Passion & Profession: Appendix A, Travel Adventures
In which Rev. St. John and Cpt. Aquilaine have Entirely Platonic Travel Adventures
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“What are you reading?”
“It is a commentary on the Book of Esther. Do you remember Esther, the Saviouress of the Jewish People? You read a story about her last week in Sunday School.”
“I do! She was a queen a very long time ago, back in the Old Testament, and her husband was the King of Persia, and she had a brave cousin called Mor-Mordechai.”
“Very good. That is a difficult name to pronounce.”
Muniya beamed at the Reverend. “And there was this bad man called … Āmi manē karatē pārēna, it's a strange name too, but it starts with an H … Habakkuk?”
“Haman.”
“Right, Haman! And Haman was a very bad man, very durnītiparāẏaṇa, and he wanted to kill all the Jews, but she said 'No, I won't let you, because I'm a Jew and I'm the Queen also', so Esther went and told the king, and the king said 'I love you, Esther, I will not let you and the Jews die', and then Haman got impaled. That's where they poke a stick through you, eṭā nā??”
“That is correct.”
“Do they do it to you if you are still alive?”
“Oh yes, that is the traditional way to impale someone.”
“Eeeeeew! That sounds gruesome!” 'Gruesome' was a word rapidly gaining prominence in her vocabulary, having been recently acquired from a penny-dreadful her schoolmates Sruti and Sajal had passed about their second-year class (the story involved corrupted nuns, vampires, and a ghostly skeleton that roamed the castle by night), and both men were unhappy about the eagerness with which she took to such lurid stories. St. John was somewhat less concerned, as both his sisters had read their share of Gothic novels and had turned out “pretty well, Diana especially”; the Captain desperately wished she were not quite so enthused by tales of werewolves and dashing highway robbers, and made many a futile effort to tamp down her interest. Now, hearing the direction the conversation was heading, he glanced over the top of his newspaper.
“Good God, St. John. What the devil are you teaching her?”
St. John shrugged. “It is how the story ends.”
“I am surprised she did not have nightmares from it all.”
“I do not see the point in hiding such things from her, especially not if they are found within the Holy Bible itself.”
“Perhaps you could focus on something less bloody next time?”
“Perhaps.”
The three of them sat on their private balcony, staring lazily across the muddy brown waters of the Ganges. The term 'balcony' might have been, perhaps, a touch too grand for what was effectively a patch of deck, twenty square feet in all, with a weather-stained railing and a faded piece of lattice-work that separated their precious bit of space from their neighbours. St. John claimed the wicker chair on the left; the Captain settled into the one on the right, as it gave his injured left leg more room to stretch; Muniya perched on a stool between them so she could see over the deck sides, trying not to wrinkle her sari (which would result in yet another lecture from Nurse on unladylike behaviour). The arrangement was crowded, inconvenient, and discomforting, improved only by the weather (which, in addition to being warm for a February, also had the twin virtues of being mild and dry). They tried not to complain about the close quarters, however; the army had wished to send them to Benares by carriage.
Cpt. Aquilaine, thrown into a fit of reminiscence as Muniya's eighth birthday approached, had been struck by the sudden realisation that he was due to arrive at his own personal anniversary (and a far less happy one at that); he would soon be a man who had trained new Sepoy recruits for a full five years. The more he thought on the matter, the less tolerable it became, until finally he confessed to the Reverend that he could no longer bear his position. St. John, all sympathy, suggested that the Captain give his notice; they could (he declared, frowning at the ledgers) survive on the income he earnt as Headmaster of Bow Bazar and Secretary of the Calcutta Orphanage Society. Cpt. Aquilaine, bolstered by this encouragement, had given his regrets the very next week, only to be told-as is so often the case, when a presence once taken for granted is abruptly snatched away-that he was long overdue for a promotion. And so, having marched into the Brigadier's office with every expectation of being turned out on his ear, he emerged with a salary increase of £50 per annum and the new rôle of Overseer of Sepoy Affairs. St. John declared this Providential on all three fronts: first, the Captain's new position would provide him with more interesting and satisfying duties; second, the added income would be gratefully appreciated by the household coffers, since he had not spoken in absolute truth as to the present state of their finances; third, since the Captain had not received a promotion in rank, he would not have to accustom himself to the phrase “Maj. Aquilaine.”
Naturally, the army immediately assigned Cpt. Aquilaine the task of travelling to Benares and sending back an exhaustive report on the state of recruitment, troop satisfaction, and training levels at the city's new army fort. They told him he was expected to stay and gather information for at least a month; they told him he was to travel over land, a fortnight each way; they told him he was to leave in a week. The Captain, distraught over the idea of being gone for two full months, asked the Reverend if he had any more clever ideas to share. St. John, who better understood the benefits as well as the perils of authority, promptly arranged for a sabbatical from his positions (under the argument that he hardly ever took time off, even for holidays) and used the Captain's per diem expense account to secure rooms on a steam-barge for all of them, instead. The travel time increased to three weeks in each direction, but was vastly more comfortable than jolting over dirt roads in a darkened carriage with five road-sick strangers. He shared one stateroom with his friend the Captain, and Muniya shared the adjoining one with her nurse. Muniya delighted in every aspect of her first trip out of Calcutta; in theory, Cpt. Aquilaine and the Rev. Rivers should have as well.
“Why are you reading that?”
“Because it is the Sabbath, Birdie.”
“And because you can't go to church, since we are on a boat?”
“Correct. I will spend my morning reading theological essays and praying, because I cannot worship in a proper church service.”
“Bābā doesn't go to church, ever.”
St. John gave a baleful look in the direction of the Captain's newspaper. “That is because your father does not take seriously the commandment to keep the Sabbath holy.”
“He said it was because he spends enough time on his knees already,” Muniya replied cheerfully, swinging her feet to and fro.
The Captain hastily shifted his paper and gaped over the top at his daughter; St. John gave him a horrified glare. If a man could cause injury with no more than a glance, Cpt. Aquilaine would have already gone over the railing and into the river.
“I believe, Maina-bird, that your baba also said something about not repeating that remark to anyone, and especially not to your godfather the Reverend.” The Captain spoke as calmly as was possible through tightly-clenched teeth.
“But why can't I repeat it, Bābā?”
“Because it is inappropriate,” said the Captain.
“Because it is blasphemous,” said the Reverend, simultaneously. He and the Captain made eye contact once more, and then with a disgusted noise he turned back to his book.
Muniya glanced from one stern, adult face to another, thoughtfully, before deciding that inappropriate was a far more interesting concept than blasphemous.
“What's inappropriate about it, Bābā?”
St. John stood. “I am going to take a stroll about the main deck.” Without another word, he departed, leaving the Captain to stew in a situation entirely of his own making.
“What on earth were you thinking, Marcus?” He whispered the words as strongly as he dared.
“I was thinking that she is only eight years old, and has no idea what it means. Good Lord, St. John, it was a harmless joke,” the Captain hissed back at him.
“It was nothing of the sort!” St. John wished their room was large enough for him to pace back and forth in agitation, or at least private enough for him to raise his voice. They could both feel an argument coming on, and had learnt over time that the best remedy was to simply begin the fight and affect a reconciliation, rather than allow the issues to simmer and gain in strength. As it was, however, their double-stateroom, which had sounded so promising in print, actually proved to be one long, narrow room, hardly wider than a single bed, which was then awkwardly divided; the front door led to Muniya's half, which led directly into the half her father and godfather shared, which ended in the balcony. Furthermore, they had discovered their first night aboard, to much mutual (and hushed) lamentation, that what separated them from Muniya and her nurse was a laughably thin sheet of wood, almost more curtain than wall. Cpt. Aquilaine had been on the verge of commenting that he had never yet fornicated on a boat, when they realised that they could hear every noise coming from the next room, every rustle of fabric and every sleepy sigh. During their evening walk about the decks they had agreed: they would never succeed in the requisite amount of silence necessary, and so three weeks was not an intolerable length of time to remain chaste bedfellows.
Now the consequences of their involuntary chastity were coming to the fore. The Captain looked as agitated as the Reverend felt. “You worry overmuch. She is far too young to understand such things, St. John!”
“It does not signify if she understands or not-and I can assure you, she comprehends far more of what we say than we would like to admit; what signifies is whether she repeats what she hears. How do you not see that, Marcus?” St. John struggled to keep his voice low. “She will mention something at school, one your jokes about kneeling before the Reverend in penance or whatnot, and then word shall spread that we are indeed more than friends saving on the rent, and … ” He trailed off in frustration. “We want to remain quiet and discrete. We do not want people to talk. If we do not give offence, we shall be left alone. You want this as badly as I-why do you throw it in jeopardy?”
