Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “What are you, then?”

  “I am Yasmini. There is nobody like me. I am all alone, believing only what I know and laughing at the priests. I know all the laws of caste, because that is necessary if you are to understand men. And I have let the priests teach me their religion because it is by religion that they govern people. And the priests,” she laughed, “are much more foolish than the fools they entice and frighten. But the priests have power. Gungadhura is fearfully afraid of them. The high priest of the temple of Jinendra pretends to him that he can discover where the treasure is hidden, so Gungadhura makes daily offerings and the priest grows very fat.”

  “Who taught you such good English?” Tess asked her; for there was hardly even a trace of foreign accent, nor the least hesitation for a word.

  “Father Bernard, a Jesuit. My mother sent for him, and he came every day, year after year. He had a little chapel in Sialpore where a few of the very low-caste people used to go to pray and make confessions to him. That should have given him great power; but the people of this land never confess completely, as he told me the Europeans do, preferring to tell lies about one another rather than the truth about themselves. I refused to be baptized because I was tired of him, and after my mother died and she was burned with the Hindu ritual, he received orders to go elsewhere. Now there is another Jesuit, but he only has a little following among the English, and can not get to see me because I hide behind the purdah. The purdah is good — if you know how to make use of it and not be ruled by it.”

  They were still in the window, Yasmini kneeling on the cushions with her face in shadow and Tess with her back to the light.

  “Ah! Hasamurti comes!” said Yasmini suddenly. “She is my cheti.”

  (Hand-maiden.)

  Tess turned swiftly, but all she saw was one of the three beggars down by the little gate twisting himself a garland out of stolen flowers.

  “Now there will be a carriage waiting, and I must leave my horse in your stable.”

  The beggar held the twisted flowers up to the sun-light to admire his work.

  “I must go at once. I shall go to the temple of Jinendra, where the priest, who is no man’s friend, imagines I am a friend of his. He will promise me anything if I will tell him what to say to Gungadhura; and I shall tell him, without believing the promises. One of these days perhaps he will plot with Gungadhura to have me poisoned, being in agreement with the commissioner sahib who said to you just now that it is not good to know too much! But neither is it good to be too late! Lend me a covering, my sister — see, this is the very thing. I shall leave by the little gate. Send the gardener on an errand. Are the other servants at the back of the house? Of course yes, they will be spying to see me leave by the way I came.”

  Tess sent the gardener running for a basket to put flowers in, and when she turned her head again Yasmini had stepped out through the window shrouded from head to heels in a camel-hair robe such as the Bikanir Desert men wear at night. The lower part of her face was hooded in it.

  Provided you wear a turban you can wear anything else you like in India without looking incongruous. It is the turban that turns the trick. Even the spurs on the heels of riding-boots did not look out of place.

  “You’ll sweat,” laughed Tess. “That camel-hair is hot stuff.”

  “Does the panther sweat under his pelt? I am stronger than a panther.

  Now swiftly! I must go, but I will come soon. You are my friend.”

  She was gone like a shadow without another word, with long swift strides, not noticing the beggars and not noticed by them as far as any one could tell. Tess sat down to smoke a cigarette and think the experience over.

  She had not done thinking when Dick Blaine returned unexpectedly for early lunch and showed her a bag-full of coarsely powdered quartz.

  “There’s color there,” he said jubilantly. “Rather more than merely color!

  It’s not time to talk yet, but I think I’ve found a vein that may lead somewhere.

  Then won’t Gungadhura gloat?”

  She told him at great length about Yasmini’s visit, dwelling on every detail of it, he listening like a man at a play, for Tess had the gift of clear description.

  “Go a journey with her, if you feel like it, Tess,” he advised. “You have a rotten time here alone all day, and I can’t do much to ‘liven it. Take sensible precautions but have a good time anyway you can.”

  Because Yasmini had monopolized imagination she told him last of all, at lunch, about the commissioner’s call, rehearsing that, too, detail by detail, word for word.

