The Luminist

Dimbola


CATHERINE WALKED ACROSS THE GROUNDS TOWARD the small cottage where the crate and the letter from Sir John waited. It was October 1836. The natives called it Aipassi.

When she’d first disembarked the Royal Captain in January of that year, touching the hewn stone of Ceylon’s Port Colombo dock caused her to despair her reunion with Charles. How could she explain Hardy to a man who understood only the simple calculus of legal theory, calendar days, nautical distances?

She’d spent the prior four months studying Bible verse and struggling to puzzle out her emotions in the impossible leaning of the sea. On the day of her arrival in Ceylon’s harbor, Julia had come to her cabin weeping that there was a body floating freely atop the waves. In another moment she’d heard its impact against the ship’s hull, like the hesitant knocking of a child at a parent’s closed door. That was Ceylon.

Matters needed time, she’d thought.

Charles had come in a solid, if ordinary, carriage piloted by the maid he’d written of in his letter, and so she’d looked this Mary up and down, searching for signs of the new life. A sturdy, quiet twenty-three year old, Mary carried herself that day and all days after with the bearing of a bricklayer and the air of lessened expectations common to servants aligned with midlevel households.

Charles looked older. Sick even still. His ivory beard was thicker now. It blanketed the prominent jawline she had watched soften with age. His burly frame had thinned considerably. She wondered what Mary was feeding him, or whether he was closing himself off in a room amongst the chaos of his books and papers. But his eyes were so full of hope for her devotion that she’d kissed his hand and ignored the milling natives just outside their carriage, with their language of melody and unmapped terrain, their skin like burnt chicory. Charles needed her filial kiss. Men must feel necessary.

She’d found nothing in Mary’s demeanor, nothing in Charles’ quiet embrace upon hearing of Hardy, nothing in the wordless mien that settled upon them during the journey from Port Colombo to Kalutara and her new home, nothing in the quiet non-intersecting circles they followed in the months after, from which assurance could be drawn that this was the life she was meant for. This was home.

From all appearances, Charles’ life in the house he called Dimbola scarcely extended beyond the single room he’d established as his study, and in which he’d arranged his considerable library. The rest of the house felt empty and in need when she’d arrived. Sparse furnishings, a disorder to the English amalgam of rooms and functions, a lack of cultural flourishes – art, namely – by which their guests might come to know Charles’ achievements. It had not surprised her that during his long sojourn in Ceylon without her, Charles had not attended to details best left to a wife. Still, Dimbola suffered a malaise that she quickly set about dispelling. Mary kept order. She kept the children fed and occupied, allowing Catherine to reclaim her role as wife and architect of a socially presentable colonial life.

Soon after her arrival, she’d discovered the cottage while searching for an old cachepot. The structure was nothing, and treated as such. Mary stored her mops and buckets there, alongside the remaining crates, odd chairs and tables, the items her new mistress and master had brought to Ceylon.

In it Catherine found saris, wraps, the detritus of Indian women hanging in the gray space of an alcove. They were covered in a patina of dust, their hues no more than suggestions of what they once were.

Left by servants, she decided. Women long since vanished.

By early spring, their arrival had lost the luster of the new. Charles returned to his books and laws, Mary to her grumbling and cleansing of her betters, Julia to her writerly musings and complaints about the life abroad her parents were surely withholding from her.

Catherine returned to the cottage each day.

It held no furniture or fixtures. It walls were bare. Its ceiling had been rent open by storms. Yet its vacancy was of a different sort than the main house. The cottage didn’t feel empty to her. It felt free. Charles’ persistent quiet, the maid’s taciturn labors, Ewen’s pronounced need; none of it reached her here. In the cottage, possibilities turned in the breeze of the near sea.

The crate and the letter from Sir John arrived by ship’s post in September. Mary brought them to her master with no regard for Catherine’s name as intended recipient. A message from a man journeying on the largesse of her new master’s superior, to her mistress? Inappropriate was too gentle a word.

Charles was a quiet rain after Sir John’s delivery. He punished Catherine with silence, unanswered entreaties over dinner, a closed study door.

