Юлия Красинская – The Hodgson’s Dossier (страница 8)

"Do you need anything else, sahib? Perhaps some tea?" asked one of the servants, his dark eyes looking directly and kindly.

"No, no, thank you," Hodgson replied, feeling a wave of weariness wash over him.

"Then good night, sahib. Rest well. If you need anything, we are nearby."

Hodgson washed himself with warm water from a basin, rinsing off the dust of the road. The light supper – sweet mango pulp and a crispy flatbread – seemed incredibly delicious to him. He extinguished the lamp and lay down on the bed. The fresh and cool sheets pleasantly enveloped his body.

Richard was ready to sink into a serene sleep, but the long journey wouldn't let go, and as soon as he closed his eyes, the floor beneath him swayed as if he were back in a ship's cabin. He felt an invisible hand touch his head, making his heart beat faster. The air became heavy and viscous; someone was nearby. He tried to reach out to the unseen guest but grasped only emptiness. He opened his eyes, no one. He tried to get out of bed to drink cold water, but his legs refused to obey. Instead of a scream, a deafening gasp escaped his mouth. He had to try to get out of bed one more time. One, two, a lunge! And a swift fall into an abyss that had appeared out of nowhere beneath his feet. Richard flinched, opening his eyes in fright. A quiet night had fallen on Adyar. A pleasant, refreshing wind blew through the window. Tomorrow he would meet the one about whom he had heard much, too much, to definitively form his opinion.

A long shadow of the banyan tree growing outside the window slid across the floor. The shadow would creep towards Richard, then swiftly run away and hide. This game continued until he got up and slammed the shutters shut, blocking all paths for the shadows into his room. The familiar scent of jasmine wafted in from the street. Breathing deeply of the sweet air, Hodgson tried to fall asleep again.

The boundary between reality and something else was becoming thinner. Richard heard a light rustle outside the window and soft footsteps already in a semi-slumber, and therefore paid them no mind.

A black shadow, lingering for a moment by Richard's closed window, swiftly vanished into the dense darkness of the Adyar night.

In the morning, the gentle, not yet hot, sun peeked through the narrow slits of the shutters, tickling Richard's eyelids. Waking up in the Indian warmth was far more pleasant than waking up to London's slush and frost. Overnight, all doubts and fears had evaporated; he was eager to leave his room as quickly as possible and head to the headquarters of the Theosophical Society.

On the small veranda of the guesthouse, Richard was greeted with a serene smile and hands folded in namaste by the previous day's servant.

"Sahib, good morning. We hope you rested well?" he asked in a quiet voice. "Your breakfast is ready. Please, this way."

He led Hodgson into a small, bright dining room overlooking the garden. On the table, covered with a white tablecloth, stood a clay jug of water, a cup of freshly brewed coffee, a plate of fresh fruits and warm, crispy flatbreads, and a small bowl of thick yogurt. Simple, fresh, sincere, and unpretentious.

"If anything is not to your liking or you need more, please tell me, sir!" The servant stepped back a few paces, leaving Richard alone, but remained nearby, ready to help at any moment.

After breakfast, the servant gently inquired:

"Sahib, how do you wish to get to the main house?"

Seeing Hodgson's surprised look, he added:

"Not a single Briton or other European has ever come to our town without visiting Madame Blavatsky. I am sure you are here to see her too," he smiled. "So, how will you get there, sir? On foot? Or shall I call a rickshaw?"

Hodgson chose a rickshaw. Only a few years ago, the first two-wheeled carts, propelled by a person, had arrived on the shores of Hindustan from trading ships from Japan. Merchants had skillfully transported their goods to the central bazaar on them, and on the way back, they carried the first passengers in the empty carts. Thus, this mode of transport had migrated from one end of the continent to the other and had firmly taken root there.

At the threshold, a lean but sinewy Indian was waiting. His face, from constant exposure to the scorching sun, was particularly dark and covered in deep wrinkles. His feet were bare and heavily calloused.

"Good morning, sahib," he said, lifting the shafts from the ground. "Please, sit down."

