious if Spartan room inside the factory grounds. At least it’s safe, with thick walls and loyal personnel guarding you as you rest.
You have a delicious Thai meal that night: tom kha gai (chicken and coconut soup) , hor muk (steamed fish in banana leaves; duck jungle curry with sticky rice, pad puk ruam mit (mixed vegetables in soy sauce) and khao neow mu-muang (mango with sweet rice) for dessert. You eat eagerly after your latest tribulations, but are impressed with the emphasis on presentation – the meal in that respect is to your mind almost European.
You sleep like a log in the cool and pleasant air of the highlands. Refreshed, you check in on Serge after the morning. You thank him again for his rescuing you – twice. “Think nothing of it, mademoiselle – someone so fair will always be rescued, the universe requires it.” Serge groans as even this required effort. “But cherie, I can no longer escort you. You must make your way to Burma , and then to India proper, as Tirin suggests. You will be safer under British law.”
The next morning, a large contingent of personnel from the ceramics factory guides you to the air strip. They examine every inch of the De Havilland to make sure it has not been sabotaged; satisfied, they allow you to board it. You are once again in your sleek and tight fitting flying outfit, and for all your justified trepidation, you want to see this through. By now you are worried about Uncle Ned – perhaps he is in trouble, too?
The propeller of the De Havilland Tiger Moth begins to spin as the engine sputters to life, then emits a healthy, happy droning sound. Your companions remove the blocks form the aeroplane’s wheels. You wave to them as you taxi to the end of the air strip, and take off into a clear blue morning. You have a spectacular and uneventful flight over the lush mountains of the Shan States that form the border between Siam and Burma . In a few hours you cross over the watershed, and are once again in British air space, deep valleys of glittering blue streams cutting into verdant sharp hills and uplands . You relax a little – you are now in the territory of the Raj – Osgoode would hardly dare assault you now!
You descend into the lush and humid valley of the Irrawaddy, toward the white city of Mandalay for refueling. You sweep gracefully over the huge white stupas of the Sandamani Paya, a startlingly beautiful Buddhist complex set amidst deep green trees on the Mandalay Hills. You touch down with ease on a crystal clear day, and relax as your plane is refueled for the next stage of your journey.
You soon are ready to take off again, and it’s another trip over steep hills, as your course changes from northwest to almost due west, toward the coast of the Bay of Bengal . After a few enjoyable hours of flying, the mountains give way to a spectacular view of the littoral. At the edge of visibility, in a pink afternoon haze, you can make out the buildings and minarets of a great city – Chittagong – against the light blue of the Indian Ocean .
You land at the airfield outside Chittagong , where a prim Bengali is standing ready to greet you. He dressed more for the London Stock Exchange than rumble-tumble Chittagong – charcoal grey pin-stripe business suit, vest, bowler hat, and, incongruously, a black umbrella. There is not a cloud in the sky – just the haze of a hot afternoon.
“Aung Hla at your service, Miss Davies!” said the Bengali man. “Mr Nesbitt -- your Uncle Edward -- sent me to greet you!”
You smile, taking off your leather flying helmet and letting your long black hair cascade around your face and down your back. The delightful day flying, and – for once – finding the contact you expected at the airfield – makes you a bit giddy with a sense of achievement.
“Thank you for coming to the airfield,” you say, smiling. “I was told you were going to meet me at the Grand Mosque!”
Aung Hla is diminuative, several inches shorter than you, but wiry, with quick black eyes and an easy smile. “Ah, yes, but after all your tribulations, Mr Nesbitt said we should take no chances and bring you safely to him.”
Your heart leaps up at the thought of finally meeting dear Uncle Ned. “Is Uncle Ned in Chittagong ? Please, take me to him!”
“That I shall, Miss Davies!” Aung Hla replies briskly. “Please, this way. I will send assistant to bring your bags later.”
You follow Aung Hla’s lead as he takes you to a waiting car, another big black saloon, but a modern, proper 1931 Alvis 12/50 saloon. Aung-Hla sits in the passenger area next to you, as a driver turns the ignition and begins the drive into Chittagong .
You marvel at the busy city, with its maze of low buildings, endless series of tiny markets for fish, produce, and goods. The car often has to slow down for pedestrian and bicycle traffic as you wind your way into the city.
You approach a giant building complex, with onion shaped spiraled domes and red walls. This must be the Grand Mosque! ”Are we meeting my uncle there?” you ask.
“No, Miss Davies, sadly, you cannot enter the mosque dressed for flying,” Aung Hla says. “We will see Mr Nesbitt in his hillside home.”
“Oh, all right,” you say, a little disappointed that you won’t be able to enjoy the splendour of the impressive mosque. Out of the corner of your eye , as you pass near one entrance to the mosque, you see a tall Westerner, grey-haired, so very familiar. It’s Uncle Ned!
“Oh!”you exclaim. “Wait! There he is!”
“You must be mistaken, Miss Davies,” Aung Hla says calmly. “Mr Nesbitt is waiting for us at home.”
