Book: Son of Power

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




In a word, it was a breath of the thing he had been yearning for, from
the moment he first saw her in the monkey glen; the need was the core
of the anguish he had known in the long pursuit of the thief elephant;
the thing that must come to a man and a maid who have found each other,
if there is to be any equity in the romantic plan at all, unless the
two are altogether asleep and content in the tight dimensions of
three-score-and-ten.

Skag had seen that he could not win; but he had also seen that Carlin
was _there_--there to stay! . . . Something in her--that no fever or
poison or death could take away--something for him! The thing was
vivid to him for moments afterward; it lingered in dimmer outlines for
hours; but as the days passed, he could only hold the vital essence of
what he had learned that hour.

Carlin was more to him every day--more dear and intimate in a hundred
ways; yet always she held the quest of her before him; a constant
suggestion of marvels of reserve; mysteries always unfolding, of no
will or design of hers. It seemed to the two that they were treading
the paths of a larger design than they could imagine; and Skag was sure
it was only the dullness of his faculty and the slowness of his taking,
not Carlin's resources of magic, that limited the joy.


Ian Deal took up his quarters across the river with the cavalry. He
did not come to the bungalow.

"He has always been strange," Carlin said. "In some ways he has been
closer to me than any of the others. Always strange--doing things one
time that showed the tenderest feeling for me and again the harshest
resentment. You could not know what he suffered--remaining away when
we were married. He has always hoped I would stay single. The idea
was like a passion in him. Some of the others have it, but not to the
same degree. . . . You know we have all felt the tragedy over us. We
are different. The English feel it and the natives, too; yet we hold
the respect of both, as no other half-caste line in India. It is
because of the austerity of our views on one subject--to keep the
lineage above reproach as it began. . . . No, Ian will not come here.
He has seen his sister. He will make that do--"

"Why don't you go to him?" Skag asked.

She turned her head softly.

"You Americans are amazing."

"Why?" he laughed.

"An Englishman or any of my brothers in your place, wouldn't think
India could contain Ian Deal and himself."

"It wouldn't do any good to fight that sort of feeling," Skag said.

"Only a man whose courage is proven would dare to say that."

"If I were on the right side, it would not be my part to leave India."

Carlin liked this so well that she decided Skag deserved to hear of a
certain matter.

". . . Ian has something on his side. You see I had almost decided not
to marry--almost promised him. He always said he would never marry if
I didn't; that our people would do better forgotten--so much hid sorrow
in the heart of us. . . . Something always kept me from making the
covenant with him; yet I have been closer and closer up the years to
the point of giving my life to the natives altogether. . . . That day
in the monkey glen, after the work was done . . . I looked into your
face! . . . You went away and came again. I had heard your voice.
The old tiger down by the river had made _you_ forget everything--but
your power"--

Carlin laughed. The last phrases had been spoken low and rapidly.

"I didn't forget everything, dear," she went on. "I didn't forget
anything! Everything meant _you_--all else tentative and preparatory.
I knew then that the plan was for joy, as soon as we knew enough to
take it--"


On the third morning of the pig-sticking Ian Deal rode by the elephant
stockades in Hurda just as the American passed. The hands were long
that held the bridle-rein, the narrowest Skag had ever seen on a man.
The boots were narrow like a poster drawing. It was plainly an
advantage for this man to ship his own horse from the south for the few
days of sport. The black Arab, Kala Khan, seemed built on the same
frame as its rider--speed and power done into delicacy, utter balance
of show and stamina. When the Arab is black, he is a keener black than
a man could think. His eyes were fierce, but it was the fierceness of
fidelity; of that darkness which intimates light; no red burning of
violence within.

Ian's face was darker from the saddle; the body superb in its high
tension and slender grace. Was this the brother that Roderick Deal,
the eldest, had spoken of as being darker than the average native? Yet
the caste-mark was not apparent; the two bloods perfectly blent.

The depth of Skag's feeling was called to pity as well as admiration.
The rift in this Deal's nature was emotional not physical--some mad
poetic thing, forever struggling in the tight matrices of a hard-set
world. India was rising clearer to Skag; even certain of her profound
complexities. He knew that instant how the fertilising pollen of the
West was needed here, and how the West needed the enfolding spiritual
culture which is the breath within the breath of the East. This swift
realisation had something to do with his own real work. It was filmy,
yet memorable--like the first glimpse of one's sealed orders, carried
long, to be opened at maturity. Also Skag had the dim impulse of a
thought that he had something for Ian Deal. He meant to speak to
Carlin of this at the right time.


