by Talbot Mundy
The same thought probably occurred to King, but he was rather too recently recovered from drowning to be quick yet off the mark and besides, the Mahatma was between him and the mahout, whereas I had a free field. So I tugged at the arm of the second mahout, who was sitting behind his chief, and he scrambled down beside me.
The Mahatma tried to take immediate advantage of that, and the very thing he did made it all the easier for me to deal with the second mahout, who had made the trip with us and who stared into my face with a kind of puzzled mistrust. The Mahatma, as active as a cat, climbed up behind the chief mahout and sat astride the elephant’s neck in the place where the second mahout had been, and began whispering.
“What is your Maharajah’s name?” I asked my neighbor on the plank.
“Jihanbihar,” he answered, giving a string of titles too that had no particular bearing on the situation. They sounded like a page of the Old Testament.
“You observe that his favorite elephant is about to be stolen with the aid of the Gray Mahatma!”
The fellow nodded, and the expression of his face was not exactly pleased; he may have been one of a crowd that got cursed by the Mahatma for asking too many impertinent questions.
“He has a reputation, that Mahatma, hasn’t he?” I suggested. “You have heard of the miracles that he performs?”
He nodded again.
“You see that he is talking to the chief mahout now? Take my word for it, he is casting a spell on him! Would you like to have him cast a spell on you too?”
He shook his head.
“Run swiftly then, and tell the Maharajah sahib to get a Brahman to cancel the spell, and you will be rewarded. Go quickly.”
He dropped from the plank and went off at a run just as the Mahatma turned and saw him. The Mahatma had been whispering in the mahout’s ear, and as his eye met mine I laughed. For a moment he watched the man running, and then, as if to demonstrate what a strange mixture of a man he was, he laughed back at me. He acknowledged defeat instantly, and did not appear in the least annoyed by it, but on the contrary appeared to accord me credit for outwitting him, as undoubtedly I had.
India is not a democratic country. Nobody is troubled about keeping the underworld in its place, so mahout or sweeper has the ear of majesty as readily as any other man, if not even more so. And it would not make the slightest difference now what kind of cock and bull story the mahout might tell to the Maharajah. However wild it might be it would certainly include the fact that two white men had ridden to Yasmini’s palace on the Maharajah’s favorite elephant after having been fished out of the river by mahouts at the elephant’s bathing ghat.
It was the likeliest thing in the world that representations would be made that very afternoon by telegraph to the nearest important British official, who would feel compelled to make inquiries. The British Government can not afford to have even unknown white men mysteriously made away with.
The Gray Mahatma took all that for granted and nodded comprehendingly. His smile, as we neared Yasmini’s palace gate, appeared to me to include a perfect appreciation of the situation. He seemed to accept it as candidly as he had acknowledged my frequent escapes the night before.
Ismail opened the gate without demur and Akbar sauntered in, being used to palaces. He passed under the first arch into the second courtyard, coming to a halt at a gate on the far side that was too small for his enormous bulk where he proceeded to kneel without waiting for instructions.
“Do you feel proud?” the Mahatma asked me unexpectedly as he climbed off Akbar’s neck.
Suspecting some sort of verbal trap I did not answer him.
“You are like this elephant. You are able to do irreparable damage if you see fit. She was as apt as usual when she dubbed you Ganesha!”
He was working toward some point he intended to make, like one of those pleasant-tongued attorneys flattering a witness before tying him up in a knot, so I was careful to say nothing whatever. King came around the kneeling elephant and joined us, leaning back against the beast and appraising the Mahatma with his eyes half-closed.
“You’re dealing with white men,” King suggested. “Why don’t you talk in terms that we understand?”
It seemed difficult for the Mahatma to descend to that. He half-closed his eyes in turn and frowned, as if hard put to it to simplify his thoughts sufficiently — something like a mathematician trying to explain himself to the kindergarten class.
“I could kill you,” he said, looking straight at King.
King nodded.
“You are not the kind of man who should be killed,” he went on.
“Did you ever hear the fable of the fox and the sour grapes?” King asked him, and the Mahatma looked annoyed.
“Would you rather be killed?” he retorted.
“‘Pon my soul, I’m inclined to leave that to the outcome,” King answered. “Death would mean investigation, and investigation discovery of that science you gave us a glimpse of.”
“If I was to let you go,” the Mahatma began to argue.
“I would not go! Forward is the only way,” King interrupted. “You’ve a reason for not having us two men killed. What is it?”
“I have no reason whatever for preserving this one’s life,” the Mahatma answered, glancing at me casually. “For reasons beyond my power of guessing he seems to bear a charmed existence, but he has my leave to visit the next world, and his departure would by no means inconvenience me. But you are another matter.”
“How so?” King asked. “Mr. Ramsden is the man who would be inquired for. The Indian Government, whose servant I no longer am, might ignore me, but the multi-millionaire who is Mr. Ramsden’s partner would spend millions and make an international scandal.”
“I am thinking of you, not of him. I am thinking you are honest,” said the Gray Mahatma, looking into King’s eyes.
“So is he,” King answered.
