by Talbot Mundy
“Nay, nay, sahib! C.3 needs them.”
“What the hell for? Is he crazy? Ever since I’ve known him he was just a good old fatty with a sense o’ fun and twice his share of honest guts. Has he gone off his onion? Does he know about the goings on in this place? Has it made him barmy? Dammit, I’ll go barmy if I don’t get out o’ here!”
“But in the darkness, sahib? Through a jungle such as this one? In the monsoon?”
“What do you suggest?” Hawkes answered.
“Sahib, we are pieces in the game he plays, so let him move us!”
“But he has told you one thing, and me another!”
“Sahib, nothing is more certain than that C.3 meant to do that, if he did it.”
“Damn his eyes!” Hawkes spat perplexity. Then he reached for his pipe and swore again when he remembered he was naked to the waist and that his pipe was in his jacket pocket, in a cell at the end of a maze of winding passages. “You two come and sit by my fire,” he suggested. “It’ll go out if I don’t get back and heap some wood on. We can sit there until daylight — fresh air and no skeeters — how about it?”
Both men nodded.
“But to hell with that damned hole where you two caught me by the feet!” said Hawkes. “We’ll stick a rock in that from top-side. Let’s get out o’ here and find our way by the glow o’ my fire in the dark.”
“But there is no way out.” said F.11, “except through the chamber where the woman keeps watch.”
“O.K. She shall have my butt end if she cuts up!”
“Nay, nay! She is mad, that woman, and she has the cleverness of madness. As a drunkard gets drink, or as a drug-addict gets drugs, Soonya will get what she is after, until the end comes. It is better that we let her think she has her way now. She will take a short cut to her way if we stir suspicion. If we slew her, we should have those others down on us; and they would be worse than she is, because they would have lost their guide into eternal death! They would say we had robbed her also of eternal death! She teaches that eternal death is only to be had by dying in the right mood and exactly at the proper moment, of one’s own will. And they crave the nothingness of nothing — the annihilation of themselves and of knowing, and feeling, and being. They crave it as an egg craves life, or as a lover yearns for his beloved.”
“All right. Up the hole!” Hawkes answered. “I’ll go nutty if I stay here, that’s a safe bet.”
He shuddered. Unimaginative as a rule, and ignorant as most men are of all that did not interest him, he had not the remotest notion of the meaning of that temple, or of the fact that Moloch-worship, the fire of the Inquisition, and a hundred other horrors, are only new names for a basic madness that is older than history. All Hawkes cared to know just then was that the stars and moon were shining somewhere outside, up above a murky wilderness of clouds that would be blown away by clean air. And he yearned for that air in his lungs — good, washed air.
“Get a move on!”
F.15 led, carrying the lantern. F.11 followed with a cat-like tread that suggested his own nerves were nothing to boast of just then. The contact with Hawkes’s plain thinking probably had showed him, as a light shows darkness, something of his own weird peril. He seemed almost as much afraid as Hawkes was, and the echoes of the thump of Hawkes’s boots on the floor of shadowy, long passages so scared him that he crowded close on Hawkes’s heels and glanced backward so often that Hawkes, too, felt they were pursued. Crowding on the man ahead, Hawkes stumbled frequently, because there were steps in unexpected places and the rising ramps between them were encumbered by the litter of fallen carvings off the passage walls. But at last they reached the sloping hole that Hawkes had come down at the invitation of the woman.
Then F.11 went up first with his rawhide looped round his waist, and when he reached the top he lowered it for Hawkes to clamber up by. But it was too short. F.15, with bare feet, had a better grip on time-smoothed masonry, so Hawkes, encumbered by his rifle, had to tread on the lamp-bearer’s shoulders, and the two of them slid twice to ground again before Hawkes caught the noose at last. It tightened on his hand, and F.11 felt the strain. He pulled hard. Hawkes went upward like a fish hooked foul, and landed, cursing, with his chest and face in bat-dirt and the stench of that to stomach rather than the fresh night wind for which he famished.
