by Talbot Mundy
“There, don’t carry on. ‘tweren’t your fault. And it weren’t my doing neither. Quit your grieving. There’s been no harm done that money can’t set right again. There’s always somebody got money. You’re all bruised up, an’ you’re scared, but you’ve had your fun, so now act sensible.”
Asoka seemed to recognize the note of friendship. He left off moaning. He even touched Quorn’s shoulder with his trunk. But his eyes did not lose their madness until Quorn began talking to him in the native tongue, remembering the phrases he had heard mahouts use when their charges were ill-tempered or in trouble.
“Prince of elephants! A prince, a maharajah, of the hills, a bull of bulls, a royal bull! Did they offend him? He shall have a howdah made of gold and emeralds! They shall paint him blue and scarlet! He shall lead the line of elephants! He shall carry kings on his back!”
The poor, bewildered brute responded, swaying his head to and fro and permitting Quorn to rub the edges of his ears. He gurgled for more water. Quorn persuaded him to rise and led him to the fish-pond.
“In you go, you sucker!”
He was obeyed so swiftly that a dozen fish were splashed out on the wave displaced by four descending tons. Quorn picked up the fluttering fish by the tails and tossed them in again. Reveling amid the ruin of the lotus plants, Asoka lay still. Quorn began to wonder what to do next.
“I’m the only friend he’s got on earth this minute. They’ll shoot him sure, unless I take the blame for all that damage. Maybe I’d better talk to that babu.”
He followed the sound of voices, peered between some shrubbery and saw the babu squatting comfortably in the presence of the lady. She was seated above him, on the marble railing in front of an exquisite garden-house. Her eyes, as she watched the curl of the smoke of a cigarette, were half-hidden beneath languorous, dark lashes that somehow failed to conceal excitement. She had pearly skin, with just a hint of color, and the great dark pearls that she wore as earrings beneath a turban of cloth of gold were like drops of the juice of youth and life exuding from her.
“O daughter of the moon,” the babu argued in his mellow baritone, “this may be wonderful, but is it wise? Suppose these garden walls have ears?”
“They have,” she answered, “but they don’t understand English, so say what you like, except that you mustn’t contradict me.”
“Heavenborn sahiba, may this babu talk of commonplaces? If the question may be forgiven, does it not occur to your superb imagination that this situation is desperate? This babu will be accused of aiding and abetting your escape. Not only shall I lose my perquisites, but I shall be caused to eat slow poison — ground glass probably.”
“Yes, any fool would know that,” she retorted. “Use your wits then, babu-ji.”
“But, daughter of astonishment, I have no wits for such a situation! She, on whom his eighteen-gun-saluted majesty of Bohutnugger chooses to bestow his royal heart, has fled from the parental roof! His emissaries will insult your royal parent in an expert manner. Who could forgive that? It is not that your royal parent really minds your modern views. I think he secretly enjoys them. But he has to think about the priests, who are scandalized. And a scandalized priest is a serious matter! How can you get away from here? There is no way. To remain here is to be discovered. And discovery means — O Krishna, what does it not mean? It means shame, sahiba. Your royal parent—”
She interrupted him: “He is like a parent in somebody’s novel. It could never occur to him how ashamed I would be if he could force me to marry some one I had never seen. I wouldn’t love such a man, not even if he were so lovable that it would kill me not to love him.”
“Krishna!” the babu exploded. “In addition they will blame me for providing you with modern books! They will blame me with excruciating details such as hunger in a dungeon! Probably your father will incarcerate you until you agree to be religious and become a temple ministrant.”
“Oh no, the priests wouldn’t have me,” she answered. “You see, they know I know too much. Either I go to America, or—”
“Do you know where America is?” he exploded. “Do you know about the Quota, how they count heads and reject all immigrants who are not respectable? Unmarried but beautiful ladies are never respectable in U.S.A. United States. How will you get as far as Bombay? You have neither clothes nor money for such a journey.”
