Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  There was no space in the courtyard where an unclean heretic from oversea might stand; but there was an outer court — a sort of jail-yard, cut off by high, squared masonry, where those untouchables who sweep the streets and make themselves generally useful may squat and listen to beatitude afar off. Ommony was in their class for the time being. He entered the enclosure with suitable reverence, and stood still until a twice-born venerable with shaven head and straggling beard hailed him reasonably insolently from a platform set above the wall. With becoming diffidence Ommony drew nearer.

  The platform was designed, with a round hole on the side toward the unclean department, so that from the dregs of the less-than-Brahmin world might stand underneath and be blessed by curt phrases, as it were spat down at them. They might even make their wishes known by standing beneath with faces upturned, that being a properly respectful attitude, calculated to enhance the priestly dignity. But it was excruciatingly uncomfortable; and the view to be had of the under-side of a priest — a sort of worm’s-eye view of heaven — added nothing to the charm.

  There was silence for quite a long time, while the priest waited for Ommony to speak first, and he waited for the priest, neither man choosing to overestimate the other’s pride. The devil of it was, that if you looked up you looked suppliant; and if you looked down you naturally presented a hangdog aspect to the haughty ecclesiastic. However, those were the two alternatives; if you stepped back you were beyond the pale, not speechless necessarily, but according to the rules inaudible.

  The temple bell boomed three times, its golden mote shimmering away into infinity, before Ommony could master his exasperation to the point of speaking first.

  “Are all things ready?” he demanded.

  “All what things?”

  Ommony laid hit head right back to see better through the hole, but had to squint because the sun was in his eyes.

  “You listen to me!” he retorted angrily. “This affair has gone too far for any high-horse business. It you don’t talk frankly you can call the whole thing off and we’ll let the Government interfere.”

  That is roughly what he said. The Urdu of it, literally set down, would not appeal to a Western sense of proprieties. The words he actually used were penetrating — pierced even priestly armour — brought response.

  “There is no need for the sahib to feel indignant.”

  “No, no need! Permit me, sahib.”

  He turned and found Chullunder Ghose behind him, looking meek and amiable, which surely implied he was full to the cranium of mischief. What was worse, it implied the babu had been spying. Why had he followed Ommony in there uninvited? Why should he approach the priests at all by that humiliating route, when there was another, fairer court reserved for persons of his indeterminate state of unrighteousness?

  However, the babu had seized the upper hand by storm before there was time to prevent him. Standing well back, so that he could see the priest over the edge of the platform, he began to hurl abuse at him, insulting him with every epithet Bengali imagination could invent, ending breathless on the point — his real argument:

  “Moreover, you are a fool. This sahib has brains. You should treat him with deference.”

  Whereat the incredible occurred. The priest called to someone beneath him in the inner courtyard. There was a pause, after which keys were heard to jangle on a ring. Then a small door set deeply in a corner of the wall was opened cautiously; and through the opening, but touching neither door nor wall, an arm emerged and beckoned Ommony and the babu.

  “Quick, sahib! This is a high honour!”

  The babu, almost pushing Ommony in his excitement, hurried through after him, and a lean priest locked the door at their backs. Even so, they were not in the inner courtyard, but in a sort of cell without a roof, with another small door at the far side, through which the man with the keys disappeared. It was like a pen for sorting animals, where they might perhaps be disinfected before admission to the main corral; only there was a stone bench along one side, and Ommony sat down on it.

  “High, very great honour!” said the babu, squatting at his feet.

  Before they had time to exchange a dozen words the inner door opened and two priests entered, neither of whom were the same who had spoken from the platform. By their air these were “men higher up,” although they wore no insignia to prove it. They had no need to swagger. Their assurance was too absolute to call for self-expression. Self-conscious sanctity had no more use for sanctimoniousness. They had come to study an insect, and proceeded:

  “What do you want?” asked one of them, as if that might be interesting.

  Ommony took his time about answering. He was seated, and it did not run counter to his humour to keep them standing. What little wind he could feel in his sails, so to speak, that minute was so light that he pondered before deciding on which way to lay his helm. And before he made decision the babu robbed him of what little wind there was.

  “The sahib comes to ask your honour’s excellency whether all is in order for the initiation. Are there hitches?”

  “No, no hitches.” Just three words, spoken without apparent movement of the lips, in a voice devoid of emotion. Then: “But delay,” said the other priest; and if he noticed the look of exasperation that swept over Ommony’s face he gave no sign of it.

  “The sahib is in haste,” said the babu, glancing from Ommony to them and back again. No statement ever was more true, but it had no effect on the priests. They were as interested as anglers might be in the protests of a dying fish. Ommony could not afford to let proceedings hang fire. Strange might cut loose any minute. Molyneux might change his mind and decide the central government should interfere. Zelmira — even his own sister — might make some mistake. He himself was nearly worn out with sleeplessness and worry; and there was no certainty that the rajah might not betray the whole plan any minute. If the rajah should see Strange —

  “It is time,” he said simply, mastering the impulse to stand and storm at them.

  “Then why does he wait?”

