Nigel nodded as if in agreement that they should retire, but did not
make a move to head back. His dark
eyes glinted slightly as they caught the faint glow of the gaslamps. An
errant rat appeared from between the barrels, scurrying over the man's
booted foot, pausing to twitch its whiskers and peep upwards before
going about its verminous business along the gutter.
With
a bit of a smirk that was more winsome than grim, Nigel gave a glance
back toward the lodge's gate before answering Murphy. "I'm sure boxing
is not the most unproper thing that has happened in those walls. Nasty
business indeed...but, I do say, the Spirit of Manchester came off as
some sort of a quack, did he not? A bit like one of those drawing-room
mystics who reads the obituaries then preys on mourning mothers about
how they have a message from beyond the grave. A message that apparently
only manifests upon payment of quite a few quid to the transcriber!"
The trooper's levity seemed to wane, as he met Murphy's gaze briefly
with his own deep sapphire eyes that literally held a strange jewel-like
quality in certain light. "But I suppose to successfully project and
accept the ruse, either party might possess some true understanding, if
not actual ability, of such unnatural powers. I say unnatural...but
perhaps they are more natural than we suspect-- but long-buried in our
meat and bones beneath the mundane concerns of ordinary life, just like
we forego our childhood ideas of fairies and phantoms."
Nigel
presently led them back into the lodge's study, lighting a small gas lamp before
the now-dead fire. He crouched down between two musty velvet wingchairs
to go about rekindling the hearth, his well-worn boot soles showing
their age. The fire relit, he offered one of the seats to the boxer,
taking the other after removing his heavy coat and holster, hanging both over the
humped seatback. Now comfortably slumped deep in the old chair, Nigel
propped a leg up on an ottoman with the nonchalance of a spoiled persian
cat.
"Oh, let's be straight, then, Mr.
Murphy. Even though I am still considered an active officer in Her
Majesty's Service, no need for protocol, no saluting or sirs or any of
that pompetty-poom-- for I saw the tattooed emblem of your good regiment, and
know well the sacrifices made by them. My first deployment from school
was as a special attachment to the 12th Lancers at Khyber Pass. Seems
those boys couldn't quite convince their steeds to climb the narrow pass at
Ali Masjid-- so General Brown had to call in a few Death or Glory men
to show them how to handle a horse!" Nigel beamed proudly, sitting up
some to slap his knee. The flames briefly gave his sallow cheeks and
purpled eyes a more lifelike color before he sank back into the shadow
of the chair, his skin wan against the dark
fabrics. The lieutenant's boastful sing-song voice dimmed to a low,
knowing whisper. His long fingers, which seemed more suited to piano
playing than the rigors of wrangling war-horses up mountainous badlands,
drew a small circles on his own chest to indicate where Murphy had the
grimacing mask and hand talismans inked.
"Is Kabul where you came to belief in nabi booti,chasme-badUr?
Do they work for you?" While Nigel's exact pronunciation may have
seemed a bit different from what Murphy was used to, the horse-man's
utterance of the Urdu language was easily understood by anyone familiar
with the similiar Hindi or Persian names for the guardian wards. His
questions were not spoken with skepticism; in fact, Nigel's mirrorpool eyes were wide with an urgent curiosity that betrayed
his desperate search for anything that could stave off the gloom--
that foul darkness that could no longer obscure for him the evil that
bloomed like black flowers in this a ruined eden of a world.
"More
like a bloody git to me," Murphy sniffed. "Claimin' to be the spirit of
Manchester an' all, dressed all in white like that. Don't know what
Manchester he's spirit of, but it ain't the parts I know; nothin' stays
white like that for long down there."
Something
in the man's face spoke to a deeper tale to tell, but he held his peace
for the time being, stuffing hand wraps into the pockets of his
trousers. He shrugged at Nigel's phantasmal ponderings, eyes meeting and
quickly averting from the other's preternatural gaze. "Given all we've
seen, I s'pose anything's possible. Certainly seen stranger than fairies
and ghosts in my time," he added with another roll of his powerful
shoulders.
Back
in the lodge, Murphy hung back as Nigel set about making the study more
hospitable, only sitting when offered a seat. Though they both lived in
the space, he still deferred to the officer as though this were *his*
home and study rather than, by rights, both of theirs. Rather unlike
Nigel's comfortable slumping, Murphy perched on chair's edge, back
hunched forward, arms resting on wide splayed knees.