  “Wants me to find the treasure, does he, and call the game on Gungadhura? What does he take me for? One of his stool-pigeons? If it’s a question of percentage, I’d prefer one from the maharajah than from him. If I ever stumble on it, Gungadhura shall know first go off the bat, and I’ll see the British Government in hell before I’ll answer questions!”

  “They’d never believe Gungadhura hadn’t rewarded you,” said Tess.

  “What of it?” he demanded. “What do we care what they believe? And supposing it were true, what then? Just at present I’m in partnership with Gungadhura.”

  Chapter Four

  Jinendra’s Smile

  Deep broods the calm where the cooing doves are mating

  And shadows quiver noiseless ‘neath the courtyard trees,

  Cool keeps the gloom where the suppliants are waiting

  Begging little favors of Jinendra on their knees.

  Peace over all, and the consciousness of nearness,

  Charity removing the remoteness of the gods;

  Spirit of compassion breathing with new clearness

  “There’s a limit set to khama; there’s a surcease from the rods.”

  “Blessed were the few, who trim the lights of kindness,

  Toiling in the temple for the love of one and all,

  If it were not for hypocrisy and gluttony and blindness,”

  Smiles the image of Jinendra on the courtyard wall.

  “The law …. is like a python after monkey’s in the tree-tops.”

  Yasmini, hooded like a bandit in the camel-hair cloak, resumed an air of leisurely dignity in keeping with the unhurried habit of Sialpore the moment she was through the gate. It was just as well she did, for Mukhum Dass, the money-lender, followed by a sweating lean parasite on foot, was riding a smart mule on his customary morning round to collect interest from victims and oversee securities.

  He was a fat, squat, slimy-looking person in a black alpaca coat, with a black umbrella for protection from the sun, and an air of sour dissatisfaction for general business purposes — an air that was given the lie direct by a small, acquisitive nose and bright brown eyes that surely never made bad bargains. Yasmini’s hooded figure brought him to a halt just at the corner, where the little road below the Blaines’ wall joined the wider road that led down-hill. Business is business, and time a serious matter only for those who sign promissory notes; he drew rein without compunction.

  “This house is yours?” she asked, and he nodded, his sharp eyes shining like an animal’s, determined to recognize his questioner.

  “There is a miscalculating son of lies who brings a lawsuit to get the title?”

  He nodded again — a man of few words except when words exacted interest.

  “Dhulap Singh, is it not? He is a secret agent of Gungadhura.”

  “How do you know? Why should the maharajah want my property?”

  “He hunts high and low for the Sialpore treasure. Jengal Singh, who built this house, was in the confidence of Gungadhura’s uncle, and a priest says there will be a clue found to the treasure beneath the floor of this house.”

  “A likely tale indeed!”

  “Very well, then — lose thine house!”

  Yasmini turned on a disdainful heel and started down-hill. Mukhum Dass called after her, but she took no notice. He sent the sweating parasite to bring her back, but she shook him off with execrations. Mukhum
Dass turned his mule and rode down-hill after her.

  “True information has its price,” he said. “Tell me your name.”

  “That also has its price.”

  He cackled dryly. “Natives cost money only to their owners — on a hundi.”

  (Promissory note.)

  “Nevertheless there is a price.”

  “In advance? I will give a half-rupee!”

  Once more Yasmini resumed her way down-hill. Again Mukhum Dass rode after her.

  “At any rate name the price.”

  “It is silence firstly; second, a security for silence.”

  “The first part is easy.”

  “Nay, difficult. A woman can keep silence, but men chatter like the apes, in every coffee shop.”

  His bargain-driver’s eyes watched hers intently, unable to detect the slightest clue that should start him guessing. He was trying to identify a man, not a woman.

  “How shall I give security for silence?” he asked.

  “I already hold it.”

  “How? What? Where?”

  The money-lender betrayed a glimpse of sheer pugnacity that seemed to amuse his tormentor.

  “Send thy jackal out of ear-shot, tiger.”