  That was the ultimate of insolence, expressed superbly. No frown — no curling lip — no hauteur: merely interest, addressed to the babu, not to Ommony. Ommony decided it was time to lose his temper.

  “I’m here to tell you I propose to wait no longer!” he answered indignantly. “It’s time for you to carry out your promises.”

  “To what does he refer? We made no promises.” To the babu again, not to Ommony as if the babu were his keeper. The babu began to speak, but checked himself. The other priest had a word to say:

  “It is for suppliants to promise. We have ears, and we remember.”

  “What does he mean?” demanded Ommony, trying to turn the tables by directing his question at the babu instead of at them. But he gained nothing by it the priests’ indifference was that of graven marble.

  “Sahib, it is as this babu said. They make no promises to anyone. They make stipulation, and await sahib’s promise, same not having yet been made.”

  “What do they want?”

  “Promise of Panch Mahal.”

  “It isn’t mine,” said Ommony. “How can I promise them what doesn’t belong to me?”

  The babu made no pretence to knowing that. He turned to the priests. The exchange between him and Ommony having been in English, he interpreted.

  “Neither does his necessity belong to us,” one of the priests answered.

  Ommony swore fervently under his breath, not caring whether the priests saw his discomfiture or not. They obviously understood the situation. They had let him lay his plans to the point where success depended solely on themselves, and now took advantage of that to spring impossible demands. How could he promise them Strange’s property?

  “Tell them I’ll do my best,” he said angrily.

  One of the priests permitted himself the luxury of a thin, hard smile.

  “They want definite promise,” said the babu, without waiting for the priests to say the obvious.

>   Ommony got to his feet disgusted, feeling for his pipe.

  “All right,” he said. “Let ’em call the whole thing off.”

  He did not know what he was going to do, except to turn his back on the priests and have no more dealings with them. He supposed he must go first to Molyneux and confess failure; then, presumably, to Strange and plead with him. He liked that thought about as much as a condemned man enjoys the prospect of the gallows. However, what was the use of arguing? He laid his hand on the door leading to the outer court. But it was locked.

  “Let me out,” he said angrily.

  But while his back was turned he had given the enemy time for conference. It does not take long for priests of that religion to exchange glances and a nod. They made no move to let him out, and he turned on them again. One of the priests said something in a low voice to Chullunder Ghose.

  “Their excellencies say,” said the babu, “that the Panch Mahal is theirs by right. No white man will be allowed to occupy it.”

  The priest spoke again. The babu interpreted.

  “They need it for their purposes. They would be careful for the forest:”

  The other priest said something in an undertone. The babu’s quick ear caught the words, and he turned them promptly into English:

  “Moreover, in the matter of the forest, it is not wise to offend the servants of the gods.”

  The implied threat was obvious enough, but Ommony’s spirit surged in him instantly. They were temporizing! They did not wish to close the discussion! Then there was a weak joint in their armour somewhere. He prayed to whatever gods there might be to point it out to him, but the gods seem always humorously dumb in an emergency.

  He looked at the priests. They were emotionless. His eye fell on the babu squatting before them in a pose of reverent humility. Reason, intuition, instinct, all three warned him that the babu was playing for no hand but his own. Ergo, if the babu had a private understanding with the priests then he might be the weak joint. But how to prove it? And what then?

  Possibly they thought he, Ommony, was somebody whose yea or nay amounted to more than it Really did. Priests think in terms of autocracy, and most of India deludes itself as to the real power, or lack of it, that legally belongs to an official.

  “Ask them what they think of me? he demanded suddenly.

  The question took the priests entirely by surprise. They smirked at each other, confessing they did not know how to answer it. Their true thoughts would have been so insolent as to make further approach impossible. They had a thousand thoughts about him in the relative, where temporary delusions are acceptable for the sake of convenience. Which thought did he mean?

  “None!” was the answer they would have liked to give; but one does not give that kind of answer to a government official at whose hands advantage is sought. One of the priests said something very quickly. The babu caught it and interpreted.

  “They say, they know the sahib’s influence can prevent a transfer to themselves of legal title to the Panch Mahal.”

  To tell the truth and deny that would have been mere stupidity.

  “I promise not to try to prevent it,” he said simply.

  “If a transfer is arranged, will the sahib permit it?”

  “Yes.”

  That was all. The priests nodded, saying something as they turned to go.

  “The ceremony may take place to-morrow,” said the babu, as the man came with the keys to turn them out through the other door. So Ommony went, feeling mystified. What had they up their sleeves? How were they going to compel Strange? What, he wondered, did the babu know about it?

  XIII-— “AH-H-H!”

  All Chota Pegu turned out in gala attire for a holiday. Lord knew there were few enough occasions, and few, too, who could afford much finery; but such as they had, and such as this was, they made the best of it. The huts yclept houses disgorged their living streams at dawn, and those in turn were swallowed in a denser stream of country-folk from surrounding villages, a trifle shy and rather sniffed at (since even Chota Pegu draws a line between the towny and the hick).

