Path of the Tiger, стр. 463
‘Good boy! You’ll feel better now … and sleepy, very sleepy.’
‘Thank you guru ji,’ William said.
He did indeed feel the veil of sleep being draped gently over his body as the warmth of the drink spread throughout his body, right to the ends of each of his extremities. Its effects felt similar to those of the opium to which he was so hopelessly addicted, yet somehow it felt far cleaner and less muddling in his head than that particular substance. Indeed, with this substance trickling through his bloodstream he began to experience a sharp mental clarity, despite swimming in warm oblivion. He closed his eyes, heard the music of the forest around him beginning to diminish in volume, and then sank into a deep and restful slumber.
***
When William woke next, he was drenched with sweat, his muscles were taut, and his limbs were trembling; once again he had been ensnared in the claws of a terrifying nightmare. Gasping and shivering, he looked around frantically, at once confused and frightened, for he found himself in completely unfamiliar surroundings; he was in a small room, lying on a simple straw mattress, with a thin blanket covering him. Amber daylight and a chilly breeze eased their way in through an open window, the view from which featured nothing but a deep azure sky, flecked with streaks of incendiary clouds that were aflame with an impending sunset.
Mounted on the wooden walls of the room were numerous scrolls and tapestries that displayed foreign and indecipherable writings, as well as highly stylized depictions of nature; waterfalls, mountains, streams and lakes, replete with all sorts of wildlife. On a rough desk in one corner, old tomes and manuscripts were neatly stacked, and folded up on a stool near the bed was a rough-spun green robe. Next to this were William’s possessions: his 17th Lancer’s uniform – which he had kept all this time, bundled up in his saddlebags – along with his few ragged items of civilian attire, and Andrew’s drawing of the four friends. Some items, however, were missing: his Winchester rifle, Captain Liversage’s sword and scabbard, and the wooden box containing the captain’s embalmed heart, which had also been in one of River King’s saddlebags.
He heaved himself out of bed, noticing at once that he was nude and that his body had been washed and cleaned, as had his wounds – which, amazingly enough, seemed to have almost completely healed despite their severity. With a surge of panic and a fumbling hand he reached up to his neck, but when he felt that his precious portrait of Aurora was still there he exhaled a long sigh of relief and slumped his shoulders, releasing the anxious tension from his muscles. Next to the bed was a clay pitcher filled with water, so he picked it up and took a long drink of the cool liquid to slake his parching thirst.
Despite the disquietude that remained after the strange nightmare, William felt refreshed, healthy and strong. However, in spite of his physical wellness, he was mired in an emotional swamp of fear, worry and confusion, along with crushing disappointment. Bingham, it seemed, had been killed by these strange cultists and their wild beasts. Once again, as with Captain Liversage’s destroyed letter of promotion, an opportunity to further his station in life, and thus be one step closer to a future with Aurora, had been lost. And why? Why was he here, why had this happened? He needed answers.
With a deep breath and a gush of determination he set the pitcher down and walked over to the window, hoping to get a better idea of where he was. As soon as he stepped up to it though, he gasped in shock and stumbled back, with a wash of fear coursing furiously through his veins, causing his legs to almost crumple beneath him. With his heart in his mouth he crept back to the window, gripping the sill with trembling fingers, and he gingerly peered out again, trying to confirm that what he had just seen was indeed reality.
It was.
Stretching out ahead of him to the very edge of the earth, where the planet’s subtle spherical curve was visible from this eagle’s eyrie, was a massive mountain range. Down below, a tiny ribbon of sparkling water snaked a passage through the bases of the gargantuan peaks and spires until it too vanished in the distance. Far to the east lay a bulbous green mass; an enormous forest. From up here though, the vast expanse of ancient trees simply looked like lumpy moss creeping up the rocky sides of the hills and mountains, many of which also seemed as mere piles of granite pebbles from this height. The real terror, however, came from below; with a dizzying and almost nauseating pull, gravity sucked William’s eyes down, down, down to the base of the cliff, which seemed to be an impossible distance away. The river flowed directly under his room, and it appeared that a person was swimming in it, yet from the height of this room their body seemed to be nothing but a fleck of dust, a grain of rice floating on a fire-tinged, hand-beaten mirror of brass, for that was how the surface of the water looked as it caught the setting sun.
‘Father above,’ he gasped, ‘I’ve ne’er been so high up in my life! How … how can this be?!’
A knock on the door yanked him out of the view-induced trance, and he staggered away from the window, still wary of the vertigo-swimming pull that threatened to suck his body out of the room and hurl it to a plummeting doom below.
‘Young cub, may I come in?’
The deep voice of the bearded white man.
‘Yes sir, I mean, guru ji.’
The door opened, and the bearded man entered the room, bowing slightly as he did. He