Book: Son of Power

W >> Will Levington Comfort and Zamin Ki Dost >> Son of Power




"You see," the boy went on, "an elephant lives anyway more than a
hundred years; and his name stays just like that and draws pay without
changing. Always a mahout's son takes his place, when he gets too old
or dies. I can recall when Mitha Baba's mahout was one of the most
wonderful of them all. Now he has gone old, as they say; and his son
is on her neck."

There was a moment when Skag would have given his soul--almost--if he
might have grown up in India, as this child was growing up; in the
heart of her ancient knowledges--in the breath of her mystic power.
Then a great plain opened before them. It appeared at first glance,
completely full of elephants.

. . . The glamour of sun-drenched dust hung over all.

Looking more closely, Skag saw nothing but elephant ranks toward the
right, and nothing but elephant ranks toward the left; but in the
centre, a large area was covered with separate piles of dunnage, evenly
distributed.

From where he stood toward where the sun would set--a broad division
stretched; and in the middle of this division, a single line of loaded
elephants filed away and away to the horizon.

. . . Skag became oblivious. He was so thralled with the sight that he
did not notice what was nearer. The whole panorama held his breath
till right before him a great creature rose from sitting--without a
sound. There was a dignity about its movement not less than majestic.
It was a mighty load; but the huge shape slid away as smooth as flowing
water--as easy as a drifting cloud.

A deep voice said quietly:

"Peace, master; go thy way. Peace, son."

"Did he speak to both of them?" Skag asked of Horace.

"Yes; the first part was to the elephant and the last part was to the
mahout. This mahout must be one of the great ones, else the
master-mahout would not have spoken to him. But he will always speak
to the elephants--something."

A strange name filled the air, rolling up and away. It was followed by
a courteous request, in softer tones; and Skag watched another big
elephant approach from the unpicketed lines. It came to where the
master-mahout stood, close to a pile of tenting, wheeled to face the
way it should go presently, and sank down to be loaded.

Men did the lifting into place and the lashing on. There was detail in
the process, to which the elephant adjusted his body as intelligently
as they adjusted theirs. When they required to reach under with the
broad canvas bands, he rose a little without being told. Indeed they
seldom spoke even to each other; and then in undertones. The
elephant's mahout sat in his place on the neck, as if he were a part of
the neck itself.

The smoothness, the ease of it all, amazed Skag. That every good
night, spoken to every separate elephant, was different--peculiar to
itself--was no less astounding. It was never as if addressed to an
animal, or even to a child; but always as if to a mature and
understanding intelligence. As when the master-mahout said to one
female:

"Fortune to thee, great Lady. May the gods guard that foot. And have
a care in going down the khuds--it is that mercy should be shown us,
thy friends."

And again to a young male, whose movements were very self-conscious:

"Remember there is to be no tamasha to-night, thou son of destiny. It
is not yet in thy head--to determine when shall be tamasha. Fifty
years hence, and when wisdom shall be come to thee, thou heir of
ancient learning, then we shall have tamasha at thy bidding."

. . . A monster female came at the call of her name, with a long heavy
chain--one end securely attached to her. The other end she handled
with her trunk. Advancing to within a few feet of the master-mahout,
she stood facing him, teetering her whole body from side to side,
swinging her chain as she rolled.

Horace flashed away and ran in among the massed elephants and mahouts.
Coming back to Skag, he said breathlessly:

"A mahout says the other one went before we came! That means, if Nut
Kut comes--there'll be no one to manage him. You remember, Skag Sahib,
I told you about the 'mother-thing'--if anyone starts a fight, she
breaks it up with her chain; better than any two or three fighting
males. Two tuskers just wake Nut Kut up!"

Then he stood staring at the female with her chain--getting red in the
face as he spoke:

"Oh, I say! She doesn't want to be loaded; and she knows! Why, they
know she knows! . . . Master-mahout!" he called in brave tones that
trembled, "I am Dickson Sahib's son--of the grain-foods department--"

"We know you, Sahib, salaam!" interrupted the master-mahout, with a
smile.

"Is it not the unwritten-law that the great 'mother-thing' shall be
obeyed?" the boy quavered.

"It is the unwritten-law, Sahib; and we will not impose our will on
her. It is this, there is no sign of what she means; the masters are
all quiet to-day--there is no warning of _tamasha_."

The master-mahout spoke with grave consideration; but just as he
finished, the "mother-thing" wheeled into place and went down to take
her load.

