Ten-A-Week Steale by Stephen Jared

Author:Stephen Jared [Jared, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781470199388
Amazon: 1470199386
Publisher: CreateSpace
Published: 2012-03-08T06:00:00+00:00

PART TWO: THE MONSTER

Chapter Twelve

“It is very hot-hot,” Vishnuram Dhulchari said, referring to the cup of tea he placed before Walter Steale. The smiling Theosophist’s movements possessed a delicate Eastern grace, the effect of which made the former lieutenant -- who understood himself to be brutish -- somewhat ill at ease.

Steale nodded politely at his host, appreciating the hospitality. “Thank you.” Nearly forty-eight hours had passed since Farnham brought Steale to the Indian man’s home. Wrapped in foreign blankets, Steale had rested peacefully. Neither man mentioned having seen the other before.

“It is my most great pleasure.”

“Your generosity has been both humbling and overwhelming. I am indebted to you.”

“Please, you do not need to keep speaking of it.”

The Indian man had a high-pitched pleasant voice. He spoke with rising and falling intonations, overly stressing syllables. Like a wind chime, his speaking played well with the silence, creating an atmosphere of calm. He talked a lot, and Steale didn’t mind listening.

Farnham had arranged for Steale’s temporary residence with the Theosophist. It was an ingenious idea, Steale admitted. Who would think to look for a fugitive at the home of a popular spiritual leader? Also, Farnham had reasoned that Dhulchari could not refuse someone in need of help; such an act would not be in compliance with the Indian man’s beliefs.

Dhulchari had asked no questions about Steale’s tribulations. And when Steale questioned Dhulchari about his relationship with Farnham, the Indian man said only that they had met at a social gathering and that he welcomed any opportunity to serve the needs of Mr. Farnham.

Steale sipped his tea. “Will you sit with me?”

“Yes. Please.”

“I’ve started reading some of the books you gave me. I’m curious, how did you get involved with the Society?”

“Our motto,” Dhulchari explained to Steale in his singsong accent, “is ‘union of all who love in service of all that suffer.’”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You see, Mr. Steale, objectives have been set before us. One is to form a universal brotherhood of humanity with no regard to race, ethnicity, male, or female. And another is to encourage study of similarities in different religions, philosophies. And still another reason is to investigate unexplained laws of nature and hidden powers of mankind, mostly in way of mediumistic phenomena.”

“Right.”

Unlike Steale, Dhulchari spoke with animation, constant broad expressions, and gestures. Eyebrows lifted high and lowered. Thin fingers played with the air. “My involvement,” he went on, “began when I was very, very young. Friends of my mother and father took me in. A train accident took the lives of both my parents. It was very hard for me. These friends of my parents took me in, and they were members of Theosophical Society. The Society was very, very helpful to me in dealing with loss.”

“I’m sorry to hear of such a tragedy.”

Dhulchari then sat silently for some time, elegant-looking in a crisp white tunic, sipping his tea. He smiled. He breathed deeply the Southern California air coming through an open window.

It was not an introspective silence, Steale believed. The Indian man’s eyes moved too quickly to be carrying the weight of personal history.

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