You turn around and look out the back. Uncle Ned sees the car go by, recognizes it, and sees you in the back! He starts waving frantically and tries to chase after your car!
“No! I am sure it is him! He was waving at the car to stop!” you say, more insistent now.
You turn to look at Aung Hla to reason with him. You are shocked to see he is holding a gun pointed straight at you!
“What is the meaning of this?” you exclaim.
“Apologies, Miss Davies. My employer wishes to see you,” the Bengali says.
“Your employer? Uncle Ned is your employer!”
“Not any more!” says Aung Hla. “Someone is paying a higher wage!”
“I demand that you let me go!” you say, indignant and also increasingly afraid.
Aung Hla smiles slowly and crookedly as the driver accelerates through the crowds. “You are coming with us!” he says. “Turn your back to me now, Miss Davies, and put your hands behind your back!”
Aung Hla’s menacing proddings soon convince you that resistance would be foolhardy in the extreme. You comply reluctantly, putting your hands behind your back where the villain can easily bind them. You feel strong cords being looped around your wrists, your shoulders sagging as you realize that once again you have fallen into a trap.
“Uncle Ned will stop you!” you vow defiantly, twisting your wrists pointlessly, testing your bonds and finding them tight and unyielding.
“I doubt that!” says the Bengali, chuckling as the car drives up in front of a freight area in the rear of the Chittagong train station. Unlike the passenger entrance in front, which is chaotic enough but at least a public space, the freight stalls in back resemble little more than an enormous loading dock, with a vast, labyrinthine open air market in goods legal and illegal spreading out from the rail platforms.
“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice quavering with alarm. “I demand that you let me g—ummmppphhhhffff!” Your plea is cut short as Aung Hla stuffs a wad of cloth in your mouth, filling it up with a stale taste of rough hemp and dust. He thrusts a scarf between your teeth and pulls the ends into a tight cleave, sealing the gag in. You feel the corners of your mouth pulled back as he tightens the cleave mercilessly.
“Mmpphhfff!” you beg, now frightened at the sinister intentions of your new captor. You try to kick as the car comes to a halt, hoping to make a desperate bid for help from the car. But Aung Hla is too fast for you, and pulls your legs up hard on the seat, forcing you into an almost reclining position as he ties your booted ankles together.
“Heh heh heh, no more trouble from you, Miss Davies!” he hisses as he knots your ankle bonds. You squirm, desperately but hopelessly, but the ropes holding you are far to strong and tight for you to have even the slightest chance of escape!
The driver opens the rear door to the saloon and spreads a luxurious Persian Qom rug on the ground in front of the door. The driver and Aung Hla quickly carry you out of the automobile and place you athwart the carpet at one end. They then start to roll you up! In an instant you are wrapped up in the carpet, unable to move at all, barely able to breathe!
You feel yourself being lifted and carried. You hear the squawking of the vendors outside the train station, then the incomprehensibly vague calls on the speakers of the stationmasters, then you know you are being lifted into a train compartment. Suddenly the raucous and confusing sounds and smells are gone. All is quiet. You feel yourself being placed on a floor. Then, without warning, the carpet is unceremoniously unwound and you are flung, bound and gagged, onto the floor of what must be a private car on a train!
Your eyes adjust to the light, after having been in the dark rolled up in the carpet for some time. You are in a sumptuously decorated room, with brocaded drapery over the window and oak paneling on the walls. Nautically themed oil paintings combine with Hindu silk screen prints to give a bizarrely exotic, though culturally hybrid, feel to the room. It is all very overblown, very out of date Anglo-Indian style of the Diamond Jubilee – sleek Art Deco has not seen the light of day here yet!
You have little time to assess the retro taste of your captors, for Aung Hla and the driver pull you up and drag you by the arms to a heavy chair bolted down on one heavy central support to the floor. The fiends take up more ropes, and quickly tie your shoulders and waist to the back of the chair. They also take your bound ankles, pull them back savagely, and lash them to the chair support. You glare at them for all the indignities you have endured.
Aung Hla nods to the driver, who departs the room. The traitor then turns to you, leaning in toward you, his hands on the arms of the chair. “Your Uncle Ned won’t save you, pretty little Emma Davies! You want to know why?”
You hear a whistle and feel the train start to move. You eyes open wide with alarm. Where are the fiends taking you?
“That’s right,” Aung Hla says. “We’re going far away from your uncle. He won’t even know what city you’re in. My employer has a special fate prepared for you!” The Bengali’s exact but accented diction lends extra menace to his threat.
“Mmmpphhff!” you say, squirming in your tight and unbreakable bonds.
“Those nice men in Chiang Mai did not betray you, Emma!” the villain says smugly. “They really thought I was trustworthy. I was going to abduct you in the Grand Mosque, but your uncle announced that he would make a surprise appearance – it seems he had heard of your perils and had decided to make sure you were safe in Chittagong . That meant a change of plans for me – so I met you at the airfield instead.”
You squirm some more, already knowing that escape is impossible. You mew into your gag, hoping that Aung Hla can be convinced to rejoin your side. Aung Hla grins evilly as you struggle, but your sad, pleading eyes and pathetic writhing seem not to affect him.
