The Mark of the Beast and Other Fantastical Tales

by Rudyard Kipling

  Then we spoke, both together and to ourselves: ‘That’s why he whispered about the house.’

  Tietjens, in the garden, began to bay furiously. A little later her great nose heaved open the dining-room door.

  She snuffed and was still. The tattered ceiling-cloth hung down almost to the level of the table, and there was hardly room to move away from the discovery.

  Tietjens came in and sat down; her teeth bared under her lip and her forepaws planted. She looked at Strickland.

  ‘It’s a bad business, old lady,’ said he. ‘Men don’t climb up into the roofs of their bungalows to die, and they don’t fasten up the ceiling cloth behind ’em. Let’s think it out.’

  ‘Let’s think it out somewhere else,’ I said.

  ‘Excellent idea! Turn the lamps out. We’ll get into my room.’

  I did not turn the lamps out. I went into Strickland’s room first, and allowed him to make the darkness. Then he followed me, and we lit tobacco and thought. Strickland thought. I smoked furiously, because I was afraid.

  ‘Imray is back,’ said Strickland. ‘The question is – who killed Imray? Don’t talk, I’ve a notion of my own. When I took this bungalow I took over most of Imray’s servants. Imray was guileless and inoffensive, wasn’t he?’

  I agreed; though the heap under the cloth had looked neither one thing nor the other.

  ‘If I call in all the servants they will stand fast in a crowd and lie like Aryans. What do you suggest?’

  ‘Call ’em in one by one,’ I said.

  ‘They’ll run away and give the news to all their fellows,’ said Strickland. ‘We must segregate ’em. Do you suppose your servant knows anything about it?’

  ‘He may, for aught I know; but I don’t think it’s likely. He has only been here for two or three days,’ I answered. ‘What’s your notion?’

  ‘I can’t quite tell. How the dickens did the man get the wrong side of the ceiling-cloth?’

  There was a heavy coughing outside Strickland’s bedroom door. This showed that Bahadur Khan, his body-servant, had waked from sleep and wished to put Strickland to bed.

  ‘Come in,’ said Strickland. ‘It’s a very warm night, isn’t it?’

  Bahadur Khan, a great, green-turbaned, six-foot Mahomedan, said that it was a very warm night; but that there was more rain pending, which, by his Honour’s favour, would bring relief to the country.

  ‘It will be so, if God pleases,’ said Strickland, tugging off his boots. ‘It is in my mind, Bahadur Khan, that I have worked thee remorselessly for many days – ever since that time when thou first earnest into myservice. What time was that?’

  ‘Has the Heaven-born forgotten? It was when Imray Sahibwent secretly to Europe without warning given; and I – even I – came into the honoured service of the protector of the poor.’

  ‘And Imray Sahib went to Europe?’

  ‘It is so said among those who were his servants.’

  ‘And thou wilt take service with him when he returns?’

  ‘Assuredly, Sahib. He was a good master, and cherished his dependants.’

  ‘That is true. I am very tired, but I go buck-shooting tomorrow. Give me the little sharp rifle that I use for black-buck; it is in the case yonder.’

  The man stooped over the case; handed barrels, stock, and fore-end to Strickland, who fitted all together, yawning dolefully. Then he reached down to the gun-case, took a solid-drawn cartridge, and slipped it into the breech of the .360 Express.

  ‘And Imray Sahib has gone to Europe secretly! That is very strange, Bahadur Khan, is it not?’

  ‘What do I know of the ways of the white man. Heaven-born?’

  ‘Very little, truly. But thou shall know more anon. It has reached me that Imray Sahib has returned from his so long journeyings, and that even now he lies in the next room, waiting his servant.’

  ‘Sahib!’

  The lamplight slid along the barrels of the rifle as they levelled themselves at Bahadur Khan’s broad breast.

  ‘Go and look!’ said Strickland. ‘Take a lamp. Thy master is tired, and he waits thee. Go!’

  The man picked up a lamp, and went into the dining-room, Strickland following, and almost pushing him with the muzzle of the rifle. He looked for a moment at the black depths behind the ceiling-cloth; at the writhing snake under foot; and last, a grey glaze settling on his face, at the thing under the tablecloth.

  ‘Hast thou seen?’ said Strickland after a pause.

  ‘I have seen. I am clay in the white man’s hands. What does the Presence do?’

  ‘Hang thee within the month. What else?’

