The Mark of the Beast and Other Fantastical Tales

by Rudyard Kipling

  ‘“My troth,” sez I, “you’ve lived too long – you an’ your seekin’s an’ findin’s in a dacint married woman’s quarters! Hould up your head, ye frozen thief av Genesis,” sez I, “an’ you’ll find all you want an’more!”

  ‘But he niver hild up, an’ I let go from the shoulther to where the hair is short over the eyebrows.

  ‘“That’ll do your business,” sez I, but it nearly did mine instid. I put me bodyweight behind the blow, but I hit nothing at all, an’ near put me shoulther out. The Corp’ril man was notthere, an’ Annie Bragin, who had been watchin’ from the veranda, throws up her heels, an’ carries on like a cock whin his neck’s wrung by the dhrummer-bhoy. I wint back to her, for a livin’ woman, an’ a woman like Annie Bragin, is more than a p’rade-groun’ full av ghosts. I’d niver seen a woman faint before, an’ I stud like a shtuck calf, askin’ her whether she was dead, an’ prayin’ her for the love av me, an’ the love av her husband, an’ the love av the Virgin to opin her blessed eyes agin, an’ callin’ mesilf all the names undher the canopy av Hivin for plaguin’ her wid my miserable a-moors whin I ought to ha’ stud betune her an’ this Corp’ril man that had lost the number av his mess.

  ‘I misremimber fwhat nonsince I said, but I was not so far gone that I cud not hear a fut on the dirt outside. ’Twas Bragin comin’ in, an’ by the same token Annie was comin’ to. I jumped to the far end av the verandah an’ looked as if butther wudn’t melt in my mouth. But Mrs Quinn, the Quartermaster’s wife that was, had tould Bragin about my hangin’round Annie.

  ‘“I’m not plazed wid you, Mulvaney,” sez Bragin, unbucklin’ his sword, for he had been on jooty.

  ‘“That’s bad hearin’,” I sez, an’ I knew that me pickets were dhriven in. “What for, Sargint?” sez I.

  ‘“Come outside,” sez he, “an I’ll show you why.”

  ‘“I’m willin’,” I sez; “but my shtripes are none so ould that I can afford to lose thim. Tell me now, who do I go out wid?” sez I.

  ‘He was a quick man an’ a just, an’ saw fwhat I wud be afther. “Wid Mrs Bragin’s husband,” sez he. He might ha’known by me askin’ that favour that I had done him no wrong.

  ‘We wint to the back av the arsenal an’ I stripped to him, an’ for ten minut’s ’twas all I cud do to prevent him killin’ himsilf agin’ my fistes. He was mad as a dumb dog – just frothin’ wid rage; but he had no chanst wid me in reach, or learnin’, or anything else.

  ‘“Will ye hear reason?” sez I, whin his first wind was run out.

  ‘“Not whoile I can see,” sez he. Wid that I gave him both,one afther the other, smash through the low gyard that he’d been taught whin he was a bhoy, an’ the eyebrow shut down on the cheek-bone like the wing av a sick crow.

  ‘“Will you hear reason now, brave man?” sez I.

  ‘“Not whoile I can speak,” sez he, staggerin’ up blind as a stump. I was loath to du ut, but I wint round an’ swung into the jaw side-on an’ shifted ut a half-pace to the lef.

  ‘“Will ye hear reason now?” sez I. “I can’t keep my timper much longer, an’’tis like I will hurt you.”

  ‘“Not whoile I can stand,” he mumbles out av one corner av his mouth. So I closed an’ threw him – blind, dumb, an’ sick, an’ jammed the jaw straight.

  ‘“You’re an ould fool, Mister Bragin,” sez I.

  ‘“You’re a young thafe,” sez he, “an’ you’ve bruk my heart, you an’ Annie betune you!”

  ‘Thin he began cryin’ like a child as he lay. I was sorry as I had niver been before. ’Tis an awful thing to see a strong man cry.

  ‘“I’ll swear on the Cross!” sez I.

  ‘“I care for none av your oaths,” sez he.

  ‘ “Come back to your quarters,” sez I, “an’ if you don’t believe the livin,’ begad, you shall listen to the dead,” I sez.

  ‘I hoisted him an’ tuk him back to his quarters. “Mrs Bragin,” sez I, “here’s a man that you can cure quicker than me.”

  ‘“You’ve shamed me before my wife,” he whimpers.

  ‘ “Have I so?” sez I. “By the look on Mrs Bragin’s face I think I’m for a dhressin’-down worse than I gave you.”