The Captain stared at the worn floor boards. “I would never deliberately do anything perilous … you know that! But I cannot wrap my head around the idea that she is old enough to pick up on such things, let alone repeat them. It cannot have been eight years already.”
St. John relented a little; he had long ago come to discover that the Captain, having known Muniya since infancy, had not yet adjusted to the reality of her increasing maturity and intelligence. “I know how hard it must be, to remember that she is no longer a little girl. But she is almost a young lady now, and in another six years may reach womanhood, and in the meantime we must both hold in the front of our minds just how curious young ladies are about such things.”
“Are they really? I had no idea.” The Captain wrinkled his nose.
“Recall that I have sisters, Marcus! They may seem demure and feminine, but that is simply them behaving as they ought. The reality is quite the opposite.”
“You sound as if you speak from personal experience, of a sort.”
“Quite.” The Reverend smirked a little. “I have not told you much of my father, have I?”
“You have hardly said a word.”
“He and I had little in common, and where we were alike, I regretted the similarity. That is to say, he was cold and stern and harsh with us children, and boorish and uncultured in general, far more interested in farming and hunting than education. We all took after our dear mother, who was as refined a woman as could be found in those parts. She taught us, among other things, the virtue of not simply saying whatever sprang into our heads. I recall one evening, after dinner, when Mary asked why her friend Margaret O'Keefe had so many brothers and sisters. Mother replied that Catholic families are often quite large, because they believe God will bless them for their many offspring. But no sooner had she said this, then Father chimed in with: 'In other words, she's got such a brood because she spends all day flat on her back! Ha!' I heard later from Diana that Mary could not let such a remark slide, slept on her side for an entire month because she feared the possibility of 13 children like Mrs. O'Keefe, and actually enquired of our nursemaid Hannah as to why that particular posture was so conducive to expanding one's family.”
“Good Lord! Please do not tell me she was eight years or so, at the time.”
“Then I had best not say anything else, I'm afraid.”
They both started laughing, a little more loudly than was warranted for the situation. This led to other, more affectionate, gestures; soon the Reverend was busy clasping Cpt. Aquilaine's hips whilst the Captain, who never complained that he was forced to stoop, had bent down to tug at St. John's collar and kiss him needfully. They had managed a week of celibacy. They were uncertain as to whether they would successfully achieve another two.
”Āpani ki karachēna, Bābā?”
The Captain and the Reverend leapt away from each other as swiftly as a hand drops a pot too tardily discovered to be nearly red-hot.
“Muniya, how many times have I told you to knock?” Cpt. Aquilaine stared in distress at his daughter, who stood on the threshold of their stateroom. “We are not-we are simply-”
“Your father is simply helping me tie my cravat, Birdie.” St. John sounded so bland and disinterested, not even bothering to turn and face her, that for a moment the Captain himself was tempted to believe the statement. “I want to look respectable for tea, and cannot seem to manage the knot today.” Muniya's face visibly shifted from the piqued interest of a child who has caught two adults behaving in adult-like fashion to the boredom of one who remembers that 'adult-like fashion' generally means nothing more intriguing than paying the butcher's-bill or trying to make the parlour stove draw.
“But I am not certain it suits,” he continued, tugging at the silk. “Perhaps my poor neck will simply be unfashionable for the afternoon.” He slowly finished undoing the knot whilst his back was still to her, and did not turn around until the cloth was entirely loose and his arousal had faded to the point of respectability. That managed, he looked to Muniya and gave her a helpless sort of shrug.
“I can do it-will you let me do it?” She clapped her hands in sudden excitement.
“Wherever did you learn to tie a cravat?” Cpt. Aquilaine asked; the tone in his voice clearly revealing how relieved he was to have avoided more pointed questioning.
“Sruti and Sajal taught me how! They help their father with his every day before school.”
“That makes perfect sense, Birdie. And what a great help they must be to their poor crippled father, too.” Sruti and Sajal Dasbiswas were the twin daughters of Mr. Dasbiswas, who taught fifth-formers at Bow Bazar. Years ago, Mr. and Mrs. Dasbiswas had been travelling back from Benares only to suffer the too-common fate of travellers in India, bandits. Their carriage was attacked, both parents cruelly shot, and whilst Mr. Dasbiswas merely lost the use of his right arm, his wife paid the ultimate penalty for protecting her infant daughters. Their father had gone into teaching, since he could not be an engineer with only one hand, and the girls had learnt from a tender age how to cook, mend, clean, and perform all the little details their father could not effect by himself. The Captain and the Reverend could never quite decide if their influence on Muniya was for good or for ill. They encouraged her to excel at knitting and penmanship, but they also lent her penny-dreadfuls, filled her head with ghost stories, and displayed far too keen an interest in the youths their father taught.
At present, however, both men were more than glad for the distraction. St. John sat down on the edge of the bed and handed his cravat to Muniya. “I would be most happy to see how well you do.”
She discarded her dupatta into a heap on the floor and hunched over the bed, frowning in concentration, carefully smoothing and folding the triangle of fabric; while she did so, Cpt. Aquilaine sat down next to the Reverend to watch, clearly fascinated by this unknown skill his daughter possessed. Finally satisfied with the initial shaping, Muniya straightened up and began to tie it around St. John's neck. He was surprised to see how she was quite as tall as he, when he sat. As she carefully draped, measured, and redraped, biting her lower lip (St. John recognised the gesture; it was one he performed himself, when faced with a particularly intractable problem), they could hear her muttering to herself, “ … eka … apa … apa upara … mādhyamē … ” She straightened and adjusted and at last, with a little tug, stood back and said “There! I told you I could do it, Bābā.”
Cpt. Aquilaine fetched the shaving mirror from next to the wash-basin so the Reverend could admire her handiwork; both men had to then admit the odd truth-Muniya could tie a cravat as well as either of them.
“Very finely done, Birdie! Your hands possess as much of skill as mine or your baba's in this area. You must practice with some frequency.”
“Every day after school. Do you like it?”
“I certainly do. Thank you, Muniya, for helping me to look fit to take my tea.”
“You're welcome,” she muttered, blushing. She pulled at her sari awkwardly, then glanced up, gave an impish grin, and pecked him on the cheek before fleeing. St. John raised a hand to his face in surprise; he and she had always been quite fond of each other and affectionate in their own way, partially because they both understood, as if by some instinct, that they were not relations and would be better off if they did not treat each other as such. He could not recall if she had ever kissed him before. The idea that she might be growing to see him as more than her father's friend and her dutiful godfather brought warm tears to his eyes.
Cpt. Aquilaine took the Reverend's hand in his. “She is a remarkable girl, is she not?”
“Oh yes, Marcus. The finest in India, I think.”
Another week into the journey and they could not bear it. They had made good time upriver-steam-powered vessels were far superior to sail in that respect, if a bit noisy and sooty-but a fortnight in such close quarters with no chance of relief, not even individually (the notion that little more than a curtain separated them from Muniya proved wonderfully constraining), had set both men on edge. At last Cpt. Aquilaine could not abide another day, and he banished his daughter to the dining hall one morning under strict orders to practice her embroidery and not return for at least an hour. He declared that he needed the time to take a little tea and read through the available information on the new fort. Then, presented with an entire hour of privacy, he and the Reverend retired calmly to their stateroom, content in the knowledge that they were sober adults, capable of restraint and dignity.
Within three minutes of Muniya's departure, they had gulped down their tea, scalding their mouths in the process, and abandoned the plate of crumpets.
Within five minutes of Muniya's departure, they had laid aside every stitch of clothing and were struggling in vain against the temptation to make such haste that they reduced their amiable affections to the level of entirely-carnal fornication.
Within six minutes of Muniya's departure, they had abandoned that ideal and vowed that they would make a shew of aiming for the loftier plane of emotions on their second undertaking.
Within seven minutes of Muniya's departure, the barge grounded against the too-shallow bed of the River Ganges (the Plains of Uttar Pradesh having not received their accustomed amount of rain for the season), causing the entire boat and everything on it to jolt, sharply and with a loud crash, as it transitioned from steaming merrily along at five knots to stopped dead in the mud.
Within eight minutes of Muniya's departure, the Captain and the Reverend, amidst much lamentation, hastily begun to don their discarded clothing, an action far less comfortable than on previous occasions due to the now-turgid state of their proud flesh.
Within ten minutes of Muniya's departure, she burst back into her father's stateroom, sari hitched up almost to her knees so she could run, only to find him and the Reverend sitting calmly at the table, sipping tea and eating the now-cool crumpets. They looked far more placid than they felt.
“Āpani ki ēṭā manē karēna, Bābā, āpani ki manē karēna? Āmarā āṭakē āchē!” She was nearly shrieking with the excitement of the situation.
“Ladies do not run about or raise their voices, Muniya. Children should be seen, not heard.” He had apparently decided that this was as fine a time as ever to engage in a bit of child-rearing, considering how she had just flashed her bare legs at every sailor on board.
