by Talbot Mundy
It was coming. Blair did not betray that he was waiting for it. He watched the rise of the moon, almost full, beyond Gaglajung. It suffused night with amber mystery—that secret stuff of which songs are woven, and music, and tales of gods and men. The passionate beauty and silence of the scene would have been almost unendurable but for the old Rangar’s croaking:
“I am old. My day is done. But I know man from woman. He, camped yonder, is a woman. He is too much wifed. He looks up regulations in a book. He hesitates, instead of knowing what he knows and. by God, leaving what he does not know to give God exercise. He has another woman with him who could make two men of one husband. But he is married to a wife who makes two women of him.”
Blair said nothing. For a minute or two the old Rangar meditated, until out of the distant silences there came a cough, half roar, half grunt. The obscene voice of Kol-Bhalu, the jackal who follows tigers, answered. Then, for a sudden moment, even the insects were still, and Blair glanced at his rifle.
“Time enough yet,” said the Rangar. “Grayne sahib won’t leave a book to spoil our sport. To-night is our night. Such as he is, put off danger until tomorrow, and then give the order to build a machan in a safe place such as books recommend. Wah! A father of tigers, this one. Some name him, saying also that Kol Bhalu. who dogs him, is the spirit of a money-lender whom he slew last year—aye, and devoured. Since then he has slain seven men. He has grown cunning: he is not to be taken in traps. But the watchers are out. The stops are well placed. He will slake his thirst at one of three pools, and then he will find all roads closed against him, except this one, by the charcoal-burners’ ghat, toward us. He will come near midnight. … I was speaking of women.”
“Speak on.”
“Frennisham. her name is—daughter to the Brigadier Bahadur who they say is missing. What she does here is a mystery, save that she visits the Graynes; and them she uses as it suits her. She is without fear and she runs uncommon risks—wanders these hills all alone, on a pony or on foot as the spirit moves her —and by night, too. Hers is a restless spirit. She should be the mother of good fighting men. She knows the ancient songs of Rajasthan— aye, and the dances—teaches them to the children, who were better without such superstitious stuff. She has slept more than once in a villager’s hut—forever questioning—forever seeking something, none unless it be the Bat-Brahmin, knows what. They tell strange tales about him and her.”
Blair met the old Rangar’s gaze for a moment.
“It is a land of strange tales.” he answered. Then he stared again at the ruined keep of Gaglajung, now reddish amid soot-dark shadows. Where the moon shone through gaps of broken masonry imagination refused to believe there was not living flame. He spoke unexpectedly:
“Tell me the story of that place.” Old tales beget true confidences. Questions about Henrietta Frensham would have stanched the flow of truth by suggesting curiosity, which makes the eastern mind evasive.
The Rangar, well pleased, cleared his throat. His grandson, with the sword across his knees, hitherto as motionless as a moonlit carving, leaned forward to listen. His eyes obeyed the gesture of the old man’s right hand pointing toward Gaglajung.
“Your honor knows the ballad about Ranjeet of the Ford? Yonder the ford lies—this side of Doongar Village, between us and Grayne sahib’s camp. That castle commanded the ford in the old days. It was Ranjeet Singh’s. None could burn him out of it, and lie was known as Ranjeet of the Ford—a wonder of a man, who swore to.have his will of life up yonder and not die at all but leave earth in a way more pleasing. It befell otherwise. She who died last in that place, is—men say so—there yet. Some say they have seen her.”
“Have you seen her?” Blair asked.
The old man stared, but Blair was looking at the night. Only the grandson betrayed excitement; he leaned farther forward. The Rangar continued:
“I have seen and heard strange things in my day. God’s truth is what matters. She of whom I speak was known by a name, that means Queen of the Moon. It was not hers in the beginning. All astrologers are liars, saith the Prophet. I believe in none of their abominations. Nevertheless, they say that certain stars, when seen together near the moon, mean love and war in wondrous combinations, and an ill end.