“I am wondering whether or not you are honest enough to trust me,” said the Gray Mahatma.
“Why certainly!” King answered. “If you would commit yourself I would trust you. Why not?”
“But this man would not,” said the Mahatma, nudging me as if I were the elephant.
“I trust my friend King,” I retorted. “If he decides to trust you, I stand back of him.”
“Very well then, let us exchange promises.”
“Suppose we go a little more cautiously and discuss them first,” suggested King.
“I will promise both of you your life, your eventual freedom, and my friendship. Will you promise me not to go in league with her — —”
“I’ll agree to that unconditionally!” King assured him with a dry smile.
“ — not to try to learn the secret of the science — —”
“Why not?”
“Because if you should try I could never save your lives.”
“Well, what else?”
“Will you take oath never to disclose the whereabouts of the entrance to the caverns in which you were allowed to see the sciences?”
“I shall have to think that over.”
“Furthermore, will you promise to take whatever means is pointed out to you of helping India to independence?”
“What do you mean by independence?”
“Self-government.”
“I’ve been working for that ever since I cut my eye-teeth,” answered King. “So has every other British officer and civil servant who has any sense of public duty.”
“Will you continue to work for it, and employ the means that shall be pointed out to you?”
“Yes is the answer to the first part. Can’t answer the second part until I’ve studied the means.”
“Will you join me in preventing that princess from throwing the world into fresh confusion?”
“Dunno about joining you. It’s part of my business to prevent her little game,” King answered.
“She has proven herself almost too clever, even for us,” said the Mahatma. “She s
pied on us, and she hid so many witnesses behind a wall pierced with holes that it would be impossible for us to make sure of destroying all of them. And somewhere or other she has hidden an account of what she knows, so that if anything should happen to her it would fall into the hands of the Government and compel investigation.”
“Wise woman!” King said smiling.
“Yes! But not so altogether wise. Hitherto we fooled her for all her cleverness. Her price of silence was education in our mysteries, and we have made the education incomprehensible.”
“Then why do you want my help?”
“Because she has a plan now that is so magnificent in its audacity as to baffle even our secret council!”
King whistled, and the Mahatma looked annoyed — whether with himself or King I was not sure.
“That is what I have been hunting for three years — your secret council. I knew it existed; never could prove it,” said King.
“Can you prove it now?” asked the Mahatma with even more visible annoyance.
“I think so. You’ll have to help me.”
“I?”
“You or the Princess!” King answered. “Shall I join you or her?”
“Thou fool! There was a sheep who asked, ‘Which shall I run with, tiger or wolf?’ Consider that a moment!”
King showed him the courtesy of considering it, and was silent for perhaps two minutes, during which the mahout judged it opportune to whine forth his own demands. But nobody took any notice of him.
“You seem check-mate to me,” King said at last. “You daren’t kill my friend or me. You daren’t make away with us. You daren’t make away with the Princess. The Princess and several of her women know enough of your secret to be able to force your hand; so do my friend Mr. Ramsden and I. Mr. Ramsden and I have seen sufficient in that madhouse underneath the temple to compel a Government inquiry. Is it peace or war, Mahatma? Will you introduce me to your secret council, or will you fight to a finish?”
“I would rather not fight with you, my young friend.”
“Introduce me, then,” King answered, smiling.
“You don’t know what you ask — what that involves.”
“But I propose to know,” said King.
The Mahatma never seemed to mind acknowledging defeat.
“I see you are determined,” he said quietly. “Determination, my young friend, combined with ignorance, is a murderer nine times out of ten. However, you do not understand that, and you are determined, I have no authority to make such terms as you propose, but I will submit the matter to those whom you desire to meet. Does that satisfy you?”
King looked immensely dissatisfied.
“I would rather be your friend than your enemy,” he answered.
“So said light and darkness each to the other when they first met! You shall have your answer presently. In the mean time will you try not to make my task even more difficult than it already is?”
King laughed uncomfortably.
“Mahatma, I like you well enough, but no terms until I have your answer! Sorry! I’d like to be friends with you.”
“The pity of it is that though you are honestly determined you are bound to fail,” the Mahatma answered; and at that he dismissed the whole subject with a motion of one hand, and turned toward Ismail, who was lurking about in the shadows like a wolf.
The Mahatma sent the man to the door of the panch mahal with a message that money was needed; and the mahout spent the next ten minutes in loud praises of his kneeling elephant, presumably on the theory that “it pays to advertise,” for it is not only the West that worships at that shrine.
When Ismail came back with a tray on which were several little heaps of money the mahout went into abject ecstasies of mingled jubilee and reverence. His mouth betrayed unbelief and his eyes glinted avarice. His fingers twitched with agonied anticipation, and he began to praise his elephant again, as some people recite proverbs to keep themselves from getting too excited.
The various heaps of money on the tray must have amounted to about fifty dollars. The mahout spread out the end of his turban by way of begging bowl, and the Mahatma shook all the money into it, so that Ismail gasped and the mahout himself turned up his eyes in exquisite delirium.