He didn’t understand, nor could she expect him to. She knew this. He hadn’t witnessed her in the Cape. Had he known that she’d infused a far away man with hope for the resurrection of her child’s first and last day, he would have hated her for needing such things.

She moved the crate, unopened, into the cottage.

Weeks passed. Colonial Ceylon invited them to dinners and a party in Andrew Wynfield’s honor, to fete the imminent completion of Ceylon’s first grand church, the Galle Face. At Charles’ direction, Mary selected a dress and provided Catherine with the hour by which she was expected to emerge, ready. There were instructions pinned to the russetted bodice. Topics about which Catherine was to be learned, others about which she was to be silent. A map provided her with the location in Charles’ library where a book might be selected, should she desire a supplement on the laws her husband had drafted.

Charles didn’t speak to her on their carriage ride to the Galle Face.

Near the port, their carriage joined a queue. They were greeted by Tamil children from the Galle Face’s newly inaugurated Religious Tract and Bible Class. The children sang lyrics from the Acts while invited Britishers walked a pebbled path to the church entrance.

Charles let himself out and strode off, leaving Catherine to the preachings of the children.

A procession of Bishops led the invitees through a sculpted metal portcullis. Above the entry was a round window embellished with flowing tracery, and through it Catherine saw the grand gable of the roof, the coffered ceiling that swallowed all but traces of the many flickering candles, clustered columns, the topmost ribs of the nave, and the piping and roseglass of the sainted windows. Everywhere she saw the scars of expansion.

The exterior was mapped in cages of scaffolding. The columns pierced the underside of the sky. They were yet to be carved, but soon their snowy marble would be expertly relieved in flower garlands gracing Christ in His infancy.

Inside, the Directors’ wives remained at the rear of the sanctuary, where they expressed admiration for the native children’s mastery of their prayers and spoke longingly of London boutiques. They asked Catherine to chair a lunch where charities would be formed and decisions made. She was requested to draw up a menu for their inspection.

She saw Charles in line, waiting for Andrew to acknowledge him.

Between the wives she saw the open door, and if she moved slightly to her left, a glimpse of Ceylon’s curtain of trees, its contours and slopes, its painterly last light. Behind everything, far from sight, the cottage and the unopened crate.

The wives invited her to their table. She politely declined. Despite Charles’ stare, she remained in the doorway, where the air of this country could be heard and felt.

The evening ended. They returned to their plantation. She could take no more.

“I am grateful you brought us here,” she said, unbidden, the following morning. She’d dressed herself and Ewen for the missionary Ault’s service in the shadow of the Galle Face before locating Charles in his study.

She’d come to invite him without knowing why. He had never shared her faith and did not believe in the time church attendance thieved from other pursuits. It was a familiar dance. She asked him to come, he refused. But she felt the need for her husband to sit with her as other husbands did. She wanted him to know the breadth of her belief. There was no other way for him to know how that belief had begun to falter in the Cape, and she with it.

Upon his refusal she made to depart but lingered over his books. Perhaps if she delayed, if she touched them, she might discover why this constituted prayer for him.

“It seems this silence between us persists,” she said. “Shall we declare it done?”

“If you wish.”

“I wish for my husband.”

“Your husband is here. This is what my life is now. Is it enough for you? A man not given to frivolous poetry. I cannot be other.”

“Nor can I. Yet we love each other.” She tapped his papers. “An immutable fact.”

“A law, I suggest.”

“Agreed.”

His first smile since the port. “Know that it pained me, Catherine. I didn’t want to leave having just learned you were with child. But I tell you we will have a life here. The one we want, among English society. Now we have declared the silence between us done. May we also conclude the melancholy I see in you? Just as your journey here, tell me there is a ship and a map to bring you to a state of contentment, and I will pay your passage.”

“You are poetic despite yourself.”

“You inspire matters I didn’t know I was capable of. Come, let me show you something of Ceylon.”

He led her out onto the grass. “My predecessor on the Court called this estate Dimbola. A suitably exotic appellation. But look there. Look at the curve of the land to the trees and the sea. Do you see the borders of this country? There, where the land meets the Arabian and stops. Tell me you see the beauty in these things so that I may be sure of you.”

She let moments pass. She devoted herself to the curl of the land into the weave of jungle and sea. “What resides in the crate,” she began, “is somehow of me, as all of this is now of you.”