“Kintu Bābā-”
“Use English, Maina-bird, and lower your voice, please.”
Muniya clenched her fists, stomped one foot, and glared at Cpt. Aquilaine whilst growling in a manner that clearly emulated her father's temper. “Kintu Bābā! Sampūrṇa bajarā kādā kāraṇa nadī atyanta agabhīra āṭakē hala, kāraṇa ḍēka upara nābikadēra balēna yē parbata paryāpta br̥ṣṭi śītakālīna samaẏa chila nā, ebaṁ yakhana tārā bāhā druta ghūrṇana āpani saba bādāmī māṭira yē jalēra madhyē pāẏa unmathita āpa habē, ebaṁ saba ḍā'iniṁ rumē ōẏā'inēra glāsa bēśi hinsra ēbaṁ ēkaṭi prakāṇḍa biparyasta chila, ebaṁ nābikadēra balēna āmarā dina hatē pārē āsakta!”
“Lower your voice, Muniya.” The Reverend said, sharply.
The Captain and his daughter both turned to St. John in shock; St. John felt quite as surprised as they looked. I did not mean to speak up; I certainly did not mean to sound so stern. I must be more out of sorts than I had imagined. For although he had taken an active hand in Muniya's academic and spiritual education, and shewn her as much affection as was proper for a godfather and family friend (which was, incidentally, far less than he truly felt for her), he had generally left the realm of parental discipline to the Captain alone. That had been a hithertofore wise decision, if the looks on the faces of Father and Daughter Aquilaine were any basis for judgement; Cpt. Aquilaine immediately grew flushed with anger, while Muniya became tearful.
“Āpani āmāra bābā nā! Āpani āmākē ki karatē balatē pārē nā! Āmāra galābāji karabēna nā!”
“What on earth are you thinking, St. John? This is not your business.”
Self-consciousness swiftly turned to defensive indignation. “I did not mean to interfere, Marcus, but she was not being obedient, and-”
“And it is not your place to say how I deal with it!”
St. John switched to French, so Muniya would not get drawn into the rest of the fight that had swiftly reached the point of inevitability.
«Elle tourne autour du bateau et en criant comme un enfant. Je serais négligent si je n'avais pas.»
«Elle est un enfant, et je déciderai si son comportement est acceptable, pas vous.»
«Ah, c'est alors que je suis assez bon pour être son parrain et bienfaiteur, je suis absolument interdit de prendre un rôle plus actif dans son éducation?»
The room took on a sudden chill. «Ne retenez pas votre générosité dessus de ma tête comme une épée, Révérend.»
«Je ne voulais pas dire comme ça … tu sais que je n'ai pas … »
«Je sais comment vous avez promis, quand j'ai finalement accepté l'argent, que vous ne le rapportez jamais pendant un combat!»
«Et je ne pense pas que vous prenez si rapidement ses côtés contre moi, si une telle nécessité se posent!»
«Elle est ma fille, Révérend.»
«Dois-je partager votre lit, Marcus, ou suis-je simplement un ami économiser sur le loyer?»
«Arrêtez!» Muniya cried. «Il me fait peur quand vous battez!»
Both men stared aghast at her. The Captain recovered first.
“Maina-bird, what did you say?”
“I said stop it. I don't like it when you shout, Bābā.”
“Your, ah, French is so … good, Maina.”
She shrugged, entirely unimpressed with her accomplishments of language. “They teach us it every day in school. It's not hard like Latin is. What do you mean, partager votre lit?”
The Reverend tried next to redirect the conversation. “I am sorry you are frightened, Muniya, but this is an important discussion your father and I are having, and you are old enough to know better than to interrupt. We shall be done soon.”
Muniya replied with the bluntness of one who has not yet learnt to marry tact with plain speech. “You think you're my father, just because you're around all the time, and I don't know why you are, because you make Bābā so grumpy and shouty, and I wish you would go away.”
The Captain sucked in air sharply. St. John could not think of a reply; he felt as if he had just been struck, a hard and unexpected blow. “I had … best leave, then.” He pushed back his chair, not looking anyone in the eye, and made his way out of the small room.
When the Captain caught up with the Reverend, he was leaning forlornly over the railing at the bow, a little distance from the other passengers now milling about aimlessly. He puffed disconsolately at his pipe. Cpt. Aquilaine joined him in leaning, standing just close enough that their elbows brushed against one another, and together they stared out across the water to the river banks.
“She did not mean it.”
“Of course she did, Marcus!”
Cpt. Aquilaine held up a hand, placatingly. “First and foremost, St. John, we are both tense and unhappy; let us bear that in mind.”
“I should not have said what I did about the money, you know. It was a gift, freely given, and I have no expectations of return on it. Knowing she has an inheritance is reward enough.”
“I know it was not deliberately spoken. Nor did you intend to interfere with my sorry attempts at discipline. And I should not have said you forgot your place; that was uncalled for.”
St. John focused his gaze miserably at the muddy waters that drifted by the hull, swirling and spiraling away as they collided with the unmoving wood. “It was entirely appropriate for you to say that. I forget sometimes, Marcus, how correct your daughter is: I shall never be a member of your family, or of any, whilst I am in India. In a very real way, I am a good friend sharing the rent, and nothing more.”
“You are far more than that, to me and to her. Already she regrets speaking thus; you should have seen how distraught she looked when you walked off! She is desperately sorry and will wish to make it up to you. You had best prepare yourself for a fortnight of assistance with your cravat.”
“Please, do not make light of this. It is hard to be alone; it is harder still knowing that I have forced others to remind me of my solitude! Marcus, there is no need to salt self-inflicted wounds.”
“I want to do nothing of the sort.” The Captain sighed and nudged his elbow once more. “She and I would both be lost without you, St. John. Do not forget it.” He paused and waited for a response; when it did not come, he merely said, “When you are ready, come back to our rooms and we can make a more civilised attempt at tea.”
After some minutes of sulking, St. John realised that he was being childish.
I am overwrought; I am allowing the stifled needs of my physical nature to take precedent over my rational mind; I have immersed myself in self-pity and cannot be surprised to find that it is distasteful. In half an hour's time this shall be entirely forgotten, on all sides. Moreover, I have no earthly right to claim a share of sorrow for myself, as the predicament entirely of my own making.
He glared at the pipe in his hand, as the blue smoke drifted over the placid surface of the river. Marcus recalls his daughter's birth and cannot quite understand that she is now eight; I only know her as a girl, and forget that she has still a child's perspective on the world. But I cannot blame her for her youth-clearly, even a learned Reverend of thirty can be prone to fits of juvenility. I am a grown man, and thus it is my task to fix this sorry situation.
When he returned to their stateroom, he found Cpt. Aquilaine and Muniya sitting at the table in silence, picking their crumpets into crumbs. As they noticed him enter, the Captain gave a sharp glance at his daughter, whose eyes were reddened and damp. She glared back at him, determined, but her determination did not last long (Cpt. Aquilaine had spent too many years training recruits to yield easily to dissatisfaction). He nodded his head and, with a magnificent display of reluctance, she slid off of her chair. St. John frowned, not quite understanding; then Muniya clasped her hands behind her back and, looking down at the floor boards, whispered,
“I'm sorry I was rude to you, Rev. Rivers.”
Whatever traces of indignation or hurt might have remained in St. John's breast were utterly erased by such a display of penitence, grudging as it was. He was in possession of a sharp, clear memory reaching back into the far mists of boyhood, a curse as much as a blessing, and he could recall vividly the frustrations and many small hurts of that tender age. It was a time reminisced over fondly by men and women who had obviously forgotten that quite often, childhood was nothing but sorrow, tedium, awkwardness, and the wretched indignations of being treated as a child when one wanted to be taken seriously, and treated as an adult when one wanted to run about and play by the stream. He took off his hat and bowed a little to Muniya.
“I too must apologise, Miss Aquilaine. I spoke too sharply to you, which was unfair of me.”
Muniya and the Captain both looked at him in surprise; in return, St. John turned to the Captain and said, “Marcus, would you be so kind as to step out for a few minutes? I would like to speak to her alone, if I could.”
With a silent shrug and a questioning expression, Cpt. Aquilaine left them; once he was gone, St. John sat down at the table and gestured that Muniya should do likewise. She glanced shyly at him from the opposite side of the table, fidgeting with her dupatta and sniffing a little. St. John laced his fingers together and set them in front of him, almost primly.
“I remember how difficult it is to be your age. Adults make you come and go, tell you to speak or hold your tongue, say you are too old to act like a child but too young to be treated like a grown-up, and it is in every possible way vexing. They encourage you to always be honest and true, and then when you speak your mind they criticise you for it and call you outspoken. And all manner of people think that they can make you obey them, simply because they are older than you!
