The Tomb (Repairman Jack)

'Something wrong with your water?' Westphalen said to the vendor squatting on the ground beside him.

As usual, he spoke in English. He saw no reason to learn an Indian tongue and had never tried. Fourteen major languages yammered across this God-forsaken subcontinent and something like 250 dialects. An absurd situation. What few words he had picked up had been through osmosis rather than conscious effort. After all, it was the natives' responsibility to learn to understand him. And most of them did, especially the merchants.

'The temple has its own water,' the vendor said without looking up.

'Which temple is that?'

Westphalen wanted to know what the priest held over these merchants' heads to make them so compliant. It was information that might prove useful in the future.

'The Temple-in-the-Hills.'

'I didn't know there was a temple in the hills.'

This time the water vendor raised his head and stared at him. The dark eyes held a disbelieving look, as if to say, How could you not know?

'And to which one of your heathen gods is this particular temple dedicated?' His words seemed to echo in the surrounding silence.

The water vendor whispered, 'Kali, the Black Goddess.'

Oh, yes. He had heard that name before. She was supposedly popular in the Bengal region. These Hindus had more gods than you could shake a stick at. A strange religion, Hinduism. He had heard that it had little or no dogma, no founder, and no leader. Really—what kind of a religion was that?

'I thought her big temple was down near Calcutta, at Dakshinesvar.”

'There are many temples to Kali,' the water vendor said. 'But none like the Temple-in-the-Hills.'

'Really? And what's so special about this one?'

'Rakoshi. '

'What's that?'

But the water vendor lowered his head and refused to respond any further. It was as if he thought he had said too much already.

Six weeks ago Westphalen would not have tolerated such insolence. But six weeks ago a rebellion by the sepoys had been unthinkable.

He took a final sip of the water, tossed a coin into the silent vendor's lap, and stepped out into the full ferocity of the sun. The air out in the open was like a blast from a burning house. He felt the dust that perpetually overhung the street mix with the beads of perspiration on his face, leaving it coated with a fine layer of salty mud.

He followed the svamin through the rest of the marketplace, watching the chosen merchants donate the best of their wares without a grumble or a whimper, as if glad of the opportunity. Westphalen tracked him through most of Bharangpur, along its widest thoroughfares, down its narrowest alleys. And everywhere the priest and his mule train went, the people faded away at his approach and reappeared in his wake.

Finally, as the sun was drifting down the western sky, the priest came to the north gate.

Now we've got him, Westphalen thought.

All pack animals were to be inspected for contraband before allowed exit from Bharangpur or any other garrisoned town. The fact that no rebel activity had been reported anywhere in Bengal did not matter; it was a general order and as such had to be enforced.

Westphalen watched from a distance of about two hundred yards. He would wait until the lone British sentry had begun the inspection, then he would stroll over as if on a routine patrol of the gate and learn a little more about this svamin and his temple in the hills.

He saw the priest stop at the gate and speak to a sentry with an Enfield casually slung across his back. They seemed like old friends. After a few moments, without inspection or detention, the priest resumed his path through the gate—but not before Westphalen had seen him press something into the sentry's palm in a flash of movement. If Westphalen had blinked he would have missed it.

The priest and his mules were beyond the wall and on their way toward the hills in the northwest by the time Westphalen reached the gate.

'Give me your rifle, soldier!'

The sentry saluted, then shrugged the Enfield off his shoulder and handed it to Westphalen without question. Westphalen knew him. His name was MacDougal, an enlisted man—young, red faced, hard fighting, hard drinking, like most of his fellow Bengal European Fusiliers. In his three weeks as commander of the Bharangpur garrison, Westphalen had come to think of him as a good soldier.

'I'm placing you under arrest for dereliction of duty!'

MacDougal blanched. 'Sir, I—'

'And for taking a bribe!'

'I tried to give it back to 'im, sir!'

Westphalen laughed. This soldier must think him blind as well as stupid!

'Of course you did! Just like you gave his mules a thorough inspection.'

'Old Jaggernath's only bringing supplies to the temple, sir. I've been here two years, captain, and 'e's come by every month, like clockwork, every new moon. Only brings food out to the hills, 'e does, sir.'