But the fire burned; all it needed was a few sticks and a moment’s fanning. Outside, gusty rain was splashing on the stones and gurgling down the channels it had cut in slopes of root-bound debris. Hawkes went out, trousers, boots and all, and washed himself until the bat-stench faded. Then he pulled off his trousers and wrung them, coming in again to dry them at the welcome fire and squat there like a wet frog. He examined his rifle carefully by firelight before he found his pipe. When he had filled and lighted that he felt less nervous, but a military instinct urged him.
“Take that rock, you two, and plug the hole,” he ordered. “There’s a brace o’ tigers, and a woman, and a python; none o’ them’s good company.”
When they had done that they came and squatted on their heels beside him, and for a long time there was silence, only broken by the storm sounds or when one of them poked the fire. But at last Hawkes got into his clothes, and that broke F.11’s reverie.
“Until the earthquake,” he said, “and that was in the time of Akbar, or earlier, this temple was known as a place where death could be had for the asking. There was fire in those days. Men — aye, and women were thrown in, at their own wish, after being taught the meaning of it by the priests of Kali. But it always was a secret, told in whispers. Men said that the earthquake ended it. But our trade teaches this, if nothing else; that evil has no end and no beginning. Vigilance reduces it, as day does night, but even day has shadows. None knows how to stay night from returning. And an evil springs up from its own roots in the very shadow of the scythe that just now mowed its stalks.”
“Hell, you talk like a funeral,” Hawkes objected. “What do you draw pay for? Half the world ‘ud starve if the other half weren’t in need of policing, one way or another. Clean up! Rout this place out! Burn it like a hornets’ nest!”
“And there would still be hornets, sahib! Aye, aye, we are sent to clean this. Trust us, we will do it. C.3 will attend to it. But there is no end. That which causes evil will discover such another place and find another way of befouling the darkness. It is like the cholera — plague — smallpox—”
“It’s a job o’ work for you blokes — What’s that?” Hawkes asked. Suddenly he gripped his rifle. Wind was blowing, but the rain had spent itself and myriads of night sounds were as audible as Hawkes’s own breathing!
“It was probably a jackal or a rat,” said F.11.
“Shut up! Let me listen.”
Water trickled and the frogs made a floor of din on which all other noises marched. It was impossible to see beyond the firelight, even if smoke had not watered their eyes. And the wind went sighing through the foliage of creepers rooted on the ruins. One could imagine anything. Hawkes whispered:
“Were you expecting someone?”
“Only C.3.”
“’Tisn’t him; he’d give his signal. But there’s someone out there who has seen our fire. He’s afraid to come close before he knows who’s in here.”
“Surely a hyena, sahib.”
“Sit still.” Hawkes took his rifle and crawled out, cursing the mosquitoes. For a while he sat in total darkness, listening, but at last he put himself directly in the zone of firelight and stood upright so that he could not help but be seen if there were eyes in that outer darkness. He could hear no outcry, and no footstep. He had decided he was mistaken and had faced about to crawl back through the hole when something touched him on the instep and he almost yelled, it felt so like a snake. It gripped his ankle. He raised his rifle to smash at whatever it was with the butt, when a voice said “Sahib!” and he checked the blow in mid-swing.
Hawkes sat. He knew his knees had given way from panic. He pretended to himsel
f that he had sat in order not to have to raise his voice. Training and natural doggedness served him; he recovered swiftly, and the moment he could trust his voice he answered, hardly above a whisper:
“Well? What?”
“I am F.9.”
“What do you want?”
“I look for F.11.”
“Where are you from, and who sent you?”
“Nay, I will not answer that until I know who you are.”
“Come in then.”
“I will follow, sahib.”
“Watch your step then! Any funny business and you’ll wish you hadn’t!”
Hawkes did not catch even a glimpse of the owner of the voice until he himself had crawled back to the fireside. Even then he only saw a momentary naked shadow, because a bundle of wet clothing struck him in the face, and by the time he recovered from that surprise the newcomer’s wet fingers had gripped him by the throat from behind. It was an iron grip, one-handed, forcing his face in jerks towards the fire while another hand twisted his arm behind him. Then his pipe fell from his teeth into the embers. F.11’s hand recovered it. There was a little talk in undertones, and then the grip relaxed as it had seized hold, suddenly. Hawkes struck at random, but his fist hit nothing and a man laughed.