She could feel him turn inward. Their years had taught her. A sudden distance in his eyes, a stiffening of his stance. But she did not stop. “Odds and ends left from the Cape, sent to the Maclears’ because they were the most important Britishers in the area. Sent via Sir John because of the shared connection to Andrew. Andrew does not underwrite charity. He has affiliated himself with two great men.”

“Why speak of it,” Charles said tersely.

“I must have your blessing.”

“What am I asked to bless, I wonder.”

“Something has captured my attention. You know what sort of woman I am. Remember the story of my mother?”

“Off with you to Paris. The café windows.”

“Then you know how it is with me. Perhaps you’ll be piqued. Whatever resides in the crate is of science, as well as beauty. It must be. It lacks even a name at present.”

His distance widened. It began at the edge of his eyes. She took his hand and willed him to know her heart. Your illness is not frailty. Look at us. In Ceylon, so you may structure the Charter that will bring an unruly country into civility and English law. You sit at the elbow of the governor. You are not fated to be less than other men. You have married a woman fated to want what isn’t here. I am sorry for that.

“Your place is at my side,” he said. “You understand the importance of this.”

“I do.”

“Then take care not to hurt yourself opening that damned crate.”

It was October. Aipassi. She opened the letter first.

I enclose what exists to the present in this quest of ours. Nothing lasts. There are others working on matters of chemicals, surfaces, and the contraption itself. Reijlander, chiefly, in Sweden. Archer and Talbott. I am in correspondence with them. Through me, so shall you be.

Presently, I travel to Alexandria. I hope to reach Ceylon by year’s end and will send advance word. Though truly the sky is the same everywhere, I wish to see it from all the hemispheres and all the outcroppings of the world.

I enclose instructions and materials. I know what they yield to me inform and function. As for what they yield to you, Catherine, I can only hope that it will be enough. What shall become of your days now, I wonder. Perhaps I shall hear of it in your letter to me. May they offer comfort, if nothing else.

—Sir John Holland

With the letter, Sir John had enclosed images. A tintype of a silvery shroud encircling the harbor at Pretoria. There was a sailboat in the foreground. There was the sea, washed to silver by the setting sun.

Not enough, she thought. There is nothing from life here.

Through the cottage door, she saw the burning lamps of her home. Dimbola. It was the dinner hour. Mary would see her empty chair and feed her family. She would tell Julia and Ewen to pray and ready themselves for bed. Charles would close his study door.

Her dress bound her too well. She shed it and for a moment she let Ceylon’s breathing liturgic winds find her. Then she went to the alcove and selected a sari of washed red. Moving beneath its loose weave was of no consequence.

She unpacked the crate of its parts. Oddly incandescent paper. Small casks of exotically named chemicals. Wood cut into spindles, dowels, a box. A black cloak. Hinges and small mirrors. There were instructions. How to assemble, what to do next. How to approximate what had been done, where to look for what could be.

Above her was the punctured roof of the cottage. Stars, blackness, the sky Sir John deemed the same, everywhere.

She began to build with no sense of what it would be. She only knew that the world was falling away. Each day of my life must be this.





From Life


ELIGIUS FOLLOWED HIS FATHER ON A WIDE PATH ALONGSIDE stands of palm trees and sawgrass. Swaran led them on an ascent of Prinsep Hill’s pinnacle. To the west was the sea, rounded at the shore where it swelled into the white defilements of the colonials’ construction. The East India Company, the Galle Face church, Court Directors’ homes and plantations, all blemishes from a plague swiftly traveling inland, borne by the Britishers’ ever larger machines.

In his years, Eligius had seen simple machetes give way to axes on wheels, pulled by bison and then by elephants and then by something else, some infernal wheezing metal cart that ate a swath through the neem and banyan trees and spilled red mangoes onto the ground like blood. The colonials felled everything in their path to make way for more of what they wished India to be: the breadbasket of London. Yet the azure sea persisted and the jungle always grew back to fill the cavities of whitewashed stone and stained glass with fruit and birds and flowers.