“I regret very much speaking to you like I did; I am not your father, nor ever will be, and I have not the right. I also regret that your father made you apologise; between you and I, I do not think he should have. The fault was mainly on my end, and if you did truly want to apologise to me, he took away that privilege by forcing you to do so. But I want you to know, Muniya, how deeply saddened I would be if we stopped getting along. I think you are one of the finest and cleverest girls in India, and I do not imagine I would be any more pleased and proud of your good character if you were my own daughter. I do not want to go away, neither from your father, nor from you.”
Muniya burst into tears.
“Āmi haẏa yētē cā'i nā!” she wailed.
They ended up sitting on the edge of the bed, side by side; St. John kept an arm around Muniya while she wept large dark spots into her dupatta. When she grew calmer, she curled up a little and let him hold her and rub her back, while he marvelled at what a strange and wonderful creature a girl was.
I am completely undeserving, and yet she trusts me. And this is only a fraction of what a parent feels for his child. I would never want to give her such grief; I would tear out my eyes and throw myself into the Ganges before I caused her any harm. I would depart without a word of protest. Perhaps it will come to that, one day, when she is fully an adult and realises the nature of my friendship with her father. I would never hold her back, or harm her prospects. Pray God I will have the strength to leave then.
“Are you done, Birdie? Have you let fall the last of your tears, for now?”
She sniffled a little and nodded. “I didn't mean to say those things,” she whispered.
“And I did not either, I can assure you. I should not have told you to keep silent, nor that you were too young to understand what we were discussing. But is that the only reason why you are unhappy? I rarely see you so sad.”
She shook her head. “It's lots of reasons.”
“Do you want to tell me about any of them? I am a reverend; I hear many things, and I never mention them to anyone else. It would offend God if I did.”
With a few more tears, and another handful of sniffs, she made an inventory of what was on her youthful heart. It was quite as lengthy as it was detailed. “I was mean to you, and Bābā got mad at me, and I'm tired of being on the boat, and I don't like growing up because I can't run around and play anymore, and I miss my mynah-bird, and I miss Sruti and Sajal, and I wish I could still wear my shalwar kameez instead of my sari because it's easier to walk around in and I don't have to worry about being lady-like all the time, and I don't want to be a lady because ladies can't play cricket, and I wish I was better at embroidery but I'm no good, kōna byāpāra kataṭā āmi cēṣṭā, and it's too loud on the boat to sleep at night because Bābā snores, and I'm scared to have another birthday and be older and grow up, and I hate how Bābā and Nurse still treat me like I'm a little baby, ebaṁ yē sakala.” She finished abruptly and began swinging her feet as she wiped her eyes yet again on her now-sodden dupatta.
St. John tried not to smile at this heartfelt and completely contradictory list of griefs. “What a lot of things you have to be sad about, Muniya. Do you ever pray to God about them?”
“No.” She stared at the floor.
“May I enquire as to why not?”
She shrugged. “He doesn't say anything back to me when I do.”
“Ah, I understand. It is difficult, learning to listen for that 'small, still voice', but I encourage you to not give up; the rewards are great and will give you a lifetime of comfort and consolation.” Muniya just sniffed and shrugged again.
A memory flooded St. John's mind, quite unexpectedly, and although he had not thought of it in twenty years, it came to him as clearly as if it had been yesterday: taking tea with his grandfather. When he and his sisters had spent the summer in the Lakes District, visiting his maternal grandparents, he had shared tea with Grandfather each afternoon, just the two of them, and he had looked forward to it with eagerness every day. How kindly his grandfather had treated him, taking seriously what he had to say, listening as if a nine-year-old's words had value and import, and never chiding him for his thoughts. St. John paused for a moment, thinking, and could find no obvious fault with the idea; more to the point, he felt positively enthusiastic about the possibility.
“In the mean time, Muniya, whilst you are practicing how to listen to the Word of God, what would you say to having afternoon tea with me?”
Muniya looked dubious. “Today?”
“Yes, today, if you like, but more than merely today. We could have tea together every Sabbath, or twice a week even, or however often you wish. And we could talk about what you choose, what makes you happy and sad, and I shall endeavour to treat you like a proper adult, but will not lecture you on embroidery or being lady-like. What would you say to that? I am not your father, of course, but I am your godfather, and I very much enjoy spending my time with you. Would you enjoy taking afternoon tea, just you and I?”
She considered the offer for a moment, clearly running through it in her mind (her face was quite as open and expressive as her father's), before wrapping her arms around his neck; this time, when she kissed him on the cheek, he returned the gesture. They smiled at each other for a moment, nose to nose, a little conspiracy between the two of them.
“I would like that, Reverend,” she agreed. “But what will Bābā think? Won't he feel left out?”
“I think, Birdie, that he will be glad we are not unhappy with each other. Now what do you say we go and find him? He is likely most anxious to know what we are about.”
The remainder of their voyage was quite pleasant, at least for those in their travelling party not in possession of the Christian name “Marcus.” St. John and Muniya took tea every afternoon, a happy distraction from the aggravation of being trapped in the shallow river-bed for an entire week before the British Army Corps of Engineers was able to come and dredge them out. They discussed religion, literature, history, French, and werewolves. Nurse enjoyed having a bit of time away from her restless young charge; she filled her afternoons with fixing the many rents and stains on Muniya's saris. The Captain would have been content, no doubt, except that he had an even more difficult time setting by his need than the Reverend did; by the time they finally arrived in Benares, he had smoked every one of his cigars and paced the decks until his leg ached at night. First and foremost in his mind was the necessity of a quiet evening alone at the hotel.
When the travel-weary party stepped off the gang-plank into the bright afternoon sun, Muniya half-dragged the Captain along in her eagerness to see the sights. Nurse followed close behind, hissing that Muniya needed to walk slowly and conduct herself appropriately. St. John came last, busy with arranging transportation for their baggage. Their hotel, located next to the new fort, was only a mile's distance from the docks, so they elected to travel by foot; Cpt. Aquilaine declared that he would allow it, but on the condition that he immediately retire for a nap upon arrival. “I find I do not sleep particularly well on boats, even river-barges, and must have an hour or two to recuperate,” he proclaimed. St. John agreed heartily, and announced that they would all lie down in their respective rooms for a time, before a more detailed exploration of the city.
This goal, so eagerly anticipated by both the Captain and the Reverend, seemed both promising and feasible as they walked along the river toward the fort. But as they stepped away from the water and towards the interior of the city, they began to look around in confusion. The sound of drumming and raucous singing echoed up from the central square, the streets were curiously full of people dressed in their finest, and as they approached the fort they began to smell smoke and see otherwise respectably-clothed people smeared with ash and coloured chalk. The two men stared, gaping, as an Indian man in a top hat brushed past them, hooting cheerfully, his black woollen frock-coat liberally pelted in pink and yellow. Then the Captain groaned aloud as Muniya clapped her hands in delight.
“Hōli, Bābā, ēṭā hōli! Caluna ēbaṁ ēṭā dēkhuna!” She began dragging him in the direction of the festivities. “Āmi bhālabāsā hōli - ēṭā āmāra janmadinēra chuṭi! Caluna dābānala dēkhatē yā'ōẏā! Āmākē shakarpara ēkaṭi pyākēṭa kinatē dibēna?”
St. John laughed. “You cannot fight the tide, my dear Marcus.”
“That I know, full-well. But we will be covered in chalk, and both need a thorough scrubbing, and she will stay awake all night with the noise and excitement.”
“I shall help you wash out your hair afterwards, Captain.”
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
notes:
This chapter, a belated sort of epilogue four years after the end of the story proper, was written as a gift to motetus for all the art she did for P&P. When I offered to write her a bit of erotica in return, she replied that she did not care what I gave her, and indeed she would happily accept “the Captain and St. John have completely platonic travel adventures”, just so long as I wrote her something. So here, motetus, is a completely platonic travel adventure. Enjoy.
impale - some translations of the Old Testament describe Haman's execution as a hanging. This is incorrect, but probably done to avoid frightening children.
steam barge - At this time, many forms of transportation were beginning to transition into steam-power, especially small water craft.
double-stateroom - The stateroom was rented with the direct intention of having both men sleep in it and share the bed; this was entirely normal for the time period.
Holi - Holi is a delightful spring holiday. The meaning of the day is variable and complex; the rituals differ from place to place. One thing, however, holds true for Holi no matter where it is celebrated: the festival is enormously fun. Social conventions are temporarily set aside, men light bonfires in public squares, women beat men with sticks, children break out into singing and drumming and dancing, and everyone runs about, stuffed full of sweets, dressed in their finest and pelting each other with handfuls of brightly coloured powder.
shakarpara - A bit like doughnut holes, shakarpara are lumps of flour dough, deep-fried and rolled in sugar syrup.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
“What are you reading?”
