by Harold Lamb
“All the others have died,” he muttered. “Yet these two be tall men and masters of the scimitar.”
He repeated that phrase as if to satisfy himself.
“If it is the will of Allah, they will come back in the boat.”
Suddenly he threw back his head and laughed shrilly. He motioned to the slave.
“Bhang!” he commanded. “It is my wish to eat bhang. I would be eased of the heat of your demon-ridden land!”
Abdul Dost and Khlit had mounted after selecting with discernment two of the best ponies of the ameer's stables. These they led by the halters. In their saddlebags they had placed rice, oatmeal cakes and, in Khlit's case, dried meat sufficient for a journey of eight or nine days.
As they had promised, they rode at a good pace, and on the evening of the second day reached the caravansary at the crossroads some miles from the entrance to the pass. All the other three had journeyed safely past this point.
Now at the crossroads was a group of tents. A seller of garments had taken up his station here, also a vendor of Ganges water and rotting fruit. Within the wall of the caravansary was located a more elaborate tent of reddish color before which was stretched a carpet.
As Khlit and the Afghan rode their tired horses into the enclosure and looked about for a clean space—no easy matter to find— where the Muslim could say his sunset prayer and the Cossack cook supper, an ancient beldame emerged from this tent and laid hand upon their reins.
“Aie—you are men from the North,” she greeted them. “Your throats are dry and you are stiff from the irking of the saddle. This is verily a goodly spot for you to alight.”
She pointed with a wizened arm, covered with cheap bangles, to the carpet.
“Therein is Daria Kurn,” she explained, “one of the most beautiful of the nautch—women of Lahore. Verily she is a favorite of the wealthy nobles of Lahore. She will play upon the oina and your ears will be charmed with music as fine as the rustle of silk; perhaps, if she is minded, she will dance the dance of the ascent of the stars and your spirits will be comforted.”
The aged woman rambled on. Abdul Dost, peering at the tent entrance, saw a girl seated on the carpet within. A pair of dark eyes sought his and he saw a kohl-stained face, shaped, as he thought, like the interior of a pink shell.
Abdul Dost shrugged his shoulders and would have dismounted but Khlit checked him with a gesture.
The nautch-girl was walking toward them, swaying on her slippered feet after the manner of slaves. Her silver anklets clinked gently. In the soft light of that hour the brocade of her bodice gleamed and the silk of her trousers, worn after the Persian fashion, glimmered.
Her dark hair was confined under a cloth-of-silver cap, the lower part of her round face concealed by the yashmaq. In one hand she bore a tambourine, which she jingled idly as she scrutinized the two men. Although her dress was that of a Persian Muslim, she resembled more a Hindu type.
“Come, my diamond-sheen,” crooned the beldame, “my pretty dove, my precious pearl. Lower your veil and show the noble lords the light of your sun-adorning fairness. We will dance for the exalted ameers and their souls will sink in an ocean of delight. Oh—” to the men—“Daria Kurn is verily a moon of resplendent beauty. Her henna toes spurn the silk carpet as lightly as wind kisses silk—”
“I will not dance!” said the girl abruptly.
She spoke carelessly but decisively. The faded eyes of the old woman gleamed harshly.
“Unutterable filth!” she cried. “Scum of the back alleys of the bazaar! Parrot-tongue—disobedient wanton! Eh—will you starve your friends with your whims? Will you—”
Abdul Dost had quietly dismounted and washed in the well at one corner. He had spread the prayer carpet that he always carried upon the ground by the well. Now his sonorous voice, as he faced toward the Kaaba, cut into the shrill harangue of the woman.
“L’a illoha ill Allah,” he repeated devoutly. “There is no god but Allah. Allah, ill karim Allah ill hakim—”
He continued the course of his sunset devotions. Daria Kurn eyed him curiously, jingling her tambourine. Once an owl hooted and she turned her head on one side, much after the manner of the parrot that her protectress had just proclaimed her.
Khlit saw the two women speak together in low tones. Presently Abdul Dost rose, folded up his carpet and mounted with a leap. He urged his tired horse after the Cossack as Khlit left the caravansary.