“Ranjeet Singh desired her. His will was law. He stole her from her father’s hold by Abu, after three years’ fighting. It is said that as he bore her home lie saw two stars beside the moon reflected in the ford, when he paused to water his horse. She, his prisoner, still hating him, he gazed into her eyes and renamed her Queen of the Moon, From that hour they two loved each other.
“Great was her love for him. The minstrels sing of it. They say she learned secrets that only the Brahmins know. And some say she did what Ranjeet of the Ford did not escaped death. But such is the talk of idolaters, and may the curses of the Prophet rest on such abomination. So much Ranjeet loved her that he rode unwillingly when his plighted words compelled him to take up arms again. He was summoned afar off, to the aid of a Prince who had once befriended him. In such matters no Rajput is his own master. He obeys his oath, no matter to whom he pledged it. Ranjeet rode forth, vowing not to come back save with honor.
“Her honor and his were one. She swore— for in those days they were women—she would hold that crag of his until he should return victorious, or unto death and forever. She and her women, and boys and old men were the garrison when Ranjeet led all his warriors away to aid a friend in need. More than one king slept ill at ease then, thinking how “she might be had for the taking. By Allah, she was worth a campaign if there is truth in a tenth of the tales of her! Queen of the Moon men called her, and they said she knew great secrets. Three kings laid siege to that fortress yonder. They agreed between them that the first to storm the battlements should,have her, and her secrets also, but the other plunder should be equally divided.
“They plucked the uncaught eagle. She and her women held that height so stubbornly that on this countryside to-day we say of a vainglorious boaster ‘he taketh Gaglajung.’ In armor, she led all sorties. She and her women held the breaches in the walls, while boys and old men toiled at the repairs. They said she knew the secrets of the Moon and that the Moon-god and the gods of day and night were all her servants. But there came a herald from the three kings, saying Ranjeet Singh, defeated, on his way home, had been taken prisoner. He was the prisoner of the three kings.
“In a fetter to her, he bade her yield, as. the price of his freedom. The three kings were casting lots for her when the herald brought back her answer, saying she believed no word of it, well knowing that Ranjeet Singh, her lord, was a man to whom honor and life were one, whereas the writer of that letter was without honor, like unto themselves. But Ranjeet was unworthy of her.
“The three kings set Ranjeet Singh arrayed in armor on a horse, and showed him to her. Then again they sent the herald. He returned again answering, ‘Nay, it is not he, because where is his honor?’
“Then, it is said, they tortured Ranjeet Singh, and he betrayed a hidden passage. That night they assaulted—all three kings with all their strength, from three sides and by the secret passage also. By Allah, they had light to see by! She burned the place. She and her women died in that furnace. But some say—may the lie blister their throats!—that she died not at all. It was full moon.”
“What had that to do with it?”
“I know not. But they say that at full moon she walks the battlements and waits there yet for Ranjeet Singh to come with honor. Some say they have seen her spirit. As for me, I am a Sufi, and I think a man may inquire about life and death. But not too idly—nay, nor listen to such tales as that.
“The three kings slew Ranjeet Singh. Despising him, they put him in a tiger’s cage. When he was devoured they let the tiger go, declaring the brute had done well. Thus sprang the legend that Ranjeet Singh incarnates in a tiger. A foolish legend, but men believe it. Look, sahib—nay, yonder, to the left a little.”
Far off, probably a mi
le away, or more, a little yellow light moved slowly up and down, then vanished.
“He is coming,” said the Rangar. “Ranjeet Singh, the superstitious call him. And they say. Slay him ever so often, ever he is reborn. They say he must prowl in that shape until she shall descend from Gaglajung and forgive him. Who knows? I am against all superstition. But I have heard wilder tales than that.”
Blair got up and examined the breach of his rifle. The Rangar was old and the boy young, so that neither had part in the hunt. Blair followed a lean, loose-limbed shikarri, along the dry bed of a watercourse for upward of a mile, until they reached a bend where moonlight formed an amber pool at the foot of a huge rock. The shadow of the rock struck forward into that pool of light. Beyond, the dry watercourse entered a dark gorge with jungle-clad walls. To the right, beyond the rock, a smaller, stone-strewn watercourse descended from Gaglajung in shadowy zigzags, reaching the dry pool amid boulders beside a gnarled tree.