  ‘For killing him? Nay, Sahib, consider. Walking among us, his servants, he cast his eyes upon my child, who was four years old. Him he bewitched, and in ten days he dies of the fever – my child!’

  ‘What said Imray Sahib?’

  ‘He said he was a handsome child, and patted him on the head; wherefore my child died. Wherefore I killed Imray Sahib in the twilight, when he had come back from office, and was sleeping. Wherefore I dragged him up into the roof-beams and made all fast behind him. The Heaven-born knows all things. I am the servant of the Heaven-born.’

  Strickland looked at me above the rifle, and said, in the vernacular, ‘Thou are witness to this saying? He has killed.’

  Bahadur Khan stood ashen grey in the light of the one lamp. The need for justification came upon him very swiftly. ‘I am trapped,’ he said, ‘but the offence was that man’s. He cast an evil eye upon my child, and I killed and hid him. Only such as are served by devils,’ he glared at Tietjens, couched stolidly before him, ‘only such could know what I did.’

  ‘It was clever. But thou shouldst have lashed him to the beam with a rope. Now, thou thyself wilt hang by a rope. Orderly!’

  A drowsy policeman answered Strickland’s call. He was followed by another, and Tietjens sat wondrous still.

  ‘Take him to the police station,’ said Strickland. ‘There is a case toward.’

  ‘Do I hang, then?’ said Bahadur Khan, making no attempt to escape, and keeping his eyes on the ground.

  ‘If the sun shines or the water runs – yes!’ said Strickland.

  Bahadur Khan stepped back one long pace, quivered, and stood still. The two policemen waited further orders.

  ‘Go!’ said Strickland.

  ‘Nay; but I go very swiftly,’ said Bahadur Khan. ‘Look! I am even now a dead man.’

  He lifted his foot, and to the little toe there clung the head of the half-killed snake, firm fixed in the agony of death.

  ‘I come of land-holding stock,’ said Bahadur Khan, rocking where he stood. ‘It were a disgrace to me to go to the publicscaffold: therefore I take this way. Be it remembered that the Sahib’s shirts are correctly enumerated, and that there is an extra piece of soap in his washbasin. My child was bewitched and I slew the wizard. Why should you seek to slay me with the rope? My honour is saved, and – and – I die.’

  At the end of an hour he died, as they the who are bitten by the little brown karait, and the policemen bore him and the thing under the tablecloth to their appointed places. All were needed to make clear the disappearance of Imray.

  ‘This,’ said Strickland, very calmly, as he climbed into bed, ‘is called the nineteenth century. Did you hear what that man said?’‘I heard,’ I answered. ‘Imray made a mistake.’

  ‘Simply and solely through not knowing the nature of the Oriental, and the coincidence of a little seasonal fever. Bahadur Khan had been with him for four years.’

  I shuddered. My own servant had been with me for exactly that length of time. When I went over to my own room I found my man waiting, impassive as the copper head on a penny, to pull off my boots.

  ‘What has befallen Bahadur Khan?’ said I.

  ‘He was bitten by a snake and died. The rest the Sahib knows,’ was the answer.

  ‘And how much of this matter has thou known?’

  ‘As much as might be gathered from One coming in the tw
ilight to seek satisfaction. Gently, Sahib. Let me pull off those boots.’

  I had just settled to the sleep of exhaustion when I heard Strickland shouting from his side of the house –

  ‘Tietjens has come back to her place!’

  And so she had. The great deerhound was couched statelily on her own bedstead on her own blanket, while, in the next room, the idle, empty, ceiling-cloth waggled as it trailed on the table.

  THE FINANCES OF THE GODS

  The evening meal was ended in Dhunni Bhagat’s Chubara and the old priests were smoking or counting their beads. A little naked child pattered in, with its mouth wide open, a handful of marigold flowers in one hand, and a lump of conserved tobacco in the other. It tried to kneel and make obeisance to Gobind, but it was so fat that it fell forward on its shaven head, and rolled on its side, kicking and gasping, while the marigolds tumbled one way and the tobacco the other. Gobind laughed, set it up again, and blessed the marigold flowers as he received the tobacco.

  ‘From my father,’ said the child. ‘He has the fever, and cannot come. Wilt thou pray for him, father?’

  ‘Surely, littlest; but the smoke is on the ground, and the night-chill is in the airs, and it is not good to go abroad naked in the autumn.’

