by Harold Lamb
“Come, Bhimal,” commanded the Brahman sharply; “here be barbarian wayfarers who seek your hut. Lay aside your sickle. Your harvesting is done.”
With a puzzled glance over his shoulders at the half-gathered grain, Bhimal the chiria mars—Hindu of the bird-slaying caste— led the way to his cottage beside the field. It was a clay-walled hut with a roof of thatched roots, under the pleasant shade of a huge banyan.
On either side of the door within the shade grapevines were trained upon a lattice; in the rear an open shed housed two buffalo—the prized possession of Bhimal and his brother.
At the threshold, however, the slayer-of-birds hesitated strangely and faced his companions as if unwilling for them to enter. Khlit and Abdul Dost dismounted, well-content with the
spot, where they had heard a good breakfast for a man and beast might be had from the hospitable Bhimal. They had unsaddled and were about to request a jar of water from the cottage tank under the banyan when a word from Kurral arrested them.
“Stay,” muttered the Brahman.
Turning to Bhimal, he smiled, while the simple face of the old peasant grew anxious.
“Is it not true, Bhimal, that this cottage belongs to you and your brother, who departed long ago on a pilgrimage to Puri?”
“It is true, Kurral,” assented Bhimal.
“That you own two fields and a half of good wheat ready for the harvest? And two buffalo? This cottage?”
At each question the peasant nodded.
“And a few rare birds which you caught in snares?”
Kurral drew a folded parchment from the robe at his waist and consulted it. Then he tossed it to Bhimal.
“You cannot read, O slayer-of-birds,” he smiled. “But this is a bond signed by your brother. You can make out his scrawl, over the endorsement of the holy priest of Puri, the unworthy slave of Jagannath. The bond is for the cottage and all the goods, animals and tools of your brother and yourself. It was sent from the mighty temple of Puri to the lesser shrine at Kukushetra. And I am come to take payment.”
Khlit, not understanding Hindustani, yet read sudden misery in the lined face of Bhimal.
“How fares my brother?” cried the peasant.
“He brought fitting gifts of fruit, grain and oatmeal to the shrine of Jagannath, Bhimal. His zeal was great. All the coins that he had, he gave. But mighty Jagannath was ill-rewarded by your brother, for you came not with him on the pilgrimage.”
“Nay, I am sorely lame.”
Bhimal pointed sadly to a partially withered leg.
“No matter,” declared Kurral sternly. “Is Jagannath a pariah, to be cheated of his due—by miserable slayers of carrion birds? Your brother wrote the bond for this cottage and the fields. He offered
it to the priest and it was taken. Thus he gained the blessing of all-powerful Jagannath.”
“Then—he is ill?”
“Nay, I heard that he died upon the return journey, in the heat. By his death he is blessed—as are all those who perish on behalf of the All-Destroyer, whether under the wheels of the sacred car or upon the path of pilgrimage.”
Bhimal hung his head in resignation. Abdul Dost, with a shrug of his slender shoulders, was about to take the jar of water from the tank when Kurral wheeled on him vindictively.
“Stay, barbarian!” he warned. “This tank and the cottage and the food within is now the property of the temple of Kukushetra. No unclean hand may be laid upon it.”
Abdul Dost stared at him grimly and glanced questioningly at Bhimal.
“It is true,” admitted the peasant sadly. “A bond given to the god by my brother is binding upon my unworthy self. Yet—“he faced Kurral beseechingly—”the wheat and the rare birds are all that I have to live through the season of rains.
“Suffer me to stay in the cottage and work on behalf of the god. I shall render you a just tribute of all, keeping just enough for my own life. I would strew the ashes of grief upon my head in solitude—”
“Nay,” retorted Kurral; “would you mourn a life that has passed to the keeping of the gods? I have marked you as one of little faith. So you may not tend this property. Another will see to it.”
A rebellious flicker appeared in the dim eyes of the peasant.
“Has not Jagannath taken the things that are dearest to me, Kurral?” he cried shrilly. “My brother's life and these good buffaloes? Nay, then let me keep but one thing!”
“What?” demanded the priest, still enjoying his triumph over the two warriors.
