CHAPTER XII
"The fix'd events of Fate's remote decrees."--_Pope_.
Vultures drowsed in the shade thrown by the crumbling, sun-cracked,heat-stricken mud walls and houses which lined the meandering unpavedstreets, or rather passages, of a certain village in northern India;crows were packed everywhere, taking no notice for the nonce of thefeast of filth and garbage spread invitingly around them, and in whichsprawled the disgusting, distorted bodies of somnolent water buffaloes;inside the houses hags, matrons, maidens, and little maids sleptthrough the terrific heat of the noonday hours; in the distance theHimalayas, supreme and distressing, like a ridge across eternity, laybehind the turrets and minarets of the town which, thanks to the Indianatmosphere and the long distance, shone white, fretted, and--well,exactly as you can see it any day in paint at the Academy or in BondStreet.
Perfectly motionless upon the high khaki-coloured wall, which entirelysurrounds the village, with dust upon his aged feet and raiment andonce white turban, oblivious of the heat, the flies, and everythingthat slept, sat a man with age written upon every gnarled joint, and inevery crack and fissure of the parchment-like skin.
_So_ old, and _yet_ with life, and hope, and youth eternal in the darkhawk eye which gazed unseeingly through the outer world straighttowards the mountains.
And the old body made no sign of life, even when the vultures withoutsound soared majestically heavenwards, whilst the crows rose inshrieking disordered squads, and a kite whistling melodiously swoopedfrom nowhere downwards across his head to the filth of the streets.
Neither did he turn his head or his eyes when a coal-black stallion,guided only by the pressure of its rider's knees, came to a standdirectly beneath him in the shadow of the wall, having scrambled andslithered, jumping like a deer, climbing like a goat down therock-strewn road which leads to the village from the great house at itsrear; one of those abominable roads allotted to the calloused nativefoot, honoured for the first time in this instance by the passage ofthe prince's son and heir.
An arresting picture the rider and his horse made as the man bent lowin the saddle and salaamed, then raised his turbaned head and satmotionless, gazing at the holy man.
Minutes passed before, with arms filled with offerings and garlands ofmarigolds and jasmin swinging from his wrists, he slid from the saddleto the ground, and took his way up the narrow tortuous path which Fatehad marked out for him through all time.
High caste, high born, as slender and delicate and as pressed with lifeas a budding branch in spring, Madhu Krishnaghar stood beside thepriest in the incongruous setting of the mud walls.
A coat of fine white linen with broad orange waistband came to justbelow the knees; white trousers fastened tight about the ankle fittedalmost like a stocking from ankle to knee; the slender, narrow feetwere shod in native slippers, the white turban with its regulationfolds outlined the pale bronze face with the sign of the man's religiontraced between the eyebrows; diamond solitaires sparkled in the ears,and one necklace of great pearls hung about his neck.
"Usual large gentle eye, hawk nose, mobile mouth and small-boned ovalface" would doubtlessly have been the flippant comment of anyoccidental passer-by; "meet 'em everywhere, gambling at the streetcorner, or squatting in the bazaar, or riding elephants."
Yes! but--is not India's future history writ large upon thatsmall-boned oval face for those who, having the vision, read as theywalk warily.
For those who run hastily past life's signposts cannot and will not seethat, like the fresh green grass which hides the dug pit, those gentleluminous eyes draw attention from the subtle cruelty of the mouth,through which gleam the pitiless perfect teeth.
Glorying in his bull-neck and massive chin, and blinded by his insular,inherited upbringing, the European will exclaim "Pah!" at sight of thethin cheek and delicate oval face, failing utterly to notice the set ofthe ears on the head; just as, muscle bound through worship at theshrine of Sport, he will mistake the eastern courtesy and poetry ofmovement for obsequiousness and humility, ignoring the terrible rootfrom which these delicate flowers spring; the root of patience; withits tentacles ever twining and twisting through the eastern mind,causing the very old to die placidly with a smile on their shrivelledlips, and the young to envisage plague, pestilence, and famine with amere lifting of the shoulder. Patience! the card which India does nothold up her sleeve in the game of life she is playing; thedull-coloured drab little bit of cardboard which she throws on thetable openly, but which we ignore amongst the highly coloured,bejewelled pictures she places before us, smiling with the tenderluminous eyes so that we shall forget the subtle cruelty of the mouth.
Placing his offerings at the holy man's feet, and laying the garlandsgently about the bowed shoulders, Madhu Krishnaghar, the son ofprinces, stooped and lifting the hem of the dust-covered garment, laidit against his forehead, then quietly sat down a pace removed from theancient who took no notice whatever of his proceedings.
And time passed, linking one hour of noon to its neighbour and thenext, until the hags, matrons, maidens, and little maids awoke to thefreshness of the evening and the monotony of its tasks.
Kites called, crows screamed, men gambled in the shadows of the eveningand the upstanding, distorted, disgusting water buffalo; while the twomen, master and pupil in the religion of death, sat hour after hourwithout movement, staring at the mountains, the dwelling-place of Sivathe terrible, and the birthplace of Kali his bride.
Far into the night they sat, until the last quarter of the moon hadsunk to rest, when, with one single movement, the old man sprang to hisfeet, flung out his arms, and bent in utter humility and cast dust uponhis once white turban.
His voice was but a shrill cracked whisper when he called upon his godfrom the crumbling top of the sunbaked, moon-drenched wall, andturning, lifted his travel-stained mantle and laid it on the youngshoulders beside him.
An hour had passed, and more, before the holy man's tale, which ranback through the past seventeen years, was finished. And when it hadbeen told the high caste youth trembled in the ecstasy of his religion,amazed at the enlightenment thrown upon his own enigmatical life,uplifted at the task before him. Yea! he trembled in the ecstasy ofhis religion, forgetting that love and passion and life ran just asriotously in his supple perfect body.
He leapt to his feet, smiting his forehead with clenched hand.
"Give me a sign, O Kali! Show me that thou art pleased!"
And he rent his garments in joy, showing the bronze breast with theblood-red marks of his terrible religion traced upon it; then thrustinghis fingers in his ears sank to the ground and buried his head betweenhis knees.
A black kid, the happiest of all good omens, bleating with hunger,tripped and stumbled from a courtyard; yet even as it found its motherand buried its little head in the warmth of the soft side, there hadcome across the plains a weird, long-drawn-out sound, fraught withdisaster to those who believe in signs.
Long and shrill it sounded and ceased; and once again--to be lost inpeals of indecent, discordant laughter.
Uncontrolled, uncontrollable, loathesome sound which tears India'snights to shreds.
The jackals had found at dawn.
Leonie of the Jungle Page 12
