Scott O’Hara - Sepulchre of the Living

High up, high against the roof of the world, on the shoulder of one of the tall mountains of Ceylon, there is a cave mouth. From the cave mouth can be seen the blue stretched silk of the sea, the jeweled green of the jungle, and the misty line where they merge. It is an ancient cave, and in that cave lived the last of the Veddas, chased into mountain hiding by the sons of Singha.

The man who sits in the cave mouth has the tired, brittle face of a scholar, but the thin gray beard clouds the clean lines of cheek and jaw. He hasnt a scholars eyes, but rather the mild, trusting eyes of a child. The frayed edge of white trousers half conceals the festered bites of insects, and the gray hair is tight curled on his lean chest. His hair is long, and, as he looks down the shattered slope of the hill, he plays with bits of blue glass which catch the sun.

The simple hill people feed him, and he is fast becoming a legend among them. A legend to be treasured, not to be reported to the harsh young British resident who is new in the area.

When he sees the movement in the brush, sees their tight, tan bodies, the bright sarongs as they come out of the edge of the jungle bringing him his food and water, he reaches quickly to one side, slips a flat stone from the side of the cave mouth and shoves the bits of blue glass in against the damp earth before replacing the stone.

The Singhalese come to him with solemn faces. They are feeding a legend, feeding a child of Buddha.

Dr. James K. Carboldt looked down at his lean legs, inspecting the degree of redness. The yacht, Torment, hissed through the greased blue swell of the South Pacific with a muttering hum of diesel power.

He was stretched out on a bright canvas deck chair, lulled by the gentle rise and fall of the trim white yacht. In his own shadow a tall, cool drink rested on the deck beside the chair, and the ice clinked musically with the gentle roll of the ship.

He decided that his legs could stand a bit more tanning. He looked down at Laura, Mrs. Leslie Brade, stretched out face down on a blanket on the deck, appreciating the warm, golden lines of her back, yet feeling oddly uncomfortable in looking at her.

She was creating a difficult situation between him and Leslie Brade, the owner of Torment. James Carboldt had spent a great deal of time lately wondering if she was conscious of the way her manner was building up the strain between Leslie and himself.

Laura Brade was a thinnish girl with dull blonde hair which she wore stretched back so tightly that it seemed to narrow her eyes. She wore harlequin glasses which always seemed to have slipped a bit down her short nose. She was tense and quick. A Wellesley graduate, she called herself a parlor intellectual and made quiet fun of the fact that in marrying Leslie Brade she had tied herself up to fifteen million dollars.

Leslie Brade was sitting out on the fan-tail wearing brief, flowered trunks. Beside him was a pile of empty tins, a box of ammunition. He sat up straight, his strong feet planted against the deck, the slim, deadly target rifle aimed out over the stern. The broad leather sling cut into his arm. The end of the barrel moved as he traced the can in the dancing wake.

When the rifle spat, it was a thin, whiplash sound. James Carboldt watched the quick play of small muscles across Brades shoulders, and felt that there was something almost coarse about such brutal strength. Brade had crisp black hair that was thick on his body, sprouting even from the tops of his shoulders, unfaded by the sun that had turned his skin a mahogany brown.

Leslie Brade turned around with a grin and said, Hey, you sleepers! Ive knocked off the last four without a miss.

Give him a merit badge, Laura said sleepily. She lifted her head and looked at James. Say, son, youre on the pinkish side.

Im too lazy to move, Carboldt said. Where does that thick-headed husband of yours get his energy? He reached down, fumbled for the glass, lifted it and finished the drink.

Laura looked at him with the odd intentness that was new with her, and sat up. She took the suntan lotion, handed it up to him and said, in a small girl voice, Do my back, huh?

Carboldt grunted as he sat up. She turned her golden back to him as he unscrewed the top and poured some of the pale lotion into the palm of his hand. He was conscious of Leslie Brades glance on him. To cover his own slight confusion, Carboldt said, Why dont you grease this luscious form? Shes your wife.

Youre handier, Brade said, and there was a small edge in his voice. James glanced at him. Brade had a wide smile on his blunt, swarthy, good-natured face, but the eyes werent smiling.

Carboldt spread the lotion quickly, highly conscious of the smoothness of the skin under his fingers, the taut, well-knit feel of her. The rifle cracked again and he knew that Brade was once more looking out at the tin dancing on the waves.

Something stronger than good judgment made him rest his hand against her back, holding it very still. He felt her press back against his hand and he took it away quickly. He capped the lotion, set it on the deck and leaned back in his chair.

Laura said, Thank you, in the same small voice. Her face was turned toward him, her eyes almost shut against the sun. He watched her face, saw the tip of her small pink tongue slowly moisten the upper lip. The rifle cracked again, and this time it made him jump, though he had heard it most of the afternoon.

After a time James got up and padded down to his cabin. He took a quick shower, changed to light linen trousers and a white mesh shirt. He sat on the edge of his bunk and lit a cigarette, telling himself that he was going to have to be very careful. This last little tableau had been more direct than anything that had gone before. Much more direct.

He wondered about Leslie Brade. Something about the thoughts of Brades thick, muscular body intermingled with the memory of the smoothness of Lauras back sickened him. He wondered how much he thought of Leslie Brade.

Once there had been no question. As a geologist, Dr. James K. Carboldt had served in S.E.A.C. with OSS, as a civilian. Leslie Brade had been Captain Brade, and outside of the fact that it had been rumored around the headquarters that Brade had a great deal of money, Carboldt knew nothing about him.

Then, suddenly, they were partners in a mission air-dropped in the Shan Hills along with three Burmese, ordered to contact an armed group of Kachin irregulars. The radio had been lost in the airdrop, along with the medicines. The drop had been observed by Japanese agents.

The mission was a failure. There was only one way out, to travel north, to avoid Jap patrols, to join the Stilwell forces in the Hokaung Valley. In the second night they had become separated from the Burmese. On the fifth afternoon Brade took a sniper slug through his shoulder and between the two of them they had held off a small Jap patrol until dark. Then, half carrying Brade, Carboldt had gotten the two of them away.

Brade was out of his head for days, and then he began to mend. He mended just in time to take care of Carboldt who collapsed with fever. After an untold period of agony, they had been picked up by a patrol of the Chinese 28th Division.

Their beds had been side by side in the Calcutta General Hospital. They were invalided to a rest camp in Ceylon, near Galle. When they were strong they swam and did surf riding.

Dr. James Carboldt found that though he was only two years older than Leslie Brades thirty-one, Brade had an outlook on the world that made him, in many ways, a child. Protected by wealth from the cradle on up, he had no realization of what it had cost Dr. James K. Carboldt to become a young geologist with a growing reputation.