  ‘I have no clothes,’ said the child, ‘and all to-day I have been carrying cow-dung cakes to the bazar. It was very hot, and I am very tired.’ It shivered a little, for the twilight was cool.

  Gobind lifted an arm under his vast tattered quilt of many colours, and made an inviting little nest by his side. The child crept in, and Gobind filled his brass-studded leather waterpipe with the new tobacco. When I came to the Chubara the shaven head with the tuft atop, and the beady black eyes looked out of the folds of the quilt as a squirrel looks out from his nest, and Gobind was smiling while the child played with his beard.

  I would have said something friendly, but remembered in time that if the child fell ill afterwards I should be credited with the Evil Eye, and that is a horrible possession.

  ‘Sit thou still, Thumbling,’ I said as it made to get up andrun away. ‘Where is thy slate, and why has the teacher let such an evil character loose on the streets when there are no police to protect us weaklings? In which ward dost thou try to break thy neck with flying kites from the housetops?’

  ‘Nay, Sahib, nay,’ said the child, burrowing its face into Gobind’s beard, and twisting uneasily. There was a holiday to-day among the schools, and I do not always fly kites. I play ker-li-kit like the rest.’

  Cricket is the national game among the schoolboys of the Punjab, from the naked hedge-school children, who use an old kerosene-tin for wicket, to the BAs of the University, who compete for the Championship belt.

  ‘Thou play kerlikit! Thou art half the height of the bat!’ I said.

  The child nodded resolutely. ‘Yea, I do play, Perlayball Ow-at! Ran, ran, ran! I know it all.’

  ‘But thou must not forget with all this to pray to the Gods according to custom,’ said Gobind, who did not altogether approve of cricket and western innovations. ‘I do not forget,’ said the child in a hushed voice.

  ‘Also to give reverence to thy teacher, and’ – Gobind’s voice softened – ‘to abstain from pulling holy men by the beard, little badling. Eh, eh, eh?’

  The child’s face was altogether hidden in the great white beard, and it began to whimper till Gobind soothed it as children are soothed all the world over, with the promise of a story. ‘I did not think to frighten thee, senseless little one. Look up! Am I angry? Aré, aré, aré! Shall I weep too, and of our tears make a great pond and drown us both, and then thy father will never get well, lacking thee to pull his beard? Peace, peace, and I will tell thee of the Gods. Thou hast heard many tales?’

  ‘Very many, father.’

  ‘Now, this is a new one which thou hast not heard. Long and long ago when the Gods walked with men as they do to-day, but that we have not faith to see, Shiv, the greatest of Gods, and Parbati his wife, were walking in the garden of a temple.’

  ‘Which temple? That in the Nandgaon ward?’ said the child. ‘Nay, very far away. Maybe at Trimbak or Hurdwar, whither thou must make pilgrimage when thou art a man. Now, there was sitting in the garden under the jujube trees, a mendicant that had worshipped Shiv for forty years, and he lived on the offerings of the pious, and meditated holiness night and day.’

  ‘Oh father, was it thou?’ said the child, looking up with large eyes.

  ‘Nay, I have said it was long ago, and, moreover, this mendicant was married.’

  ‘Did they put him on a horse with flowers on his head, and forbid him to go to sleep all night long? Thus they did to me when they made my wedding,’ said the child, who had been married a few months before.

  ‘And what didst thou do?’ said I.

  ‘I wept, and they called me evil names, and then I smote her, and we wept together.’‘Thus did not the mendicant,’ said Gobind; ‘for he was a holy man, and very poor. Parbati perceived him sitting naked by the temple steps where all went up and down, and she said to Shiv, “What shall men think of the Gods when the Gods thus scorn their worshippers? For forty years yonder man has prayed to us, and yet there be only a few grains of rice and some broken cowries before him after all. Men’s hearts will be hardened by this thing.” And Shiv said, “It shall be looked to,” and so he called to the temple which was the temple of his son, Ganesh of the elephant head, saying, “Son, there is a mendicant without who is very poor. What wilt thou do for him?” Then that great elephant-headed One awoke in the dark and answered, “In three days, if it be thy will, he shall have one lakh of rupees.” Then Shiv and Parbati went away.