“A peacock with a tail of many-colored beauty. I have tended it as a gift to my lord, the Rawul Matap Rao, upon his marriage.
I have promised the gift.”
Kurral considered.
“Not so,” he decided. “For the Rawul—so it is said—has not bent his head before the shrine of Kukushetra in many moons. It is rumored that he inclines to an unblessed sect, the worshipers of the sun-image of Vishnu—the followers of the gosain Chaitanya. He is unworthy the name of Hindu. Better the peacock should adorn the temple garden than strut for the pleasure of the bride of Rawul Matap Rao.”
Then Khlit saw a strange form appear from within the entrance of the hut. In the dim light under the great tree it appeared as a glittering child with a plumed headdress. Kurral, too, saw it and started.
“Who names the Rawul with false breath?” cried the figure in a deep melodious voice. “Ho—it is Kurral, the pilgrim hunter. Me-thought I knew his barbed tongue.”
By now Khlit saw that the figure was that of a warrior, standing scarce shoulder high to the Cossack and the tall Afghan. A slim, erect body was brightly clad, the legs bound by snowy white muslin, a shawl girdle of green silk falling over the loins, a shirt of finely wrought silvered mail covering the small body, the brown arms bare, a helmet of thin bronze on the dark head.
The man's face was that of a Hindu of the warrior caste, the eyes dark and large, the nostrils thin. A pair of huge black mustaches were twisted up either cheek. A quiver full of arrows hung at the waist-girdle.
In one hand the archer held a bow; under the other arm he clasped a beautiful peacock, whose tail had stirred Khlit's interest.
“Sawal Das!” muttered Kurral.
“Aye, Sawal Das,” repeated the archer sharply, “servant and warrior of the excellent Rawul Matap Rao. I came to Bhimal's hut at sunup to claim the peacock, for my lord returns to his castle of Thaneswar tomorrow night. And now, O beguiler-of-men, have you wasted your breath; for I have already claimed the peacock on behalf of my lord.”
“Too much of the evil juice of the grape has trickled down your gullet, Sawal Das,” scowled the priest. “For that you came to the hut—under pretense of taking the bird. You are a dishonor to your caste—”
“Windbag! Framer-of-lies!”
The archer laughed.
“Ohe—are you one to question a warrior? When the very clients that come to your cell will not take food or water from the hand of a Barna1 Brahman. Oho—well you know that my master would hold himself contaminated were your shadow to fall across his feet.”
He paused to stare at Khlit and Abdul Dost, whom he had not observed before.
“So you would steal from Jagannath!” fumed the priest. “Nay.”
The white teeth of the archer showed through his mustache. “Am I one of the godless Kukushetra brethren who gorge themselves with the food that is offered to Jagannath? I plunder none save my lawful foes—behold this Turkish mail and helmet as witness!”
“Skulker!”
The hard face of the Brahman flushed darkly.
“Eavesdropper!”
“At least,” retorted the warrior, “I take not the roof from over the head of the man whose guest I am.”
He turned to the mournful Bhimal.
“Come, comrade, will you let this evil lizard crawl into your hut? A good kick will send him flying.”
“Nay—” the peasant shook his head—“it may not be. My brother gave a bond.”
“But
your brother is dead.”
“He pledged his word. I would be dishonored were I not to fulfill it.”
Sawal Das grimaced.
“By Siva!” he cried. “A shame to give good grain and cattle to these scavengers. Half the farms of the countryside they have taken to themselves. Even the might of my lord the Rawul can not safeguard the lands of his peasants. If this thing must be, then come to Thaneswar where you will be safe from the greed of such as Kurral.”
“I thank you, Sawal Das.”
Bhimal looked up gratefully.
“But I would be alone for a space to mourn my brother who is dead.”
“So be it,” rejoined the archer, “but forget not Thaneswar. Rawul Matap Rao has need of faithful house-servants.”
“Aye,” observed the priest; “the time will come when he who sits in Thaneswar will have need of—hirelings.”
Khlit, indifferent to the discussion which he did not understand, had watered his horse and searched out a basket of fruit and cakes of jellied rice within the hut. Coming forth with his prize, he tossed a piece of silver money to Bhimal.