  He snapped at his parasite angrily, and the man went away to sit down. Then:

  “Where are the title-deeds of the house you say you own?” she asked him suddenly.

  Mukhum Dass kept silence, and tried to smother the raging anger in his eyes.

  “Was it Mukhum Dass or another, who went to the priest in the temple of Jinendra on a certain afternoon and requested intercession to the god in order that a title-deed might be recovered, that fell down the nullah when the snakes frightened a man’s mule and he himself fell into the road? Or was it another accident that split that car of thine in two pieces?”

  “Priests cackle like old women,” growled the money-lender.

  “Nay, but this one cackled to the god. Perhaps Jinendra felt compassionate toward a poor shroff (money-lender) who can not defend his suit successfully without that title-deed. Jengal Singh died and his son, who ought to know, claims that the house was really sold to Dhulap Singh, who dallies with his suit because he suspects, but does not know, that Mukhum Dass has lost the paper — eh?”

  “How do you know these things?”

  “Maybe the god Jinendra told! Which would be better, Mukhum Dass — to keep great silence, and be certain to receive the paper in time to defend the lawsuit, — or to talk freely, and so set others talking?”

  Who knows that it might not reach the ears of Jengal Singh that the title-deed is truly lost?”

  “He who tells secrets to a priest,” swore the money-lender, “would better have screamed them from the housetop.

  “Nay — the god heard. The priest told the god, and the god told a certain one to whom the finder brought the paper, asking a reward. That person holds the paper now as security for silence!”

  “It is against the law to keep my paper!”

  “The law catches whom it can, Mukhum Dass, letting all others go, like a python after monkeys in the tree-tops!”

  “From whom am I to get my paper for the lawsuit at the proper time?”

  “From Jinendra’s priest perhaps.”

  “He has it now? The dog’s stray offspring! I will—”

  “Nay, he has it not! Be kind and courteous to Jinendra’s priest, or perhaps the god will send the paper after all to Dhulap Singh!”

  “As to what shall I keep silence?”

  “Two matters. Firstly Chamu the butler will presently pay his son’s debt. Give Chamu a receipt with the number of the bank-note written on it, saying nothing.”

  “Second?”

  “Preserve the bank-note carefully for thirty days and keep silence.”

  “I will do that. Now tell me thy name?”

  Yasmini laughed. “Do thy victims repay in advance the rupees not yet lent? Nay, the price is silence! First, pay the price; then learn my name. Go — get thy money from Chamu the butler. Breathe as much as a hint to any one, and thy title-deed shall go to Dhulap Singh!”

  Eying her like a hawk, but with more mixed emotions than that bird can likely compass, the money-lender sat his mule and watched her stride round the corner out of sight. Then, glancing over her shoulder to make sure the man’s parasite was not watching her at his master’s orders, she ran along the shoulder of the hill to where, in the shelter of a clump of trees, a carriage waited.

  It was one of those lumbering, four-wheeled affairs with four horses, and a platform for two standing attendants behind and wooden lattice-work over the windows, in which the women-folk of princes take the air. But there were no attendants — only a coachman, and a woman who came running out to meet her; for Yasmini, like her cousin the maharajah, did not trust too many people all at once.

  “Quick, Hasamurti!”

  Fussing and giggling over her (the very name means Laughter), the maid bustled her into the carriage, and without a word of instruction the coachman tooled his team down-hill at a leisurely gait, as if told in advance to take his time about it; the team was capable of speed.

  Inside the carriage, with a lot more chuckling and giggling a change was taking place almost as complete as that from chrysalis to butterfly. The toilet of a lady of Yasmini’s nice discrimination takes time in the easiest circumstances; in a lumbering coach, not built for leg-room, and with a looking-glass the size of a saucer, it was a mixture of horse-play and miracle. Between them they upset the perfume bottle, as was natural, and a shrill scream at one stage of the journey (that started a rumor all over Sialpore to the effect that Gungadhura was up to the same old game again) announced, as a matter of plain fact that Yasmini had sat on the spurs. There was long, spun-gold hair to be combed out — penciling to do to eye-brows — lac to be applied to pretty feet to make them exquisitely pretty — and layer on layer of gossamer silk to be smothered and hung exactly right. Then over it all had to go one of those bright-hued silken veils that look so casually worn but whose proper adjustment is an art.