“That is for you to attend to,” she retorted. “I have made up my mind to be independent. I have run away. I have done my part. Now you attend to your part.”
“Krishna! Who shall explain things to a woman?”
“There is no need for explanations. Either take me to America, or else accept this destiny and—”
“I tell you, there is no such thing as destiny,” the babu interrupted. “That man is a common laborer—”
She made a scornful gesture. “What of it? You are a common babu. I am a common princess. If, as you say, there is no such thing as destiny—”
“Damn destiny!”
“I see you are after all only a boastful rogue,” she answered. “You are not really an adventurer. You are afraid. Very well, you may leave me. I will manage my own affairs.”
Chullunder Ghose sighed. “Honesty is rotten policy,” he remarked with an air of finality. “I have honestly tried to dissuade you. As a dissuadee you are a failure. Very well then, let us succeed at something. What do you wish me to do?”
She threw away her cigarette and lit another one, and though there was mischief in her smile, there underlay the mischief something that looked dangerously like intelligence. There was a bit of a frown, like a vague cloud on her forehead. There was a certain not unpleasant firmness of the lips. At the back of her brilliant eyes was something more than mere audacity.
“Does he, or does he not resemble Gunga sahib?” she demanded. “Do I, or do I not resemble Sankyamuni, whose namesake I am? Did he, or did he not come on an elephant and find me in a difficulty? Let us take advantage of it.”
“Do you know what the risks are?” the babu asked her. “It will be you, and I, and this man Quorn, whom neither of us knows, against a universe!”
“Cheese it!” said Quorn to himself. “It’s in my contract not to interfere with native women. That lets me out.”
He stole away silently, back to Asoka who was enjoying himself in the pond.
“Come on out, old-timer,” he commanded. “Me an’ you are in trouble enough without extras. I reckon I need a friend as bad as you do. Out you come. No sulking.”
But Asoka was not yet quite amenable. He came out, but he stubbornly refused to face the gap in the wall. Quorn decided to look for a gate, and the elephant followed him meekly enough around a clump of bamboos, along a pathway. There were vine-covered arches at intervals; the big beast knocked down two of them, but there was no return of panic. They arrived, around the corner of an empty house, at a stone-paved stable yard where ancient vehicles and rotting lumber were crowded in confusion. Along one side there was a shed, in which Quorn spied new-cut sugar-cane. He made Asoka lie in mid-yard, broke a rotten door and appropriated as much of the cane as he could carry.
“There now, that’s for being daddy’s good boy. Eat it, and we’ll go home.”
He left Asoka munching sugar-cane and went in search of a gate that might open on the main road. He found one, but it was fastened with a lock and chain and he struggled with that for fifteen minutes, trying to smash the padlock with a stone, until it suddenly occurred to him that he could lift the light gate off its hinges. Then he hurried back, for fear Asoka might be up to mischief. But it was not Asoka. He had already become a mere lay-instrument of mischief.
There were servants on the scene — three gardeners. The princess was directing operations. Chullunder Ghose, as muscular as all three gardeners in one, was helping to drag out through a stable door a funny little ancient howdah and some rat-gnawed harness that had to be moistened before it would bend. The howdah was crimson and in fairly good condition; there was only
room for one person in it. It had four upright poles that supported a gilded roof, precisely like that on the howdah borne by the elephant carved on the wall of the market-place. The gardeners were afraid to approach the elephant, so Chullunder Ghose kicked them with astonishing force and agility. Then they started to try to lift the howdah to Asoka’s back.
There was only one thing to be done, because nobody took the slightest notice of Quorn’s protests. Un- explainably, but definitely that was Quorn’s elephant. The equation contained plenty of unknowns, but pride was a basic element. He felt responsible; he could not have the elephant misbehave himself. So he went to Asoka’s head and kept him quiet while the unaccustomed crew toiled at the howdah and finally strapped it in place, Asoka heaving himself without a protest, to let the great buckles be passed under his belly. Then the babu drove the gardeners away, commanding one to unlock the gate and another to fetch his pony.