As long as they were visible in the dull, golden afterglow of twilight, Daria Kurn watched them silently as they trotted down the highway, raising a cloud of dust that swirled upward in the breeze.
Abdul Dost had something to grumble about. “No thieves were there,” he muttered. “It is customary for the singing and dancing girls to frequent places on the main roads. Have they bewitched you?”
“Better a dozen thieves,” said Khlit dryly, “than two women. We will sleep in the forest.”
In this manner did the two enter the pass of Ghar.
II
That same evening dusk brought out the lights of a nearby village. The bullocks had been stabled, the few sheep were penned, an array of smoke columns moved up from the thatched hamlets. Torches were visible, crossing from hut to hut. Somewhere a woman was singing softly, perhaps to a child. Boyish laughter shrilled from the vicinity of the water tank. It was followed by the deep cough of a beast close by in the bush.
Whereupon silence fell briefly on the village.
For the most part the men—farmers, hunters and merchants— squatted on their mats, chewing or drinking slowly and absorbing the cool of evening into their tired bodies. But one went quietly from house to house and talked with the owners.
He was Dhurum Khan, one of the chiefs of the village.
Those to whom he spoke girded their waist-cloths, yawned, stretched, and went out into the darkness, bearing bundles. One or two led forth a laden mule. Few spoke to their wives who watched intently.
Said one:
“The trading caravan goes to Lahore. It will be absent long, perhaps one month, perhaps two, perhaps three.”
“I will bring back ten lengths of cloth—you will have a new garment. Peace be with you!” said another.
Yet all who assembled were not merchants. Several were weavers, some tillers of the soil, one a money-changer—he was a Muslim of the North—another a water-carrier of lower caste than the rest.
They formed into an irregular line, led by Dhurum who walked for some distance before he halted. Then he faced the dim figures, for the group carried no lights, and laid his hand on the shoulder of a youth.
“My son comes upon this journey, men of Pawundur,” he announced slowly. “He will become a bhurtote.”
A murmur of assent, even of mild admiration, went through the crowd, which numbered perhaps a score and a half.
“Aye, Dhurum Khan, Jemadar,” they said.
Whereupon the leader ran his eye along the line of dim faces, calling softly a roster of names. Each man responded promptly. They spoke softly, understanding each other readily, yet their words were neither Turki, Hindustani, Mogholi, or Persian, nor any of the Punjab dialects. It was an argot of comparatively few phrases, but one with which they were very fluent.
“Come!” concluded Dhurum Khan. “It is the time ordained by the earth mother, the season sacred to Kali, to Bhawani, the All-Destroyer. A sixth of our goods have we already given to her priests, who are well content. Is this not so?”
“Aye, it is truth.”
“Aforetimes did one of us see Kali in human form, feeding upon a body that the servant had slain. Since then has Kali grown great with our worship. Her shrine has its allotted gifts. Blood, sunk into the earth, is as pleasing to her divinity as water falling upon the roots of a dry plant. Come, we will perform the offices of Kali.”
“It is time,” assented a voice.
“It is time to trade,” added another with satisfaction.
“Jaim Ali,” responded Dhurum Khan, “my
son, will share our trading venture. For the first time, he will buy goods—as one of us. But he will no longer bury them underground. He must be taught. Bhawani Bukta, the Hindu, will teach him. He will be the guru of my son.”
Dhurum Khan turned in his tracks and resumed his progress. “The Kassi awaits,” he said.
Now as they went a strange thing occurred. Bhawani Bukta, the bent carrier of water, still lugging his goatskin, stepped to the front like an assured leader. A weaver and a scavenger—the last of the lowest caste in the village—began to assume the guardianship of others who had been highly regarded merchants of illustrious ancestors in the village. Methodically the caste of all in the group underwent a silent change and those who had been ignoble straightened and expanded before the tacit reverence of their comrades.
They walked on silently, eyes and ears keen. Was it not the time for the omens to be observed?