Hodgson settled onto the seat. The cart rolled smoothly along the dusty, yet well-maintained path, which led past small white houses, shady groves, and flowering shrubs standing in separate clusters, attracting a swarm of bees. It smelled of heated earth and flowers. It was quiet, the only sounds being the creak of the rickshaw's wheels, the steady rhythm of its runner's footsteps, and the singing of birds. The contrast with Madras was striking. No crowds, no shouts, no stench. Only harmony with nature and a sense of remoteness from the world's bustle.

Around a bend, the road opened up to a tall, wrought-iron gate. New, but already thoroughly entwined with tropical vines bearing huge, fleshy leaves. Beyond the gate, a wonderful view opened up onto a spacious, neatly manicured lawn (almost like in Britain). There, amidst the emerald green, under the shade of majestic old trees, stood the main building of the Theosophical Society.

It was snow-white. Not just white, but dazzlingly white in the rays of the rising sun, as if carved from a single piece of marble or washed to pristine purity. The architecture was strange and captivating: elements of a European colonial villa (wide verandas, high windows) were combined with Indian motifs – low domes, elegant arches, carved stone grilles on the windows. The building seemed both solid and light, rooted in the earth and reaching upwards. It beckoned, radiating tranquility and mystery.

The rickshaw stopped at the gate.

"We've arrived, sahib."

Hodgson paid, adding a tip for tea. The runner responded with a grateful smile and a respectful nod.

Stepping out of the cart, Richard paused for a moment, gazing into the distance at the snow-white building. Here, in this place, passions raged around Blavatsky's phenomena. Here, the famous letters of the mahatmas were kept. Here, perhaps, lay the keys to the solutions of his investigation. And to something much greater, which he could only vaguely guess at for now.

A tall wicket gate, built into the main gate, opened easily with a soft creak. Richard, looking back, stepped into the park that had opened before him. Everything around seemed to fall silent at once. The already quiet city was left behind, giving way to complete silence and peace. The branches of the trees swayed gently in the light morning breeze, and the birdsong sounded muffled and serene. The air was filled with the scent of fresh greenery and flowers – subtle and rich at the same time.

Richard walked slowly along the path when his gaze was drawn to a majestic tree, sprawling before him, its crown and aerial roots hanging to the ground forming a dark, cool, and secluded spot. It wasn't just a tree; before him stood a true giant! It looked to be at least 350 years old. Hodgson knew that the sacred banyan tree in Hinduism is considered a dwelling place of the gods, a place where one can find enlightenment. He knew that the banyan symbolizes the World Tree, where the root is the primal origin and the spiritual world, and the branches are the existing world. But he had no idea that the headquarters of the Theosophical Society was located literally beneath its branches.

"Very witty, Madame Blavatsky!" Richard thought to himself, and leaving the petrified giant behind, he hurried towards the main building. A tall shadow detached itself from one of the banyan's trunks, dissolving into the shade of the enormous tree, leaving behind only the whisper of the wind.

The spacious hall with high ceilings and an impressive oak staircase leading to the upper floors seemed incomprehensibly vast. The walls of the room were adorned with mysterious symbols and portraits of sages. Their gazes seemed alive, as if following those who entered, guarding the entrance to the sacred space of wisdom and knowledge.

Hodgson paused, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light.

At the far end of the hall, by a large window that bathed part of the room in golden light, stood a figure. A young woman, just over twenty, deeply engrossed in her work, was sorting through a stack of letters. Seeing Richard, she looked up at him, and for a moment he froze.

Lillian Carter. He recognized her from Rogers' description. She was Colonel Olcott's assistant, Blavatsky's right hand. But the descriptions didn't convey the lively light in her brown eyes, the sincere, slightly shy smile that touched her lips. She was dressed in a simple light-colored dress, her chestnut hair neatly styled, but a couple of unruly strands escaped onto her forehead. There was not a hint of affectation or mystery in her that he had expected from the inhabitants of this place. Only clarity, calmness, and a certain inner purity.