"Pig-sticking no-end," the cavalry officers had promised and they were
making good.

That third afternoon Carlin and Skag took Nels out toward the open
jungle, which thrust a narrow triangular strip in toward the town. At
intervals they heard shouts, far deeper in. The Great Dane was in his
highest form, after weeks of care and training by Bhanah. He could
well carry his poise in a walk like this; having his full exercise
night and morning. A marvel thing, like nothing else--this dignity of
Nels. . . . The two neared their own magic place--not the monkey glen;
that was deeper in the jungle--the place where they had really found
each other as belonging, in the moment of afterglow.

"It was wonderful then," he said, "but I think--it is even more
wonderful now."

That was about as much as Sanford Hantee had ever put into a sentence.
Carlin looked at him steadily. They were getting past the need of
words. She saw that he was fulfilling her dream. Their story loomed
higher and more gleaming to him with the days. He had touched the
secret of all--that love is Quest; that love means on and on, means not
to stay; love from the first moment, but always lovelier, range on
range. It could only burn continually with higher power and whiter
light, through steady giving to others.

A woman knows this first, but she must bide her time until the man
catches up; until he enters into the working knowledge that the farther
vistas of perfection only open as two pull together with all their art
and power; that the intimate and ineffable between man and woman is
only accomplished by their united bestowal to the world.

They walked long in silence and deeper into the jungle before halting
again. Nels brushed the man's thigh and stood close. Skag's hand
dropped and he felt the rising hackles, before his eyes left Carlin's.
They heard the Dane's rumble and the world came back to them--the
shouting nearer.

For a moment they stood, a sense of languor stealing between them.
Without a word, their thoughts formed the same possibility, as two who
have a child that is vaguely threatened. They were deeper in the
jungle than they thought. . . . The cordon of native beaters was still
a mile away in its nearest arc, but there is never any telling what a
pig will do. . . . They turned back, walking together without haste,
Nels behind. They heard the thudding of a mount that runs and swerves
and runs again. It was nearer. . . . Their hands touched, but they
did not hasten.

When Carlin turned to him, Skag saw what he had seen on the cobra
day--weariness, but courage perfect. A kind of vague revolt rose in
him, that it should ever be called again to her eyes--more, that it
should come so soon. _He_ was ready, but not for Carlin to enter the
vortex again.

This foreboding they knew, together. Love made them sentient. Not
merely a possibility, but almost a glimpse had come--as if an ominous
presence had stolen in with the languor.

"Let's hurry, Carlin--"

She was smiling in a child's delicate way, as their steps quickened.
The thrash of the chase was nearer; the jungle was clearing as they
made their way to the border near Hurda. The low rumbling was from
Nels. He would stand, turning back an instant, then trot to overtake
them. . . . No question now. One pig at least, was clear of the
beaters, coming this way, someone in chase.

The great trees were far apart. They were near _their_ place, after
many minutes. They had caught a glimpse of a mounted man through the
trees--playing his game alone--the pig, but a crash in the
undergrowth. . . . There was silence, as if the hunter were
listening--then a cutting squeal, a laugh from the absorbed horseman,
and it was all before their eyes!

The tusker halted at the border of their little clearing. He had just
seen them and the dog--more enemies. . . . Hideous bone-rack--long as
a pony, tapering to the absurd piggy haunches--head as long as a pony's
head, with a look of decay round the yellow tusks--dripping gash from a
lance-wound under one ear--standing stock just now, at the end of all
flight!

Nels seemed to slide forward two feet, like a shoved statue. It was a
penetrating silence before the voice of Ian Deal:

"You two--what in God's name--"

That was all of words.

His black Arab, Kala Khan, had come to halt twice a lance-length from
the tusker. Carlin and Skag and Nels stood half the circle away from
the man and mount, a little farther from the still beast, the red right
eye of which made the central point of the whole tableau.

Ian looked hunched. He seemed suddenly ungainly--as if all sport like
this were mockery and he had merely been carried on in these lower
currents for a price. His lance wobbled across his bridle-arm which
was too rigid, the curb checking the perfect spring of the Arab's
action.

The tusker was bone-still, with that cocked look which means anything
but flight. Skag moved a step forward. His knees touched Nels; his
left hand was stretched back to hold Carlin in her place. There was no
word, no sound--and that was the last second of the tableau.