"Cheer up, son, I guess it's all right," comforted Skag.

"It's all right--if Nut Kut doesn't come," said the boy, whimsically.

"So 'tamasha' sometimes means trouble?" queried Skag, remembering the
tamer definition he had learned.

"It means anything anybody considers entertaining!" answered Horace.
"By preference--an elephant fight! Remember, Government doesn't allow
'em; but sometimes they just happen anyway."

Then an elephant failed to answer. Several mahouts left their places
and went to one spot; and Skag saw the one who had been called. He was
sitting low against the ground, slowly rocking his head from side to
side. A mahout was examining his ears--folding them back and feeling
of them--laying his cheek against the inside surface.

"Is he sick?" Skag asked.

But the boy's eyes were wide upon the broad avenue before them, where
the loaded elephants went marching away. Then he burst out, in choking
excitement:

"Look, Skag Sahib! See that loaded elephant coming back from the line?
I think you are going to see one of the most wonderful things that ever
happened. They say it has been done; but I've never seen it--I've
never seen it myself."

Skag saw a powerful elephant coming back alongside the loaded line. He
did not move with the same smooth flowing motion as the others. He
walked as if he were coming on important business. With a load on his
back, he returned and sank down beside the pile of tenting intended for
another elephant.

"What's the meaning of it?" Skag asked.

Little Horace Dickson answered in a hushed way--as one in the presence
of a miracle:

"It is one of the regulars, come back to take a part of what belongs to
the sick elephant."

Skag looked at the boy's face, in incredulous amazement. It was
lit--awe and exaltation were both there. Then he noticed the look of
the master-mahout--that was a revelation.

. . . They were putting half as much again on top of the already loaded
elephant.

. . . Certain phrases went through Skag's brain, as he watched the
thing done--over and over. _No one had called this elephant back. He
came before they knew themselves that an elephant was sick. When the
mahouts first went to examine the sick one--this one was already on the
way. How did he know?_

The extra loaded elephant rose and started again. Then a great shout
went up. Tones of many voices filled the slanting sun-rays in all the
glamour of dust. The wonderful voice of the master-mahout loomed above
all:

"Wisdom and excellence are thy parts, oh Thou! Justice and
kindness--we who are poor in them--will learn of thee! Thou son of
strength, thou child of ancient knowledges and worth!"

And the mahouts shouted again!

At that moment Skag knew as well as he knew anything in life, that he
stood somewhere in the outer courts of a great animal-cult; and he was
convinced that it was of a mystic nature--however that could be. He
swore in his heart that he would never give up, till he got further in.

The master-mahout's voice ascended now on a strange call. It was a
lift-lift-lifting tone.

"What does that mean?" Skag asked.

"All the elephants know that--it's the lifting call," Horace explained.
"When an elephant is sick--unless they have an extra number in the
regiment--they always call for two to volunteer; and they divide the
load of the sick elephant between them. They use these tones instead
of a name--just for that. There comes a male now, to take the rest of
this load."

Skag watched the added load going into place on the volunteer. It was
almost finished, when a trumpet blast sounded directly behind
him--toward Hurda. Several elephants answered from the regiment; and
many mahouts called to each other.

"Is that the bad fighter coming?" Skag asked.

"Yes, Skag Sahib, that's Nut Kut. But I don't know just what you're
going to see--the ones who ought to handle him are all gone."

The master-mahout's voice was rising up into the vault of heaven and
falling over upon the horizon. It seemed to Skag the like was never
heard before.

"He's calling the two big tuskers back," Horace chuckled, "but there'll
be doings on before they get here! Will you listen to Nut Kut's
challenge?"

Skag turned to face the looming trumpet tones. There were no tones
behind him like them. Smooth and mellow, they were yet so full of
power as to make all the others sound insignificant. They were like
love-tones translated into thunder.

But when Nut Kut came in sight, Skag caught his breath. The shape was
made of gleaming bronze. No detail showed; it was a thing that took
the eye and the breath and the blood. There was no look of effort in
its inscrutable motion.

They stood in the open, between this thing and the regiment behind.
There was no obstruction. And Skag moved to be between it and
Horace--when it should pass them on its way. The regiment of
thoroughly trained elephants were standing firmly in their places; but
they were making the welkin ring with a thousand trumpets in the air.