  Someone had blundered, or had let the news get out, which amounted to the same thing. Ommony suspected the rajah; the rajah blamed it on the priests; they dropped dark hints about Chullunder Ghose; and he said nothing. But it transpired later that the man who opened up a lemonade stand near the Panch Mahal front gate, and did a roaring trade, had to turn over the lion’s share of the profit to the babu, who financed him.

  Even jugglers came, and snake-charmers from only they knew where, and performed for copper coins before the crowd, that waited patiently as Indian crowds can be depended on to do when there is entertainment.

  There were even wrestlers — such artists in their craft that they would struggle for twenty minutes and tie themselves into inextricable knots of which none could guess the outcome; and they would hold that insoluble conundrum, contrary to all Nature’s laws, while a small boy took up a collection; after which they would calmly unravel themselves and begin all over, working up new enthusiasm for a second offertory. And nobody ever did learn which would have won if the match had gone on to a finish.

  Then there were acrobats, who could stand on one foot on top of a thin pole whose other end rested on bare earth, distorting themselves on that giddy perch into likenesses of nothing anyone had ever seen. And there were beggars, of course; and a man who said he was a leper, and looked it. And they all gave to the leper, although everybody knew that if he really were one the Government would have taken him away long ago; they being charitable folk, more anxious to acquire merit than to impose it on others.

  Then, about eight in the morning, everyone said “Ah — h — h!” because the elephants began to come from the direction of the temple. Lots of people got in the way and were all but trampled on which was exciting; and they naturally laughed because they had escaped, and the rest laughed at them, so there was a great time. They had all seen elephants every day of their lives; but it is the mood you are in, not what you are looking at, that counts.

  Besides: the elephants had curtained howdahs, and everybody knows what thrilling secrets that suggests. As each enormous beast padded up, swaying and looking for mischief with his trunk, there was silence to see what happened when he manoeuvred into position exactly in front of the main gate, and knelt there. They all knew what would happen, but they were excited just the same.

  Out stepped the most beautiful, ravishing, marvellous, jewelled, and scented nautch-girls the world had ever seen; and all the world that knows anything at all is familiar with the fact that the temple girls of Chota Pegu are the loveliest anywhere. Are they not brought there when hardly old enough to toddle, and trained — and trained — and trained until they can not only dance all the intricate steps that the gods used to dance in the old days when they lived on the earth among mortals, but can even look exactly like the goddesses, whose portraits for comparison are on the temple wall?

  They had all seen the nautch-girls scores of times, but it was always a new thrill; and, this being a merry occasion, it led, of course, to jokes that it was a good thing the priests did not hear. Sometimes the priest knows when it is wisest not to listen.

  They counted nine-and-forty nautch-girls — seven times seven — a miracle-working number, portentous of good luck. And the last nautch-girl laughed aloud as she got down from the elephant, which was an omen positively. Nothing could possibly go wrong after that; there must be new amazement coming.

  And there was! The rajah’s elephants — the four that had to be supported from the taxes (as distinguished from the priests’ elephants, which were supported by donations, which is different). The rajah was not there, but nobody minded that; the priests had called him a low-caste degenerate, and they were no doubt right, being priests, who know everything. But on the elephants’ backs were the most wonderful people they had ever seen, and nobody knew who the people were, which made it thrilling.

  On the front elephant there wer
e two ladies — great queens presumably. One was veiled heavily, but the other wore no veil at all. Her jewellery sparkled in the sun — about a crore’s-worth by the most conservative estimate. She was a European queen undoubtedly, for she wore the European style of dress — or so they all supposed, for they had never seen anything like it. She was all trigged out in silver and grey, with a hat so smothered in flowers that it looked as if she must have stolen them that morning with the dew on them from the garden of the gods. She smiled to right and left, and her smile would have melted the heart of a moneylender, it was so genial and kind and merry.

  Then everyone said “Ah — h — h!” again; for on the second elephant there was an emperor — no less! He wore some jewels, although not so many as the lady did; but to make up for lack of them he was robed in shimmering silver and golden silk! His turban was woven of silver and golden silk in alternate layers, criss-crossed up the front; and there were half a dozen ostrich feathers stuck into a brooch in front, that would have made the King of England purple with acquisitiveness.

  He was a big man — broad — up-sitting — threw his shoulders back as if he were well used to leading armies on parade. No doubt he was a great king from foreign parts or somewhere. Heavens! but he was dignified. His brow, they agreed, was like a mountain frowning down over the sea; and if he hadn’t worn a monocle in the English fashion they might almost have believed him a god. Nobody ever remembered to have seen an image of a god who wore a monocle, so that settled that. But he was wonderful.

  And now another wonder! On the elephant behind him rode a plain, undignified, unvarnished English clergyman, in a plain black suit, with a white topee, mopping his face with a plain white handkerchief, and seeming unused to elephants. That was old “Begum” anyhow, a cow whose gait was always more uncomfortable than an earthquake. And serve him right! for he was one of those black-dyed rogues who, their priests had frequently assured them, are worse than all the devils in the Hindu Pantheon. They laughed to see how green his face looked; and some said he looked, too, as if he disapproved the whole proceedings, which made it even funnier.