“It is dangerous,” he said. “Sahiba, should this elephant misbehave himself, then the harness will break, and—”
“We have nothing to lose,” she interrupted. “If the gods have a sense of humor—”
“But there aren’t any gods,” said the babu.
“So much the better,” she answered, “we needn’t give them a thought. We shall know in an hour whether we also are nothing at all. It is all we can do. It is all or nothing.”
She turned and smiled at Quorn. He was aware of being analyzed — read like a book. He was vaguely offended. But for his pride in having tamed an elephant he would have bowed to her and walked away. When she spoke to him after a moment her voice was rich and low, and there was humor in her eyes, but that only increased his suspicion and made him feel obstinate.
“Did anybody ever call you Gunga sahib?” she asked him.
“No, Miss.”
“Many people will, from now on.”
“My name, Miss, is Ben Quorn.”
“We are destined, I think, to be friends, Mr. Quorn.”
“No, Miss, I believe not. I was sworn before a notary to avoid all women for as long as I’m in India.”
She became immediately serious. “A vow?” she answered. “Nobody should dare to try to break that. I am sorry. Is it out of the question for you to escort me to the palace?”
“No, Miss.”
Quorn felt disarmed. He was not at all sure he had answered her wisely. She was a heathen. She was in league with a babu whom he had been warned not to trust. He did not understand their game, but he had overheard enough to realize that their conspiracy included himself in some way. Still, there was no harm in taking her home, he supposed. Afterwards, he would return Asoka to his picket in the compound; and if she and the babu could involve him any deeper than that, they would have to be mighty clever.
He made Asoka rise. The babu dragged a ladder from the shed and set it up against the howdah. The princess appeared to expect Quorn to offer a hand. He felt it would be surly to refuse that. She hardly touched his hand. She was as active as a kitten. But that one touch affected him strangely. It was not exactly thrilling; it was confidential; it made him feel as if she trusted him. And then the babu’s manner also produced an effect that thoroughly disturbed Quorn’s self-command, although he did not realize it at the moment. He was conscious of the babu watching him intently. A suspicion stole into his mind that Chullunder Ghose expected him to use the ladder in order to get to his seat on the elephant’s neck; in other words, the babu knew him for an amateur.
“Take that dam’ ladder away;” he ordered.
All or nothing, eh? Well, they were not the only two who could accept that gamble. He had seen mahouts mount scores of times, and he knew the right word of command. He went and stood beside Asoka — spoke, low voiced — and was obeyed. Asoka curled his trunk around him — it was like being gripped by a python — raised him high in the air, where he felt for one agonized moment as if he were doomed to be smashed into pulp on the ground — and then set him in place exactly, gently, astride the broad neck with his back to the howdah.
Chullunder Ghose had found an ancient ankus in the shed to which he had returned the ladder. He gave it to the elephant, who passed it up to Quorn.
“To the manner born!” said the babu. “It is too bad you are honest. Good mahouts are rogues, invariably. Honesty is dam-bad policy, believe me, I have tried it!”
“Silence!” the princess commanded. “Don’t annoy him.” And again Quorn felt an unfamiliar emotion that intrigued him strangely, even while it increased his sense of danger.
A gardener brought the babu’s pony. He mounted, opened his black sunshade and led the way, hugely incongruous, riding with wonderful dignity and yet, somehow or other, a clown. He was play-acting. Even the bewildered Quorn could see that. A dramatic impulse seemed to seize them all as they passed out through the opened gate into the road, Asoka swaying homeward with the stately pageant-stride that durbar elephants all learn and always use unbidden, as if by instinct, when there is importance in the air. Quorn sat upright, with the butt of the ankus resting on his thigh — coatless — in a bazaar shirt, somewhat soiled — in a yellow turban — with a crimson caste-mark on his forehead. And his agate eyes were luminous with wonder that suggested mystic and inscrutable design, unless one knew what thoughts were surging through his puzzled and suspicious brain.
V
“You’re A Damned Strange Coincidence!”
