(When we last left Emma, she was about to be sacrificed on a funeral pyre...)
You writhe helplessly in your tight rope bonds, lashed decoratively to the top of a small tower of wood and wicker, as a procession of grieving Indians moves toward you, the men bearing torches to turn that same ziggurat into a funeral pyre – yours! Behind you, the Taj Mahal in all its splendour begins to turn a delicate rose colour as the setting sun seems to make the marbel glow – a beautiful foreshadowing of the terrible immolation about to befall you!
Osgoode continues to gloat as the procession advances down the long plaza toward you. “In theory, the practice of sati -- wives burned on their husbands pyres -- was banned in 1850 by Her Majesty’s Administration,” Osgoode says, placing a beautiful violet orchid in your hair at your left ear, “but try telling these people that. Ah, look!” he says, directing your attention to two men in the middle of the procession, “they have already carved your mahasati -- your ‘heroine stone’ as they call it. In other words, your tombstone!”
Two men in saffron robes and turbans carry a heavy stele of granite carved with words in Sanskrit and depictions of your heroic – though involuntary – self sacrifice. The crowd is beginning to gather around you, weeping and chanting as they prepare to set you on fire!
“Who says the locals aren’t industrious?” Osgoode says, checking your bonds one last time to make sure they are still tight. He needn’t have bothered – your struggles have proven to you how hopeless your situation is. The ropes bite into your bare wrists and ankles; the gag is making your mouth parched. Your eyes well up with tears as Osgoode blows you a cruelly sarcastic kiss. You turn away to deny him the satisfaction of seeing your distress, and your eyes are once again arrested by the majesty of the Taj Mahal. You dissolve in a miserable combination of fear and loathing toward the villain, and awesome insignificance before the majesty of the architectural wonder.
The nasty lawyer lets a smug smile emerge from his thin lips as he takes hold of your chin with his bony fingers, and forces you to look back at him. “How ironic that the Mughals who built this were Moslems, the ones who will burn you are Hindu, and I was raised a Christian. Your demise will have a true multi-faith dimension!” he says, looking you over up and down with distinctly un-Christian thoughts running through is head for a moment. But you both hear the procession has stopped, and the crowd s ready to set fire to the funeral pyre.
Osgoode lays a rose on your chest and steps down. You arch your back in reflexive fear as several large Hindu men approach your pyre with burning torches! You moan as loudly as you can in your gag, twisting and turning in your tight and unyielding rope restraints, hoping that you can convince them to reconsider!
Nothing seems to alter their determination to immolate you. The Hindus place the torches at the base of the pyre, and in short moments the dry wood and wicker at the bottom are smoking, then burst into flame! Smoke starts to rise toward you, making you cough through your gag. You close your eyes, hoping for a quick end, as you begin to feel the heat of the flames that are rising toward you!
It all seems so hopeless. You are far away from al possible help. Uncle Ned, Serge, all your protectors are gone. Even your plane is now hundreds of miles away in Chittagong . It’s a horrible way to end, so far away from home….
You feel the ropes tighten ever so slightly as the heat begins to dry them out, making them dig ever so slightly more into your skin. You barely struggle now, as you try to remain calm, and think of friends and family back in England . It should be over soon….
A commotion breaks out in the throng gathered around and below you. There is shouting, some of it angry! You open your eyes, and through the licks of flame and gasping smoke you see khaki-clad British soldiers dispersing the crowd. Others are opening fire extinguishers on the pyre, the whoosing and sputtering noise of the devices for a moment drowning out the altercation. The fire extinguishers beat down the flames on one side of the pyre, as someone bounds up toward you as if from a dream – tall, grey-haired – it’s impossible….
It’s Uncle Ned! Somehow he has found you in time! He cuts you free from the wicker frame and carries you off the pyre, in your violet sari. You throw your arms around his thick but kindly neck, curling up in his arms as he lifts you to safety!
As he lowers you onto your feet on the soft grass, you ask, “But….how did you find me?’
“My staff and I followed the car – my car! – to Chittagong station. Aung Hla and Osgoode were clever; we could not find you in that throng. But we lay in wait until the driver returned to dispose of the evidence. We caught him, and he quickly confessed all he knew. We managed to race the train to Agra – luckily the Alvis is a pretty quick saloon!”
”I can’t thank you enough for rescuing me Uncle Ned!” you say, still shaky on your feet after such a close call.
“It is I who cannot apologize enough to you, Emma!” Ned replies. “I intended this to be fun. I used my network to make sure you would have a safe adventure. I did not know that Osgoode would use that knowledge to set a trap for you. But you have succeeded more than I could ever have thought possible, and overcame more than I ever intended.You will inherit my fortune, my dear!”
You smile, exhausted but gratified. Uncle Ned’s servants bring some refreshing lassi for you to drink. You look over Ned’s shoulder as Osgoode is handcuffed and led away to justice. You sigh, satisfied and content as you reflect on your adventures.
“They’ll never believe this back home,” you say to Uncle Ned.
FINIS
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