Ash Mistry and the Savage Fortress. Sarwat Chadda

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СКАЧАТЬ out the weapons displays. The first day had been an amazing adventure, exploring the dingy alleys and winding lanes, experiencing the intense, almost overwhelming life of India first-hand.

      But now?

      Now, two weeks into their trip, Ash felt suffocated by the oppressive heat, the stench, the crowds and the touts and the death.

      The narrow streets shimmered in the July heat. Cars, rickshaws, beggars, merchants, pilgrims and holy men jammed the lanes and footpaths. A scooter bounced past, its horn crying out like a distressed duck, swerving violently as it dodged round a malnourished-looking cow that had decided to take an afternoon nap in the middle of the road.

      “Where is that car?” swore Ash’s uncle, Vik. Uncle Vik gazed up and down the crowded road, trying to spot the taxi they’d hired to take them to the party. Unfolding a white handkerchief from his breast pocket, he wiped the sweat off his shiny bald head.

      “There’s a cow blocking the road,” said Ash. “It’s just sitting there with its tongue up its nose.”

      The cow’s skin hung off huge shovel-sized hip bones and shoulder-blades. One horn was missing. It sat serene and relaxed while all around it scooters, cars and irate motorists yelled and swore.

      Uncle Vik huffed loudly. “This is very bad. We will be late.”

      “Why can’t I just go back to the house?” Ash asked. “I don’t see why I have to go to some boring party.”

      His aunt, Anita, sighed. She’d put on her best sari and was struggling to keep it dust free. “Lord Savage is a most important gentleman,” she said. “We have been invited especially.”

      Lord Savage was a rich English aristocrat who sponsored archaeological digs all over India, all over the world, in fact. Uncle Vik lectured on ancient Indian history at Varanasi University, so sooner or later their paths were going to cross. Working on one of Savage’s projects could do wonders for Uncle Vik’s career.

      “This is your heritage too, nephew.” His uncle’s deep brown eyes shone as he put his hand on Ash’s shoulder. “This is where we come from.”

      “I come from West Dulwich, London,” Ash answered.

      “Why can’t you just try and enjoy your time here, like Lucky?”

      His sister was waving at the cow, trying to get some reaction. It gave her an imperious snort.

      “She’s enjoying it because she’s only ten, and she’s stupid.”

      “I am not stupid!” Lucky poked her elbow into his ribs.

      “Oh, was that meant to hurt?” said Ash. “I didn’t notice.”

      “That’s because you’re so fat.”

      “I am not fat!” fumed Ash.

      “For God’s sake, just stop it, both of you,” said Aunt Anita. “It’s too hot.”

      Uncle Vik folded his handkerchief away. “I thought coming to India was your idea, Ash.”

      Ash shut up. His uncle was right.

      Ash’s love for history and ancient culture had come from his uncle. They’d never met face to face until this year, flights were prohibitively expensive for a man on a teacher’s salary, but ever since Ash could remember there’d been letters, books, photos and emails from Uncle Vik telling him all the grand tales of India’s past. Stories of maharajahs, of tiger hunts and of legendary wars between heroes and terrible demons. Ash’s room back home was full of books on Indian weaponry and myths, most of them presents from his uncle.

      So when the summer holidays had come round and his parents, both of whom worked full time, had suggested he and Lucks go over and visit their relatives, Ash had practically packed his bags there and then.

      But that had been before the infernal heat, the flies and the cobras.

      How was he going to survive another four weeks here?

      “There he is. At last.” Vik pointed along the road. Somewhere in the hazy heat Ash spotted an old black and yellow Ambassador taxi.

      But the car couldn’t move. The cow had brought the traffic to a complete stand-still. A couple of men pulled at the rope round its neck, but the white beast remained stubbornly immobile.

      The old man, the snake charmer, ambled up to them, hands cupped.

      Uncle Vik handed him a ten-rupee note. “You can have a hundred if you get that cow moving.”

      The sadhu nodded his thanks and strolled off towards the cow.

      “What’s he doing?” said Lucky.

      The sadhu swished his bamboo stick back and forth in front of the beast. It blinked, then began to sway its head side to side, watching the stick as it swung wider and wider.

      Then he smacked the cow’s nose.

      The cow bellowed and jumped to its feet. The sadhu smacked it again and the beast stumbled backwards. Seconds later engines started up, horns honked and the traffic got moving.

      The sadhu returned, grinning broadly.

      Vik prodded Ash and put a hundred-rupee note in his hand. “Give it to him, quickly.”

      Ash frowned, but passed the note over. Their eyes met and Ash froze. Beneath the thick bushy eyebrows the old man’s eyes were startling blue.

      He drew the note from Ash’s stiff fingers.

      Ash looked back as they climbed into the taxi and saw the old man staring back at him, staff resting on his shoulder. Then the crowds spilled on to the now open street and the sadhu disappeared.

      Ten minutes later they were out of the city and rolling along the dusty country road. Ash closed his eyes, leaned out of the window and let the dry breeze wash over his face. The heat still hung over the arid countryside, but the sun would be gone in an hour and he’d have a little relief from the otherwise inescapable furnace-hot temperatures.

      Right now his mates would be out and about in London. If he were there, he, Akbar and Sean would hook up their computers for all-day sessions – all week, in fact. They’d spent last summer holed up in Sean’s basement, which, thanks to his dad who was head of IT at some bank, was a gamer’s paradise.

      All day gaming sessions. McDonald’s. Going down to the multiplex on Friday. These were the best things in life.

      Oh, and Gemma. Gemma was a new addition to the list.

      Ash had to face it, India wasn’t for him. The sooner this trip was over, the better. It wasn’t worth all the sweat and heat and flies.

      No, that wasn’t entirely true. He did think the castles were cool. England did castles, but not like India did castles. India’s castles could have come straight out of The Lord of the Rings. They were vast and intricate. Halls filled with statues and fountains and gardens of wandering peacocks. The fortresses weren’t built for horses, but elephants. India didn’t do small, intimate and quiet. From the castles through СКАЧАТЬ