  ‘An’ I was! Annie Bragin was woild wid indignation. There was not a name that a dacint woman cud use that was not given my way. I’ve had my Colonel walk roun’ me like a cooper roun’ a cask for fifteen minut’s in Ord’ly-Room, bekaze I wint into the Corner Shop an unstrapped lewnatic; but all that I iver tuk from his tongue was ginger-pop to fwhat Annie tould me. An’ that, mark you, is the way av a woman.

  ‘Whin ut was done for want av breath, an’ Annie was bendin’ over her husband, I sez: “’Tis all thrue, an’ I’m a blayguard an’ you’re an honust woman; but will you tell him av wan service that I did you?”

  ‘As I finished speakin’ the Corp’ril man came up to the veranda, and Annie Bragin shquealed. The moon was up, an’ we cud see his face.

  ‘“I can’t find her,” sez the Corp’ril man, an’ wint out like the puff av a candle.

  ‘ “Saints stand betune us an’ evil!” sez Bragin, crossin’ himself; “that’s Flahy av the Tyrone.”

  ‘“Who was he?” I sez, “for he has given me a dale av fightin’ this day.”

  ‘Bragin tould us that Flahy was a Corp’ril who lost his wife av cholera in those quarters three years gone, an’ wint mad, an’walked afther they buried him, huntin’ for her.

  ‘ “Well,” sez I to Bragin “he’s been hookin’ out av Purgathory to kape company wid Mrs Bragin ivry evenin’ for the last fortnight. You may tell Mrs Quinn, wid my love, for I know that she’s been talkin’ to you, an’ you’ve been listenin’, that she ought to ondhersthand the differ ’twixt a man an’ a ghost. She’s had three husbands,” sez I, “an’ you’ve got a wife too good for you. Instid av which you lave her to be boddered by ghosts an—an’ all manner av evil spirruts. I’ll niver go talkin’ in the way av politeness to a man’s wife agin. Good night to you both,” sez I; an’ wid that I wint away, havin’fought wid woman, man, an’Divil all in the heart av an hour. By the same token I gave Father Victor wan rupee to say a mass for Flahy’s soul, me havin’ dishcommoded him by shtickin’ my fist into his systim.’

  ‘Your ideas of politeness seem rather large, Mulvaney,’ I said.

  ‘That’s as you look at ut,’ said Mulvaney calmly. ‘Annie Bragin niver cared for me. For all that, I did not want to leave anythin’ behin’ me that Bragin cud take hould av to be angry wid her about – whin an honust wurrud cud ha’ cleared all up. There’s nothing like opin-spakin’. Orth’ris, ye scutt, let me put me eye to that bottle, for my throat’s as dhry as whin I thought I wud gel a kiss from Annie Bragin. An’ that’s fourteen years gone!

  ‘Eyah! Cork’s own city an’ the blue sky above ut – an’ the times that was – the times that was!’

  BABOO MOOKERJI’S UNDERTAKING

  Baboo Mookerji said he knew a something worth knowing. He told me this with a fat, grave smile of self-confidence; and he told this to others. People became anxious to hear what it was about, in what line, and how he knew what he said. They asked him, so that they might value him more than they did. For they valued Baboo Mookerji. Besides being a clerk in a Government office, he always wore a greasy look which betokened prosperity and much consumption of clarified butter, which it is very estimable and popular to do. He wore transparent garments where they should have been opaque, and opaque where clothes could be excused for transparency; and a pair of boots. In short, he was highly respectable; and when Baboo Mookerji, hearing that a man had died from snake-bite, said that he knew something, everybody enquired. ‘Only bring me,’ said Baboo Mookerji in reply, ‘only bring me a man, not who is dying from snake – for that is nothing – but who is dead from snake. There is in snake-bite,’ said Baboo Mookerji, smiling with superior knowledge, ‘a power to cause semblance of death, but not death. The vital breath is only suspended – not extinct; but I grant,’ said Baboo Mookerj
i, ‘that few know it; and still fewer,’ said Baboo Mookerji, ‘still fewer can work against it,’‘Is that true?’ said all the people. Baboo Mookerji put another betel ball into his mouth, and said ‘Bring a man dead from snake – asyou call it – to me. That is all I ask.’ It was a reasonable request; but though such a man is often got when there is no experiment on hand, he was scarce when he was wanted. Search was made, and a sharp look-out was kept for a case of snake-bite; and Baboo Mookerji scoffed within my hearing at the English doctors and atEnglish methods of treatment. Baboo Mookerji detailed to me anecdotes which proved that there was a way, but unknown to the ignorant and gross, of getting a man all right after he had apparently expired from snake-venom. He had no objection to say that the recovery could be effected only by the snake, and the snake would not do it but by the power of charms. The charms were the secret; but Baboo Mookerji instructed me in the manner of working. He had only to scatter four shells, fraught with powerful invocation, to the four points of the compass, and the snake would have to reappear in obedience to the summons, and be compelled to suck out the poison which it had injected. The poison once out, of course the man would be as right as before.

