by Harold Lamb
“Aye,” assented Bhimal gravely, “the father of this mahout was slain by Asil Rumi when he was angry. But today he only plays. So long as this man speaks to him, Asil Rumi will obey because of his love for the man.”
And Bhimal told how two generations ago the elephant had taken part in one of the battles of Rajasthan. The standard of the warlike Rinthambur clan had been placed on his back, and his mahout had led him well into the van of the Rajputs, ordering him to stand in a certain spot.
The battle had been closely fought about the beast, and the mahout slain. The elephant had been wounded in many places and the greater part of the Rinthambur Rajputs slain about him. Still Asil Rumi had remained standing where he was placed.
The Rajputs had won the battle, so Bhimal said. The soldiers had left the field during the pursuit, but Asil Rumi had stayed by the body of his mahout, refusing food or water for three days in his sorrow for the man who had been his master.
Then they had brought the boy who was the son of the mahout. Him the elephant had recognized and obeyed.
“Asil Rumi will go to meet the bride of Rinthambur,” concluded Bhimal. “She will mount his howdah, with her lord. It will be a goodly sight.”
Presently came Abdul Dost, resplendent in a fresh tunic and girdle, to announce that it was time they should groom their horses for the ride to meet the Rawul.
But Khlit remained in the elephant-stockade watching the beasts until the household cavalcade had actually mounted, when he left the animals that had so stirred his interest. He washed his face hastily in the garden pool, drew his belt tighter about his khalat, pulled at his mustache and was ready to ride with the others.
Bhimal excused himself to Sawul Das from accompanying the leaders of the peasants, saying that he was too lame to walk with the rest. Khlit, however, noticed that Bhimal kept pace with them as far as the crossroads.
The bodies had been cleared away, and the feet of men and beasts had obscured the imprint of blood here. Bhimal lingered.
“So,” said the Cossack grimly, “you go to Jagannath, not to your lord.”
“Aye,” said the peasant simply. “In the temple above is he who is greater than any lord. He is master of death and life. My brother died in his worship. Wherefore should I not go?”
Khlit lingered behind the other horsemen, scanning Bhimal curiously. As the elephants had been strange beasts to him, so Bhimal and his kind were a new race of men.
It was Khlit's habit to ponder what was new to him. In this he differed from Abdul Dost.
“Have many of the Thaneswar peasants gone to the temple festival?” he inquired, noticing that the foot retainers with the cavalcade were few.
“Aye.”
“What is the festival?”
“It is the great festival of Jagannath. Janam, the holy priests call it. They say it is to honor the birth of the god. It has always been.”
“Will the Rawul and his woman go?”
Khlit did not care to revisit the temple after the episode of the night before.
“Nay. The Rawul has no love for the priests of the temple. He has said—so it is whispered through the fields—that they are not the true worshipers of Vishnu.”
Down the breeze came the sound of the temple drums and cymbals. Khlit thought grimly that he also had no love for the servants of Vishnu.
“What is this Jagannath?” he asked indifferently.
To Khlit the worship of an idol by dance or song was a manifestation of Satan. He was a Christian of simple faith.
His tone, however, aroused the patient Hindu.
“Jagannath!” he cried, and his faded eyes gleamed. “Jagannath is the god of the poor. All men stand equal before him. The raja draws his car beside the pariah. His festival lasts as many days as I have fingers, and every day there is food for his worshipers. It is the holy time when a bride is offered to jagannath.”
He pointed up to the temple.
“A woman is chosen, and she is blessed. She is called the bride of Jagannath. Food and flowers are given her. She rides in the front of the great car which we build with our hands when Jagannath himself comes from his temple and is borne in the car to the ruins of the holy edifice, which was once the home of the older gods themselves.
“The woman—so Kurral said—abides one night in the shrine of the god. Then Jagannath reveals himself to her. He tells the omens for the coming year, whether the crops will be good, the rains heavy and the cows healthy. Then this is told to us. It is verily the word of the god.
“Ah!” He glanced around. “I am late.”