He
cocked an eyebrow at Nigel's disposition of formalities, then slowly
nodded in agreement, crooked grin lifting one corner of his mouth. "Yeh,
alright. Though don't take it too hard if I slip up; old habits an'
all, right?" His grin faded, though, at the mention of Afghanistan and
the two place names he was all too familiar with, replaced by a more
thoughtful, stormy furrowing of the brow.
For
a moment he was taken back to the fortress there, nestled between stark
mountains, a blazing sun shining overhead despite the year's advanced
month. He had been part of the Third Infantry Brigade, ordered first to
storm the fort then ordered to cease action 'til next morning's light.
Communication had broken down, had it so often did, Murphy would find
out in his years in that desolate region, and the latter order did not
reach all eyes and ears. It had been a massacre, or as close to one as
the Irishman had ever wanted to witness, as he had been unfortunate
enough to be with a contingent of men who had not received the order to
halt.
"Ali
Masjid was a bloody mess," he said after a moment's reflective silence,
eyes fixed on the crackling fire. "Lost my brother there. Lost alot of
good men there."
He
chanced a glance at the lancer, then, ears perking at the Urdu words.
One hand came up to rest briefly at his breast, just over the nazar
battu, before falling back to join its twin at his knees.
"After
Ali Masjid ... We were struck by a sickness. Field doctors didn't know
what it was, couldn't do nothin' for it. Men who were fit as bloody
horses got sick and jus' ... wasted away. The lads, at first they
thought it were the Sikhs, right? We was joined with the 14th Sikhs and
they weren't getting sick, at least, not at first. Load of rubbish that
was anyway; my mate, he was Sikh, he told me what was goin' round and I
put an end to it best I could."
Given
the man's physical prowess coupled with his impressive height and build
it needn't be said how he convinced his fellows to leave their Sikh
brothers in arms be.
"We
was skirmishing with tribesman then, too, nothing like Ali Masjid,
mind, but awful all the same. It was through all that the idea stuck
that maybe it were the evil eye makin' us sick. One of the lads, I don't
know, he found out about the hand and soon enough almost all of us was
wearin' it." Murphy sighed, shaking his head and running a massive hand
back through his hair. "I don't know 'bout it working; I never got sick.
Went on from Afghanistan to India and back through the North-West
Frontier ... Made it back home alright. It were in India I got the mask;
Amal, my mate, he thought it would do more good than the hand ..."
A
nostalgic, wistful smile played at the corners of his lips at that
recollection. For all the horrors of war, and there had been many, there
were bright spots, too, fond remembrances to be cherished for the light
they brought in the darkness.
The lingering curve upon Murphy's lips did not placate the discomfited
visage of his fellow veteran, whose melancholic gaze fell to the floor
as he listened to the tale that followed the same formula of so many of
the British Army's foolhardy, outnumbered, strategically disastrous
battles in foreign lands-- each one, it seemed, cursed by epidemics and
violence never before seen. Nigel spoke softly, unable to make eye
contact, his dark eyes flashing with licks of fire as if he were
remembering hell itself.
"At first I was confused by
your tale, for I always counted Ali Masjid as an easy victory--- but
after we helped the hussars and artillery get their horses up, my
detachment was ordered to follow the 12th cavalry to Peiwar Kotal, and
from there, I got to spend the spring and summer fighting the Zulus, fancy that!
So I missed that terrible last battle at Ali Masjid, and any news of
this sickness...so any of the pride I had in that medal is now
destroyed. But after our last stand with the Zulus in July, I was sent
back to Afghanistan in November, to help lead about 150 troopers with
the 9th Lancers and some Bengals in the siege of Sherpur. 125 of us
with no choice but to charge 10,000 of those vicious tribesmen. Pirates,
highwaymen they were--not an orderly army. But, even that was nothing compared
to Maiwand. Again, outnumbered ten times! I was taken prisoner there.
The horrible heat that twisted our vision into hallucinations...the
frostbite at night that turned our skin black. The cries of men begging for
water as they writhed with torments seen and unseen. And those infernal
women! With their veiled eyes and evil magic potions-- their curved
blades, their unthinkable desecration of wounded and dying men--"
Nigel stopped himself, then looked at Murphy with a startled expression.
"My
god, you came home through the North West, then? Was it your regiment
who liberated me, carried me to India to recover? The inquest didn't believe
us, not about the atrocities, the demon-possessed, the sorcery. They
court-martialed our commanders, hanged them for cowardice and treason. I
was imprisoned as well, facing court-martial myself after Sherpur, which
reopened speculation about what exactly happened with me at Rorke's Drift and
Hlobane. The top brass assured the rank and file they saw nothing
supernatural or demonic in Afghanistan-- it was only the effects of the
constant artillery, the 120 degree heat-- mere mirages."