From Prinsep, Eligius could see the roads open to them. The East India Court lay to the west, near the Galle Face. An easterly route would take them away from Port Colombo, away from the waterfront homes and inland plantations devoted to cotton, indigo, jute, and the ever-craved coffee. North would take them to the other villages outside Colombo and Mulkirigala, to slums just like Matara filled with stagnant water that spread sleep amongst the newborns. A little further and they would find what remained of the elephant temple. Sudarma had often brought him there as a child, despite the day-long trek, to see the shattered gopuram canopied by the treetops. Bearing him in her arms as if he were nothing, she would point to the burnished copper rendering of Lakshmi on her lotus. She would tell him how Lakshmi showered the faithful with gold coins, and how the temple elephants, cousins to the clouds, showered her in turn.

They trekked west until a crescent of the sapphire sea emerged at the horizon line where the jungle gave way to the outskirts of Port Colombo. Following the road, they passed the Overstone plantation and the men laboring in its fields.

“Look at them,” Swaran whispered. “I don’t want these men’s lives for you, meri beta.”

Eligius watched the workers cut the ground open, seed it and sew it shut again with tools brought from across the sea. Once, these men were the sellers and buyers, the beginning and the end. They were the circle of the world; so his father said. Now they were oxen pulling blades across the dirt for their betters.

They emerged from the jungle at the Court building, near a throng of angry men. Hindu, Punjabi, Sinhalese, Tamil, Sikh, Vedda – Eligius saw every caste, every group. They’d all come to see if chants of protest could make the colonials stop what they’d been doing since the first Charter Act gave the John Company sovereignty. Men in dirty clothes and soldiers in uniform paced their respective sides of the bars, eyeing each other warily.

Swaran avoided the other Indian men. He approached the gate and bowed to the closest guard. The guard waved him over. “I am presenting a bill of concerns to Governor Wynfield and the Court of Directors.”

The guard gestured to Eligius.

“My son.”

“And me.” Chandrak stepped forward. “A servant of no great importance.”

After conferring with his superior, the guard opened a door in the gate and ushered them swiftly through.

A brick flew past Eligius’ ears. “Tell the Britishers to pack their things and leave,” a man’s voice cried. This stirred the mob up, and they began to surge towards the gate. The man who’d screamed was at the front of the crowd. There was a long stick in his hand. A thick cord of braided horsehair sliced the air with an audible hum as he turned it upon himself.

The crowd began to chant in time to his self punishment. He smiled as his back grew slick with sweat and blood. “I am Ceylon,” he said, his teeth grinding against the pain. “I am Ceylon. Tell them.”

The guards pressed themselves against the gate, bracing it. More fusillades launched from the crowd. Mangoes and kavas burst against the bars, raining pulp across the tended grass of the Court garden.

Eligius turned his back on their anger. Brushing bits of fruit from his shirt, he felt as if his trembling heart were visible to the world.

The court building itself looked much like a plantation, with its columns, its walls the color of ripe coconut meat, its polished glass. The Rees flag billowed on sea winds. The sculpted grounds made a mockery of the anger he’d come through. Even the breeze gentled once past the gates.

A parade of strutting peacocks scampered aside as they approached the carved ebony doors of the Court’s entryway. Before knocking, Swaran drew palmfuls of water from a stone basin. Lotus blossoms floated aimlessly, cut from their roots.

A Sikh doorman regarded Swaran’s petition without expression. His chubby face had cracked from the sun. Rivulets of perspiration crept down the folds of his neck, slipping beneath the banded collar of his uniform. “It is more today than yesterday,” he said, opening the door wide. “Every day they get louder. When this door closes, you won’t hear them at all.”

The room beyond was marvelous to behold. All of Matara could have fit inside its ellipse. Its walls were covered with clean white paper embossed with raised images of acacia. Windows opened wide onto an expanse of tall sugar cane fields and the stone edifice of the Galle Face church. The windows were bordered with enough cloth to stock a bazaar. Gathered in loose folds with links of golden cord, the cloth breathed with each gust of sea air.

On any other day Eligius might have run from wall to wall like a child delighting in his flight. He might race along the room’s perimeter and imagine running across the sea to strange places.

