The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [192]
There had also been a word that stood for his mother's quarters, but he could not remember it: or their signals either, for though the outline of those remained, the details had been lost in the debris of the years and try as he would he could not recapture them. It was only when he had given up the attempt that suddenly, lying awake one night, the lost word slid unbidden into his mind: Hanuman. Of course: Hanuman the Monkey-God, whose legions had made a living bridge across the sea to Lanka, each holding his neighbour's tail so that Rama might cross in safety to rescue his wife Sita, kidnapped and held prisoner there by a Demon.
Did Juli remember that? Or had she been too young? Yet she had remembered so much – far more than he had done – and her response to his oblique conversation had made it clear that she had not forgotten their old method of communicating with each other when they were not alone. Perhaps he could make use of it again and press his advantage one step further. It was worth trying, thought Ash; and he had tried it on the following evening. But this time Juli had made no response, or given any sign that she understood him or remembered, and though she did not avoid his gaze, she could not have been said to return it.
Ash went back to his tent feeling tired and defeated, and was rude to Mahdoo and short with Gul Baz. And when later that night the dai scratched timidly on the canvas, he called out to her to go away, saying he was no longer in need of treatment and did not wish to see anyone. In proof of which he reached out and deliberately extinguished the lamp, knowing that she could not work in the dark and must accept the dismissal without argument – not that he imagined for a moment that she would think of arguing it. But apparently the dai possessed more obstinacy than he had credited her with, for the darkness thinned as the canvas was pushed aside and a bright bar of moonlight accompanied the familiar shrouded figure into the tent.
Ash raised himself on one elbow and repeated crossly that he did not need her that night and would she please go away and leave him in peace, and the woman said softly: ‘But you yourself told me to come.’
It seemed to Ash as though his heart tried to jump into his throat so that for a moment he could not breathe or speak, and the next instant it had jerked back again and was hammering so wildly that he thought she must hear it. ‘Juli –!’
There was a ghost of a laugh; a familiar laugh but with an odd catch in it, and his uninjured hand shot out to clutch a fold of coarse cotton and grip it as though he was afraid she would vanish as silently as she had come.
Anjuli said: ‘Did you not mean me to come? You spoke of Hanuman, and that was always our word for your courtyard.’
‘My mother's,’ corrected Ash involuntarily.
‘Yours too. And as she is gone it could now have only meant one place. Your tent. That is right is it not?’
‘Yes. But you were only a child – a baby. How could you possibly have remembered?’
‘It was not difficult. Once you and your mother had gone, there was nothing else for me to do but remember.’
She had spoken quite matter-of-factly, but that brief sentence brought home to him as never before how lonely those years must have been for her, and once again he found that there was a lump in his throat and he could not speak.
Anjuli could not have seen his face, but she seemed to have followed his thought, for she said gently: ‘Do not let it trouble you. I learned not to mind.’
Perhaps she had indeed done so. But he found that he minded – that he minded unbearably. It appalled him to think of the child Juli left cruelly alone and neglected, with nothing to live for but memories and the hope that he could keep his promise and return. How long had it been, he wondered, before she gave up hoping?
Anjuli said: ‘And you too remembered.’
But that was