"On
account of my father's seniority, and presumably his high-ranking
lodge, I got a sort of a pass for several years. They sent me to
Shimla near the place where I was born, playing polo for sport with the
17th Lancers; doing equestrian exhibitions, taking dainty girls to
balls in a uniform full of medals. Never was I a hero, never was I
thanked. They had no fucking idea. I was merely entertainment for
bored British expat aristocratic ladies who summered at the Raj's compound.
Sorry to curse, old chap. But I curse them all the same, ungrateful, puffed-up
pompous fools ever ignorant of the world outside their whitewashed
walls. Right, I don't hate India---I was born and grew up in the extreme
north, high on a Himalayan mountain tea plantation between Darjeeling
and Sikkim. My amah were often Sikh, as were much of the staff except
for our Gurkha guards. It was my first amah, Manjeet, who realized that I
had... gifts...ways of manipulating how people thought, how they
perceived things, and that I had 'sight of the consecrated and the
cursed.' The Buddhist monks who came to see me from Bhutan and Tibet
were certain of it-- they feared me, even as a child-- just as the
Africans feared me as man."
Leaning forward, Nigel placed a thin hand on the boxer's knee. "I speak to you in greatest confidence now, Murphy-- but
someone in our party should know. I am the embodiment of the
duplicity of Her Majesty's Army, and the horrors its brave men
have endured are nothing to the horrors the Army has unleashed
on its men, until some of those men become horror itself. " Nigel's face
was white and sombre as a tombstone, and his eyes stayed locked on
Murphy's, the blue irises illuminated by their preternatural
silvery-gold glow that outshone even the fireplace flames.
"If
I become inhuman...too monstrous...promise me you'll do me in, John
Murphy. Use a gold weapon. See to it that my body is burned to ashes
before anyone tries to take any part of it--not even a lock of hair! And
for chrissake, don't place my ashes on this godforsaken, bloodthirsty
soil. Throw me off the cliffs at Clochán an Aifi, or melt me in the snows of Kangchenjunga, so whatever remains will utterly disappear."
The
moody officer suddenly lifted his hand,
uneasily shifting in the chair. The rapid shadows of ghosts that had
been passing over his visage now sank back into his heart for the time
being, and the intense stare softened into a weary half-lidded
contemplation. "So when you say you made it back home-- do you mean,
home is in India? Is that where your mate Amal is, and-- is Amal like
us?"
Murphy,
and his regiment, had avoided the battle at Maiwand by virtue of the
mysterious sickness that had plagued them. So reduced in number were
they, they had been recalled to India following Ali Masjid so as to
recuperate. From there, they had been sent back through the North-West
Frontier to deal with the various troublesome tribesmen. He had stories,
though, they all had, of the defeat the British had suffered there.
It
was a difficult thing to sort fact from fiction, the news having
travelled mostly via word of mouth, from soldier to soldier. He had
heard some whispers, too, of what fate befell those unfortunates who had
been captured; horrors that must have been invented whole cloth from
nothing for surely such terrors could not be real.
He
listened intently to Nigel's recollections of Afghanistan, his capture,
picturing - too easily - everything named and endured. Murphy knew what
the lancer had survived and he knew that the stories that had
circulated 'round late night campfires weren't the imaginings of
homesick and frightened soldiers. In his time in the North-West Frontier
he had seen things beyond rational explanation ...
Murphy
tilted his head to one side at Nigel's question, sifting through
memories he would rather have left long-buried and mostly forgotten
though such sights were not so easily left behind. "Yeh, we was sent to
rescue those who had been captured. Gave me bloody nightmares for weeks,
what we saw and heard ..." He met Nigel's eyes and held his gaze for a
long minute. "I believe every single thing you've said, sir, and I'm
sorry none of those who count did. You and your lads deserved better
than that."
Nigel's
unexpected touch, following the more intimate act of secret-sharing,
caused a small frown to appear on Murphy's brow; he was unsure in what
direction any of this was heading and, indeed, doubted that the lancer
himself quite knew what he was about. Still, he inched all the closer so
as to better catch those whispered words. There was a time when he
would have dismissed the man as mad for making such a request, let alone
leveling such accusations against the Army, but that time was long
since past.
Murphy nodded, slowly. "I promise, sir. I'll see you don't suffer."
No
small wave of relief passed over the Irishman when Nigel retreated back
into himself and his chair, taking most of the oppressive, distressing
atmosphere with him as he did so.
