Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“What is it, sir?” Daniel said suddenly, startled. He lit the lantern, but it was only a hindrance; his eyes were accustomed to the dark. A large animal leaped from among the dunes and ran in a zigzag until it was lost in the shadows. The cicadas shrieked madly.

“It was a man.” The beam of the servant’s lantern fell on a partly dissolved footprint with a small circular hollow around it. Wet grains of sand clung together. Istvan felt the moisture with his fingers as he checked for blood.

“He came out of the water.”

“Leave it be.” Margit gripped his sleeve. “He ran away and we have peace. What concern is he of yours? Please — let’s go back to the house.”

But the footprint lured them. Daniel caught it in a white stream of light. “He ran on all fours like a dog,” he said. “He must be here somewhere.”

“Don’t be afraid, Margit. We’ll be back.”

They walked quietly, alert for the slightest sound. The wheezing of the sea quieted; there was the blast of a trumpet. The cicadas marked the men’s passing with a long cadenza of rasping. The declivities in the sand disappeared and they found themselves on parched, gritty ground with sparse dry grass that prickled like fish bones.

“Wait,” Margit called, putting on her sandals.

Istvan stopped. He saw the lantern’s beam brush against their cottage, lick at the window, fall on the veranda steps, and creep among the piles that held up the floor. He heard Daniel’s triumphant call.

“Sahib, we have him! He was hiding here.”

He left the girl and came running. He squatted by the servant, resting both hands on the sand. In the circle of harsh light, squeezed between the piles and the sloping hill, a Hindu in wet rags caked with sand was cowering. His teeth showed from under his short mustache like a snarling dog’s. He did not cover his eyes. Holding a pebble tightly in his hand, he uttered a throaty cry.

“Did you understand what he said?”

“Yes. He asks us not to kill him,” Daniel answered in amazement.

“Tell him who we are. Ask where he came from.”

Daniel repeated this in an earnest voice and began serving as interpreter. Margit sat beside them and gazed at the Hindu, who turned his head away when the cone of light was fixed on him.

“Turn that off,” Istvan said.

“No need.” She restrained Daniel. “He’s blind.”

“He ordered me to swear by Durga that we will do him no harm, that we will not give him away.” The servant’s voice shook with excitement. “He escaped from a boat and swam toward the noise on the shore. He thought we were chasing him. Madam doctor is right: he is blind. He begs us not to kill him, for he saw nothing. He says that he has a rich brother who will repay us if we hide him.”

The appeals to take the man into their cottage went on and on. Margit sent Daniel to the hotel kitchen for a bowl of rice. The blind man’s eyes, covered with a film, gave his gaunt, tanned face a look of dull stupefaction. Finally he crawled out, admitting that he was hungry. He did not lunge for the food, but asked for water, washed his hands, rinsed his mouth and spat on the threshold, which he found by feeling for it with his toes like a monkey. He sat crosslegged, placed the bowl of rice between his thighs and ate slowly, listening to the far-off sonorous beating of the sea and the band from the hotel. Daniel crouched in front of him like a dog before a hedgehog, uncertain whether to attack him or acknowledge him as a member of the household.

“Ask why his brother doesn’t take more of an interest in him if he is so wealthy.”

“He is a singer, sahib. He composes verse and recites ancient poetry from memory. Among us such people are respected. He wanted to reach Ceylon, to go to the temple of Buddha. Everywhere people feed him and give him lodging for the night. He is a true sadhu,” he explained proudly. “He was in Benares. His brother does not restrain him; he goes his own way. He asks us to send a telegram to Bombay tomorrow and his brother will surely come.”

“Can he recover his sight?” Istvan leaned toward Margit. “You wanted to truly help at least one person in India. You have an opportunity if his brother turns up here. You can advise him as to how this man might be cured.”

“There would have to be an operation. He would see a little. I’m not a fortuneteller, only a doctor. I would have to do a thorough examination.”

“He asks for a few bottles, a pot of water, and two forks,” Daniel announced. “He will sing for us.”

“Where will I get bottles at night?” Istvan shrugged.

“I will look for them, sahib. I will bring some from the hotel kitchen. I will find them.” Daniel slipped away into the night.

Seven empty wine bottles were placed before the blind singer. With startling dexterity he filled them with water to various levels, struck them with a fork held flatwise, and, listening attentively to each tone, established a scale of crystalline notes. When he passed the fork over the glass, barely touching it, the bottles sang like a xylophone. He checked the positions of the bottles with his hands and tapped them as if to assure himself that he could strike them accurately. At last, now in command of himself, he gave Daniel an instruction.

“He will sing, and I will translate. He begs that you will ask no questions, for he himself does not know if he can do it. It will be the voice of the dead.”

“Do you want to listen to this?” Istvan asked Margit, but she only put on a shawl and nodded. She sat still, leaning hard against him. Suddenly she quivered.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” She put a finger to her lips.

“Among us it is said: someone is walking on my grave,” he said, whispering, for piercing trills were rising with the fork’s firm strokes and the singer, inclining his head, began his monotonous recitative. Daniel translated it in a colorless voice, hesitating now and then and searching for an English word, trying not to fall behind the blind man’s cadences. Deep shadows appeared on the walls; between the pure chiming tones of the glass came the moaning of the sea and the boisterous sound of the band. But little by little the whole world began to recede while nothing remained but words like the wailing of mourners.

“The Kingdom of Lanka, the music of streams that never dry, trees with the smell of wet mangoes. Reviving rain lashes the great banana leaves; bunches of fruit smooth as a maiden’s skin await the hands of the hungry. On the palms, coconuts bump like young goats butting each other. In the fertile mud, ears of rice tickle the hand like cats’ whiskers. Birds fill the air and the sea rings with the scales of fish. Gods walk on the earth of Lanka, the island predestined for the just, given in possession to the meek and industrious…Land of plenty.

“They who escaped the knife of the Muslim, they who moved among burned houses, looked for work; they whose eyes cried out all their tears and were empty as the palm of a beggar. Fathers, feigning hope, went away every morning so as not to hear the weeping of hungry children timidly asking if they would eat today. They went away, they fled as far away as they could. They sat in the shade, grew feeble and dozed. Then the palm trees murmured in their ears; a hand combed tufts of rice ears, the mango touched the dry, cracked lip, and they dreamed of the Kingdom of Lanka, the land of plenty beyond the sea.

“A stranger came by night, and they whispered long, taking counsel while the children slept. The news went round that there was a ship that would hurry over the sea to the Kingdom of Lanka.

“They would only find rescue if they could pay. They counted long and carefully. Ornaments stripped from women passed from hand to hand: hoops of silver wire, gold coins on chains ripped like leaves from bosoms, lighter than butterflies’ wings. Little, too little gold to pay for the journey to Paradise.