Across the expanse from them, a Hindu servant struggled to remain upright as the boy riding atop his shoulders bobbed up and down, his small red head snapping with the jerkiness of his mount’s gait. “Horse!” the young boy screamed. “Lift me up! Up!”

The servant obeyed. He hefted the boy high in his arms and paraded him past windows. When the boy tired of this, he demanded his horse once again. In an instant the servant was hopscotching in a mad circle.

“No.” A woman’s voice.

Ewen halted his exultant flight. He began to cry at his mother’s tone.

Something else disturbed Catherine’s view of the proscenium, the marble, the frescoes and the light suffusing the Court’s expanse in descending sparks of dust. An instant before the Indian boy, the contraption’s keyhole was making dervishes of the strolling men. Cups and saucers lost their mundane structure and became the obelisks of London, the surrounding dust like that city’s silverwashed fog. Faces came undone from the men and women who possessed them. Faces were geometry.

The contraption, with its mirrors and polished glass, brought resolution to the world like nothing else in life. It isolated the possible. She saw moments in the eyes, in the filament creases around mouths. There, a happy marriage. There, a thwarted plan. Aspects that were daily lost to careless memory might still be found somewhere on each one passing through her vision.

Then the Indian boy came within her view and remained. He stood stiffly next to an older Indian man. His father, perhaps. There was another man with them but he felt peripheral; he was sinewy and hard, as if he’d been broken from the ground and put to a whetstone. The boy, who appeared to be Julia’s age, had skin the color of milky tea. He wore trousers and a tunic. The clothes gentled his lean physique, made him less a part of this strange country.

When he looked at the man who held reams of papers and an open book, she wondered if the boy was the sort who watched his father tirelessly, to become the one she found in her camera’s view.

The boy turned to face her camera. He tilted his head, regarding it and perhaps the suggestion of the woman hidden within it. When he moved, he opened a patch of pale watercolored sky in the window behind him. His shadow cast across the polished floor.

She was about to bark an order for him to move away but she could not. In that unlikely face, in the void of sound or motion, the space between her and her dead child came to her.

The Indian boy’s shape against the Court wall was a moment that she could not name. It stepped forward from life and meant to remain, but she could not understand why that should be so, when Hardy had come as a moment already passed.

“No,” she finally said.

Eligius saw her emerge from under a dark cloak. Despite the earthen sari adorning her, this woman was colonial. There was no mistaking the empire in her.

Regarding him from across the foyer, she returned beneath the cloak of a spidery apparatus that filled Eligius with a queer dread. The thing stood on black legs, smooth and lucent in the twitching gaslights and filtering sun. Five feet high, most of its body was hidden away beneath the black hood that reminded him of the draped macaw cages he marveled at as a child.

A British girl of Eligius’ age stood alongside the hidden woman. Her hair was golden, her face made turbulent in the mottling light. She fingered a glass pendant around her neck. When the afternoon sun struck the dangling shape, bubbles of color spilled across the blue-veined marble floor.

A Cingalese servant girl hurried past, bearing trays of sweet meats and pastries no larger than hatchlings. The British girl’s pendant light adorned her, then fell away.

“Whose water do you draw?” the servant whispered when she reached Swaran.

“We’re here to address the Court,” Swaran said.

“You may wait in the chambers, but be sure and remain at the top of the stairs, where it’s dark.”

Eligius glanced back. The woman was out from under her cloak and standing at a window with the girl, facing the Galle Face and the sea beyond. The boy played in the shadow of wall frescoes depicting forgotten colonials.

The servant led them to a set of whitewashed doors. Inside, they took seats in the uppermost row. At the bottom was a dais, a lectern and several tables. Colonials congregated in groups like clusters of nettles, festooned in their finest linens and silks. The men tugged at brilliantly hued sashes fixed around their throats while they raged at each other in something approaching verse. Their voices rose and fell while white boys carved into parchment with the sharpened quills of native birds. Their handiwork was rendered with such speed, it seemed that the boys were charged with the task of arresting the men’s words no sooner than they were aloft.

Eligius couldn’t understand much of it, but the comings and goings fascinated him. Like the bazaars at Kaveri and the port, pockets of commerce unfolded in corners. Hindi women held up flowers and cinnamon satchels. While they waited to be noticed, their eyes wandered to the men bringing the council members steaming tea and plates of clove loaf.

