Who shall know the name of the wind

Upon the very steps of Temple Hall, a fellow of outlandish appearance, and most indelicately attired,¹ was engaged in proclaiming the imminent dissolution of the world. It called to my mind that some three centuries past, William, Earl of Orford, whose wits had lamentably deserted him the preceding summer,² had occupied that self-same spot, expounding with a similar frenetic energy, ere the King’s constables did apprehend him for causing a disturbance to public order; his earthly race was run upon the gallows the following morn.

My scholarly inclinations compel me to seek some thread of connexion betwixt the unfortunate Earl and this curious, scantily-clad prognosticator; yet, my researches have served only to unearth a series of bewildering contradictions: William, they say, was a man of considerable vice, whilst others maintain he was of singular purity; one account speaks of William siring fifteen sons upon eight wives,—this new arrival, in contrast, was purported to have fathered an entire people. It may be that in some wise (the nature of which is veiled from my understanding) William of Orford, in his corpulent and odoriferous derangement, was one and the same with this personage who had traversed half the globe to afflict London with his fantastical pronouncements. His robe of snowy white—his sole garment, it appeared—seemed to impart warmth to his swarthy complexion and defend it from the inclemency of the winter blast, a discomfort the rest of us endured with no little sensibility. Lady Bexborough, I observed, did not appear discomposed by this spectacle. What did, however, exercise her Ladyship’s mind was that London should offer its civilities to such an individual for so extended a period.

It was subsequently revealed to me that the foreign gentleman was not, in fact, of the origin I had first supposed;³ he had arrived in our capital aboard HMS Bertrand, accompanied by a considerable retinue, including, it was rumoured, the wives and daughters of certain miners, for the purpose of conferring with His Majesty and his Ministers upon matters of some urgency pertaining to his native land. (That these untutored folk should presume themselves the equals of our Sovereign! exclaimed a certain Duke to a Baronet of his acquaintance.) The ladies of Bond Street, however, were reportedly captivated by his exotic mien upon their first encounter, and they did prevail upon their husbands to indulge the poor fellow, urging them to consider naught but the arduousness of his journey across deserts, rivers, and oceans, merely to partake in a pleasant afternoon’s discourse with them – and were they not, indeed, singularly honoured by such attention?

Here, then, was a man sprung from piratical stock, a mystic, by all accounts;⁴ and here, his brother, one whose character has been much traduced, a veritable voyeur, and doubtless the new Cassandra of some forsaken domain; and here, their descendant, thrice, perhaps five times removed, bearing a prophecy and the promise of salvation.

During his final weeks in London, I resolved to join the throngs that gathered at Temple Hall, desirous of hearing this unkempt boddhi⁵ denounce the Empire so painstakingly erected by our forefathers. Yet, there were no incendiary orations, no wrathful condemnations, no foretellings of impending disaster. I was ill-prepared for the tales he spun: of a humble rabbit that chanced upon Brahma; of a widow who abstained from sustenance for a decade, awaiting the return of her husband, whom the heavens themselves had purloined (for the sky, it was said, had become enamoured of him); of a Tiger-King who forged a peace with the first Raj of India, after his own daughter conceived an affection for the said Raj…

A fortnight later, I found myself aboard a vessel bound for Goa. By then, Lady Bexborough had entirely faded from my recollection, as had the communication from Balliol confirming my long-awaited fellowship, aye, even the grievous news of my own brother’s passing on the very eve of my embarkation, and the myriad other trifling concerns that had hitherto constituted the fabric of my existence in London. All these I have now relinquished. I had elected to follow the prophet to his homeland. I confess to a certain unease from the motion of the ship, yet, all is fundamentally well.