They went silently, leaning slightly forward, their bare legs invisible in the dark, their turbaned heads turning alertly this way and that. The warm spell of evening faded into the clamorous night of the bush. Heavy dew moistened their arms and shoulders. Dhurum Khan halted beside a field where one of them had been wont to nurse growing grain.
As quietly as before they followed him into the field. A dark form, slender as a woman, stepped to the front of the group and pointed out a spot where a tuft of lush weeds showed in the grain.
“Herein is the Kassi,” he whispered, and straightway the jemadar and the water-carrier began to dig with their hands.
When they uprose they held an object between them. It was a short pickax. Carefully Dhurum Khan wiped the dirt from it with the corner of his girdle. Again his soft voice came to their attentive ears. An undistinguishable murmur went through the gathering, an instinctive, almost feline voicing of satisfaction; it resembled the purr of a cat.
“The Kassi,” said Dhurum Khan pleasantly, “has been tempered according to the ritual of our fathers at the forge of a high-caste smith. It has been washed first in water, then in water mixed with the sacred gur. Then in milk and in wine. It is marked with the seven spots.”
“Aye, I have seen it.” Young Jaim Ali tried hard to make his voice sound unexcited.
“It has been burned with cloves, sandalwood and gur,” repeated the jemadar. “Yet the fire injured it not. Is it not verily the tool of Kali? On this journey we will carry it for the first time.”
“May it be auspicious!”
“Heed then the omens!” Dhurum Khan's deep voice became stern. “We are not masters of our acts. We serve another. The omens are the talk of the other. Make sure that your ears are keen. Tell me what you observe. The voice of Kali speaks from the top of the temples. Yet our eyes cannot see all of her temples. Oftentimes does she call from a tree-top or the rock of a ravine.”
“We will hear.”
Along the road passed the silent group, some walking well in advance, others behind. Except for their characteristic watchfulness, they betrayed no unusual interest in their progress.
In this manner did the thags, sometimes called thugs, march from a village of Pawundur.
“A lizard chirped,” called one eagerly.
“Good!” echoed Dhurum. “An auspicious omen, although not of the highest order. In the direction of the sound we will go. Is there a trail?”
“A bowshot beyond is a trail,” growled Bhawani Bukta. “It leads to the Ghar Pass.”
The night passed swiftly without further omen and the band went ahead with more assurance. The first streaks of dawn were gleaming in their faces when the foremost scouts sighted the glimmer of a fire. Three persons—Punjabi traders, they reported —were encamped by the fire and were already stirring to resume their journey.
Dhurum Khan gave orders with the skill of long experience. Several of the band, including those bearing the sacred pickaxes, plunged into the jungle, skirting the fire of the traders toward a point farther ahead on the road.
Two thags, dressed as coolies, plodded past the fire down the road without heeding the salutation of the traders. They were to form the advance lookout. If any strangers came toward them, the two were to delay them in talk, or, if need be, pretend sudden sickness—even a fit!
A similar outpost was sent back along the way they had come. The bulk of the gang who wore the garb of merchants then proceeded slowly forward, leading the mules.
They talked as they went, and laughed. The good omen was bearing swift fruit. Bhawani Bukta, hidden in the group beside the anxious Jaim Ali, untwisted the folds of his turban—a yellowish cloth. This he doused with water and tied one end in a firm knot.
“So your hand will not slip back along the cloth,” he whispered in the thaggi jargon.
He bound the free end into a dexterous slip-noose, sliding it back and forth to make sure it was clear.
“Twist not the rumal into too small a cord,” he advised sagely, “or it will leave a mark on the man's throat. Nor leave it too wide or it will catch on his chin.”
Jaim Ali nodded, understanding. He had ridden with the band twice. The first time, two years ago, he had been a child of eleven and they had only permitted him to linger near the murders and to share the spoil. The second time he had witnessed first a burial, then a strangling. Now he was ready to become a full-fledged bhurtote—a slayer.
No knight, watching beside his arms in a church, was more intent on performing the ordeal in a fitting manner; no warrior-father more anxious than Dhurum Khan that the deed should go well and the auspices be good for his son's advancement.