“It is a commentary on the Book of Esther. Do you remember Esther, the Saviouress of the Jewish People? You read a story about her last week in Sunday School.”
“I do! She was a queen a very long time ago, back in the Old Testament, and her husband was the King of Persia, and she had a brave cousin called Mor-Mordechai.”
“Very good. That is a difficult name to pronounce.”
Muniya beamed at the Reverend. “And there was this bad man called … Āmi manē karatē pārēna, it's a strange name too, but it starts with an H … Habakkuk?”
“Haman.”
“Right, Haman! And Haman was a very bad man, very durnītiparāẏaṇa, and he wanted to kill all the Jews, but she said 'No, I won't let you, because I'm a Jew and I'm the Queen also', so Esther went and told the king, and the king said 'I love you, Esther, I will not let you and the Jews die', and then Haman got impaled. That's where they poke a stick through you, eṭā nā??”
“That is correct.”
“Do they do it to you if you are still alive?”
“Oh yes, that is the traditional way to impale someone.”
“Eeeeeew! That sounds gruesome!” 'Gruesome' was a word rapidly gaining prominence in her vocabulary, having been recently acquired from a penny-dreadful her schoolmates Sruti and Sajal had passed about their second-year class (the story involved corrupted nuns, vampires, and a ghostly skeleton that roamed the castle by night), and both men were unhappy about the eagerness with which she took to such lurid stories. St. John was somewhat less concerned, as both his sisters had read their share of Gothic novels and had turned out “pretty well, Diana especially”; the Captain desperately wished she were not quite so enthused by tales of werewolves and dashing highway robbers, and made many a futile effort to tamp down her interest. Now, hearing the direction the conversation was heading, he glanced over the top of his newspaper.
“Good God, St. John. What the devil are you teaching her?”
St. John shrugged. “It is how the story ends.”
“I am surprised she did not have nightmares from it all.”
“I do not see the point in hiding such things from her, especially not if they are found within the Holy Bible itself.”
“Perhaps you could focus on something less bloody next time?”
“Perhaps.”
The three of them sat on their private balcony, staring lazily across the muddy brown waters of the Ganges. The term 'balcony' might have been, perhaps, a touch too grand for what was effectively a patch of deck, twenty square feet in all, with a weather-stained railing and a faded piece of lattice-work that separated their precious bit of space from their neighbours. St. John claimed the wicker chair on the left; the Captain settled into the one on the right, as it gave his injured left leg more room to stretch; Muniya perched on a stool between them so she could see over the deck sides, trying not to wrinkle her sari (which would result in yet another lecture from Nurse on unladylike behaviour). The arrangement was crowded, inconvenient, and discomforting, improved only by the weather (which, in addition to being warm for a February, also had the twin virtues of being mild and dry). They tried not to complain about the close quarters, however; the army had wished to send them to Benares by carriage.
Cpt. Aquilaine, thrown into a fit of reminiscence as Muniya's eighth birthday approached, had been struck by the sudden realisation that he was due to arrive at his own personal anniversary (and a far less happy one at that); he would soon be a man who had trained new Sepoy recruits for a full five years. The more he thought on the matter, the less tolerable it became, until finally he confessed to the Reverend that he could no longer bear his position. St. John, all sympathy, suggested that the Captain give his notice; they could (he declared, frowning at the ledgers) survive on the income he earnt as Headmaster of Bow Bazar and Secretary of the Calcutta Orphanage Society. Cpt. Aquilaine, bolstered by this encouragement, had given his regrets the very next week, only to be told-as is so often the case, when a presence once taken for granted is abruptly snatched away-that he was long overdue for a promotion. And so, having marched into the Brigadier's office with every expectation of being turned out on his ear, he emerged with a salary increase of £50 per annum and the new rôle of Overseer of Sepoy Affairs. St. John declared this Providential on all three fronts: first, the Captain's new position would provide him with more interesting and satisfying duties; second, the added income would be gratefully appreciated by the household coffers, since he had not spoken in absolute truth as to the present state of their finances; third, since the Captain had not received a promotion in rank, he would not have to accustom himself to the phrase “Maj. Aquilaine.”
Naturally, the army immediately assigned Cpt. Aquilaine the task of travelling to Benares and sending back an exhaustive report on the state of recruitment, troop satisfaction, and training levels at the city's new army fort. They told him he was expected to stay and gather information for at least a month; they told him he was to travel over land, a fortnight each way; they told him he was to leave in a week. The Captain, distraught over the idea of being gone for two full months, asked the Reverend if he had any more clever ideas to share. St. John, who better understood the benefits as well as the perils of authority, promptly arranged for a sabbatical from his positions (under the argument that he hardly ever took time off, even for holidays) and used the Captain's per diem expense account to secure rooms on a steam-barge for all of them, instead. The travel time increased to three weeks in each direction, but was vastly more comfortable than jolting over dirt roads in a darkened carriage with five road-sick strangers. He shared one stateroom with his friend the Captain, and Muniya shared the adjoining one with her nurse. Muniya delighted in every aspect of her first trip out of Calcutta; in theory, Cpt. Aquilaine and the Rev. Rivers should have as well.
“Why are you reading that?”
“Because it is the Sabbath, Birdie.”
“And because you can't go to church, since we are on a boat?”
“Correct. I will spend my morning reading theological essays and praying, because I cannot worship in a proper church service.”
“Bābā doesn't go to church, ever.”
St. John gave a baleful look in the direction of the Captain's newspaper. “That is because your father does not take seriously the commandment to keep the Sabbath holy.”
“He said it was because he spends enough time on his knees already,” Muniya replied cheerfully, swinging her feet to and fro.
The Captain hastily shifted his paper and gaped over the top at his daughter; St. John gave him a horrified glare. If a man could cause injury with no more than a glance, Cpt. Aquilaine would have already gone over the railing and into the river.
“I believe, Maina-bird, that your baba also said something about not repeating that remark to anyone, and especially not to your godfather the Reverend.” The Captain spoke as calmly as was possible through tightly-clenched teeth.
“But why can't I repeat it, Bābā?”
“Because it is inappropriate,” said the Captain.
“Because it is blasphemous,” said the Reverend, simultaneously. He and the Captain made eye contact once more, and then with a disgusted noise he turned back to his book.
Muniya glanced from one stern, adult face to another, thoughtfully, before deciding that inappropriate was a far more interesting concept than blasphemous.
“What's inappropriate about it, Bābā?”
St. John stood. “I am going to take a stroll about the main deck.” Without another word, he departed, leaving the Captain to stew in a situation entirely of his own making.
“What on earth were you thinking, Marcus?” He whispered the words as strongly as he dared.
“I was thinking that she is only eight years old, and has no idea what it means. Good Lord, St. John, it was a harmless joke,” the Captain hissed back at him.
“It was nothing of the sort!” St. John wished their room was large enough for him to pace back and forth in agitation, or at least private enough for him to raise his voice. They could both feel an argument coming on, and had learnt over time that the best remedy was to simply begin the fight and affect a reconciliation, rather than allow the issues to simmer and gain in strength. As it was, however, their double-stateroom, which had sounded so promising in print, actually proved to be one long, narrow room, hardly wider than a single bed, which was then awkwardly divided; the front door led to Muniya's half, which led directly into the half her father and godfather shared, which ended in the balcony. Furthermore, they had discovered their first night aboard, to much mutual (and hushed) lamentation, that what separated them from Muniya and her nurse was a laughably thin sheet of wood, almost more curtain than wall. Cpt. Aquilaine had been on the verge of commenting that he had never yet fornicated on a boat, when they realised that they could hear every noise coming from the next room, every rustle of fabric and every sleepy sigh. During their evening walk about the decks they had agreed: they would never succeed in the requisite amount of silence necessary, and so three weeks was not an intolerable length of time to remain chaste bedfellows.
Now the consequences of their involuntary chastity were coming to the fore. The Captain looked as agitated as the Reverend felt. “You worry overmuch. She is far too young to understand such things, St. John!”
“It does not signify if she understands or not-and I can assure you, she comprehends far more of what we say than we would like to admit; what signifies is whether she repeats what she hears. How do you not see that, Marcus?” St. John struggled to keep his voice low. “She will mention something at school, one your jokes about kneeling before the Reverend in penance or whatnot, and then word shall spread that we are indeed more than friends saving on the rent, and … ” He trailed off in frustration. “We want to remain quiet and discrete. We do not want people to talk. If we do not give offence, we shall be left alone. You want this as badly as I-why do you throw it in jeopardy?”
The Captain stared at the worn floor boards. “I would never deliberately do anything perilous … you know that! But I cannot wrap my head around the idea that she is old enough to pick up on such things, let alone repeat them. It cannot have been eight years already.”