He hobbled off up the path, leaning on his stick, and Khlit spurred after the others, dismissing from his mind for a time what he had heard about the festival of Janam.
He soon forgot Bhimal in the confusion attending the arrival of the Rawul, and the banquet that night.
There was good cheer in Thaneswar. The young Rawul with his bride and his companions feasted on the gallery overlooking the main hall. The soldiery and retainers shared the feast at the foot of the hall, or without on the garden terrace.
Khlit and Abdul Dost had discovered that wine was to be had by those who so desired, and seated themselves in a corner of the hall with a generous portion of the repast and silver cups of sherbet between them.
“Eh,” cried the mansabdar, “these Hindus lack not a free hand. Did you mark how the Rawul scattered gold, silver and gems among the throng? The beauty of his bride has intoxicated him.”
Khlit ate in silence. The music of Hindustan—a shrill clatter of instruments—held no charm for him. Abdul Dost, however, was accustomed to the melodies and nodded his head in time, his appreciation heightened by the wine.
“Last night,” he said bluntly, “I spoke in haste, for I was angry. You are my brother in arms. By Allah, I would cut the cheekbones from him who dared to say what I did.”
He emptied his cup and cast a pleased glance over the merry crowd.
“It was a good word you spoke when Sawal Das led you to the horse of the Rawul and spoke your name to Matap Rao. Eh, Matap Rao asked whether you had a rank as a chieftain.”
He smiled.
“You responded that a chieftain's rank is like to the number of men who will follow his standard in battle. That was well said.
“I have heard tales that you once were leader of as many thousands as Matap Rao numbers tens among his men. Is that the truth? It was in Tatary, in the Horde.”
“That time is past,” said Khlit.
“Aye. Perchance, though, such things may arise again. Sawal Das says that there may be fighting. Yet I scent it not. What think you?”
Abdul Dost glanced at Khlit searchingly. Much he had heard of the Cossack's craft in war.
Yet since their meeting Khlit had shown no desire to take up arms. Rather, he had seemed well content to be unmolested. This did not accord with the spirit of the fiery Afghan, to whom the rumor of battle was as the scent of life itself.
“I think,” said Khlit, “that Matap Rao had done better to leave guards at the gate.”
The Afghan shrugged his shoulders. Then lifted his head at the sound of a ringing voice. It was aged Perwan Singh, and his song was the song of Arjun that begins:
As starlight in the Summer skies,
So is the brightness of a woman’s eyes—
Unmatched is she!
Silence fell upon the hall and the outer corridors. All eyes were turned to the gallery where behind a curtain the young bride of Thaneswar sat beside the feast of Matap Rao and his companions, among them Perwan Singh.
The sunbeam of the morning shows Within her path a withered lotus bud,
A dying rose.
Her footsteps wander in the sacred place Where stand her brethren, the ethereal race For ages dead!
A young noble of the household parted the curtain at the song's end. He was a slender man, dark-faced, twin strings of pearls wound in his turban and about his throat—Serwul Jain, of Thaneswar.
“Men of Thanesw
ar,” he cried ringingly, “the Lotus Face is now our queen. Happy are we in the sight of the flower of Rinthambur. Look upon Retha, wife of your lord.”
There was a murmur of delight as the woman stood beside him. She was of an even height with the boy, the olive face unveiled, the black eyes wide and tranquil, the dark hair empty of jewels except for pearls over the forehead. Her thin silk robe, bound about the waist and drawn up from feet to shoulder, showed the tight underbodice over her breast and the outline of the splendid form that had been termed “tiger-waisted.” “Verily,” said Abdul Dost, “she is fair.”
But Khlit had fallen asleep during the song. The minstrelsy of Hindustan held no charms for him, and he had eaten well.
A stir in the hall, followed by a sudden silence, aroused the Cossack. He was wide awake on the instant, scenting something unwonted. Abdul Dost was on his feet, as indeed were all in the hall. Within the doorway stood a group of Brahmans, surrounded by representatives of the higher castes of Kukushetra.
The castle retainer stood at gaze, curious and expectant. Through the open gate a breath of air stirred the flames of the candles. “What seek you?” asked Serwul Jain from the gallery.