  ‘These things,’ said Baboo Mookerji, ‘are not generally known.’‘Have you cured any cases, Mr Mookerji?’ I asked. ‘A few,’ said Baboo Mookerji, shoving another betel ball into his cheek with unconcern. ‘But’, said Baboo Mookerji, ‘I never take any remuneration. Should I do so the mercenary character of my motive will destroy the virtue of the charm.’

  This naturally excited my curiosity, and I went about the station anxious for somebody to be bitten. In the meantime Baboo Mookerji waxed impatient, and demanded a dead person soon in order to make him alive; and, infected with his impatience, I went to the distant villages, and almost entreated somebody to qualify for it. I argued on the new plan which Baboo Mookerji was so eager to employ only for my satisfaction, and guaranteed that the Baboo would restore the dead man to life. Baboo Mookerji, however, here always made a distinction and a correction stating that man is never really dead, but only comatose. This I repeated to the rustics who were more inclined to suppose this likely, and to regard resuscitation more probable than resurrection. Receiving a promise from them to look out for a case – and even, I fear, to stretch a point – I departed. Rustics take a long time to act on any suggestion, and it was not before a week that a messenger was sent to me with good tidings. I repaired joyously to Baboo Mookerji’s office, and departed with him to the scene of the occurrence. There were four other Baboos there, and alarge gathering of rustics assembled on the spot. ‘I hope you all tried to recover him in the first instance,’ said Baboo Mookerji; ‘because’ said Baboo Mookerji, ‘I should like to try my power after all other resources have failed.’ My confidence in Baboo Mookerji arose on hearing him, and I was glad to see that I was right in my estimate of him, and safe in my recommendation. The rustics assured Baboo Mookerji that they had tried to bandage the young man’s arm, and given him curds to eat, without avail, and had subjected him to their own enchanters; but the music and the water could not arrest his droop and collapse.

  Then did I see that Baboo Mookerji prepared to rise to the occasion. He put aside his shawl, and examined the wound. ‘Get me’, said Baboo Mookerji, ‘six bottles of liquor at once for libation to the gods. Don’t delay.’‘Sir,’ said the weeping father, ‘only liquor of this country can be got here.’‘Bring even that,’ said Baboo Mookerji with a displeased look.

  The liquor was brought, and Baboo Mookerji caused it to be taken inside the hut, which he entered with his coadjutors, and fastened the door. ‘How do you think he will proceed, Sahib?’ asked a villager of me. I explained the whole process anew, and said that Baboo Mookerji, if successful, would not only introduce a great blessinginto the country, but would make a fortune over it. The Government would buy up his charms, and these would thenceforth find a place in the British pharmacopoea.

  We retired under a tope of mango trees and talked about the marvels that were daily coming to the knowledge of man. We talked about two hours, till we heard sounds issuing from the, hut, and felt that we were summoned to witness the operation. When we reached it. Baboo Mookerji tumbled out of the room with a screech, and, observing us, Baboo Mookerji smiled faintly and staggered at us. ‘What is the meaning of this word?’ said a villager, ‘he has drunk our liquor and is very drunk, and has no intention of curing our brother.’ And when the villagers realised this, they fell upon my Baboo Mookerji and beat him sorely; and they drew out the other revellers and put them, protesting, to much discomfort. They then revertedto Baboo Mookerji, who vaguely threatened law, and gave him some more, till he was overcome. And forasmuch as I had been prevailed upon to laud and commend him, I think I kicked Baboo Mookerji as he rolled on the ground, and thereby felt greatly relieved and gratified.

  Thus did Baboo Mookerji fail in his undertaking.

  This I solemnly declare is not a parable on the National Congress – no allegory whatever on Bengali pretensions but a narrative mainly of fact.

  THE JOKER

  ‘And when The Joker turns up, y’know,’ said Vennel, explaining the principles of Euchre at the Club, ‘you can make your own trumps.’

  ‘Pardon me a moment, gentlemen, I am The Joker and I – ahem – have turned up. May I come in?’