The tusker broke the picture. Flick of the head, a snort--and he
wasn't there. He wasn't on the lance! His side-charge, with no turn
which the eye could follow, carried him under the point of Ian's thrust
in direct drive at the black Arab's belly.

Kala Khan was standing straight up, yet they heard his scream. The
boar's head seemed on a swivel as he passed beneath. Ian Deal standing
in the stirrups swung forward, one arm round his mount's neck, but
badly out of the saddle. . . . The tusker turned to do it again.

Skag spoke. That was the instant Nels charged. In the same second,
the Arab, still on his hind legs, made a teetering plunge back, to
dodge the second drive of the beast, and Ian Deal fell, head-long on
the far side, his narrow boot locked in the steel stirrup.

Skag spoke again. It was to Kala Khan this time. Nels' smashing drive
at the throat had carried the tusker from under the Arab's feet. His
rumbling challenge had seemed to take up the scream of the horse; it
ended in the piercing squeal of the throated boar.

Skag still talked to Kala Khan, as he moved forward. The Arab stood
braced, facing him now--the tumbled head-down thing to the left, arms
sprawled, face turned away. A thousand to one, among the best mounts,
would have broken before the second charge and thrashed the hanging
head against the ground.

Skag's tones were continuous, his empty hand held out. There was never
a glance of his eye to the battle of the Dane and the beast. Four feet
from his hand was the hanging rein, his eyes to the eyes of the black,
his tones steadily lower, never rising, never ceasing. His loose
fingers closed upon the bridle rein; his free hand pressed the Arab's
cheek.

He felt Carlin beside him and turned--one of the tremendous moments of
life to find her there. (It was like the last instant of the cobra
fight, when he had seen her over the hood--utterly white, utterly
tall.) She took the rein from his hand. Her face turned to Nels'
struggle--but her eyes pressed shut.

Skag stepped to Kala Khan's side, lifted the leather fender, slipped
the cinch, and let the light hunting saddle slide over, releasing Ian
Deal. Then he sprang to Nels, calling as he caught up the fallen lance:

"Coming, old man--coming to you!"

Nels on his feet was bent to the task--the tusker sprawling, the piggy
haunches settling flat.

". . . So, it's all done, son," the man said softly. "You're the best
of them all to-day."

He laughed. Nels looked up at him in a bored way, but he still held.
Skag went back to Carlin. Ian Deal had partly risen. The American did
not catch his eye, and now Kala Khan stood between them, Carlin still
holding the rein. Skag's hand rested upon the wet trembling withers,
where the saddle had covered. There was a blue glisten to the
moisture. Skag loved the Arab very hard that moment, and no less
afterward. Kala Khan needed care at once. His wound was long and
deep, from the hock on the inside, up to the stifle-joint.


Ian Deal was on his feet, the Arab still between him and Skag's eyes.
But now her brother drew off, back turned, walking away, his arms and
hands fumbling queerly about his head, as he staggered a little.

"He will come back!" Carlin whispered.

Nels loosed now, but sat by his game--sat upon his haunches, bringing
first-aid cleansing to his shoulders and chest, where the pinned tusker
had worn against him in the battle. . . . All in astonishingly few
seconds--the blue beast still with an isolated kick or two.

It was as Carlin said. They had scarcely started toward Hurda before
they saw Ian Deal following. His pace quickened as he neared--his
first words queerly shocking:

"Is he hurt--oh, I say--is the Arab hurt?"

Skag answered: "A bad cut, but he'll be sound in a week or two."

"One might ask first, you know. He's rather a fine thing--"

Carlin seemed paler, as she held her brother with curious eyes. Ian
didn't see her. He was slowly taking in Skag, full-length.

"One might ask, you know," he repeated presently. "One couldn't make a
gift of a damaged thing. Oh, yes, you're to have him, Hantee. Things
of Kala Khan's quality gravitate to you--I was thinking of the dog, you
know--"

Skag shook his head.

"Don't make it harder for me!" Ian said fiercely. "He belongs to
you--Carlin, too, of course--no resistance of mine left. A man sees
differently--toes up."

Carlin pressed Skag's arm.

The American bowed. Ian Deal straightened.

"That's better," he breathed. "You'll see to the mount? I'd do it for
you, but I need an hour--in here among the trees, you know,
alone. . . . If it isn't quite clear to me, I'll cock one foot up in
the crotch of a tree--until it's straight again. . . . But it's clear,
Hantee," he added. "I'm seeing now--the man she sees--or something
like!"