  But when they reached the bottom of the long hill and began twisting in and out among the narrow streets, it was finished. By the time they reached the temple of Jinendra, set back in an old stone courtyard with images of the placid god carved all about in the shade of the wide projecting cornice, all was quiet and orderly inside the carriage and there stepped out of it, followed by the same dark-hooded maid, a swift vision of female loveliness that flitted like a flash of light into the temple gloom.

  It was not so squalid as the usual Hindu temple, although so ancient that the carving of the pillars in some places was almost worn away, and the broad stone flags on the floor were hollowed deep by ages of devotion. The gloom was pierced here and there by dim light from brass lamps, that showed carvings blackened by centuries of smoke, but there was an unlooked-for suggestion of care, and a little cleanliness that the fresh blossoms scattered here and there accentuated.

  There were very few worshipers at that hour — only a woman, who desired a child and was praying to Jinendra as a last recourse after trying all the other gods in vain, and a half-dozen men — all eyes — who gossiped in low tones in a corner. Yasmini gave them small chance to recognize her. Quicker than their gaze could follow, a low door at the rear, close beside the enormous, jeweled image of the god, closed behind her and the maid, and all that was left of the vision was the ringing echo of an iron lock dying away in dark corners and suggesting nothing except secrecy.

  The good square room she had entered so abruptly unannounced was swept and washed. Sunlight poured into it at one end through a window that opened on an inner courtyard, and there were flowers everywhere — arranged in an enormous brass bowl on a little table — scattered at random on the floor — hung in plaited garlands from the hooks intended to support lamps. Of furniture there was little, only a long cushioned bench down the length of the wall beneath the window, and a thing like a throne on which Jinendra’s high priest sa
t in solitary grandeur.

  He did not rise at first to greet her, for Jinendra’s priest was fat; there was no gainsaying it. After about a minute a sort of earthquake taking place in him began to reach the surface; he rocked on his center in increasing waves that finally brought him with a spasm of convulsion to the floor. There he stood in full sunlight with his bare toes turned inward, holding his stomach with both hands, while Yasmini settled herself in graceful youthful curves on the cushioned bench, with her face in shadow, and the smirking maid at her feet. Then before climbing ponderously back to his perch on the throne the priest touched his forehead once with both hands and came close to a semblance of bowing, the arrogance of sanctity combining with his paunch to cut that ceremony short.

  “Send the girl away,” he suggested as soon as he was settled into place again. But Yasmini laughed at him with that golden note of hers that suggests illimitable understanding and unfathomable mirth.

  “I know the ways of priests,” she answered. “The girl stays!”

  The priest’s fat chops darkened a shade.

  “There are things she should not know.”

  “She knows already more in her small head than there is in all thy big belly, priest of an idol!”

  “Beware, woman, lest the gods hear sacrilege!”

  “If they are real gods they love me,” she answered, “If they have any sense they will be pleased whenever I laugh at your idolatry. Hasamurti stays.”

  “But at the first imaginary insult she will run with information to wherever it will do most harm. If she can be made properly afraid, perhaps—”

  Yasmini’s golden laugh cut him off short.

  “If she is made afraid now she will hate me later. As long as she loves me she will keep my secrets, and she will love me because of the secrets — being a woman and not a belly-with-a-big-tongue, who would sell me to the highest bidder, if he dared. I know a Brahman. Thou and I are co-conspirators because my woman’s wit is sharper than thy greed. We are confidants because I know too much of thy misdeeds. We are going to succeed because I laugh at thy fat fears, and am never deceived for a moment by pretense of sanctity or promises however vehement.”