For Zachary, it earned a summons from Mr Crowle: 'What's this I hear about you jawin with the quoddies?'

'I'd met one of them before,' said Zachary. 'What was I to do? Pretend he doesn't exist?'

'Exactly,' said Mr Crowle. 'Pretend he don't exist. 'S not yer place to be talkin with the quoddies and coolies. Subby-dar don like it. He don't like you too much neither, to be honest. There'll be trouble if'n you try it agin. Warnin you I am, Mannikin.'

The encounter between Zachary and the convicts had another witness – one on whom it produced a more momentous effect than on anyone else. This was Baboo Nob Kissin Pander, who had woken that morning to a powerful and prophetic rumbling in his bowels. As was his wont, he had paid close attention to these symptoms and had been led to conclude that the spasms were too forceful to be ascribed entirely to the motion of the schooner: they seemed more akin to the tremors that betoken the coming of a great earthquake or upheaval.

With the progress of the day, this sense of foreboding and expectation had grown steadily stronger, driving the gomusta finally to make his way agil, to the fo'c'sle-deck, where he positioned himself between the bows, allowing the wind to fill out his loose-flowing robes. As he peered ahead, at the silvery waters of the ever-broadening river, the mounting suspense made his stomach go pit-a-pat and he was forced to cross his legs, to hold back the threatened eruption. It was in the process of squirming and twisting that he caught sight of the two convicts being marched around the deck by Subedar Bhyro Singh.

The countenance of the former Raja was not unknown to Baboo Nob Kissin: he had glimpsed it several times, in Calcutta, through the window of the Raskhali phaeton. Once, when the carriage was thundering past, the gomusta had lost his footing and toppled backwards in fright: he remembered well the smile of disdainful amusement with which Neel had regarded him, as he wallowed haplessly in a pool of mud. But the pale, refined countenance of his memory, with its rosebud mouth and world-weary eyes, bore no resemblance to the gaunt, swarthy face that he saw before him now. Had Baboo Nob Kissin not known that the disgraced Raja was one of the two convicts on the Ibis, he would not have imagined this to be the same man, so striking was the change, not just in his appearance but also in his demeanour, which was just as alert and watchful now as it had been bored and languid then. It was somehow thrilling to imagine that he, Baboo Nob Kissin Pander, had played a part in humbling this proud and arrogant aristocrat, in subjecting this effete, self-indulgent sensualist to privations that he could not have envisioned in his worst nightmares. In a way it was like midwiving the birth of a new existence – and no sooner had this thought crossed his mind than the gomusta experienced the upwelling of a sensation that was so intense and so unfamiliar that he knew that Taramony had to be its source. What other provenance could there be for the tumult of pity and protectiveness that seized him at the sight of Neel's begrimed face and chained extremities? Who else could be responsible for the upsurge of maternal tenderness in his bosom, as he watched the convict being driven around the deck like a draught animal? He had always harboured the suspicion that the great regret of Taramony's life was that she had no child of her own. This was confirmed now by the welter of emotions emanating from the presence inside him, the instinct that made him yearn to wrap his arms around the convict to shield him from pain: it was as if Taramony had recognized, in Neel, the son, now grown, whom she had been unable to bear for her husband, Baboo Nob Kissin's uncle.

So powerful indeed were the gomusta's maternal stirrings that had not the fear of an embarrassing accident compelled him to keep his legs knotted, he might well have gone racing down the deck to interpose himself between Neel and the subedar's flailing lathi. And could it be a coincidence that it was exactly then that Zachary stepped forward to stop the subedar's hand and anoint the convict with his recognition? It was as if two aspects of Taramony's capacity for womanly love had been brought into conjunction: that of the mother, longing to nurture a wayward son, and that of the seeker, yearning to transcend the things of this world.

The sight of the encounter between these two beings, both of whom concealed inner truths known only to him, was so moving as to actually set in motion the long-threatened earthquake: the gurgling in the gomusta's interior was now like that of molten lava, and even the fear of embarrassment could not prevent him from racing aft, in search of the heads.

During the day, when the schooner's movement could be felt in the pit of every stomach, the heat and stench of the dabusa were made bearable only by the knowledge that every moment of it brought the end of the voyage a little closer. But there was no such consolation when the schooner anchored at night in the bends of the jungle: with tigers roaring and leopards coughing nearby, even the least excitable of the migrants were seized by wild imaginings. Nor was there any lack of people to stoke rumours and set people against each other. The worst of these was Jhugroo, who had been bundled out of his own village because of his propensity for making trouble: his face was as ugly as his disposition, with a jutting, twisted lower jaw, and tiny bloodshot eyes, yet his tongue and his wits were quick enough to earn him a certain kind of authority among the younger and more credulous girmitiyas.

On the first night, when no one could sleep, Jhugroo began to tell a story about the jungles of Mareech and how the younger and weaker migrants were destined to be used as bait for the wild animals that lived in those forests. His voice could be heard through the whole dabusa, and it terrorized the women, especially Munia, who broke down in tears.

In the suffocating heat, her fear had the virulence of a fever and soon infected those around her: as the women collapsed, one after another, Paulette realized that she would have to act quickly if she was to stem their panic. Khamosh! Quiet! she cried out. Listen to me, listen: what this man is telling you is all bakwás and nonsense. Don't believe these stories – they aren't true. There are no wild animals in Mareech, except for birds and frogs and a few goats, pigs and deer – most of them brought there by human beings. As for snakes, there's not one on the whole island.

No snakes!

This pronouncement was so remarkable that the crying stopped and many heads, including Jhugroo's, turned to stare at Paulette. It fell to Deeti to ask the question that was foremost in every mind: No snakes? Can there really be such a jungle?

Yes, there are such jungles, said Paulette. Mainly on islands.

Jhugroo would not let this pass unchallenged. How would you know? he demanded. You're just a woman: who can take your word for it?

Paulette answered calmly: I know because I've read it in a book. It was written by a man who knew about such things and had lived a long time in Mareech.

A book? Jhugroo gave a satirical laugh. The bitch is lying. How would a woman know what's written in a book?

This stung Deeti, who retorted: Why shouldn't she be able to read a book? She's the daughter of a pandit – she's been taught her letters by her father.

Lying rundees, Jhugroo cried. You should clean your mouths with dung.

What? Kalua rose slowly to his feet, stooping low to keep his head clear of the ceiling. What was that you said to my wife?

Confronted with Kalua's massive frame, Jhugroo retreated into a sulky, vengeful silence, while his followers edged away to join those who had gathered around Paulette: Is it true? There are no snakes there? What trees do they have? Is there rice? Really?