Ian turned toward the deeper growths. . . . They walked in silence.
The untellable thing--for Skag alone--lingered in Carlin's eyes, in the
pallor of her face. She was the one who spoke:

"It is terrible--terribly dear, like a blending of two souls in a white
heat together--those moments at the play-house and now--as you held
Kala Khan--"

"It was not one alone," he answered strangely. "Something from you was
with me--half, with mine."




CHAPTER XIII

_Neela Deo, King of All Elephants_

This is the story of Neela Deo, King of all elephants! Protector of
the Innocent! Defender of Defenders! Equitable King!

For his sake, knowledge of the place where he was known and of those
who looked upon his person, shall go down from generation to generation
into the future and shall be continued forever, under the illumination
of his name.

How he preserved the great judge and how he fought that mightiest of
all battles, for the honour of his kind and for the preservation of his
liege-son, must be told in order.

The fortune of the season, the features of the town, and the chief
names must be established.

See that nothing shall be added. See that no part be left unspoken.
It is the law.


The great rains had passed on their way north; and they had been good
to the Central Provinces country. The water-courses were even yet but
a line below flood; the tanks were full, the wells abrim. The earth
was clothed with new garmenture. Jungle creatures were all in their
annual high-carnival. Life-forces were driving to full speed.

The town of Hurda, on the great triple Highway-of-all-India, clung to
the side of her little river leaning against the massive buttressed
walls of her old grey stone terraces, where--on their wide
step-landings--at all seasons, she burned her human dead by the tide's
margin.

The great Highway spanned the river on a broad low stone bridge and
turned--just south of the burning ghats--with a majestic sweep
northward, between its four lines of sacred, flowering, perfumed and
shade trees. Remember, those trees were planted by the forgotten
peoples of dead kings, for each within his own realm; they were all
nourished under the unfailing rivalry that the highway of each king
should be more excellent in beneficence and in beauty than the highway
of his neighbour kings.

But from High Himalaya to the beaches of Madras, from sea to sea, the
triple Highway-of-all-India was nowhere more august than here, where
Neela Deo lived. The exalted splendours of those so ancient and
imperial trees rendered distinction to the town, in passing through it,
like a procession of the radiant gods.

Beyond the hill and well outside the town--which would be called a city
if it were walled, which would be walled if a wall would not separate
it from the great Highway--was the station Oval, where railway people
lived in European bungalows of many colours, round about the
_gymkhana_--a building made to contain music and strange games; but
from the arches of all its verandahs the railway people saw.

On the other side from the Oval and toward Hurda, was the little old
bungalow where Margaret Annesley--of the tender heart--out of her
lonely garden, looked that day and saw.

Across the great Highway from the temple of Manu, the bungalow of
Dickson Sahib sheltered under the mighty sweep of full bearing mango
trees. His small son stood between two teachers in the deep verandah
and beat his hands together while he saw.

At the top of the hill, the bare bungalow of the old missionary Sahib
made protest against the perfume-drunken orient and the colour-mad
European world of India with its carbolic-acid whitewash and chaste
lines. Down the driveway his children ran away from their teachers and
saw.

But in sight of the town--as should be--and beside the courts--as
should be--stood the austere home of the Chief Commissioner, most high
civil judge of Hurda and all surrounding villages. One of his deputies
leaned from an upper balcony and saw.

Back of his park, more than three quarters of a mile away, were the
stockades of the Chief Commissioner's elephants. A round parade ground
spread its almost level disk straight away front of the stockade
buildings. Perfectly rimmed by a variety of low jungle growths,
nesting thick at the feet of a circle of tall tamarisk trees, its
effect was satisfying to the eye beyond anything seen about the homes
of men. Nay, the avenues which led up to the palaces of ancient kings
were not so good!

Now all is established concerning the time and the place and those who
saw; and it will not be questioned by any save the very ignorant--who
are not considered in the telling of tales.

So in the day of Neela Deo, most exalted King of all elephants, came a
runner at the end of his last strength. Stripped naked, but for his
meagre loincloth, the oils of his body ran thick down all his limbs and
his splitting veins shed blood from his nostrils and from his mouth.
In the market-place he fell and with his last breaths coughed out a
broken message.