“Do you wish to fight me, sahib? Better give a number next time, if you hope to be questioned gently! I was taught to take no chances.”
“Who the devil are you?”
“Not the devil — but a playmate of the devil! I am acting Number Two to C.3. These men spoke for you, or you would now lie smothered in those ashes.”
Naked, and the color of coppery-bronze a little reddened by the firelight, with a chin like Gandhi’s and incredible, steel-rimmed spectacles above a thin nose that was almost like the beak of a falcon, sinewy and stronger to the eye than whipcord, grinning with the tip of a red tongue thrust through a gap in his front teeth, F.9 met Hawkes’s stare and mocked his indignation.
“One of these days I’ll teach you manners,” Hawkes retorted.
“It is hard to teach an old ape new tricks, sahib. I was learning in Chicago how to keep a thumb out of my eye before your honor knew a rubber teat from dry dugs. I have word for C.3. Do you take it?”
F.11 leaned into a cloud of smoke and touched Hawkes’s knee.
“I said it, sahib! Said I not that C.3 has the key to any puzzle that he sets up? All we have to do is to obey him, and the plan unfolds! Not you — this man was the one we waited for; and not we — he is to instruct your honor! He stays here with us, and we shall show him what we know. But you obey him!”
“How do I get back to C.3?” Hawkes asked.
“How did I come? How else than by elephant?” said F9. “Did you think there is a subway?”
“Can he swim the river?”
“Easily, but can you hang on when the river ducks him?”
“Say, I’d hold fast to a submarine if it ‘ud take me to Kutchdullub! Where’s your elephant?”
“Down yonder in the jungle.”
“What’s your message?”
“It is for C.3’s and no other ears. The elephant’s mahout knows nothing.”
“O.K. I’ll deliver it to C-3 — if I get through. And I’ll get through if it snows ink.”
“Tell him this, then, sahib: ‘F.9 saw the target and reports that many shots have missed it, since the marker uses tricks that turn the arrows. But the marker is not suspected.’ Please repeat that.”
He made Hawkes repeat it three times, then resumed dictation:
“Add this: ‘But the archer, becoming impatient, invents excuses to step nearer to the target and assault it with a new bow. Being unpaid, he is eager to hit the very heart of the bull’s-eye and claim the reward.’ Repeat that also to me three times, sahib.”
Hawkes repeated it. Then F.9 made him say it all from the beginning, interrupting him to test his memory. But Army signaling had made Hawkes good at that game.
“Then add these words, sahib: ‘It is high time. Too late is as bad as never!’”
Hawkes stuck his pipe in his pocket and tied a shoelace. Then he buttoned his jacket.
“Say what it means,” he demanded.
“Oh yes, I forgot that.” F.9 grinned at him again and leaned into the firelight. “Probably it means that C.3 trusted you to come and get the message, and that F.9 trusted you to take it! Are you hungry? Are you thirsty? There are bread and meat and whisky in Kutchdullub!”
“Are there! And there’s cheese in your guts! You’ve fair warning. Watch yourself, the first time me an’ you meet unofficial! You can have it Queensberry or catch-as-catch-can — your choice.”
F.9 chuckled. He stuck out his tongue. “Come along,” he answered, “I will show you to your elephant. Perambulator for the sahib! Cushions! Let me know if the mahout is rude to you and I will slap him!”
Sticking a fist into his pocket to restrain himself, and setting his rifle at safety to prevent an accident that might have looked like an attempt at murder, Hawkes crawled out into the darkness. F.9 followed, took him by the hand and led him at a half-run, laughing at him when he stumbled — pushing him, pulling him — seeming to see in the dark like an owl, whereas Hawkes saw almost nothing, having stared too long at firelight. He could smell an elephant before he saw it; and before he knew how near he was or guessed the meaning of F.9’s shout he was caught by an elephant’s trunk and hoisted, kicking, to a lightweight howdah such as sporting princes use for speed and distance. And before Hawkes had his breath the elephant was crashing through the jungle like a landslide; he had to lie low and cling to the howdah to save himself from being brained against low branches. Twice he almost lost his rifle. Half a dozen times he threatened the mahout with mayhem to persuade him to go slower. He could guess neither time nor distance. It was pitch-dark, and the crashing of the elephant through undergrowth silenced all other sounds until the roar of the river greeted them.