So as they went they chanted softly the hymn to Kali that few outside the ranks of thaggi have heard. Breaking off sharply near the traders' fire, they fell to chattering and laughing. Dawn was outlining the treetops.
The Punjabis had adjusted the packs on their mules and were stamping the stiffness from their limbs after sleeping the night. Then Dhurum Khan gave a low exclamation of dismay. The Punjabis were in the road ahead of them, but one, revealed in the clearer light, proved to be a woman mounted on a mule.
“An ill fate!” he cried. “They are not our prey. We may not slay a woman.”
It was not chivalry that restrained the thags from the killing of women, only the belief that the female form was molded after that of Kali, their goddess. Even so, they often strangled women, especially when the victims were in the company of other men and the spoil was good.
For the laws of thaggi—rigid as the doctrines of the Buddhist faith—prescribed that no victims should be robbed without being first slain: also that none in a party should be permitted to escape. True, very young children were sometimes taken and adopted, but only if they showed no overmastering grief for the slain parents.
In northern Rajputana the thags thus slew women often. And in the Punjab, where the thags were powerful, it was done by the Mohammedans who were most numerous in these gangs. But even so it was considered an unfortunate thing, and penance was generally offered—gifts to the Brahmans or days of prayer—when a woman was strangled.
“Jaim Ali must not become a bhurtote if a woman's blood sinks into the earth,” said Dhurum Khan, but hesitantly, for the omen had been good.
Bhawani Bukta slipped to his side.
“Nay, it is true,” assented the guru, or teacher, of the boy. “Yet another may slay the woman.”
“But the deed will be the same.”
Bhawani Bukta shook his head slowly.
“The deed must come to pass. These are the victims we have sighted. It was ordained by fate. Already is their grave being dug.” “Then let my son not try his hand at this time.”
Again the water-carrier, who was experienced in the lore of the cult, demurred. “We have said the prayer to Kali for the creation of a new strangler. It must be. Likewise, it would be unpardonable to ignore the omen of the lizard.”
Dhurum Khan hesitated anxiously. A wave of uncertainty swept through the throng. A vital issue was at decision. They awaited the word of their elders in the cult, as they
walked forward, apparently carelessly, toward the three who were awaiting their arrival, glad to have the company of merchants of their own class on the dangerous road.
Then from the right came the wailing cry of a single jackal. As one man the throng sighed in relief.
“It is one jackal,” cried the water-carrier softly.
“An omen of the highest order,” assented Dhurum Khan, not quite assuredly.
“Kali has spoken,” put in another.
“Jaim Ali is marked as fortunate—if he slays swiftly and well.”
The thags pressed forward cheerily. The dark clouds of doubt had vanished, even as the sun flooded in on them through the trees. They waved happily at the waiting merchants and the woman—a slip of a girl perched on the mule, regarding them gravely from dark eyes under a hood.
Likewise, the Punjabis caught the contagion of their mood. Dhurum Khan's mild, benevolent face dispelled any doubt they might have felt that these were thieves. They had all the seeming of wealthy and reputable merchants.
Besides, the Punjabis were strangers in the district. They fell into step beside the thags. Quietly the latter shifted their positions until two men were on either side the girl, one with the rumal hidden under his cloak being a Mohammedan who had been hastily allotted the venturous fate of slaying the woman.
Bhawani Bukta and Jaim Ali stepped near one of the men. Dhu-rum Khan fell to the rear. He had explained to the strangers that his group were merchants of the upper Jumna, bound for Simla with rare Portuguese cloths laden upon the mules. The Punjabis expressed a desire to see the cloths.
Willingly Dhurum Khan halted the animals when his keen eye told him he was abreast the spot where certain men were digging in the thicket.
The Punjabis bent over the unrolled lengths of cheap muslin. Bhawani Bukta cleared his throat.
“Ae ho to ghiri chulo,” he said to the girl. “If you come to join us, pray descend.”
It was the signal. One of the Punjabis, recognizing the jargon or taking fright too late, cried out and sprang away.
“Death!” he shouted and began to run wildly down the road.