Confusion
flitted across Murphy's face, followed closely by a huff of laughter
and a shake of his head. "Aww naw, Manchester's all the home I've ever
known. When I was over there, I mean, we never was in one place too
long, you know how it was ... Most times it was just me and Amal and a
shoddy tent if we were so lucky as to have that, so if you can count
that as home I guess it was."
"Yeh,
far as I know he's still in India," Murphy continued with a lift of one
shoulder. "I came back here two years ago and that's that, innit? Can't
write any letters and ask what all he's about now or read anything he
might send ... I don't think he's part of all this. I mean, he saw all
the same things I did, but naw. He was more keen on settlin' in on a
quiet life once the army was done with him."
Nigel was grateful for the empathetic gaze and honest words from his
latenight companion. There was a warmth and kindness to the boxer that
belied his tough, tatted up exterior and sometimes gruff accent that
irrationally comforted Nigel. Yet the officer
had long ago given up on ascribing logical explanations to every aspect
of life as the English were wont to do. A genuine smile lifted the lancer's
gloomy countenance, and he rested his chin on top of his hand as he
considered the bravery and goodness of the man across from him.
"Thank
you, Murphy. I hope that your pledge and, god forbid it should come
to be, the act of mercy itself will, in turn keep you safe from
harm-- a sort of karma, as the Gurkhas say. For I fear I have no other
way to repay you for such a noble deed."
Nigel listened with continued curiosity at the tale of the estranged exotic
Amal. While the officer was known (and even chided) for forming
unusually close relationships with the native contingents that
supplemented Her Majesty's armies, none of those had lasted beyond the
campaigns. And, partly because of his rank, and partly due to the
notorious elitism of the lancer units, it was unheard of for non-whites
to occupy the same sleeping quarters. Even when he slept
on a vermin-infested, blood-stained horse blanket on the African plains,
the English-blooded defined their "area" with a row of munitions boxes and
mealie sacks. It was ridiculous to him, especially as it was very
apparent the natives and impressed colonial units brought in from India
and beyond were lifelong soldiers, better trained and more
disciplined than most of the non-career, prone to sickness, snobbish
British troopers. There was always an unspoken, expected divide---
and any attempts Nigel made to ingratiate himself, to exchange words and
language and stories with the ethnic conscripts, were usually met with a wary patience at best.
"Oh,
you are from Manchester! I say, has it always been troubled as this? It
seems quite strange to have so many things going on, and so few
resources to combat it. I tell you, Murphy, I don't know what is home to me.
After India, I was sent back here to my garrison, then shipped straightaways
to Uganda to exterminate some lions. I had an accident there -- only recently recovered after
spending almost eight months in...in hospital I suppose...a place like this, in
the north of Ireland. After I received the cylinder, I came to Manchester with little else than the horse and my kit. I don't really know
what to expect next...I suppose I'll receive my orders when its time to
go elsewhere...but for now it seems there's plenty to do hereabouts, eh?"
Nigel grinned, as if he were eager to
avoid falling back into the mire of dark ruminations that he struggled
to keep behind a once-prestigious facade-- now a fragile veil had been crumbling from
the inside out for sometime now. But his eyes lit up, inspired.
"Say, if you are staying here, old boy, why don't you have Amal write you at the
lodge-- I'll read it to you, and I daresay, I will keep it confidential as needed.
Or... do you want to send him a letter? I'll write it for you-- you can
sign it." Nigel tilted his head, thinking. "I jolly well insist you start up
a correspondence! If not with Amal, then with me. If I can teach a
naked savage who speaks in clicks to read and write the Queen's English,
this should be easy enough, eh? What say you, Murphy?"
--
The
intimacy that had formed between Murphy and Amal had been born and
nurtured by extreme circumstance and no small amount of luck. Being
infantry, and lowly recruits at that, they hadn't been subject to the
same scrutiny that their commanding officers labored beneath. Then, too,
there came the loss of life in both their regiments which prompted a
greater commingling between the English and their native counterparts;
the two wounded halves came together to form a whole.
In
combat, the pair were unmatched when it came to ferocity and
tenaciousness. More than once, when engaging the frontier's tribesmen,
they had found themselves seemingly surrounded, cut off from their
fellows, and had come out victorious, fists swinging and grinning madly.
"When
I was coming up, we was told stories about boggarts and knockers; never
thought any of it was real, not really. Knockers was used to get us
lads to watch our kit, right, and the old timers would have a laugh,
movin' tools or makin' bloody awful noises ..." Murphy shook his head at
the memory.
