Read Online Assignmnt - Ceylon by Edward S. Aarons - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Edward S. Aarons
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him from the foot of the ladder. “Mister George is ill,” Durell said.
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
“Sam?” Aspara said.
“It’s all right.
She started from the Rolls, her body fluid, swift, then checked herself and returned to the wheel. Durell carried George to the back seat, dropped him in, and took his place beside the girl. Aspara’s eyes were wide and questioning.
“What was it?” she asked.
“He’s a member of the PFM,” Durell said.
The true name of Kandy, in the heart of Ceylon, was Kanda Uda Pas Rata—the Five-Kingdoms-On-The-Hill. The city was the real capital of the Sinhalese. The road to it crossed a river, the Mahaweli Ganga at Peradeniya, where another roadblock waited for them. But Aspara’s unique old Rolls-Royce was apparently above suspicion.
A smart-looking lieutenant bent ceremoniously toward Aspara. “You go to attend the Essala Perahera, Madame?”
“Yes. Is there any trouble?”
“None at all. Please continue.”
Aspara drove on. Durell sat beside her and said, “He never even looked at me.”
“I am well known here,” she said.
“But he was very careful not to look at me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I,” he said.
“Is—is George all right?”
“He’ll be out of it soon. What’s the Perahera?”
“Sam, please. He’s a very confused young man. It’s not his fault he is the way he is. Ira neglected him. I was busy with my own political career. Between us, he didn’t know which way to turn. He is neither here nor there, do you understand? He is basically a gentle boy—
“Not any more,” Durell said.
Aspara said, “I could not bear it, if anything happened to him because of you and me—”
“What is the Perahera?” he asked again.
“Oh. It’s an annual pageant and festival at the Dalada Maligawa—the famous Temple of the Tooth. There is supposed to be an actual tooth of Buddha there. Each year, between your July and August—our lunar month of Esala—a replica of the Tooth is taken from the temple, in a procession of fabulously decorated elephants, with drummers and torchlights—everything. There is much feasting and joy. You are not a Buddhist, you might not understand how beautiful it all is. Buddhism came to Sri Lanka over 2,300 years ago. The Sacred Tooth is kept in an inner sanctuary of the Maligawa. The flowers are so lovely—frangipani and sapu and jasmine. The Tooth itself rests on a golden lotus under a very old bell casket, really many of them, each fitting on the other, all bejeweled. The ancient kings of Kandy were always independent, you know, here in the mountains. It is a beautiful place. Everything is reflected in the lake, in all the pools for bathing and reflections—”
He interrupted again. “What about the Buddha Stone?” She frowned, her profile shadowed in the evening light. “I don’t think that legend is worth discussing.”
“It’s been mentioned in regard to Ira.”
“Oh, but that is nonsense.” She spoke too quickly, reflecting an inner disturbance that rejected his words. “It is just a myth, an old wives’ tale, I think.”
“I’d like to hear about it,” Durell said.
“Dear Sam, I think George is waking up.”
They reached Kandy as the sun set, plunging the hills into abrupt, tropical darkness. But the city was alive with lights and the thin susurrations of music, the thumping of drums, the low but overwhelming murmur of throngs. They came in on the Peredeniya Road, passing the Botanic Gardens, the flicker of impossible flowers like jewels in the deepening dusk, which settled into the bowl of the surrounding mountains. Beyond the university buildings, the road went almost straight toward the glimmering Kandy Lake, built by the last local king, an islet in the center was once the royal harem. Aspara explained that they had to go through the town in order to reach Ira Sandersons walauwa —one of the old Sinhalese manor houses dating back to the feudal days of kings and
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
“Sam?” Aspara said.
“It’s all right.
She started from the Rolls, her body fluid, swift, then checked herself and returned to the wheel. Durell carried George to the back seat, dropped him in, and took his place beside the girl. Aspara’s eyes were wide and questioning.
“What was it?” she asked.
“He’s a member of the PFM,” Durell said.
The true name of Kandy, in the heart of Ceylon, was Kanda Uda Pas Rata—the Five-Kingdoms-On-The-Hill. The city was the real capital of the Sinhalese. The road to it crossed a river, the Mahaweli Ganga at Peradeniya, where another roadblock waited for them. But Aspara’s unique old Rolls-Royce was apparently above suspicion.
A smart-looking lieutenant bent ceremoniously toward Aspara. “You go to attend the Essala Perahera, Madame?”
“Yes. Is there any trouble?”
“None at all. Please continue.”
Aspara drove on. Durell sat beside her and said, “He never even looked at me.”
“I am well known here,” she said.
“But he was very careful not to look at me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I,” he said.
“Is—is George all right?”
“He’ll be out of it soon. What’s the Perahera?”
“Sam, please. He’s a very confused young man. It’s not his fault he is the way he is. Ira neglected him. I was busy with my own political career. Between us, he didn’t know which way to turn. He is neither here nor there, do you understand? He is basically a gentle boy—
“Not any more,” Durell said.
Aspara said, “I could not bear it, if anything happened to him because of you and me—”
“What is the Perahera?” he asked again.
“Oh. It’s an annual pageant and festival at the Dalada Maligawa—the famous Temple of the Tooth. There is supposed to be an actual tooth of Buddha there. Each year, between your July and August—our lunar month of Esala—a replica of the Tooth is taken from the temple, in a procession of fabulously decorated elephants, with drummers and torchlights—everything. There is much feasting and joy. You are not a Buddhist, you might not understand how beautiful it all is. Buddhism came to Sri Lanka over 2,300 years ago. The Sacred Tooth is kept in an inner sanctuary of the Maligawa. The flowers are so lovely—frangipani and sapu and jasmine. The Tooth itself rests on a golden lotus under a very old bell casket, really many of them, each fitting on the other, all bejeweled. The ancient kings of Kandy were always independent, you know, here in the mountains. It is a beautiful place. Everything is reflected in the lake, in all the pools for bathing and reflections—”
He interrupted again. “What about the Buddha Stone?” She frowned, her profile shadowed in the evening light. “I don’t think that legend is worth discussing.”
“It’s been mentioned in regard to Ira.”
“Oh, but that is nonsense.” She spoke too quickly, reflecting an inner disturbance that rejected his words. “It is just a myth, an old wives’ tale, I think.”
“I’d like to hear about it,” Durell said.
“Dear Sam, I think George is waking up.”
They reached Kandy as the sun set, plunging the hills into abrupt, tropical darkness. But the city was alive with lights and the thin susurrations of music, the thumping of drums, the low but overwhelming murmur of throngs. They came in on the Peredeniya Road, passing the Botanic Gardens, the flicker of impossible flowers like jewels in the deepening dusk, which settled into the bowl of the surrounding mountains. Beyond the university buildings, the road went almost straight toward the glimmering Kandy Lake, built by the last local king, an islet in the center was once the royal harem. Aspara explained that they had to go through the town in order to reach Ira Sandersons walauwa —one of the old Sinhalese manor houses dating back to the feudal days of kings and
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