“Go or you will be too late!” was all the Mahatma said to him, and the mahout did not wait for a second command, but mounted his elephant’s neck, kicked the big brute up and rode away, in a hurry to be off before he should wake up and discover that the whole adventure was a dream.
But he could not get away with it as easily as all that. Ismail was keeper of the gate, and the gate was locked. Akbar doubtless could have broken down the gate if so instructed, but even the East, which is never long on gratitude, would hardly do that much damage after receiving such a royal largesse. Ismail went to unlock the gate, and demanded his percentage, giving it, though, the Eastern name, which means “the usual thing.”
And the usual argument took place — I approached to listen to it — the usual recriminations, threats, counterclaims, abuse, appeals to various deaf deities, and finally concession — after Ismail had made the all-compelling threat to tell the other mahouts how much the gift had amounted to. I suppose it was instinct that suggested that idea. At any rate, it worked and the mahout threw a handful of coins to him.
Thereat, of course, there was immediate, immense politeness on both sides. Ismail prayed that Allah might make the mahout as potbellied and idle as his elephant; and the mahout suggested to a dozen corruptible deities that Ismail might be happier with a thousand children and wives who were true to him. Whereat Ismail opened the gate, and Akbar helped himself liberally to sugar-cane from a passing wagon; so that every one was satisfied except the rightful owner of the sugar-cane, who cursed and wept and called Akbar an honest rajah, by way I suppose of expressing his opinion of all the tax-levying powers that be.
There happened to be a thing they call a “constabeel” going by, and the owner of the sugar-cane appealed to him for justice and relief. So the “constabeel” prodded Akbar’s rump with his truncheon, and helped himself, too, to sugar-cane by way of balancing accounts. And while the owner of the sugar-cane was bellowing red doctrine about that, Ismail went out and helped himself likewise, only more liberally, carrying in an armful of the stuff, and slamming the gate in the faces of all concerned. In cynical enjoyment of the blasphemy outside he sat down then in the shadow of the wall to chew the cane and count the change extorted from the mahout.
“Behold India self-governed!” I said, turning to beckon through the arch between the two courtyards.
But the Mahatma was gone! And unlike the Cheshire cat, he had not even left a smile behind him — had not even left Athelstan King behind him. The two had disappeared as silently and as utterly as if they had never been there!
CHAPTER X
A DATE WITH DOOM
I hunted about, looked around corners, searched the next courtyard, and drew blank. Then I asked Ismail, and he mocked me.
“The Mahatma? You are like those fools who pursue virtue. There never was any!”
“That mahout named you rightly just now,” said I. “He knew your character perfectly.”
“That may be,” Ismail answered, rising to his feet. “But he was on an elephant where I could not reach him. You think you are a strong man? Feel of that then!”
He was old, but no mean adversary. Luckily for him he did not draw a knife. I hugged the wind out of him, whirled him until he was dizzy and threw him down into his dog’s corner by the gate, not much the worse except for a bruise or two.
“Now!” I said. “Which way went King sahib and the Gray Mahatma?”
“All ways are one, and the one way leads to her!”
That was all I could get out of him. So I took the one way, straight down through the courtyards and under the arches, past the old black panther’s cage — the way that King and I had taken when we first arrived. But it seemed like a year since I had trodden those ancient flagsto
nes side by side with King — more than a year! It seemed as if a dozen lifetimes intervened. And it also occurred to me that I was growing famished and desperately sleepy, and I knew that King must be in even worse condition. The old, black panther was sleeping as I went by, and I envied him.
There was a choice of two ways when I reached the panch mahal, for it was feasible to enter through the lower door, which was apparently unguarded, and climb the stone stairway that wound inside the wall. However, I chose the marble front steps, and barked my knuckles on the door at the top.
I was kept waiting several minutes, and then four women opened it in place of the customary two; and instead of smiling, as on previous occasions, they frowned, lining up across the threshold. They were older women than the others had been and looked perfectly capable of showing fight; allowing for their long pins and possible hidden weapons I would not have given ten cents for my chance against them. So I asked for King and the Mahatma.
They pretended not to understand. They knew no Hindustani. My dialect of Punjabi was as Greek to them. They knew nothing about my clothes, or the suitcase that King and I shared between us and that, according to Yasmini, had been carried by her orders to the palace. The words “King” and “Mahatma” seemed to convey no meaning to them. They made it perfectly obvious that they suspected me of being mad.
I began to suspect myself of the same thing! Feeling as sleepy as I did, it was not unreasonable to suspect myself at any rate of dreaming; yet I had sufficient power of reasoning left to argue that if those were dream-women they would give way in front of me. So I stepped straight forward, and they no more gave way than a she-bear will if you call on her when she is nursing cubs. Two more women stepped out from behind the curtains with long slithery daggers in their hands, and somehow I was not minded to test whether those were dream-daggers or not.
It was a puzzle to know what to do. The one unthinkable thing would be to leave King unsought for. Suddenly it occurred to me to try that door underneath the steps; so I kissed my hand irreverently to the quarterguard of harridans, and turned my back on them — which I daresay was the most unwise move that I ever made in my whole life. I have done things that were more disastrous in the outcome, but never anything more deserving of ruin.