St. John relented a little; he had long ago come to discover that the Captain, having known Muniya since infancy, had not yet adjusted to the reality of her increasing maturity and intelligence. “I know how hard it must be, to remember that she is no longer a little girl. But she is almost a young lady now, and in another six years may reach womanhood, and in the meantime we must both hold in the front of our minds just how curious young ladies are about such things.”
“Are they really? I had no idea.” The Captain wrinkled his nose.
“Recall that I have sisters, Marcus! They may seem demure and feminine, but that is simply them behaving as they ought. The reality is quite the opposite.”
“You sound as if you speak from personal experience, of a sort.”
“Quite.” The Reverend smirked a little. “I have not told you much of my father, have I?”
“You have hardly said a word.”
“He and I had little in common, and where we were alike, I regretted the similarity. That is to say, he was cold and stern and harsh with us children, and boorish and uncultured in general, far more interested in farming and hunting than education. We all took after our dear mother, who was as refined a woman as could be found in those parts. She taught us, among other things, the virtue of not simply saying whatever sprang into our heads. I recall one evening, after dinner, when Mary asked why her friend Margaret O'Keefe had so many brothers and sisters. Mother replied that Catholic families are often quite large, because they believe God will bless them for their many offspring. But no sooner had she said this, then Father chimed in with: 'In other words, she's got such a brood because she spends all day flat on her back! Ha!' I heard later from Diana that Mary could not let such a remark slide, slept on her side for an entire month because she feared the possibility of 13 children like Mrs. O'Keefe, and actually enquired of our nursemaid Hannah as to why that particular posture was so conducive to expanding one's family.”
“Good Lord! Please do not tell me she was eight years or so, at the time.”
“Then I had best not say anything else, I'm afraid.”
They both started laughing, a little more loudly than was warranted for the situation. This led to other, more affectionate, gestures; soon the Reverend was busy clasping Cpt. Aquilaine's hips whilst the Captain, who never complained that he was forced to stoop, had bent down to tug at St. John's collar and kiss him needfully. They had managed a week of celibacy. They were uncertain as to whether they would successfully achieve another two.
”Āpani ki karachēna, Bābā?”
The Captain and the Reverend leapt away from each other as swiftly as a hand drops a pot too tardily discovered to be nearly red-hot.
“Muniya, how many times have I told you to knock?” Cpt. Aquilaine stared in distress at his daughter, who stood on the threshold of their stateroom. “We are not-we are simply-”
“Your father is simply helping me tie my cravat, Birdie.” St. John sounded so bland and disinterested, not even bothering to turn and face her, that for a moment the Captain himself was tempted to believe the statement. “I want to look respectable for tea, and cannot seem to manage the knot today.” Muniya's face visibly shifted from the piqued interest of a child who has caught two adults behaving in adult-like fashion to the boredom of one who remembers that 'adult-like fashion' generally means nothing more intriguing than paying the butcher's-bill or trying to make the parlour stove draw.
“But I am not certain it suits,” he continued, tugging at the silk. “Perhaps my poor neck will simply be unfashionable for the afternoon.” He slowly finished undoing the knot whilst his back was still to her, and did not turn around until the cloth was entirely loose and his arousal had faded to the point of respectability. That managed, he looked to Muniya and gave her a helpless sort of shrug.
“I can do it-will you let me do it?” She clapped her hands in sudden excitement.
“Wherever did you learn to tie a cravat?” Cpt. Aquilaine asked; the tone in his voice clearly revealing how relieved he was to have avoided more pointed questioning.
“Sruti and Sajal taught me how! They help their father with his every day before school.”
“That makes perfect sense, Birdie. And what a great help they must be to their poor crippled father, too.” Sruti and Sajal Dasbiswas were the twin daughters of Mr. Dasbiswas, who taught fifth-formers at Bow Bazar. Years ago, Mr. and Mrs. Dasbiswas had been travelling back from Benares only to suffer the too-common fate of travellers in India, bandits. Their carriage was attacked, both parents cruelly shot, and whilst Mr. Dasbiswas merely lost the use of his right arm, his wife paid the ultimate penalty for protecting her infant daughters. Their father had gone into teaching, since he could not be an engineer with only one hand, and the girls had learnt from a tender age how to cook, mend, clean, and perform all the little details their father could not effect by himself. The Captain and the Reverend could never quite decide if their influence on Muniya was for good or for ill. They encouraged her to excel at knitting and penmanship, but they also lent her penny-dreadfuls, filled her head with ghost stories, and displayed far too keen an interest in the youths their father taught.
At present, however, both men were more than glad for the distraction. St. John sat down on the edge of the bed and handed his cravat to Muniya. “I would be most happy to see how well you do.”
She discarded her dupatta into a heap on the floor and hunched over the bed, frowning in concentration, carefully smoothing and folding the triangle of fabric; while she did so, Cpt. Aquilaine sat down next to the Reverend to watch, clearly fascinated by this unknown skill his daughter possessed. Finally satisfied with the initial shaping, Muniya straightened up and began to tie it around St. John's neck. He was surprised to see how she was quite as tall as he, when he sat. As she carefully draped, measured, and redraped, biting her lower lip (St. John recognised the gesture; it was one he performed himself, when faced with a particularly intractable problem), they could hear her muttering to herself, “ … eka … apa … apa upara … mādhyamē … ” She straightened and adjusted and at last, with a little tug, stood back and said “There! I told you I could do it, Bābā.”
Cpt. Aquilaine fetched the shaving mirror from next to the wash-basin so the Reverend could admire her handiwork; both men had to then admit the odd truth-Muniya could tie a cravat as well as either of them.
“Very finely done, Birdie! Your hands possess as much of skill as mine or your baba's in this area. You must practice with some frequency.”
“Every day after school. Do you like it?”
“I certainly do. Thank you, Muniya, for helping me to look fit to take my tea.”
“You're welcome,” she muttered, blushing. She pulled at her sari awkwardly, then glanced up, gave an impish grin, and pecked him on the cheek before fleeing. St. John raised a hand to his face in surprise; he and she had always been quite fond of each other and affectionate in their own way, partially because they both understood, as if by some instinct, that they were not relations and would be better off if they did not treat each other as such. He could not recall if she had ever kissed him before. The idea that she might be growing to see him as more than her father's friend and her dutiful godfather brought warm tears to his eyes.
Cpt. Aquilaine took the Reverend's hand in his. “She is a remarkable girl, is she not?”
“Oh yes, Marcus. The finest in India, I think.”
Another week into the journey and they could not bear it. They had made good time upriver-steam-powered vessels were far superior to sail in that respect, if a bit noisy and sooty-but a fortnight in such close quarters with no chance of relief, not even individually (the notion that little more than a curtain separated them from Muniya proved wonderfully constraining), had set both men on edge. At last Cpt. Aquilaine could not abide another day, and he banished his daughter to the dining hall one morning under strict orders to practice her embroidery and not return for at least an hour. He declared that he needed the time to take a little tea and read through the available information on the new fort. Then, presented with an entire hour of privacy, he and the Reverend retired calmly to their stateroom, content in the knowledge that they were sober adults, capable of restraint and dignity.
Within three minutes of Muniya's departure, they had gulped down their tea, scalding their mouths in the process, and abandoned the plate of crumpets.
Within five minutes of Muniya's departure, they had laid aside every stitch of clothing and were struggling in vain against the temptation to make such haste that they reduced their amiable affections to the level of entirely-carnal fornication.
Within six minutes of Muniya's departure, they had abandoned that ideal and vowed that they would make a shew of aiming for the loftier plane of emotions on their second undertaking.
Within seven minutes of Muniya's departure, the barge grounded against the too-shallow bed of the River Ganges (the Plains of Uttar Pradesh having not received their accustomed amount of rain for the season), causing the entire boat and everything on it to jolt, sharply and with a loud crash, as it transitioned from steaming merrily along at five knots to stopped dead in the mud.
Within eight minutes of Muniya's departure, the Captain and the Reverend, amidst much lamentation, hastily begun to don their discarded clothing, an action far less comfortable than on previous occasions due to the now-turgid state of their proud flesh.
Within ten minutes of Muniya's departure, she burst back into her father's stateroom, sari hitched up almost to her knees so she could run, only to find him and the Reverend sitting calmly at the table, sipping tea and eating the now-cool crumpets. They looked far more placid than they felt.
“Āpani ki ēṭā manē karēna, Bābā, āpani ki manē karēna? Āmarā āṭakē āchē!” She was nearly shrieking with the excitement of the situation.
“Ladies do not run about or raise their voices, Muniya. Children should be seen, not heard.” He had apparently decided that this was as fine a time as ever to engage in a bit of child-rearing, considering how she had just flashed her bare legs at every sailor on board.