The peasant caught it and would have secreted it in his garments, but Kurral's sharp eye had seen the act.
“Take not the silver that is Jagannath's!”
He held out his hand.
“Or you will be accursed.”
Reluctantly the peasant was about to yield the money to the priest when Sawal Das intervened.
“The bond said naught of money, Kurral,” he pointed out. “Is your hunger for wealth like to a hyena's yearning for carrion? Is there no end of your greed? Touch not the dinar.”
The priest turned upon the archer furiously.
“Take care!” he cried. “Kukushetra has had its fill of the idolatry of the Rawul and the insolence of his servants. Take care lest you lose your life by lifting hand against mighty Jagannath!”
“I fear not the god,” smiled Sawal Das. “Lo, I will send him a gift, even Jagannath himself, by the low-born Kurral.”
So swiftly that the watching Abdul Dost barely caught his movements, the archer dropped the peacock and plucked an arrow from its quiver. In one motion he strung the short bow and fitted arrow to string.
Kurral backed away, his eyes widening in sudden fear. Evidently he had reason to respect the archer. A tree-trunk arrested his progress abruptly.
Sawal Das seemed not to take aim, yet the arrow flew and the bowstring twanged. The shaft buried itself deep into the tree-trunk. And the sacred cord which hung to Kurral's left shoulder was parted in twain.
Kurral gazed blankly at the severed string and the arrow embedded not two inches from his ear. Then he turned and fled into the thicket, glancing over his shoulder as he went.
“A good shot, that, archer,” laughed Abdul Dost.
“It was nought,” grinned Sawal Das. “On a clear day I have severed the head from a carrion bird in full flight. Nay, a good shaft was wasted where it will do little good.”
He strutted from the hut, gathering up the peacock.
“If you are strangers in Kukushetra,” he advised, “you would do well to seek the door of my master, Rawul Matap Rao. He asks not what shrine you bow before, and he has ever an ear for a goodly song or tale, or—” Sawal Das noted the Afghan's lean figure appraisingly—“employment for a strong sword-arm. He is a just man, and within his gates you will be safe.”
“So there is to be a marriage feast at Thaneswar?”
“Aye,” nodded the archer, “and rare food and showers of silver for all who attend. This road leads to Thaneswar castle by the first turn uphill. Watch well the path you take, for there are evil bandits—servants of the death-loving Kali—afoot in the deeper jungle.”
With that he raised a hand in farewell and struck off into a path through the brush, singing to himself, leaving Bhimal sitting grief-stricken on the threshold of the hut and Khlit and Abdul Dost quietly breakfasting.
II
On that day the young chieftain of Thaneswar had broken the torun over the gate of Rinthambur.
The torun was a triangular emblem of wood hung over the portal of a woman who was to become a bride. Matap Rao, a clever horseman, rode under the stone arch, and while the women servants and the ladies of Rinthambur laughingly pelted him with flowers and plaited leaves he struck the torun with his lance until it fell to earth in fragments.
This done, as was customary, the mock defense of Rinthambur castle ceased; the fair garrison ended their pretty play and Rawul Matap Rao was welcomed by the men within the gate.
He was a man fit to be allied by blood even with the celebrated chiefs of the Rinthambur clan—a man barely beyond the limits of youth, who had many cares and who administered a wide province—Thaneswar—with the skill of an elder.
Perhaps the Rawul was not the fighting type beloved by the minstrels of the Rinthambur house. He was not prone to make wars upon his neighbors, choosing rather to study how the taxes of his peasants might be lightened and the heavy hand of the Kukushetra temple be kept from spoliation of the ignorant farmers.
The young Rawul, last of his line, was a breeder of fine horses, a student and a philosopher of high intelligence. He was the equal in birth to Retha of Rinthambur—the daughter of a warlike clan of the sun-born caste. She had smiled upon his wooing and the chieftains who were head of her house were not ill content to join the clans of Rinthambur and Thaneswar by blood.
War on behalf of the Mogul, and their own reckless extravagance with money and the blood of their followers, had weakened the clan. The remaining members had gathered at Rinthambur castle to pay fitting welcome to the Rawul.