He pitied them, to be seen by their women this way.

One at a time, Britishers emerged from the dankness to approach the dais. They presented their wants. Rights to their neighbor’s well, levies on tobacco imported from further than twenty five miles to Ceylon’s markets, news of growing unrest in Madurai and whether the directors might impose a limit on servants brought in from that part of the country. “They bring able backs, but contempt for their betters,” an aggrieved man said.

The directors sat at a long table under another Company flag. Though they listened, decisions seemed to come from one man, Governor Andrew Wynfield. He cut a robust figure, with broad shoulders and a piercing glare that he trained to imposing effect upon those who stepped forward. The other men seemed older, heavier, trapped by their station. This man was stronger than they were.

One director sat away from the others. His head was bathed in waning light from the ring of windows above him. He held a thick woolen overcoat tightly under his chin, like a blanket. His free hand stroked a beard of brambles and moonlight. A beggarly old lion. The Governor leaned to whisper to him after each solicitation.

Swaran got up and slowly descended towards the dais. Those conducting the business of the rich paid him no attention as he passed.

Eligius felt a guilty wave of embarrassment for his father. They’d walked a long way. The brown stain of Ceylon’s mud roads covered him. His clothes were festooned with leaves and windborne dust that clung to the soft cloth like gray rain clouds.

Swaran approached a lectern. His bearing was regal despite the barely disguised mirth his appearance provoked among the colonials.

“You must be Swaran Shourie.” The governor read from a document. He held up a hand, silencing the room. “You have asked for the floor and it is yours, though only for a moment. We are about to adjourn.”

“I am here by right of the people,” Swaran said. “The southern provinces and all their villages, Wynfield sa’ab.”

“By right?” Governor Wynfield smiled. “Was there an election I should be aware of?”

“There are issues you should be aware of, sa’ab. Matters more pressing than where your servants come from.”

“Your tone, sir.”

“On behalf of Ceylon, I ask for leniency on the lagaan. The tax. I have studied the charter by which the Court and the Company gained sovereignty, and I believe the tax exceeds its bounds. I have the citations to your laws.”

Wynfield’s smile had not left him, yet something within it hardened like pottery in an artisan’s kiln. “We have been over the same laws. It is a closed matter.”

“There must be an open forum, sa’abs. The Charter is to be renewed for another twenty years. It cannot be, not as it stands.”

One of the directors leaned forward. “Speak of it in the proper way, Swaran. It is a matter of respect, or else say nothing.”

Eligius saw his father’s hands tremble.

“Your Zamindari system forces us to grow only what you need,” Swaran pressed on, “with seed we are forced to buy from you. Your lagaan takes us into debt, so we cannot afford to sow the fields. Having nothing to grow, we have nothing to sell and no way to pay this tax. Our markets are full of Indians bartering scraps of themselves to each other while we lose our lands.”

“I have little sympathy.” Wynfield held out his teacup and waited. In an instant, a Tamil servant stood at his side, refilling it. “Ceylon’s poverty was a matter of record long before we accepted stewardship, at no small expense of the Crown’s time and capital. Your people are free to work and raise the money to address their arrears. The fields afford them such work.”

“Why should they work the fields?” Swaran’s voice was shrill. The Indians in the chamber cast their eyes down. “What do they gain?”

“Outrageous,” one of the directors blurted.

“The simple task of amending the Charter has begun,” Wynfield said. “ When it is ready, you will hear of its terms, and I will look to you to convey those terms clearly to the people who appointed you.”

Swaran stood helplessly. “The people will not accept this.”

“The laws,” Wynfield said angrily, “suggest that they must. Do they not?” He turned to the bundled old lion. “As the scrivener of their drafting, please speak to our rights under the Charter.”

Eligius pulled back as the lion’s gaze found him.

“I’ve read everything – ” Swaran began.

“They are ample,” the lion said quietly. “They are clear and unambiguous, Swaran.”

“This is not your country!”

Eligius spun in his seat. Chandrak was bounding down the steps towards the dais. “We are not all weak men!” Chandrak shouted. “If we fall, so shall you!”