Quorn was a fellow whose thought took the definite form of words before it meant much. He seldom — almost never muttered to himself. But he carried on a conversation in his brain, which was the same thing plus reticence. He liked to dig at problems, almost in the way he used to dig graves, shovelful by shovelful, one thought at a time and no hurry.
“This here old prodigal son, he needs a massage and a hot towel. Reckon I can lie him out o’ trouble somehow. Elephants are elephants. He’s easy. But the rest of it smells to me like politics. This ain’t a circus.”
But it did look like a circus. All Narada seemed to be pouring along the highway to discover what had happened to Asoka. The crowd was excited, hot, breathless, expecting something terrible, and in a mood to be thoroughly entertained by almost anything, so be it staggered imagination. The sun shone through the cloud of dust they raised, on to a drunken riot of color all in motion. And the crowd beheld a miracle. There was no doubt about that whatever.
When Asoka had burst forth like a typhoon through the city, he had had no howdah on his back. When Quorn had ridden forth, he had had no turban on his head, no ankus and no caste-mark. There had been no princess in any way connected with the incident. And yet, here came the elephant, moving as if impelled by dignity and destiny combined. On his back was an ancient crimson howdah, such as nobody had seen in use for generations. Riding in the howdah was a gloriously dressed and radiantly beautiful young woman, unveiled. No one in the crowd had ever before seen her face to face, because the purdah custom had prevented that. But everyone had seen the carving on the market wall. What should not a breathless crowd believe — the more incredible the better?
Furthermore, there was the loud voice of Chullunder Ghose, riding ahead and shouting to them in their own tongue:
“Way there! Way for the Wheel of Destiny! The gods now finish what the gods began!”
Could anything be simpler? Could anything be more authentic? Why should anybody not believe it? Up went a roar of recognition — such a tumult as perhaps Darius heard when multitudes acclaimed him King of Kings.
“The Gunga sahib! The Gunga sahib and the Princess Sankyamuni!”
Messengers were sent post-haste to warn the priests of thirty temples that a prophecy was coming true at last. And there is competition among temples. It was almost like Lindbergh coming home to the United States, such streams of rival welcoming committees raced to be first to pay official honors. Priests turned out in hundreds with bands of music. They choked the road. Asoka had to slow down. It was all that Chullunder Ghose could do, using his lungs and his wits to their
utmost, to get the crowd moving again. And the delay gave time for garlands to be brought — long chains of flowers that were tossed to Quorn, that fell draped on Asoka’s shoulders and all over the crimson howdah, until the Princess looked forth from a perfect bower and Asoka trod crushed blossoms underfoot.
There is nothing so convincing as flowers, unless it be a procession behind bands of music. Through Narada’s streets there surged such a procession as those ancient buildings had not seen for centuries. The sacred peacocks screamed from garden walls. The sacred monkeys jabbered and grimaced from trees as green as jade. And Quorn sat silent, wondering, aware he was the hero of it all, but not at all enjoying the heroics. He was more contemptuous than actually timid.
“Heathen!”
It was a heavy iron ankus that he held. He could have thrown it and easily hit the babu. It was tempting to do that, and he never really knew why he didn’t.
“He’s making a monkey of me. Well, I’ll fix him afterwards.”
He almost forgot the Princess, until she called to him to take her to the palace. Asoka had been following the crowd, that flowed toward the center of the city where the larger temples stood. But Chullunder Ghose led up a winding street toward the park-like suburb where the palace was. Asoka obeyed the pressure of Quorn’s knee; so that the order of procession became suddenly reversed, Asoka leading and the crowd surging behind him. That gave Chullunder Ghose a chance to gallop forward as fast as his overburdened pony could set foot to earth; and by the time Asoka reached the palace the babu had interviewed the Maharajah, who had evidently had quite a number of brandies and soda as a sequel to the morning’s accident. Sober, he would very likely not have dreamed of doing it, but he was decidedly not sober. He donned his royal robes and jewels. And he came on foot to meet the thunderous procession at the splendid entrance gate.
