CHAPTER 17.
Summer term ended and with it the last dregs of my sanity. I no longer slept and took to drinking copious amounts of coffee to stay awake, so I wouldn’t have to see Anjuli. The sari was to blame. I never should have taken something that didn’t belong to me and longed to rid myself of it. But something prevented me from doing so. When De Smet put on a church bazaar, I offered the sari up to a group trying to raise funds for the care and schooling of native children.
They refused.
Their reasoning was that it was probably a family heirloom and wanted to know where I came by such a treasured item. I didn’t have an excuse for that one. I slunk off to my tiny clapboard house in the middle of nowhere and tried to figure out to get rid of it without offending every spirit from here to Bombay.
I was so desperate I even made a trip to the local reservation and spoke to a woman who said she could help. She backed away immediately upon spying the sari. “Where did you get that?” she hissed, her turquoise earrings swaying. “It is cursed!”
“Cursed? Oh, I know it’s cursed. I want to know what to do with it.”
“Why did you take it?” she demanded, bringing out a bowl of white sage and a book of matches. “Your house must be cleansed!”
“I know it.”
“And the sari returned.”
“Returned?” I repeated, my throat dry. “They don’t know I took it.”
“You mean you stole it?”
“The spirit wanted me to have it.” I folded it back into my bag. “She wanted me to keep it safe.”
The woman was skeptical. “She told you this?”
“I heard her.”
“If she wanted you to take it, it was probably for a good reason. But that does not change the fact that something has attached itself to the sari and—” She eyed me gravely. “You.”
“What can I do? I see and hear frightening things. I can no longer sleep!” I told her about the incident by the laundry line. “When I woke up, I didn’t know how much time had passed.”
She nodded, her gray-streaked hair bouncing along. “And tell me what you saw.”
Startled, I explained the vision and asked her what it meant. “Why am I seeing these things?”
“You said the girl died tragically.”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Then she wants you to help her.”
“Help her? How?”
The woman did not answer, but blew sage smoke over me and the sari. She muttered prayers and offered to cleanse my home. “It will only be temporary,” she said on the day of the cleansing. I stood behind her, marveling at her composure. “Some spirits do not let go so easily.”
“I wonder if her father is still alive. Maybe I could return the sari to him.” I don’t know why I said that. It just popped into my head. Like a lot of things of late. I watched as she blew the sage smoke into every room and corner of the house, wrinkling my nose at the odor. “If I gave it back to him, would that help?”
She turned to me, an odd look in her eye. “Where was the sari’s original location?”
I gulped. “I worked in a house in England. My employer had it in a trunk in the attic. No one knew it was there.” I shuffled my feet. “Or maybe he did.”
“He knew it was there,” she said, turning to finish the cleansing. When she was finished, she left me another bundle of sage and told me what to do if I saw the shadows again. “They are not hers,” she informed me matter-of-factly.
“Then who?”
“They follow her. Wherever she goes. That is why she stays in the attic. She is afraid to leave.”
I felt my blood run cold. “Is that why she told me to take it?” I cried. “She knew they would follow me?”
The woman, who introduced herself as Macha, said I most likely would have to return to England. “It will not be your choice,” she warned as her son arrived to take her home. “He will ask, and you will refuse.”
“Who will ask?” I called after her. “I don’t understand!”
She climbed up into the wagon, her eyes dark and piercing. “You must be careful. Do not remove the sari from its hiding place. They are drawn to it. I will return in a week. Then I will tell you what you must do.”
“Wait!” I shouted, chasing after the wagon.
They drove off in a cloud of dust, leaving me coughing and left to fend for myself. I turned to my house, dreading the dark. Feeling the oppressive atmosphere lifting, I went back inside and knew the shadows would return.
In the meantime, I prepared for the new school year. I ordered books, school supplies, and a new globe so I could show my pupils where India was on the map. The more I remained in the house with the sari, the more obsessed with Indian culture I became. I finally made that butter chicken and also made curries and a beef biryani. I drank endless cups of Darjeeling tea if I could find it and began wearing my hair in a simple bun.
I found myself tempted to pierce my ears and did so while attending a teacher’s conference in Chicago. I purchased a small pair of gold earrings. They may not have been genuine gold, but that wasn’t important. I also took to wearing a gold bracelet I found in a secondhand shop. It wasn’t too expensive. It was just something I had to have. I even hunted down a small vial of patchouli oil that I used on special occasions.
Now, someone might say these things weren’t me, and they would be right.
But they were just right for Anjuli, who seemed to be living vicariously through me. I allowed it, feeling it eased her sadness somehow. Though I was tempted to don that sari. I was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. As I knew what would happen if I touched the thing, I put my foot down. “I can’t,” I said to her in my mind. “I just can’t.”
She understood. Or at least I liked to think that she did.
After Macha cleansed the house, I slept easier. The dreams ceased as if someone had marked a page in a book to come back to later. When not behaving as if I were the dead bride of Michael Westin Havelock I, I made paper dolls for the girls whose families were too poor to buy them such things. I’d trace figures onto colored cardboard and cut out clothes from scraps of wrapping paper. Many of them ended up resembling Anjuli. I purchased a small box of tin soldiers for the boys and handed them out as welcoming presents.
September passed, as did October.
The winds were cold and brittle, stinging childishly plump cheeks and warranting the use of my knitting needles. I made caps and mittens for all my pupils. Macha had returned the week after the cleansing and left, satisfied it had done the trick.
“Just be careful,” she said, promising to visit for another cleansing after Thanksgiving. “I wish I could do more. But this is something I’ve never seen before.” She turned to face me. “Have you much experience with the Hindu faith?”
“No.”
She nodded. “You are a Christian. It helps, but you may need the assistance of one who understands the spirits.”
“How many are there?”
“More than one, unfortunately. It is beyond my expertise.”
“Then they will return?”
“Eventually.”
I helped her into the wagon. “Who was this person you spoke of? The one you said would ask me to return to England. I know of no such person.”
Macha made a face. “Oh, him.” She didn’t sound too enthusiastic. “I don’t like him. Thinks too much of himself.”
“Is it the… colonel?” I asked fearfully.
“Who? No, the other one. The one who was sent to find you.” She lifted the reins. “He is already on his way. Be careful.”
“At least tell me his name!” I shouted, my eyes filling with dust. The next words out of my mouth would have made my mother blush. I don’t even know what the meaning of those words were. They just flew out of me as if someone else spoke them. “That’s wonderful,” I muttered to myself, quite ashamed.
I gargled with vinegar and vowed I’d never look the words up in the dictionary.
As for this “person” who was sent to find me, I kept silent vigil. I didn’t know how to defend myself and asked one of my pupils if they knew of anyone who would be kind enough to teach me how to… shoot and dress a turkey.
For my Thanksgiving supper, of course.
“Oh, sure,” the boy, whose name was Peter, said. “I’ll ask my Pa. He knows everybody.”
I thanked him for his help and let him have the rest of the lemon drops.