Certainly Skag knew that this incredible thing before him--bigger every
second--was Nut Kut. He looked to see why the great challenge-tones
had stopped, and revelation went through him--like an explosion. Nut
Kut had seen Horace and was coming straight for him.

Skag leaped to meet Nut Kut first, but he couldn't catch the elephant's
eye. The huge shape was upon him and he was flung aside. Recovering
himself almost instantly, he got around in time to see--but not in time
to prevent.

Horace lifted both arms and leaned forward--his grey eyes gone
black--as Nut Kut's trunk caught him. A little broken cry came from
him and his death-white face hung down an instant--from high up.

Then, backing away, swaying from side to side, Nut Kut set his eyes on
the man who followed--his red eyes, blazing with red warning. The
American animal trainer did not fail to understand; he paused.

Slowly the great bronze trunk curled and cuddled about Horace Dickson's
body and began to swing him. Skag knew that elephants swing men when
they intend to kill them; and he heard a low moaning--like wind--rise
up from the multitude of mahouts behind.

. . . Further and further the boy swung in the elephant's trunk, back
and forth--back and forth. Unnatural tones startled Skag--sounding
like delirium. Nut Kut put little Horace Dickson down, close under his
own throat, his long trunk curling outside--always curling
about--feeling up and down the boy's limbs, his frame, his face. The
small mouth was open; the little red tongue--flickering.

Horace seemed oblivious; but when he laughed aloud. Nut Kut caught him
up again--lightning quick. This time he swung the boy higher, till he
rounded a perfect circle in the air; backing still further away and
lifting his head. Nut Kut flung him round and round and yet
around--faster and yet faster.

The moaning--like wind--still came from behind.

After endless time--like perdition--Skag heard Horace gasping, choking.
He thought there were words; but couldn't be sure. And while this was
going on. Nut Kut brought the boy down--flat on the ground. The
impact must have broken a man. But Horace got to his feet--staggering
in the circle of the trunk--looking dazed.

Now Skag moved forward, holding his hands out--as he came nearer to the
big black head.

"I know you now, Nut Kut," he said quietly, "you're white inside all
right. You're not meaning to hurt him. You like him--so do I."

But Nut Kut backed away, gathering the boy with him, looking down into
the American's eyes--the red danger signals flaring up in his own again.

"Nut Kut, old man," Skag reasoned in perfectly natural tones, "you
can't bluff me. I tell you, I know you. I know you as well as if we
came out of the same egg!"

Nut Kut was still backing away and Skag was following up.

"You may take me, if you want--I can't let you wear him out, you know."

And then, while Nut Kut wrapped about and drew Horace in closer, Skag
laid his fingers on the great bronze trunk, gently but firmly
stroking--the red eyes focused in his own. For seconds the man and the
elephant looked into each other. Suddenly Nut Kut loosed Horace and
laid hold on Skag.

The moaning ascended and broke--like wind going up a mountain khud.
There was nothing certain to the mahouts, but that this man of courage
would be dashed to death before their eyes.

Skag squirmed in the grip about his body as Nut Kut held him high. It
looked as if he were being crushed. But when he got his hands on the
trunk again, he laughed. Now Nut Kut lowered him quickly--holding him
before his own red eyes. The touch of the elephant was the touch of a
master. But the eyes of the man were mastership itself.

. . . They were just so, when Ram Yaksahn--with a ghastly haggard
face--lurched from behind Nut Kut, fairly sobbing. Nut Kut jerked Skag
tight (it was like a hug), released him deliberately and turning, put
his own sick mahout up on his own neck, with a movement that looked
like a flick of his trunk.

"Now easy, Majesty, go easy with me--indeed I am very ill!" Ram Yaksahn
protested in plaintive tones, as Nut Kut wheeled away with him.

Seeing Horace in the hands of a strange native--and certainly
recovering--Skag looked away toward Hurda and wonder aloud if Nut Kut
would be punished. It was the master-mahout who answered him:

"Nay, Sahib. He has done no harm."

"I'd like to have a chance with him," said Skag.

The master-mahout smiled--a mystic-musical smile, like his voice.

"I have come from my place for a moment," he said, looking intently
into Skag's eyes, "for a purpose. We have heard of you, Son-of-Power.
The wisdom of the ages is to know the instant when to act; not too
late, not too soon. We have seen you work this day; and the fame of it
will go before and after you, the length and breadth of India--among
the mahouts."

He turned, pointing toward the elephant regiment. Many mahouts were
shouting something together; their right hands flung high.

