Company Of Spears

It was a warm, springlike day – abundant greenness, crocus and primrose everywhere, the birds full-throated. They strolled first through the ‘Indian’ garden and then on towards the thornery, with its thick planting of trees, many of which Hervey had not seen in England before. Kezia’s Italian greyhound accompanied them. Hervey rather liked her – a pretty little dog, supple, alert, if somewhat aloof. She kept close to her mistress (Hervey was unsure whether by inclination or training) making not a sound. He thought to ask of her provenance, then thought it better to wait: he did not wish his interest to be misconstrued. Instead they walked for the most part in silence around the upper pool, with its temple to Surya (the sun god, he explained), then began following the stream, with Hervey selecting his line of advance as if they were in the forests of Chintal, for much of the daylight was shut out by a dense canopy of oriental maple, hornbeam and rowan, and Persian ironwoods already showing promise of vivid colour.

‘I understand Mr Repton was responsible for the park,’ said his companion at last as they came to one of the little pools halfway to the Indian bridge. ‘But that one of the Daniells laid it out.’

Hervey knew of Repton well enough, but he was more familiar with the work of the Daniell brothers, for they had painted India from Rajasthan to Mysore, and when he saw one of their paintings he was at once transported. ‘I understand that is so. The Daniells are fine painters. There’s one of theirs in the house. I imagine when you were in India you were not able to see the Taj Mahal?’

Kezia showed no sign of painful memory. ‘No, I was not. And I know that to be a particular deprivation. I should have liked to see it very much. You have, I take it?’

Hervey nodded. ‘A little before we laid siege to Bhurtpore. It is a wondrous sight, and not merely the domes and towers: the gardens are a delight, and in truth, these here are not so very different. At least, they put one in mind of it by their singularity, by their not being so English, I mean.’

A rabbit, caught napping perhaps, darted from under a rose bush. Kezia’s greyhound lurched.

‘Perdi!’ snapped her mistress, and the little dog froze.

Hervey marvelled at the command. Bringing a spaniel to a halt would have been impressive; stopping a greyhound, even the Italian sort, with a rabbit within reach was a remarkable achievement.

They continued, unspeaking, past hydrangeas and Plume Poppy, Honey Locust and bamboo. The place had grown quite silent but for their own footsteps. There was less birdsong now, the quiet time, nor sound of sheep or cattle in distant pasture. Hervey glanced at his companion – his intended. She looked content.

They rounded a big juniper bush to see the Indian bridge with its statuary of Brahmin bulls, the pride of the lower park.

‘Nandi,’ said Hervey, pointing to the balustrade above. ‘The happy one, Shiva’s favourite.’

Kezia smiled. ‘They are very handsome. And they can certainly transport one back to that dust and heat, even though I was there so short a time.’

They walked on, into the dark shade under the bridge, towards the pool beyond. Suddenly she stopped. ‘Gracious! What a very … arresting thing!’

Hervey thought the same. Quite arresting enough to stop him too in his tracks.

‘Do you suppose it a faithful image? Could there be a serpent so big, I mean – not its three heads,’ she asked, sinking to the viewing bench as if quite overpowered by the monstrous bronze reptile.

Hervey sat down next to her (it seemed a perfectly natural thing to do), and began contemplating the question – as well as the figure itself. The gigantic snake coiled round the trunk of a tree in the middle of the pool, its mouths wide, fangs and forked tongues challenging any who would come from under the bridge. It stood full eight feet, perhaps more – eight feet of venomous danger, if venomous it was; otherwise its coils were perfectly able to crush the life out of any who defied its challenge.

‘I cannot speak of sea serpents, madam,’ he replied, shaking his head, ‘but I never saw a python as big.’

Nor, certainly, a cobra. He had been surprised when first he had seen a cobra, ten years ago at the Rajah of Chintal’s banquet, by how small it was in comparison with their reputation. But that had been the cobra di capello, the ‘thing of the bazaars’ the rajah had said, which rose from a basket to the charmer’s pipe and swayed from side to side inches from his face as if determining the best moment to strike. But its mouth was invariably sewn up, the raj kumari had told him. If he wanted to see the real cobra – the hamadryad, the king cobra – they must go into the forest, for the jungle was the hamadryad’s green fastness.