Many gathered to discover his meaning. Spread a swift excitement. The
shops were emptied, the doorways and alleys opened, and streams of
people poured out into a common tide.

Perfume dealers brought copper flasks of priceless oils. Flower
merchants gathered up their entire stock of freshly prepared garlands
of marigold and tuberose and jasmine and champak blooms--banked masses
of garlands were hung on scores of scores of reaching arms, lifted to
carry them. Sixty full pieces of white turban-cloth were caught from
the shelves of cloth sellers.

Companies and companies of nautch-girls, with their men-servants and
instruments to accompany them--even the most costly of these, who were
also singing women--poured out of the districts where the towns-women
lived and blended in their groups as individual units, in the
increasing surge that flowed out along the great Highway, like a river
which had broken its dam.

The multitude followed the great highway past the station oval and
turned aside into the open jungle--deepening, thickening, swelling,
teeming forward. Twenty thousand voices, lifted in all pitches of the
human compass, were caught by tom-toms and the impelling cadence of the
singing nautch-girls--like drift-wood in a swift current--and driven
into rhythmic pulsation.

So the people of Hurda went out to meet Neela Deo, King of all
elephants.


When the front of the throng went by his place, Hand-of-a-God enquired
of running men from his own gateway. By his side the Gul Moti stood
with Son of Power. When they understood, she pushed her chosen of all
men through the vine-made arch and he sprang away and ran with the
people.

They shared their garlands with him, that he should not come into Neela
Deo's presence with empty hands; and they exulted because he ran with
them, for the fame of Son-of-Power was already established.

At the margins of the true jungle, a high-tenor voice came out to meet
them. The feeling in it chained Skag's ear; it was like a strong man
contending bravely with his tongue, but calling on the gods for help,
with his heart. Listening intently, the American began to get the
words:

"What are we before thee--oh thou most Exalted! Children of men, our
generations pass before thee as the seasons. But thou, oh mighty
King--thou Destroyer of the devastator, thou Protector of our wise
judge, blessed among men is he for whom thou hast spilled thy blood!
We will send his name down from generation to generation under the
light of thy name! Thou most Glorious!"

The next words were more difficult to catch:

"Nay, nay! but my beloved, it is a little hurt! Do I not know, who
serve thee? I whose father served thee before me--whose father served
thee before him? I whose son shall serve thee after me? As my small
son lives, he shall serve thee--being come a man--in his day, even as I
serve thee in this my day!"

This was evidently enticing the great creature to live. But the voice
winged away again:

"Ah, thou heart of my heart, thou life of my life! Hear me, the milk
of a thousand goats shall cool thee. The petals of a thousand blooms
shall comfort thee. Tuberose and jasmine and champak shall comfort
thee, thou Lover of rare things! Nay, it is not enough, but the
offerings of the heart's core of love shall satisfy thee--the blood of
a million-million blooms shall anoint thee, to thy refreshment!"

The words were lost for a moment, before they rang again:

"Are not the coverings of our heads upon thy wounds? Thou, most
excellent in majesty! Have we not laid the symbols of our honour upon
thy wounds? Thou, with the wisdom of all ages in thy head and the
tenderness of all women in thy heart! We have seen thee suffer, that
he who is worthy might live! Thou Discerner of men! We have seen thee
destroy the killer, without hurt to him who is kind! Thou Equitable
King!"

And slowly out of the shadows of forest trees, came the Chief
Commissioner's elephant caravan, trailing in very dejected formation,
behind Neela Deo, who showed naked as to his back--for his housings had
been stripped off him; and as to his neck, for Kudrat Sharif was not on
it but on the ground--walking backward step by step, enticing him with
the adoration and sympathy of his voice.

Sanford Hantee saw Neela Deo stop to receive the first garlands on his
trunk. From there on, the great elephant paused deliberately after
every step to take the offerings of homage from hundreds of reaching
hands.

When the American had laid his garlands over Neela Deo's trunk and was
about to make his turn in the press, he saw the Chief Commissioner
himself, walking behind the wounded elephant with uncovered head.
After a keen glance, the great judge motioned Skag to close in by his
side. His strong face was shadowed by deep concern; and for some time
he did not speak. This was the man of whom Skag had heard that his
name was one to conjure with. His fame was for unfailing equity,
which--together with strange powers of discernment and bewildering
kindness--had won for him the profound devotion of the people. Skag's
thoughts were on these matters when he heard, on a low explosive breath:

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