“We yield to your care,” they said, “her who is the gem in the diadem of Rajasthan—Retha of Rinthambur—who is called 'Lotus Face' in the Punjab. Guard her well. If need arise command our swords, for our clans are one.”
So Matap Rao joined his hand to that of Retha, and the knot in their garments was tied in the hall of Rinthambur before the fire altar. Both Matap Rao and the Rinthambur chieftains were descendants of the fire family of the Hindus—devotees of the higher and milder form of Vishnu worship.
“Thaneswar,” he said, “shall be another gate to Rinthambur and none shall be so welcome as the riders of Rinthambur.”
But the chieftains after bidding adieu to him and his bride announced that they would remain and hold revelry in their own hall for two days, leaving the twain to seek Thaneswar, as was the custom.
Thus it happened that Matap Rao, flushed with exultation and deep in love, rode beside his bride to the boundary of Rinthambur, where the last of the bride's clan turned back. His followers, clad and mounted to the utmost finery of their resources, fell behind the two.
The way seemed long to Matap Rao, even though a full moon peered through the soft glimmer of twilight and the minstrel of Thaneswar—the aged Vina, Perwan Singh—chanted as he rode behind them, and the scent of jasmine hung about their path. In the Thaneswar jungle, at the boundary of the two provinces, a watch tower stood by the road, rearing its bulk against the moon.
Here were lights and soft draperies and a banquet of sugared fruits, sweetened rice, jellies, cakes and curries, prepared by the skilled hands of the women slaves who waited here to welcome their new mistress. And here the party dismounted, the armed followers occupying tents about the tower.
While they feasted and Matap Rao described the banquet that was awaiting them on the following night at Thaneswar hall, Perwan Singh sang to them and the hours passed lightly, until the moon became clouded over and a sudden wind swept through the forest.
A drenching downpour came upon the heels of the wind; the lights in the tower were extinguished, and Retha laid a slim hand fearfully upon the arm of her lord. “It is an ill omen,” she cried.
“Nay,” he laughed, “no omen shall bring a cloud upon the heart of the queen of Thaneswar. Vishnu smiles upon us.”
But Retha, although she laughed with her husband, was not altogether comforted. And, the next m
orning, when a band of horsemen and camels met them on the highway, she drew closer to Matap Rao.
A jangle of cymbals and kettledrums proclaimed that this was the escort of a higher priest of Kukushetra. Numerous servants, gorgeously dressed, led a fine Kabul stallion forward to meet the Rawul, and its rider smiled upon him.
This was Nagir Jan, gosain of Kukushetra and abbot of the temple.
He was a man past middle life, his thin face bearing the imprint of a dominant will, the chin strongly marked, the eyes piercing. He bowed to Retha, whose face was half-veiled.
“A boon,” he cried, “to the lowly servant of Jagannath. Let him see but once the famed beauty of the Flower of Rinthambur.”
Matap Rao hesitated. He had had reason more than once to feel the power of the master of the temple. Nagir Jan was reputed to be high in the mysteries of the nationwide worship of Jagannath.
Owing to the wealth of the priests of the god, and the authority centered in his temples, the followers of Jagannath were the only Hindus permitted by the Mogul to continue the worship of their divinity as they wished. The might of Jagannath was not lightly to be challenged.
But Nagir Jan was also a learned priest familiar with the Vedas and the secrets of the shrine of Puri itself. As such he could command the respect of Matap Rao, who was an ardent Vishnu worshiper. For Jagannath, by the doctrine of incarnation, embodied the worship of Vishnu.
“If Retha consents,” he responded, “it is my wish.”
The girl realized that the priest had come far to greet her. She desired to please the man who was more powerful than the Rawul in Thaneswar.
So she drew back the veil. But her delicate face wore no smile. The splendid, dark eyes looked once, steadily into the cold eyes of the priest.
“Truly,” said Nagir Jan softly, “is she named the Lotus Face. The lord of Retha is favored of the gods.”
While the twain rode past he continued to look after the girl. Glancing over his shoulder presently, the Rawul saw that Nagir Jan was still seated on his horse, looking at them. He put spurs to his horse, forcing a laugh.
But after the festival at Thaneswar Matap Rao would have given much, even half his lands, if he had not granted the wish of Nagir Jan.
