Nirvana Effect

59



Callista had little difficulty pretending she didn’t know Tamil. Their pronunciation was so bad, it was difficult to understand their questions anyway:

“Why did white man meet with you?”

“Who Edward Styles to you?”

“What know about nectar?” Maybe she didn’t hear that last word correctly.

They were Onge, she presumed. Dark faces, an apparent mix of Indian and Chinese. She was bound in a rough-hewn wooden chair. She just kept squinting at them, at whoever was speaking loudest, occasionally saying, “I only speak English. Does anyone speak English?” No one had hurt her. She hoped Edward was coming. She hoped he wasn’t dead. She felt he wasn’t. Maybe that was just hope.

She didn’t know where she was - some sort of warehouse. They’d blindfolded her when they’d brought her in. They’d carried her up two flights of stairs to get her to this room. She knew because she counted.

There was a single window that faced toward the city. The way the sun was seeping into the room, she figured that she was on the east side of Lisbaad. Her mind was making needless calculations. There were only a few that were really relevant.

First of all was that she sat bound in a barren room with a concrete floor, a torn out ceiling, and at least twenty different Onge in and out all day.

Second, they were all armed and alert. She had no hope of escape. There was only one door in the room. Who knew where that might lead. Probably past more Onge.

Third, the Onge were buying her not understanding their language.

Fourth, they hadn’t hurt her yet.

Still, she felt sick. She wanted to crawl out of her skin. She didn’t let on. But at any moment one of those natives could get a funny idea in his head and shoot her with his rifle. It would be all too easy. She controlled her breathing. At least she could control that. Hysteria was not an option. At least, not yet…

One Onge seemed to be the leader. He had a khaki hat on which made him look like a safari guide. He wore clothes as one might wear a costume; he definitely didn’t seem used to them.

The native walked back into the room. He had a book in his hand, and he was quite intent on it. His gaze perturbed her. It looked as though his eyes were devouring his book, one page at a time.

Finally he dropped the book on the floor and bent down to eye level with her.

His speech was broken, pronounced horribly, but understandable. It shocked Callista. Only an hour ago, he was only able to yell at her in Tamil and five other dialects she didn’t recognize. This time he spoke English, biting out each word. “I…speak…English. You… answer…my questions. I… beat you…until…you answer.”

She screamed. He slapped her, then put his face just inches from hers, holding her by the collar of her shirt.

“Why…did…Edward Styles…the…white man…why he…meet you?”