The shikarri whispered, “When he has killed, sahib, he goes by that way, up the flank of Gaglajung, where he dens in a cavern. But to-night he has not killed. He is angry.”
So was Blair angry. What the devil was Henrietta doing, wandering about that countryside? He took his stand with his back to the rock, in soot-black shadow, motionless. The shikarri crouched near him behind a boulder. There were sounds not far off. Twigs snapped. A jackal yelled homeless anguish. Silence returned, heavy and as solid as the darkness of the breathless jungle. For twenty minutes night, time, silence and suspense all brooded peril, forefelt, until human nature yielded to the strain and time dimmed imagination. A heavy, sullen sounding footfall came at last like a sound in a dream. The shikarri whispered:
“Bagh hai!”
Gray in the dimness, as sudden as if evolved out of eternity that moment, a tiger stood ghostly and vague in the throat of the gorge—motionless. The moonlight shone pale on his eyes. His head was flat with back-laid ears. He heard a sound behind him, wheeled and vanished.
Two minutes passed—two eternities. then he stood there again, in the same spot, couching his weight between his shoulders. Murderous eyes that saw Blair Warrender could not interpret what they saw. They awaited motion; he made none; he and his rifle were one still shadow, within a darkness. On the flank of the gorge in the dark a twig snapped sharply. The tiger vanished like a shadow, nowither. He was simply not there. Three minutes, by Blair Warrender’s pulse-beat. Then, out of the stillness behind the boulder on his right hand, the shikarri’s tongue clucked on his cheek. That sound might mean anything, but certainly not nothing, from that shikarri. Warrender spared him a glance, but his eyes made only half the circuit; they were arrested midway by a shadow moving on the bed of the smaller watercourse. There was no sound.
Suddenly the tiger muttered—coughed— roared—three sounds from three directions. He had made a circuit of the moonlight and lay crouching somewhere to the left, opposite the smaller watercourse. He could not be twenty paces away. His eyes became visible, nothing else. He appeared to be watching that new shadow that had set the shikarri’s warning tongue in motion. There was sixty seconds’ silence. Then he crept out into moonlight, tense, with his weight low, crouching for the rush that bears home spastic death on fang and claw.
Blair Warrender and his rifle became one entity. Flash, crack, echo were inseparable from the roaring snarl of anger as the tiger tell biting the wound that stung him, rolled into the shadow of a rock, recovered and then rushed at the throat of the smaller watercourse.
A shot followed—hit him—hit hard. He roared and turned to face the enemy. A third shot rolled him over and he lay still, except that his claws tore the sand, anger surviving death by fifty spasms.
The shikarri began tossing pebbles, keeping the advantage of the boulder. There were sounds all around in the dark, but no one showed himself, not even when Blair reloaded and stepped out into the moonlight. A retreating jackal whimpered the tiger’s requiem, obscene and ribald.
“Three shots?” said a woman’s voice. The shadow lengthened in the throat of the smaller watercourse. There was a sound of footsteps, rubbered, on smooth rock. “Is it Ranjeet Singh or just an ordinary tiger?”
“Stay where you are!” Blair answered. He had seen too many dead tigers come to life to take unnecessary risks. He hurled a big stone at the carcass, then went close and prodded with the end of his rifle-barrel. “Yes,” he said, “three shots. Is it Henrietta?”
She sprang to a small boulder and stood in full moonlight with her hands behind her, wearing no hat. Wavy, blond hair that looked like spun gold hid her face in shadow. There was an edge, like an aura, of moonlight that, revealed her figure outlined under a smock of some flimsy material.
“Is it Ranjeet Singh?” she repeated.
Anger hardened Blair’s voice. “What are you doing here at midnight?”
She leaped to the ground and walked toward him. with her back to the moon, until her shadow fell on the tiger. Her face was still almost invisible. She was tall, and she stood with the natural grace of a well-bred Rajput woman of the hills. She might be one —almost.
“Is he quite dead? Well, he deserved it. Poor old Ranjeet Singh! You know the legend?”