"It is right for you to know," the master-mahout went on, "that mahouts
are a kind of men by themselves apart. Their knowledges are of
elephants--sealed--not open to those from without. Yet I speak as one
of my kind, being qualified, if in the future you have need of anything
from us--it is yours."

And without giving Skag a chance to answer him, but with a stately
gesture of salaam, the master-mahout had returned to his place and was
calling another elephant.

Skag turned toward Horace, who was drawing a fine looking
native forward by the hand. The boy spoke with repressed
excitement--otherwise showing no sign of Nut Kut's strenuous handling:

"Skag Sahib, I want you to know Kudrat Sharif, the malik of the Chief
Commissioner's elephant stockades. It is not known, you
understand--meaning my father--but the malik has always been very
wonderful to me."

Kudrat Sharif smiled with frank affection on the boy, as he drew his
right hand away, to touch his forehead in the Indian salaam. The
gesture showed both grace and dignity--as Dickson Sahib had said.

"I am exalted to carry back to my stockades the story of the manner of
your work, Son-of-Power," he began.

"My name is Sanford Hantee," Skag deprecated gently.

"But you will always be known to Indians of India as Son-of-Power!"
Kudrat Sharif protested. "It is a lofty title, yet you have
established it before many."

Just then a great elephant came near, playfully reaching for Kudrat
Sharif with his trunk.

"And this is Neela Deo, the leader of the caravan!" laughed Horace.

"It is my shame that there is no howdah on him to carry you; we came
like flight, when Nut Kut's escape was known," Kudrat Sharif
apologised. "But after some days, when Nut Kut's excitement sleeps, we
shall be distinguished if Son-of-Power chooses to come to the stockades
and consider him.

"I heard your judgment of his nature, Sahib; and I say with humility
that I shall remember it, in what I have to do with the most strange
elephant I have ever met. Truly we are not sure of Nut Kut, whether he
is a mighty being of extreme exaltation, above others of his kind in
the world, or--a prince from the pit!"

Kudrat Sharif salaamed again; and Neela Deo lifted him to his great
neck and carried him away.


Walking home, Horace expressed himself to his friend--as the heart of a
boy may be expressed; and Skag dropped his arm about the slender
shoulders, speaking softly:

"Remember, son, a little more--would have been too much."

"All right, Skag Sahib, because now you understand; but--isn't he
interesting?"

Knowing well what the boy meant about the great strange creature--more
than his fighting propensities, deeper than his physical might--Skag
assented thoughtfully:

"Yes; I would like to know him better."




CHAPTER XII

_Blue Beast_

Across the river at the military camp, the cavalry outfits were
preparing for a jungle outing. It isn't easy to name the thing they
contemplated. Pig-sticking couldn't be called a quest, yet there are
"cracks" at the game, quite the same as at polo or billiards.

Horse and man carry their lives on the outside, so to speak. The trick
of it all is that a man never knows what the tusker will do. You can't
even count on him doing the opposite. And he does it quick. Often he
sniffs first, but you don't hear that until after it is done. Men have
heard that sniff as they lay under a horse that was kicking its life
out; yet the sniff really sounded while they were still in the
saddle--the horse still whole.

All the words that have to do with this sport are ugly. It's more like
a snort than a sniff. . . . You really must see it. A trampled place
in the jungle--tusker at bay---a mounted sticker on each side waiting
for the move. The tusker stands still. He looks nowhere, out of eyes
like burning cellars. That is as near as you can come with
words--trapdoors opening into cellars, smoke and flame below.

At this moment you are like a negative, being exposed. There is filmed
among your enduring pictures thereafter, the raking curving snout,
yellow tusks, blue bristling hollows from which the eyes burn. The
lances glint green from the creepers. . . .

Then the flick of the head that goes with the snort. The boar isn't
there--lanced doubtless. . . . Yes, the cavalry "cracks" get him for
the most part and then you hear men's laughter and bits of comment and
the strike of a match or two, for very much relished cigarettes. But
now and then, the scene shifts too quickly and the _other_ rider may
see his friend's mount stand up incredibly gashed--a white horse
possibly--and this _other_ must charge and lance true right now, for
the boar is waiting for the man in the saddle to come down.

Nobody ever thinks of the boar's part. Queer about that. It's the bad
revolting curve that goes with a tusker's snout, in the sag of which
the eye is set, that puts him out of reach of decent regard. Only two
other curves touch it for malignity--the curve of a hyena's shoulder
and the curve of a shark's jaw. Three scavengers that haven't had a
real chance. They weren't bred right.