“We have come from the temple of Kukushetra, from the holy shrine of the Lord of the World,” responded the foremost priest. “Rawul Matap Rao we seek. We have a message for his ears.”
By now the chieftain was beside Retha. The eyes of the throng went from him to the Brahman avidly. It was the first time the Brahmans had honored Thaneswar castle with their presence.
“I am here,” said the Rawul briefly. “Speak.”
The Brahman advanced a few paces, drawing his robe closer about him. The servants gave back respectfully.
“This, O Rawul,” he began, “is the festival of Janam. Pilgrims have come from every corner of the Punjab; aye, from the Siwalik hills and the border of Rajasthan to the temple of Jagannath. Yet you remain behind your castle wall.”
He spoke sharply, clearly. No anger was apparent in his voice, but a stern reproach. Behind him Khlit saw the gaunt figure of Kurral.
“The day of my wedding is just past,” responded Matap Rao quietly, “and I abide here to hold the feast. My place is in my own hall, not at the temple.”
“So be it,” said the priest.
He flung his head back and his sonorous voice filled the chamber.
“I bear a message from the shrine. Though you have forgotten the reverence due to the Lord of the World, though you have said harsh words concerning his temple, though you have neglected the holy rites and slandered the divine mysteries—even though you have forsworn the worship of Jagannath—the Lord of the World forgives and honors you.”
He paused as if to give his words weight with the attentive throng.
“For the space of years your path and that of the temple have divided. Aye, quarrels have been and blood shed. Last night five servants of the temple were slain on the high road without your gate.”
A surprised murmur greeted this. News of the fight had been kept secret by the priests until now, and Sawal Das had held his tongue.
“Yet Jagannath forgives. Matap Rao, your path will now lead to the temple. For tonight the bride of Jagannath is chosen. And the woman chosen is—as is the custom—fairest in the land of Kukushetra. Retha of Rinthambur.”
Complete silence enveloped the crowd. Men gaped and started. Youthful Serwul Jain started and clutched at his sword. The lean hand of Perwan Singh arrested midway as he stroked his beard. The girl flashed a startled glance at her lord and drew the silk veil across her face.
A slow flush rose into the face of Matap Rao and departed, leaving him pale. He drew a deep breath and the muscles of his figure tightened until he was at his full height.
To be selected as the bride of the god on the Janam festival was held a high honor. It had been shared in the past by some of the most noted women of the land. The choice of the temple had never been denied.
But in the mild face of the Rawul was the shadow of fierce anger, swiftly mastered. He looked long into the eyes of the waiting priest while the crowd hung upon his word.
“Whose is the choice?” he asked slowly.
“Nagir Jan himself uttered the decree. The holy priest was inspired by the thought that Retha, wife of the Rawul, should hear the prophecy of the god for the coming year. Who but she should tell the omens to Kukushetra?”
Matap Rao lifted his hand.
“Then let Nagir Jan come to Thaneswar,” he responded. “Let him voice his request himself. I will not listen to those of lower caste.”
IV
Upon the departure of the priests the curtain across the gallery was drawn. A tumult arose in the hall. Many peasants departed. The serving women fled back to their quarters, and the house retainers lingered, watching the gallery.
Abdul Dost leaned back against the wall, smiling at Khlit. “By the beard of my grandsire! If I had such a bride as Retha of Rinthambur I would yield her not to any muttering Hindu priest.”
He explained briefly to Khlit what had passed. The Cossack shook his head moodily.
“There will be ill sleeping in Thaneswar this night, Abdul Dost,” he said grimly. “The quarrel between priest and chieftain cuts deeper than you think.”
“It is fate. The Rawul may not refuse the honor.”
Khlit stroked his gray mustache, making no response. The prime of his life he had spent in waging war with the reckless ardor of the Cossack against the enemies of the Cross. The wrong done to Bhimal had not escaped his attention. Nor had the one glimpse of the Kukushetra temple been agreeable to his narrow but heartfelt idea of a place of worship.
“When all is said,” meditated the Afghan, “this is no bread of our eating.”