  ‘But there was a moneylender in the garden hidden among the marigolds’ – the child looked at the ball of crumpled blossoms in its hands – ‘ay, among the yellow marigolds, and he heard the Gods talking. He was a covetous man, and of a black heart, and he desired that lakh of rupees for himself. So he went to the mendicant and said, “O brother, how much dothe pious give thee daily?” The mendicant said, “I cannot tell. Sometimes a little rice, sometimes a little pulse, and a few cowries and, it has been, pickled mangoes, and dried fish.”’

  ‘That is good,’ said the child, smacking its lips.

  ‘Then said the moneylender, “Because I have long watched thee, and learned to love thee and thy patience, I will give thee now five rupees for all thy earnings of the three days to come. There is only a bond to sign on the matter.” But the mendicant said, “Thou art mad. In two months I do not receive the worth of five rupees,” and he told the thing to his wife that evening. She, being a woman, said, “When did moneylender ever make a bad bargain? The wolf runs through the corn for the sake of the fat deer. Our fate is in the hands of the Gods. Pledge it not even for three days.”

  ‘So the mendicant returned to the moneylender, and would not sell. Then that wicked man sat all day before him offering more and more for those three days’ earnings. First, ten, fifty, and a hundred rupees; and then, for he did not know when the Gods would pour down their gifts, rupees by the thousand, till he had offered half a lakh of rupees. Upon this sum the mendicant’s wife shifted her counsel, and the mendicant signed the bond, and the money was paid in silver; great white bullocks bringing it by the cartload. But saving only all that money, the mendicant received nothing from the Gods at all, and the heart of the moneylender was uneasy on account of expectation. Therefore at noon of the third day the moneylender went into the temple to spy upon the councils of the Gods, and to learn in what manner that gift might arrive. Even as he was making his prayers, a crack between the stones of the floor gaped, and, closing, caught him by the heel. Then he heard the Gods walking in the temple in the darkness of the columns, and Shiv called to his son Ganesh, saying, “Son, what hast thou done in regard to the lakh of rupees for the mendicant?” And Ganesh woke, for the moneylender heard the dry rustle of his trunk uncoiling, and he answered, “Father, one half of the money has been paid, and the debtor fo
r the other half I hold here fast by the heel.”’

  The child bubbled with laughter. ‘And the moneylender paid the mendicant?’ it said.

  ‘Surely, for he whom the Gods hold by the heel must pay to the uttermost. The money was paid at evening, all silver, in great carts, and thus Ganesh did his work.’

  ‘Nathu! Ohé Nathu!’

  A woman was calling in the dusk by the door of the courtyard.

  The child began to wriggle. ‘That is my mother,’ it said.

  ‘Go then, littlest,’ answered Gobind; ‘but stay a moment.’

  He ripped a generous yard from his patchwork-quilt, put it over the child’s shoulders, and the child ran away.

  THE FINEST STORY IN THE WORLD

  ‘Or ever the knightly years were gone

  With the old world to the grave,

  I was a king in Babylon

  And you were a Christian slave.’

  W. E. Henley

  His name was Charlie Mears; he was the only son of his mother, who was a widow, and he lived in the north of London, coming into the City every day to work in a bank. He was twenty years old and was full of aspirations. I met him in a public billiard-saloon where the markers called him by his first name, and he called the marker ‘Bullseye.’ Charlie explained, a little nervously, that he had only come to the place to look on, and since looking on at games of skill is not a cheap amusement for the young, I suggested that Charlie should go back to his mother.

  That was our first step towards better acquaintance. He would call on me sometimes in the evenings instead of running about London with his fellow-clerks; and before long, speaking of himself as a young man must, he told me of his aspirations, which were all literary. He desired to make himself an undying name chiefly through verse, though he was not above sending stories of love and death to the penny-in-the-slot journals. It was my fate to sit while Charlie read me poems of many hundred lines, and bulky fragments of plays that would surely shake the world. My reward was his unreserved confidence, and the self-revelations and troubles of a young man are almost as holy as those of a maiden. Charlie had never fallen in love, but was anxious to do so on the first opportunity; he believed in all things good and all things honourable, but at the same time, was curiously careful to let me see that heknew his way about the world as befitted a bank-clerk on twenty-five shillings a week. He rhymed ‘dove’ with ‘love’ and ‘moon’ with ‘June,’ and devoutly believed that they had never so been rhymed before. The long lame gaps in his plays he filled up with hasty words of apology and description, and swept on, seeing all that he intended to do so clearly that he esteemed it already done, and turned to me for applause.