She knelt. With strong weather-brown fingers she tried to close the tiger’s staring eyes.
“He’s a man-eater.” said Blair. “He might have got you. Tigers—snakes—leopards—don’t you know better than—” She stood up. He could see her face now—good-humored—half-mocking. It made him hesitate. Pain—or it might be anger—underlay the humor. “—Any better,” he repeated, “than to take such chances—”
“Why should you care?” she answered. He could almost see the color of her eyes. “Blair, do you know what chance is?”
“What do you mean, Henrietta?” he said stiffly.
“I shouldn’t ask. I know the answer.” She set her foot on the tiger’s head. “If you knew, you wouldn’t be on Wu Tu’s list of—”
“Of what?”
“Wu Tu’s sucker-list!”
She turned from him, knelt and with her fingers bared the tiger’s fangs.
“Poor old Ranjeet Singh,” she said. “You were another bold and clever one who lost out, weren’t you?”
Then the Rangar came, leaning on his grandson’s shoulder, and in a moment the pool of moonlight swarmed with men who emerged like ghosts from nowhere.
* * *
CHAPTER FIVE
Knowledge? Ye know nothing, save ye do it without thinking. Thought is the swamp of ignorance surrounding Knowledge. All must cross that. Build no stronghold on it, that will sink and become a hopeless dungeon, difficult to leave.
—From the Ninth (unfinished) Book of Noor Ali.
SOMEONE who looked like a Bat-Brahmin, ragged, arrogating privilege but insolently careless of its obligations, spat pan-juice from a shadow and spoke oracularly. The old Rangar gave orders, appearing to ignore the Bat’s existence, but his feudal dignity masked experienced respect for something older than feudalism, deeper than logic. He approached Blair:
“If your honor permits, it is wise to observe a superstition if it does no harm. Trust me to see no whiskers are stolen. She”—he glanced at Henrietta Frensham—“need not watch, but she should stay near. Let them say the ghost of Ranjeet Singh is at rest.”
Blair nodded. He watched the lean shikarri pull an oiled rag through the rifle-barrel. Then he strode over to Henrietta Frensham and sat beside her on a rock in the moonlight.
“Will you wait while they skin him?“he asked. “I’ll send for ponies afterward and see you back to camp.”
“Why? Is that necessary?”
“I intend to tell Grayne while I’m here about it—what I think of his letting you roam these hills at night.”
“Is it your business? What are you doing here?” she retorted.
Blair looked straight in front of him. The men around the tiger’s carcass, twenty feet away, resembled ghouls at a graveyard feast of flesh. He hardly saw them.
He was aware of—could almost feel Henrietta’s Frensham’s eyes studying him. They were violet. Her hair was straw-gold. She held one knee clasped in her hands, and he knew her expression, brave but vaguely mystic, as if she expected events that she. would endure uncomplainingly for inscrutable ends.
He knew all that without looking. Without even closing his own eyes he could see hers— much more clearly, in fact, than if he looked straight at her in moonlight dimness. ‘But that was natural; he could have drawn her face” easily from memory. What irritated him was Wu Tu’s eyes, behind hers, seeming to look through them. He decided he had to be brutal and get questions over with.
“Where is your father?” he demanded. He looked suddenly straight at her. She betrayed no surprise, but said nothing. “That’s why I’m here,” he added, “to find out.”
“No other reason?”
Silence. He hated what he had to do, and saw no reason to make a secret of that, but he had not come to answer questions. He ground his heel into the gravel, well aware she was as tense as he was, but was hiding it better. He governed his voice and spoke calmly:
“I’ve been sent here to ask things, Henrietta. Please answer. What do you know about Wu Tu?”
He did not look at her that time. He preferred to give her a chance to collect her thoughts. He could see Wu Tu’s eyes in the dark, and that made him, and kept him, angry. He needed anger, and he was not in the least afraid of Wu Tu’s influence. Any number of people can work that trick of impressing mental pictures. Wu Tu’s would wear off. In the meantime it kept him alert and made cruelty easier. He added, “You’re not accused of anything. I’ll not humiliate you if I can help it.”