"Afghanistan's
where I first saw anything true strange. Didn't think it would follow
here, but maybe them old timers knew something after all ... Maybe it
weren't just always them takin' the piss ..."
Nigel's
sudden burst of inspiration was met with, at first, stunned silence.
Murphy's education had consisted of two primary years in a clapboard
schoolroom before he went to work in the mines that employed his father,
uncles, male cousins, brothers and grandfathers. There hadn't been much
use for reading or writing in shoveling coal or pushing carts; the army
hadn't been too concerned with it, either, so long as he could fire
three rounds a minute and stand fast in battle.
The prospect of learning, now, and corresponding with his friend, it was almost too much to take in.
"Could
you really do that?" He finally asked, as if Nigel had promised to
perform some fantastic piece of magic. Then, as he fully realized what
it could and would mean to learn his letters, a bright grin broke across
his face. "I don't rightly know what to say, but if you think you can
do it, then I'm willin' to try."
Nigel was now fully reclined between the ottoman and chair,
resting his head on the armrest and smiling in return.
"What do you mean you don't know what to say? Most letters are fifty
percent formalities, the rest is just...news and well-wishes, maybe a
request or two. Raaaaaaather! Its not infra-dig for me to play at being
your amanuensis, old boy."
The lieutenant waved his
hands in the air, his voice singing a playful litany of the anatomy of
correspondence: "Righto, here we go!--Sender's Address, Recipient's Address, Date,
'My Dearest Friend Amal, I hope this finds you well....da da da,
blobbity-blah, Sincerely, your obliging friend in arms,' signed John
Murphy, with your seal-- well, nevermind with that--but maybe a catchy postscript
if you forgot a tidbit in the main missive. Although, if its been a
while since you've communicated, and you have some longer tale to tell,
well, we can just set aside an evening and jolly well take care of it,
eh?"
"As for the reading bit, one day at a time, old boy! Its not about me doing anything-- you'll do all the faggin'(*) and
I'll simply tell you how to go about it properly, just like-- " Nigel
laughed a bit ironically, "just like being in the bloody army. But I
daresay, this will actually be productive1 Plus its a cracking way to
pass the time while we're stuck here by ourselves. I'll spiff up some
playing cards with certain phonetic sounds and draw an example picture--
like ch with a picture of a church--it can even be a Catholic one, I spose-- and the word church underneath.
We'll make it a fine game, putting the sounds together in a sort of go-fish, and once you
have sounding out words down, we'll make sentences! I'll also affix
little labels of words on your gear and about the lodge if our hosts
will grant it. Yes, that's a smashing plan. Fantastic!"
With that sudden
pause in his ebullient outline, Nigel's heavy-lidded eyes poured
over the boxer's formidable frame as if the lancer were admiring a race-horse, and his
voice became calmer. "I assure you, my good Murphy, if you can survive the coal
mines, the war, and whatever goes bump in the night near or far-- then
you've got more than enough smarts and stoutness of heart to conquer
little letters on a page! I know you sometimes fancy a pint and having
the daily news read to you at the pub, eh? Well, if you can read a even few words
from the Standard by the end of the week, I'll buy you a round!"
The
lancer exhaled softly, as if ruminating on reality for a moment. "If
you get frustrated, don't worry, we'll just take a break-- spar for a
bit to clear your mind if you like. I'm not going to be some
tyrannical headmaster, and take to your bum with my crop, or humiliate
you to the point you break...Between boarding
school, the military, and training horses, I've come to believe rewards make for more effective discipline than any cruel punishment. For crafty men-- and clever beasts as well-- will simply pervert punishments into pleasure-- so--it all ends up being the same thing
anyway, but without any of the intended original result of actually learning
anything! The abused ones that don't become masochists just become
monsters-- mindless puppets who get beaten into submission, dumbly
following their masters' orders without any real reward, until they die. Or, of course, until they turn against their master one day. I suppose that sounds
a bit strange, but its what I've observed...oh you'll see...this
is going to be absolutely top hole, Murphy...just top hole..."
The
rather introspective thoughts of the officer coalesced and then
clouded his exhausted mind like the obscuring fogs that
blanketed Manchester's grim streets. Leaving Murphy alone to consider the imminent lessons, Nigel slipped into sleep, his
eyes not quite closed, flashing a spectral
blue-white as the firelogs diminished into softly glowing embers once
again.
--
(* "to fag" - Brit slang, to do tedious work--like when an upperclassman at the military academy bullies a freshman into doing his maths homework)