  No one had seen the baize door of the card-room swing, but at the table stood a young man, his eyes suspiciously bright and his cheeks flushed, as with wine. He was in evening dress and at his watch-chain dangled a tiny hour-glass charm.

  ‘Oh. No objection I’m sure if these men don’t object,’ stammered Vennel, and under his breath murmured: ‘S’pose it’s one of the men from the outstations. Club’s so full these days no one knows t’other from which. He’s a dashed cool fish, though.’

  The visitor limped slightly as he dropped into his chair: ‘Three-handed euchre, was it?’ he said gaily. ‘Two combining against one when one is too successful? I think I know something about that game.’

  ‘This is dashed lunacy,’ muttered Keevin. ‘The man’s had too much.’

  ‘Not in the least,’ said the stranger. ‘You have no idea what a hard head mine is. My deal, isn’t it?’ He dealt the five cards and turned up the seven of Diamonds.

  ‘I pass,’ said Vennel, who was the eldest hand. ‘Diamonds aren’t good enough for me.’

  ‘I play,’ said Keevin, looking at the stranger, who by the arrangement of the table should be his partner.

  ‘It’s against the game to advise, but I should recommend you to go alone,’ said the stranger with supreme disregard ofthe first conventions of the card-room. No one rebuked him, and Keevin announced his intention of going alone. The stranger threw down his cards. Keevin played both Bowers, the king and ace of Diamonds. His last card was a low Club. Maisey, who was Vennel’s partner, took it with a ten, and Keevin’s chance of winning all five tricks was gone.

  ‘Four Diamonds and a low Club,’ chuckled the stranger – ‘a very fair hand indeed, but you were euchred. There’s nothing in the world better than Diamonds, is there?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Keevin with an energy that astonished the table. ‘Diamonds and dibs – there’s nothing better or more desirable under Heaven. I say you queer devil, show me how to make Diamonds trumps and hold a hand of ’em that’ll sweep the show.’

  ‘What a holy exhibition Keevin’s making of himself,’ said Vennel. ‘We knew he was always keen about pice,but he needn’t explain it to a stranger.’

  ‘It’s as simple as dying,’ said the stranger. ‘Discard Hearts, don’t deal too much with Clubs and keep away from any place where Spades may turn up trumps. Your deal, Mr Vennel.’

  Vennel dealt and turned up Hearts. Keevin grunted and passed.

  ‘I’ll go alone,’ said Maisey.

  ‘Quite right,’ said the stranger calmly. ‘Never assist where Hearts are trumps. A partner under those circumstances is a nuisance.’

  Maisey led with T
he Joker and drew low trumps all round.

  ‘Bad play,’ said the stranger drily;The Right Bower followed, took the next trick, and then the queen.

  ‘Very bad play,’ said the stranger. ‘Poor lady. I’m sorry to have to take her, but euchre is euchre,’ and he slid out the Left Bower. Maisey took the remaining two tricks, but the sweep which he had counted on was gone.

  ‘If you had kept The Joker back you could have taken my Left Bower. Always look out for the Left Bower when Hearts are trumps. He’s generally round the corner, somewhere,’ said the stranger.

  ‘See here,’ stuttered Maisey flushing. ‘You spoilt my handwith your interference. What’s the way to hold Hearts every time? There’s nothing in this forsaken land like Hearts – fresh ones every few months. I’ll give you anything you please, you rummy janwar,if you’ll show me how to play Hearts properly – sweeps every time.’

  Keevin chuckled. ‘In vino Veritas,’said he, sipping his peg. ‘Maisey, you needn’t wear your heart on your sleeve in that disgustingly open fashion. Play euchre if you like, but don’t make a show of yourself.’

  ‘No, never make a show of yourself,’ said the stranger approvingly. ‘Lead another suit ostentatiously, Mr Maisey, and you’ll be surprised how the Hearts range themselves in your hand. If that fails and your hand’s a poor one, order up Diamonds and the chances are that you hold the Left Bower – as I held just now. Above all don’t risk your best cards first.’

  ‘H’mm,’ said Vennel. ‘That’s nonsense. Keevin, it’s your deal.’

  Keevin turned up Hearts again and all the players passed once, and a second time it came to Vennel’s turn to make his trump.

  ‘I make Clubs,’ said he. ‘And I’ll go alone on this hand. Both Bowers, the ace, king and queen. That’s good enough. Put down your cards.’

  ‘Not quite,’ murmured the stranger. ‘You have forgotten The Joker,’ and he laid it on the table. ‘Never mind playing the tricks out. The Joker has a knack of turning up unexpectedly among the clubs. You’re euchred, too, Mr Vennel.’