“Kintu Bābā-”
“Use English, Maina-bird, and lower your voice, please.”
Muniya clenched her fists, stomped one foot, and glared at Cpt. Aquilaine whilst growling in a manner that clearly emulated her father's temper. “Kintu Bābā! Sampūrṇa bajarā kādā kāraṇa nadī atyanta agabhīra āṭakē hala, kāraṇa ḍēka upara nābikadēra balēna yē parbata paryāpta br̥ṣṭi śītakālīna samaẏa chila nā, ebaṁ yakhana tārā bāhā druta ghūrṇana āpani saba bādāmī māṭira yē jalēra madhyē pāẏa unmathita āpa habē, ebaṁ saba ḍā'iniṁ rumē ōẏā'inēra glāsa bēśi hinsra ēbaṁ ēkaṭi prakāṇḍa biparyasta chila, ebaṁ nābikadēra balēna āmarā dina hatē pārē āsakta!”
“Lower your voice, Muniya.” The Reverend said, sharply.
The Captain and his daughter both turned to St. John in shock; St. John felt quite as surprised as they looked. I did not mean to speak up; I certainly did not mean to sound so stern. I must be more out of sorts than I had imagined. For although he had taken an active hand in Muniya's academic and spiritual education, and shewn her as much affection as was proper for a godfather and family friend (which was, incidentally, far less than he truly felt for her), he had generally left the realm of parental discipline to the Captain alone. That had been a hithertofore wise decision, if the looks on the faces of Father and Daughter Aquilaine were any basis for judgement; Cpt. Aquilaine immediately grew flushed with anger, while Muniya became tearful.
“Āpani āmāra bābā nā! Āpani āmākē ki karatē balatē pārē nā! Āmāra galābāji karabēna nā!”
“What on earth are you thinking, St. John? This is not your business.”
Self-consciousness swiftly turned to defensive indignation. “I did not mean to interfere, Marcus, but she was not being obedient, and-”
“And it is not your place to say how I deal with it!”
St. John switched to French, so Muniya would not get drawn into the rest of the fight that had swiftly reached the point of inevitability.
«Elle tourne autour du bateau et en criant comme un enfant. Je serais négligent si je n'avais pas.»
«Elle est un enfant, et je déciderai si son comportement est acceptable, pas vous.»
«Ah, c'est alors que je suis assez bon pour être son parrain et bienfaiteur, je suis absolument interdit de prendre un rôle plus actif dans son éducation?»
The room took on a sudden chill. «Ne retenez pas votre générosité dessus de ma tête comme une épée, Révérend.»
«Je ne voulais pas dire comme ça … tu sais que je n'ai pas … »
«Je sais comment vous avez promis, quand j'ai finalement accepté l'argent, que vous ne le rapportez jamais pendant un combat!»
«Et je ne pense pas que vous prenez si rapidement ses côtés contre moi, si une telle nécessité se posent!»
«Elle est ma fille, Révérend.»
«Dois-je partager votre lit, Marcus, ou suis-je simplement un ami économiser sur le loyer?»
«Arrêtez!» Muniya cried. «Il me fait peur quand vous battez!»
Both men stared aghast at her. The Captain recovered first.
“Maina-bird, what did you say?”
“I said stop it. I don't like it when you shout, Bābā.”
“Your, ah, French is so … good, Maina.”
She shrugged, entirely unimpressed with her accomplishments of language. “They teach us it every day in school. It's not hard like Latin is. What do you mean, partager votre lit?”
The Reverend tried next to redirect the conversation. “I am sorry you are frightened, Muniya, but this is an important discussion your father and I are having, and you are old enough to know better than to interrupt. We shall be done soon.”
Muniya replied with the bluntness of one who has not yet learnt to marry tact with plain speech. “You think you're my father, just because you're around all the time, and I don't know why you are, because you make Bābā so grumpy and shouty, and I wish you would go away.”
The Captain sucked in air sharply. St. John could not think of a reply; he felt as if he had just been struck, a hard and unexpected blow. “I had … best leave, then.” He pushed back his chair, not looking anyone in the eye, and made his way out of the small room.
When the Captain caught up with the Reverend, he was leaning forlornly over the railing at the bow, a little distance from the other passengers now milling about aimlessly. He puffed disconsolately at his pipe. Cpt. Aquilaine joined him in leaning, standing just close enough that their elbows brushed against one another, and together they stared out across the water to the river banks.
“She did not mean it.”
“Of course she did, Marcus!”
Cpt. Aquilaine held up a hand, placatingly. “First and foremost, St. John, we are both tense and unhappy; let us bear that in mind.”
“I should not have said what I did about the money, you know. It was a gift, freely given, and I have no expectations of return on it. Knowing she has an inheritance is reward enough.”
“I know it was not deliberately spoken. Nor did you intend to interfere with my sorry attempts at discipline. And I should not have said you forgot your place; that was uncalled for.”
St. John focused his gaze miserably at the muddy waters that drifted by the hull, swirling and spiraling away as they collided with the unmoving wood. “It was entirely appropriate for you to say that. I forget sometimes, Marcus, how correct your daughter is: I shall never be a member of your family, or of any, whilst I am in India. In a very real way, I am a good friend sharing the rent, and nothing more.”
“You are far more than that, to me and to her. Already she regrets speaking thus; you should have seen how distraught she looked when you walked off! She is desperately sorry and will wish to make it up to you. You had best prepare yourself for a fortnight of assistance with your cravat.”
“Please, do not make light of this. It is hard to be alone; it is harder still knowing that I have forced others to remind me of my solitude! Marcus, there is no need to salt self-inflicted wounds.”
“I want to do nothing of the sort.” The Captain sighed and nudged his elbow once more. “She and I would both be lost without you, St. John. Do not forget it.” He paused and waited for a response; when it did not come, he merely said, “When you are ready, come back to our rooms and we can make a more civilised attempt at tea.”
After some minutes of sulking, St. John realised that he was being childish.
I am overwrought; I am allowing the stifled needs of my physical nature to take precedent over my rational mind; I have immersed myself in self-pity and cannot be surprised to find that it is distasteful. In half an hour's time this shall be entirely forgotten, on all sides. Moreover, I have no earthly right to claim a share of sorrow for myself, as the predicament entirely of my own making.
He glared at the pipe in his hand, as the blue smoke drifted over the placid surface of the river. Marcus recalls his daughter's birth and cannot quite understand that she is now eight; I only know her as a girl, and forget that she has still a child's perspective on the world. But I cannot blame her for her youth-clearly, even a learned Reverend of thirty can be prone to fits of juvenility. I am a grown man, and thus it is my task to fix this sorry situation.
When he returned to their stateroom, he found Cpt. Aquilaine and Muniya sitting at the table in silence, picking their crumpets into crumbs. As they noticed him enter, the Captain gave a sharp glance at his daughter, whose eyes were reddened and damp. She glared back at him, determined, but her determination did not last long (Cpt. Aquilaine had spent too many years training recruits to yield easily to dissatisfaction). He nodded his head and, with a magnificent display of reluctance, she slid off of her chair. St. John frowned, not quite understanding; then Muniya clasped her hands behind her back and, looking down at the floor boards, whispered,
“I'm sorry I was rude to you, Rev. Rivers.”
Whatever traces of indignation or hurt might have remained in St. John's breast were utterly erased by such a display of penitence, grudging as it was. He was in possession of a sharp, clear memory reaching back into the far mists of boyhood, a curse as much as a blessing, and he could recall vividly the frustrations and many small hurts of that tender age. It was a time reminisced over fondly by men and women who had obviously forgotten that quite often, childhood was nothing but sorrow, tedium, awkwardness, and the wretched indignations of being treated as a child when one wanted to be taken seriously, and treated as an adult when one wanted to run about and play by the stream. He took off his hat and bowed a little to Muniya.
“I too must apologise, Miss Aquilaine. I spoke too sharply to you, which was unfair of me.”
Muniya and the Captain both looked at him in surprise; in return, St. John turned to the Captain and said, “Marcus, would you be so kind as to step out for a few minutes? I would like to speak to her alone, if I could.”
With a silent shrug and a questioning expression, Cpt. Aquilaine left them; once he was gone, St. John sat down at the table and gestured that Muniya should do likewise. She glanced shyly at him from the opposite side of the table, fidgeting with her dupatta and sniffing a little. St. John laced his fingers together and set them in front of him, almost primly.
“I remember how difficult it is to be your age. Adults make you come and go, tell you to speak or hold your tongue, say you are too old to act like a child but too young to be treated like a grown-up, and it is in every possible way vexing. They encourage you to always be honest and true, and then when you speak your mind they criticise you for it and call you outspoken. And all manner of people think that they can make you obey them, simply because they are older than you!