The great brute did not hesitate. There was a sickening slide, then a splash and they were swimming in an unseen maelstrom. The mahout climbed in and hung on to the howdah rail. They seemed to spin round in tunnels of bewildering spate, in a deafening roar, on a slippery perch that ducked them twenty times a minute. And then earthquakes, as the elephant stuck toes into the far bank and hove himself up on rotten earth that gave way under him. Panic in the blue mud — the mahout in place again — a blind crash into tents and overturning carts — a chorus of blasphemous cursing from awakened campers — and they were off again, towards Kutchdullub, splashing through the mud at top speed — full five tons of dark anachronism hungry for a hot meal.
CHAPTER 20. “It will probably be something!”
Ram Dass once more donned his blanket and sent a shop assistant for a one- horse gharry, it being too far to walk to the Residency, and too wet for his old gray Muscat donkey that he sometimes rode and always treated with the sentiment that he seldom allowed to intrude into corn or mortgages. Chullunder Ghose rehearsed him while they waited for the gharry, going even to the length of telling him what Major Eustace Smith would probably say, and how to make Smith angry and afraid without the slightest risk of personal retaliation.
“Tell him that you have a telegram of about three thousand words already written, that you will take to railhead to avoid State censorship, and send to Delhi at your own expense unless he takes immediate steps to check this rioting, same being bad for business.”
“It is nice to be able to tell at least a little truth,” said Ram Dass. “We had better shut our shops if rioting continues.”
“Truth,” remarked the babu, “is good. But only that is good of which we like the consequences. Use that as the measure of the lies you have to tell, and don’t be squeamish! On your way you are to stop for just two minutes at the office of Ananda Raz, who is a mixture of lawyer and priest, so beware! You are to tell him you have absolutely confidential, but positive, news that the British-India authorities are intervening; and that, therefore, if the priests will tell
the people to stop rioting they will soon see a change. However, if the rioting continues, there will be investigation and a public trial of the culprits.”
Ram Dass nodded. “Kali’s priests would dread that.”
“And a riot,” said the babu, “is a form of suicide committed by ignorant fools at the behest of human jackals in the pay of human tigers, who are much worse than the beasts, because they know what they are doing. So let us stop these riots. And Ananda Raz can do it. As the priests’ attorney he has influence enough to make those devils change their tactics.”
“I will talk to him.”
“Two minutes only! He is an attorney; he will totally defeat you if you argue with him! Simply say your piece and go away in silence — to the Residency. Go and get into the gharry; it is waiting. Go now.”
As mercurial as the very essence of his native Bengal, Chullunder Ghose cracked his knuckles and the joints of his toes inside his slippers. It was all he could do to force himself to wait until the merchant was well out of sight. There was no sense in letting Ram Dass know too much; he had seen that dish- faced fellow squatting near the shop door, but had probably not memorized his features; so it was not until the gharry drove away that Chullunder Ghose walked past the man and, sotto voce, bade him follow. Round the corner, out of sight and earshot of the shop assistants, he turned and gave his orders rapidly.
“Buy bananas; eat them as you run, if you are hungry. Go now swiftly to the British Residency. Speak there with the old chuprassy whom the Major sahib uses as a spy. You are to tell him that a rumor is abroad that Hawkesey is indignant, and has refused to shoot the tiger because somebody has said to Hawkesey that the Major played a dirty trick on him by telling Syed- Suraj to instruct Hawkesey to go and shoot the tiger and then to tell the Rajah to dismiss him as a scapegoat. Say that over to me.”
Dish-face had a number in the C.I.D., so he was not in need of much rehearsing. Unimaginably underpaid, he was as keen as he was illiterate, and as proud of his job as he seemed to be stupid and humble. He adored the babu. When he repeated the message accurately at the second attempt, and the babu nodded, his eyes had the mute devotion of a sheepdog’s.