“Nay, Abdul Dost. Yet we have eaten the salt of Matap Rao.” “Verily, that is so,” grunted the Afghan. “Well, we shall soon see what is written. What is written, is written. Not otherwise.” Khlit seated himself beside his comrade and waited. Soon came Sawal Das through an opening in the wall behind them. Seeing them, he halted, breathing hard, for he had been running.
“Aie!” he cried. “It was an ill thought that led Matap Rao to thin the ranks of his armed men. Nagir Jan has watched Thaneswar ripen like a citron in the sun. He has yearned after the wheat fields and the tax paid by the peasants. Truly is he named the snake. See, how he strikes tonight.
“Aie! He is cunning. His power is like that of the furious daevas. His armor is hidden, yet he is more to be feared than if a thousand swords waved about him.”
Abdul Dost laughed.
“If that is the way the horse runs, archer, you could serve your master well by planting a feathered shaft under the ear of the priest.”
Sawal Das shook his head.
“Fool!” he cried. “The Rawul would lose caste and life itself were he to shed the blood of a higher priest of Jagannath. He would be left for the burial dogs to gnaw. The person of Nagir Jan and those with him is inviolate.”
“Then must Matap Rao yield up his bride.”
The archer's white teeth glinted under his mustache.
“Never will a Rawul of Thaneswar do that.”
Both men were surprised at the anger of the slender archer. They knew little of the true meaning of the festival of Jagannath.
“Perchance he will flee, Sawal Das. Khlit and I will mount willingly to ride with him. Your shafts would keep pursuers at a distance.”
“I have been the rounds of the castle enclosure,” observed Sawal Das. “The watchers of the temple are posted at every gateway and even along the wall itself. Their spies are in the stables. Without the enclosure the peasants gather together. They have been told to arm.”
“On behalf of their lord?”
“Vishnu alone knows their hearts.”
Abdul Dost reached down and gripped the arm of Sawal Das. “Ho, little archer,” he growled, “if it comes to sword-strokes— we have eaten the salt of your master, and we are in your debt. We will stand a
t your side.”
“I thank you.”
The Hindu's eyes lighted. Then his face fell.
“But what avail sword-strokes against Jagannath? How can steel cut the tendrils of his temple that coil about Thaneswar? Nay; unless my lord can overmaster him with fair words it will go ill with us.”
He shook both fists over his head in impotent wrath.
“May the curse of Siva and Vishnu fall upon the master of lies! He has waited until the people of the countryside are aflame with zeal. He has stayed his hand until the Lotus Face came to Thaneswar as bride. Did not he ask to look upon her when she rode hither? Aie, he is like a barbed shaft in our flesh.”
Came Bhimal, limping, to their corner.
“Nagir Jan is at the gate, Sawal Das,” he muttered. “And behind him are the peasantry, soldiers and scholars of Kukushetra, many of them armed, to receive Retha as the chosen bride.”
The archer departed. Bhimal squatted beside them, silent, his head hanging on his chest. Abdul Dost glanced at Khlit.
“Your pony is in the stable,” he whispered. “Perchance if you ride not forth now the going will be ill.”
“And so is yours, Abdul Dost,” grunted Khlit. “Why do you not mount him?”
The Afghan smiled and they both settled back to await what was to come.
Nagir Jan entered the hall alone. Matap Rao advanced a few paces to meet him. Neither made a salaam. Their eyes met and the priest spoke first, while those in the hall listened.
“I have come for the bride of the Janam. Even as you asked it, I have come. Tonight she must bathe and be cleansed of all impurity. The women of the wardrobe and the strewers of flowers will attend her, to prepare her to mount the sacred car on the morrow. Then will she sit beside the god himself. And on that night will she kneel before him in the chamber in the ruins and the god will speak to her and manifest himself in the holy mystery. Where is the woman Retha?”
Matap Rao smiled, although his face was tense and his fingers quivered.
“Will you take the veil from your face? Will you withdraw the cloak from your words, Nagir Jan?”
The cold eyes of the priest flickered. His strong face showed no sign of the anger he must have felt.