Among the visitors that came in for the jungle play was Ian Deal, one
of the younger of Carlin's seven brothers; one of the two who hadn't
appeared for her marriage. The other missing brother was in Australia,
but Ian Deal had been in India at the time of the ceremony and not the
full-length of India away. Skag had thought about this; Carlin had
doubtless done more than that. Once she had flushed, when someone had
marked Ian's absence to the point of speaking of it. Before that, Skag
had only heard that Ian was one of the best-loved of all. . . .

He watched the meeting of the brother and sister. It was at the
railway station in Hurda, and Skag couldn't very well get away. There
was something almost like anguish in the face of the young man as he
hastened forward--anguish of devotion that never hoped to express
itself; anguish by no means sure of itself, because it burned with the
thought of Carlin being nearer to any man. Ian didn't speak, as he
stopped with a rush before his sister. He merely touched her cheek,
but his eyes were the eyes of a man whose heart was starving. The
English observe that this jealous affection occasionally exists between
twins; the Hindus suggest certain mysterious spiritual relations as
accounting for it. . . . Finally Skag realised that Carlin's eyes were
turned to him, something of pity in them and something of appeal.

It was all very quick then. Skag's hand was out to her brother. Ian
didn't see it. Only his right elbow raised the slightest bit; his dark
face flushed and paled that second. The stare was refined; it wasn't
hate so much as astonishment that any man could ever bring the thing
about to touch Carlin's heart. Back of it all was the matter that Ian
Deal would have died before confessing--the pain and powerlessness of a
brother who loves jealously.

Few beings of his years would have seen so deep and kept his nerve that
instant, but Skag had been different since his battle with the cobra.
He had decided never to lose his nerve again. This was the first test
since that day. . . . His throat tightened a second, so that he had to
clear it. All he knew then was that her brother was striding away,
having muttered something about the need to see after unshipping Kala
Khan, his Arab mount, which was aboard the train. There was a sort of
shimmer between Skag's eyes and Ian Deal's vanishing legs that made
them seem lifted out of all proportion. Then Carlin caught his arm,
carried him forward and to her at the same time, as she whispered:

"You were perfect, Skag-ji. I never loved you so much as that moment,
when poor Ian refused to take your hand--"

Skag cleared his throat a second time. . . . Carlin had used that name
only once or twice before; and only in moments of her greater joy in
him. He had been told by Horace Dickson that "ji" used intimately was
"nicer" than any English word.


Something in this experience threw Skag back to the point of the cobra
and the last experience with crippling nerves. Of course, it was the
thought of Carlin imprisoned in the playhouse that broke him. Starting
to run when he first saw the cobra on the threshold, he counted
Failure. That burst of speed for ten steps had put the king into
fighting mood. Skag had beaten thin in his own mind the possibility of
ever committing Failure again. A man must not lose his nerve in the
stress of a loved one's peril. One doesn't act so well to bring the
event to a winning. In fact, there is no excuse and no advantage and
no decency in losing one's nerve, any time, any place. . . .

Skag had _known_ things in certain seconds of his duel with the cobra.
(Mostly, a man only thinks he knows.) Carlin had stood on the
threshold, not more than fifteen feet away, while he was engaged. No
one had told him at that time, that the man does not live who can
continue to keep off a fighting cobra from striking home; but Skag
learned in that short interval. He faced not only the fastest thing he
had ever seen move, but it was also the _stillest_. It would come to a
dead stop before him--stillness compared to which a post or a wall is
mere squat inertia. This lifted head and hood was sustained,
elate--having the moveless calm one might imagine at the centre of a
solar system. Its outline was mysteriously clear. Often the
background was Carlin's own self. The action took place in the period
of the Indian afterglow, in which one can see better than in brilliant
sunlight, a light that breathes soft and delicate effulgences. The
cobra at the point of stillness was like dark dulled jewels against
it--dulled so that the raying of the jewels would not obscure the
contour.

And once toward the last, as he fought (the inside of his head feeling
like a smear of opened arteries), Skag had seen Carlin over the hood of
the cobra. She had seemed utterly tall, utterly enfolding; his
relation to her, one of the inevitables of creation. Nothing could
ever happen to take her away for long. Matters which men call life and
death were mere exigencies of his scheme and hers _together_.

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