“I will leave you here, Miss Davies. My employer will surely want to see you soon. Don’t go wandering…hah hah hah hah!”
You glower as Aung Hla leaves the room. You hear the door lock. You resume your desperate struggles, but all you do is make the ropes bite into your delicate wrists. Your leather boots squeak as you tug and twist with yoru legs in futile attempts to free your ankles.
The train is now chugging along nicely – although the curtains are drawn, you must be out of the city now – on your way to a dubious destination.
You’ve got to find a way out! You look around the room, but there is no implement that could possibly be used to cut your way free. You tug firmly at your bonds, and try to tip the chair over with your body weight – anything to give you some hope of freedom. Nothing works. You slump in your chair, defeated and as helpless as ever!
The train maintains a steady clackety clack over the ramshackle rails of the Raj. You start to sob, dejected and hopeless.
After some time miserably tied to the chair, you hear the door unlock. In steps a tall bony man with a thin mustache – a man you recognize from Hong Kong: Osgoode!
“Good day, Miss Davies!” Osgoode said, pouring himself a cognac into a snifter and sitting deftly in another chair, admiring you in your captivity. “I’d offer you a drink, but…” he let his sentence die with a mocking smile. “Don’t you enjoy the romance of trains? The thrill of unknown destinations, exotic locales….”
You look into his beady eyes and see nothing but evil, avarice, and despite in them. You are chilled to the bone – you are utterly in the clutches of this unspeakable fiend! You look away, fighting back the urge to cry.
Osgoode continues. “You’re going to die, Emma. You know that, I hope. You’ve been lucky so far, but now – I will make sure of it personally – you are going to die.”
You shoot a look of frustration and rage and him and thrash in your bonds, squealing through your gag . The lawyer laughs as you exhaust yourself.
“Emma, your last voyage, currently underway, is up the Ganges Plain, toward New Delhi . We are going a little beyond Delhi , where we have a special feast awaiting you! Now, I am afraid we want you refreshed for your final appearance, so I think now is about the right time for a nap, don’t you think?”
You moan and shake your head, but Osgoode has a white rag ready, along with a bottle of chloroform. He soaks the rag, and clamps it over your nose and mouth. You squirm, trying to avoid the soporific fumes, but bound as you are you cannot resist for long. Soon he has the rag over your nose and mouth, you inhale as you must, and immediately begin to feel sleepy. In a matter of moments, you slump, unconscious, in the chair.
…
Your eyes flutter as you begin to awaken. You are outdoors. A soft breeze wafts across your body as it reclines on wicker of some kind. Your clothes shift gently in the cool, pleasant zephyr….You realize you are no longer in your flying outfit. Your leather jacket, jodhurs, and boots are gone. You are wearing something silk, something layered, soft – tight across the uppers arms and chest, flowing elsewhere. You look down. You are dressed in a beautiful violet coloured sari.
You try to get up. At that moment the pleasantness is gone, for you realize you are tightly bound, your arms over your head, your ankles tied together and also lashed down to the wicker cot – or frame. You are barefoot, save for small bells strapped like a bracelet around your ankles. The sari is so diaphanous you feel almost naked in places– silly, as the violet silk is quite opaque and your clothing both sensuous and modest.
You try to call for help, but you are tightly cleave gagged, as before. You look around -- and are dumbstruck at the vision to your left.
A vast courtyard in white marble surrounds an elongated rectangular pool. On the far side of the esplanade is the most famous building in Asia – the white marble walls, the delicate, domed architecture. All of a sudden it hits you – the location, the wicker, the reason for the sari.
You are tied to a funeral pyre in front of the Taj Mahal.
You start to squirm desperately, hoping the wicker is soft enough to bend or break. But your efforts are in vain. You are inextricably tied on top of a pile of wicker, firewood, and other combustibles.
You look to the right and see Osgoode climbing the ziggurat of wood atop which you are trapped. “Ah Emma, I have arranged a special celebration for you. You may know that in some Hindu families, when the husband dies, the wife is burned alive as part of his funeral. Ah, you say, but you are not married? A mere technicality. You see, I found a family where the wife, reasonably not wanting to be immolated, fled to Nepal . The family felt that they were dishonoured unless someone would be willing to take the wife’s place. I volunteered you, my dear!”
You squeal in horror and arch your back helplessly in more attempts to find a weakness in your bonds. But there is none!
“No one can save you now, Emma. You’ll be happy to know, the family thinks you’re prettier than the girl who fled. So you are advancing their karma. And of course, with you dead, I’ll get Ned’s money, so in a way you’re going to advance my karma, too!”
You look at Osgoode with desperate, pleading eyes. But the greedy lawyer merely wants to savour his victory.
“Ah, I think the procession is coming. Enjoy this quaint heathen ceremony. I know I will!”
You see a large solemn procession of Indians, men in saffron shirts and white trousers, each bearing lit torches. Weeping and wailing women follow them, all heading toward you….
Is this the end? Is Emma doomed to be a Hindu sacrifice? Stay turned for the answers to these burning questions!
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