“I regret very much speaking to you like I did; I am not your father, nor ever will be, and I have not the right. I also regret that your father made you apologise; between you and I, I do not think he should have. The fault was mainly on my end, and if you did truly want to apologise to me, he took away that privilege by forcing you to do so. But I want you to know, Muniya, how deeply saddened I would be if we stopped getting along. I think you are one of the finest and cleverest girls in India, and I do not imagine I would be any more pleased and proud of your good character if you were my own daughter. I do not want to go away, neither from your father, nor from you.”
Muniya burst into tears.
“Āmi haẏa yētē cā'i nā!” she wailed.
They ended up sitting on the edge of the bed, side by side; St. John kept an arm around Muniya while she wept large dark spots into her dupatta. When she grew calmer, she curled up a little and let him hold her and rub her back, while he marvelled at what a strange and wonderful creature a girl was.
I am completely undeserving, and yet she trusts me. And this is only a fraction of what a parent feels for his child. I would never want to give her such grief; I would tear out my eyes and throw myself into the Ganges before I caused her any harm. I would depart without a word of protest. Perhaps it will come to that, one day, when she is fully an adult and realises the nature of my friendship with her father. I would never hold her back, or harm her prospects. Pray God I will have the strength to leave then.
“Are you done, Birdie? Have you let fall the last of your tears, for now?”
She sniffled a little and nodded. “I didn't mean to say those things,” she whispered.
“And I did not either, I can assure you. I should not have told you to keep silent, nor that you were too young to understand what we were discussing. But is that the only reason why you are unhappy? I rarely see you so sad.”
She shook her head. “It's lots of reasons.”
“Do you want to tell me about any of them? I am a reverend; I hear many things, and I never mention them to anyone else. It would offend God if I did.”
With a few more tears, and another handful of sniffs, she made an inventory of what was on her youthful heart. It was quite as lengthy as it was detailed. “I was mean to you, and Bābā got mad at me, and I'm tired of being on the boat, and I don't like growing up because I can't run around and play anymore, and I miss my mynah-bird, and I miss Sruti and Sajal, and I wish I could still wear my shalwar kameez instead of my sari because it's easier to walk around in and I don't have to worry about being lady-like all the time, and I don't want to be a lady because ladies can't play cricket, and I wish I was better at embroidery but I'm no good, kōna byāpāra kataṭā āmi cēṣṭā, and it's too loud on the boat to sleep at night because Bābā snores, and I'm scared to have another birthday and be older and grow up, and I hate how Bābā and Nurse still treat me like I'm a little baby, ebaṁ yē sakala.” She finished abruptly and began swinging her feet as she wiped her eyes yet again on her now-sodden dupatta.
St. John tried not to smile at this heartfelt and completely contradictory list of griefs. “What a lot of things you have to be sad about, Muniya. Do you ever pray to God about them?”
“No.” She stared at the floor.
“May I enquire as to why not?”
She shrugged. “He doesn't say anything back to me when I do.”
“Ah, I understand. It is difficult, learning to listen for that 'small, still voice', but I encourage you to not give up; the rewards are great and will give you a lifetime of comfort and consolation.” Muniya just sniffed and shrugged again.
A memory flooded St. John's mind, quite unexpectedly, and although he had not thought of it in twenty years, it came to him as clearly as if it had been yesterday: taking tea with his grandfather. When he and his sisters had spent the summer in the Lakes District, visiting his maternal grandparents, he had shared tea with Grandfather each afternoon, just the two of them, and he had looked forward to it with eagerness every day. How kindly his grandfather had treated him, taking seriously what he had to say, listening as if a nine-year-old's words had value and import, and never chiding him for his thoughts. St. John paused for a moment, thinking, and could find no obvious fault with the idea; more to the point, he felt positively enthusiastic about the possibility.
“In the mean time, Muniya, whilst you are practicing how to listen to the Word of God, what would you say to having afternoon tea with me?”
Muniya looked dubious. “Today?”
“Yes, today, if you like, but more than merely today. We could have tea together every Sabbath, or twice a week even, or however often you wish. And we could talk about what you choose, what makes you happy and sad, and I shall endeavour to treat you like a proper adult, but will not lecture you on embroidery or being lady-like. What would you say to that? I am not your father, of course, but I am your godfather, and I very much enjoy spending my time with you. Would you enjoy taking afternoon tea, just you and I?”
She considered the offer for a moment, clearly running through it in her mind (her face was quite as open and expressive as her father's), before wrapping her arms around his neck; this time, when she kissed him on the cheek, he returned the gesture. They smiled at each other for a moment, nose to nose, a little conspiracy between the two of them.
“I would like that, Reverend,” she agreed. “But what will Bābā think? Won't he feel left out?”
“I think, Birdie, that he will be glad we are not unhappy with each other. Now what do you say we go and find him? He is likely most anxious to know what we are about.”
The remainder of their voyage was quite pleasant, at least for those in their travelling party not in possession of the Christian name “Marcus.” St. John and Muniya took tea every afternoon, a happy distraction from the aggravation of being trapped in the shallow river-bed for an entire week before the British Army Corps of Engineers was able to come and dredge them out. They discussed religion, literature, history, French, and werewolves. Nurse enjoyed having a bit of time away from her restless young charge; she filled her afternoons with fixing the many rents and stains on Muniya's saris. The Captain would have been content, no doubt, except that he had an even more difficult time setting by his need than the Reverend did; by the time they finally arrived in Benares, he had smoked every one of his cigars and paced the decks until his leg ached at night. First and foremost in his mind was the necessity of a quiet evening alone at the hotel.
When the travel-weary party stepped off the gang-plank into the bright afternoon sun, Muniya half-dragged the Captain along in her eagerness to see the sights. Nurse followed close behind, hissing that Muniya needed to walk slowly and conduct herself appropriately. St. John came last, busy with arranging transportation for their baggage. Their hotel, located next to the new fort, was only a mile's distance from the docks, so they elected to travel by foot; Cpt. Aquilaine declared that he would allow it, but on the condition that he immediately retire for a nap upon arrival. “I find I do not sleep particularly well on boats, even river-barges, and must have an hour or two to recuperate,” he proclaimed. St. John agreed heartily, and announced that they would all lie down in their respective rooms for a time, before a more detailed exploration of the city.
This goal, so eagerly anticipated by both the Captain and the Reverend, seemed both promising and feasible as they walked along the river toward the fort. But as they stepped away from the water and towards the interior of the city, they began to look around in confusion. The sound of drumming and raucous singing echoed up from the central square, the streets were curiously full of people dressed in their finest, and as they approached the fort they began to smell smoke and see otherwise respectably-clothed people smeared with ash and coloured chalk. The two men stared, gaping, as an Indian man in a top hat brushed past them, hooting cheerfully, his black woollen frock-coat liberally pelted in pink and yellow. Then the Captain groaned aloud as Muniya clapped her hands in delight.
“Hōli, Bābā, ēṭā hōli! Caluna ēbaṁ ēṭā dēkhuna!” She began dragging him in the direction of the festivities. “Āmi bhālabāsā hōli - ēṭā āmāra janmadinēra chuṭi! Caluna dābānala dēkhatē yā'ōẏā! Āmākē shakarpara ēkaṭi pyākēṭa kinatē dibēna?”
St. John laughed. “You cannot fight the tide, my dear Marcus.”
“That I know, full-well. But we will be covered in chalk, and both need a thorough scrubbing, and she will stay awake all night with the noise and excitement.”
“I shall help you wash out your hair afterwards, Captain.”
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
notes:
This chapter, a belated sort of epilogue four years after the end of the story proper, was written as a gift to motetus for all the art she did for P&P. When I offered to write her a bit of erotica in return, she replied that she did not care what I gave her, and indeed she would happily accept “the Captain and St. John have completely platonic travel adventures”, just so long as I wrote her something. So here, motetus, is a completely platonic travel adventure. Enjoy.
impale - some translations of the Old Testament describe Haman's execution as a hanging. This is incorrect, but probably done to avoid frightening children.
steam barge - At this time, many forms of transportation were beginning to transition into steam-power, especially small water craft.
double-stateroom - The stateroom was rented with the direct intention of having both men sleep in it and share the bed; this was entirely normal for the time period.
Holi - Holi is a delightful spring holiday. The meaning of the day is variable and complex; the rituals differ from place to place. One thing, however, holds true for Holi no matter where it is celebrated: the festival is enormously fun. Social conventions are temporarily set aside, men light bonfires in public squares, women beat men with sticks, children break out into singing and drumming and dancing, and everyone runs about, stuffed full of sweets, dressed in their finest and pelting each other with handfuls of brightly coloured powder.
shakarpara - A bit like doughnut holes, shakarpara are lumps of flour dough, deep-fried and rolled in sugar syrup.