Misselthwaite

Chapter Two - 'The Abandoned Girl'

It is not long after sundown when I see the Bull carry a bundle of cloth out past the bungalow. There is a great caterwauling emanating from the servants huts and it is with blind certainty that I know my Ayah has died.

I swallow my grief for Chita, my eyes stinging with the onset of tears. It is the closest I've ever come to crying.

Nobody comes to me. The house is silent.

Hours ago, Mother had sent one of the remaining chokras from the garden to gather up my possessions into a heavy teak trunk. I had taken it upon myself to pack a lighter case, filling it with only my most important possessions - including my paintbox. It was ridiculous to me that Mother intended to stage a full migration to Ootacamund at this point.

Shouldn't we be packing lightly, sending for the rest of our belongings when we were sure we were out of danger? But, the sounds of the china and silver being stowed away for travel had meant she'd insisted, with not even Father's words being enough to persuade her otherwise. He always gave her what she wanted... this time to our own detriment.

It is no doubt due to her extravagant packing that we have missed our scheduled train. I wonder how long it will be before I am summoned into the main room of the bungalow, where I will have to come to the realisation once and for all that there will be no Chita. I will be void of allies in this home, stripped of the one person who had always chosen me above the wrath of the Memsahib.

How will I remain tethered to the earth when there is nobody that cares if I stay at all? Will I simply vanish - a ghost girl damned to roam the bungalow, merely a spectre until my mother remembers my existence?

Feeling as if my head is about to spiral out of control, I gather myself and instead focus my energy on listening for activity beyond my bedroom. It has been a long time since I heard a voice - English or Indian - and longer still since anyone has thought to check on me. Fear of the cholera holds me in my place, behind a closed door and set upon the heavily packed trunk. You must stay here, Miss Sahib, the young chokra had said before leaving, unsafe outside.

I have half a mind to wrap myself inside the gauzy mosquito net draped over my bed frame as I recall his words.

Beyond the walls of our compound, the jackals cry into the night. I wonder where the Bull has taken Chita, and if he ever intends to return. Having seen the fear that had blatantly displayed itself upon everyone's faces as they had helped us pack, I highly doubt it. Our home is stained, riddled with disease. Only a fool would return and put himself at risk.

I hear it then, the most distant of sounds - words in Hindustani too rushed and complex for me to understand. I leave my perch, silently traversing the span of the small bedroom to peer out beyond the reed sheets that line my windowsill.

Three glowing torches travel across the yard. It is our household staff, or rather, what remains of it. The jackfruit tree they pass beneath is cast in orange glow, ripe with heavy fruit. Amidst the whispering of voices, I recognise one torch-bearer as Harshad, our missing dhobie. He is taller than his companions: two older men I now recognise from the kitchens. It seems they are leaving our compound and the sick with it.

No longer intent on stealth as they grow closer to the gates, the footfalls of the men become harried and urgent. I think about how fearful they must be; for the orders of the Memsahib are no longer law. I cannot blame them for not willing to take their chances against such a faceless and formidable opponent. The cholera has taken root within our walls, and nobody can tell us how long it will stay.

It is with a sudden pang of something like abandonment that I watch them leave.

Then, only as he puts a foot wrong, throwing him a step behind the elder group of men, do I realise that the young chokra is with them. I think of the young servant boy's words, and how he urged me to stay inside only hours ago. I pray that, despite the panic, I am not so easily forgotten.