Path of the Tiger, стр. 462
He looked up through gummy, crusty eyes, and saw the thin Indian man, dressed in his simple brown robe, squatting down next to him. The man supported the back of William’s head gently with his left hand, and with his right he brought a clay pitcher up to his lips.
‘Come my young friend, drink. It will refresh you.’
Too weak to resist, William parted his lips, half expecting his mouth to be filled with scalding bitterness or corrosive poison, but instead he tasted the sweet relief of cool spring water trickling in. He drank slowly at first, but soon started gulping down the liquid until he had drained the pitcher completely.
‘Good!’ the man laughed in his gentle, lilting voice, which was dense with an Indian accent. ‘The life-force is powerful within you.’
‘Who … who are you?’ William managed to croak as the man laid his head back upon a pillow of leaves.
The man chuckled with convivial laughter before replying.
‘I am one of your new friends, Englishman.’
William turned his head to the side, peering around to try to make sense of where he was, for all he could see above were branches, treetops and sky. To his left, thick forest stretched out as far as the eye could see, and when he turned to the right the same view greeted him.
‘Where am I? How did I get here? Who, who are you people? Why—’
The Indian man pressed a gentle finger to William’s lips to silence him.
‘Hush, young one. All of your questions will be answered in time … but not at this particular time. At this present moment though, there are two who wish to greet you before you sink back into the sleep that your body needs right now.’
The Indian man stood up and beckoned to someone outside of William’s line of sight. He was able to discern the crunch of human footsteps on the leaves, but also heard the sound of the hooves of a horse. He smelled that familiar rich, earthy scent before he saw him – and then, all of a sudden, a huge wet nose was in his face, nuzzling and nudging him with loving enthusiasm. A familiar snort and a whinny confirmed his friend’s identity.
‘River King!’ William exclaimed, reaching up to stroke the horse’s face. ‘River King, my wonderful, sweet, lovely boy! It is you!’
‘He is a magnificent horse, to be sure,’ remarked a sonorous voice – the voice of the white man William had seen in the forest just prior to the decimation of the expedition. ‘Don’t worry young cub,’ the man continued, ‘he has been very well looked after these past few days! He is healthier than ever, and happier too, I suspect, now that he can feel your touch again.’
The man studied William keenly, looking him up and down with the probing, analytical gaze of a surgeon, his piercing eyes narrowed with attentiveness.
‘Tell me, how are you feeling at this moment?’ he asked. ‘Are there aches? Pains? Nausea?’
‘I’m in pain, yes sir. But no’ as bad as it was before, sir.’
The man chuckled before replying.
‘There’s no need for this “sir”, business. You’re not in the army, although I suspect you were once, were you not?’
William nodded.
‘17th Lancers, British Army, sir.’
‘No more “sir”, please. You may call myself and these other good people “guru ji”, if you feel that you absolutely must use titles of respect,’ the man insisted, his tone warm and friendly.
‘Oh, yes, si-, I mean, guru ji.’
‘So you were in the 17th Lancers, were you? The “Death or Glory Boys” is the nickname attached to that particular regiment, yes?’
The man’s accent was strange; his English was clear, yet it was tinged with some sort of vague foreignness.
‘Aye,’ William answered. ‘I fought in the Crimean War wi’ them. I charged wi’ the Light Brigade at the Battle ay Balaclava.’
‘Ah, then you and your comrades have been immortalised in verse!’ the man exclaimed, grinning broadly, with kindness sparkling in his eyes.
‘We have, guru ji?’ William asked, surprised. ‘I dunnae—’
‘Hush, cub. One of your nation’s poets, Lord Tennyson, composed quite a stirring poem about your brigade’s courage. I will read it to you sometime … but not now. Now you need rest. We will talk of these things, and many others, when we reach our destination, and when you have recovered sufficiently from your injuries to begin your studies and training.’
William suddenly remembered the enormous lion, evidently the pet – or rather, the attack dog, it seemed – of one of these people, and with a gush of terror the recollection of being pursued and mauled by the beast came rushing to the fore of his consciousness. The blood drained from his cheeks, and his breathing became rapid and panicked.
‘Tha’ huge bleedin’ lion,’ he gasped, his voice cracking with fear as his terror-dilated pupils darted from side to side, ‘where is it, where is it?!’
The man laid a reassuring hand on William’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
‘Don’t worry. The lion is not nearly as fierce as you may think. He’ll not attack you again, I assure you of that.’
The thin Indian man then came sauntering over to William. He knelt down, cupping a steaming mug containing some sort of herbal tea in his hands.
‘Drink this, come on!’ he urged. ‘It might not taste too good, but it will do wonders for your health and chakras. It will also help you to get some peaceful rest. Come, drink it down, all of it now!’
The Indian man, who seemed to be perpetually cheerful and smiling, arced the corners of his mouth upwards and chuckled as he held the mug up to William’s lips. He drank the liquid, its pungent aroma and bitter taste coming as a bit of a shock to his tongue. However, as soon as it went down his gullet it began to spread a calming warmth throughout his body,