“Who is this man?” Wynfield stood as soldiers left their posts at either end of the dais. They headed towards Chandrak, bayonets leveled.

Swaran’s head bowed. Eligius tried to see his father’s face through the crush of bodies suddenly swarming the Court floor.

The soldiers caught Chandrak by the arms and hair. Pummeling him with the butts of their rifles, they dragged him through a side door. “So shall you!” Chandrak’s cries echoed through the chamber.

Wynfield came to the edge of the dais as the directors cleared the hall. “You bring talk of rebellion in here? Rest assured, you are no longer welcome, Swaran. If you are seen again, you will be arrested.”

“I did not speak of rebellion – ”

“Further discussion is pointless. You will leave here. Now.”

Eligius watched his father gather his papers. He wanted to speak, but his words had fallen into a deep hole. Did his father feel this way, at this moment? As if he was drowning within himself?

“Is the boy your son, Swaran?”

The old lion stood from his seat with difficulty. “Tell me your name, boy,” he said when Swaran tucked away the last of his notes in silence.

“Eligius.” He watched his father trudge back up the hall steps, towards the servant entrance.

“Merely to pass through the mob outside took courage for you both,” the lion said. “You have a Christian surname. Are you Christian?”

“Hill country Tamil. My family came from the north long ago. I was named for the missionary Ault’s predecessor. He helped my mother when I was born, or I would not have lived. My mother had a fever.”

“It’s a harsh world for the young.”

“I was weak when I was born. I am strong now. My mother said to me, ‘Stay. You did not come all this way only to go back now.’ And so I did.”

“A splendid story.”

“Why didn’t you listen to my father? He worked hard to speak with you.”

“Walk with me.”

The great foyer outside fell into shadow as a cloud crossed its windows. For a moment, Eligius felt a glow upon him as he left the Court hall. Then he felt its recession from his skin, leaving only the old lion’s cold hand. “I hope we meet again, Eligius. I would like to think there will be other things to remember me by.”

Governor Wynfield came to the lion’s side and led him away. “There’s trouble,” he said curtly.

Ahead of them, Swaran stood in the court doorway, frozen before a sea of screaming men just beyond the gate. The shapeless rumble of voices rose like heat. Eligius couldn’t understand what they were saying, the men hurling themselves against the bars again and again.

Papers spilled from Swaran’s hands as he left the doorway for the courtyard beyond. They caught the sea winds and hurtled upward.

“Appa!”

Eligius followed his father into the courtyard, where Chandrak lay on the hard stone near a cluster of carriages. An undulating circle of soldiers beat the cowering shape of him. His left leg bent grotesquely.

Matara’s men were at the front of the mob, crying Chandrak’s name, and Swaran’s.

Eligius heard his father’s voice now. A strangled, guttural wail. Wading into the teeming courtyard of soldiers, his papers swirling away from him, Swaran walked unsteadily towards the men around Chandrak. He paused, bent to the ground, then shambled on.

Eligius broke into a run when Swaran raised the banyan limb.

A young soldier with a blemished face pointed to Swaran and shouted something. His words were pulled up to the sky with Swaran’s papers. Three other soldiers leveled their rifles at Swaran. The volley of thunder silenced the crowd.

There were lights. Tiny burning flowers spat from the dull metal barrels. Bursts of red opened Swaran’s skin, his chest and head, leaving gashed holes all over him.

Thin plumes of smoke rose from the soldiers’ rifles. The angry embers of their barrels faded.

The crowd ran hellishly then, in every direction. Swaran stood motionless in the courtyard. His expression was quizzical and concentrated, and so familiar to Eligius, who had been watching him for months as he grappled with the colonials’ laws as if trying to grasp the fraying threads of a dream. He crumpled to the ground next to Chandrak.

“Help me!” Chandrak cried as he pawed at his own wounds. A bullet had rent his left side open. “Take me home!” His cries were a boy’s, suddenly afraid of the world.

Eligius knelt to his father. He slipped a hand beneath his head and tried to lift him away from the stain of blood spreading across the cobblestones. For a moment it was just him in the lifeless glass of his father’s eyes, just the still reflection of him against the sky. Then there were soldiers behind and above him, pulling him away.