by Talbot Mundy
She could not make head or tail of it as she strode with hands behind her along brick paths between the peaceful trees. The old attendant followed — silent as another shadow — keeping his distance unobtrusively. It was no use asking him. He had probably never heard of Ommony.
She wearied of the problem, and discovered then that she was weary in every atom of her being. So she returned and went to bed on a mattress stuffed with rose-leaves, shaken into utter softness by the old woman who attended her.
The last waking thought she remembered was of peace and the breath of sandalwood. But her dreams were of Ommony, whom she detested even more in that realm of illusion than she had done waking.
He appeared in the form of a ghoul with a great magnifying-glass, through which he scrutinized her, nodding as he analyzed in all its naked ugliness the pride, ambition and hypocrisy compounded, that he told her was the essence of her being! She woke up three times screaming at him that he lied, and each time the old woman brought her cooling drinks.
CHAPTER 8. “Sir William Molyneux will blame your priests!”
What Ommony hoped for was really the inevitable. Reactionaries always make mistakes, counting on what were possibly good tactics yesterday to force the issue of today, like those who shoot behind the moving mark.
On the heels of Ommony the priests’ spies nosed and listened for the news. But they themselves were news. Public knowledge that the priests had plans afoot made countless other eyes and ears alert, and the spies were watched more closely than they looked out for Ommony. Accordingly when men, a move and several hours too late, invaded the alley where the boatmen lived, there were a score of hangers-on who overheard and oversaw what happened.
It was known to the priests that the diwan meant to imprison Elsa Craig for her protection. They supposed it done. They approved that and, as Ommony intended that they should, had heralded intention as a fact, denouncing the diwan to the mob for hiding the woman and being influenced by her behind the scene.
But Craig, rushing from his ruined mission compound to the diwan’s office — thence, in the diwan’s absence, to the taciturn police, demanding where his wife might be and trumpeting fear broadcast — had advertised to the priests the possibility of some miscarriage of arrangements. Craig ought to have known where his wife was. They wasted three hours speculating and conferring.
Then a minor spy sent word, shoulder over shoulder with the speed of relay signaling, that Ommony and the boatmen had had speech. So half a dozen master-spies were sent, for the sake of overawing numbers and the advantage of a checked account, to dredge out the boatmen’s information. And they were so proud of being Parumpadpa’s agents that they made no secret at all of what they were but swaggered to the rendezvous all six together.
“What said Ommony sahib?” they demanded.
“Nothing. He came for his dog.”
“Where is the dog?”
“She bit some of us and went away.”
“Where is Ommony sahib?”
“Who are we that we should know? He came and he went.”
The hangers-on were crowding close. The spies became impatient. The boatmen, with Ommony’s promise to befriend them recent in their ears, admired the notion of showing priests’ spies the worst of it before an audience.
“Did he ask where the memsahib of the mission is?”
“He asked where his dog is, saying nothing else.”
It began to be clear to one of the boatmen that misinformation would die stillborn unless brought forth voluntarily. Scorn of the priests’ intelligencers and the simpleton’s joy in intrigue compelled speech.
“Ha-ha!” he bawled out for the audience’s benefit. “If he sought the memsahib of the mission, he should have asked you, not us! Lo, she hid in that house. Priests came and took her. We know that, for we all stood here beneath these trees and watched!”
In vain the boatmen were reviled. They stuck to the tale, refusing to change a word or to attempt an explanation. Threats were thrown away on them.
“We know not why she hid in there, nor where she is. Priests came, and they took her. We are boatmen . . . honest men!”
“Ye are liars!” said the spies; but that was small use.
The news was out. The unbidden audience, increased by the boatmen’s shouts to nearly a hundred, was delighted. Whatever they might think of Parumpadpa — the opinions of him were mixed — they all conceded to the priests a near-divine omniscience in dealing with intrigue. The priests themselves had busily instilled that superstition.
So, faster than the spies decamped to bear the incredible information, the audience dispersed through different streets to brag of what they knew.
“Parumpadpa has carried off the missionary’s wife and hidden her!”
“Parumpadpa was too clever for the diwan! He forestalled him! He sent his men to seize the missionary’s wife!”
“They throttled her!”
“She lies in a crypt beneath a temple, none knows exactly where!”
“She is to be eaten alive by rats!”
Each version of the tale found believers, and the boatmen, strong in their faith in Ommony, but not so sure now of his exact instructions, confirmed everything, inventing new versions of their own.
“The priests told us to steal the new god Dhai Enna, who came in the form of a big dog and was enslaved by Ommon-ee.”
That resembled many an Indian story of the gods on earth, passing muster easily among the ignorant.
“The memsahib of the mission also wanted to steal Dhai Enna, because she is against all gods and sought to kill this new one. So the priests took both of them, and that is all we know.”
Public opinion, perennially instructed, had it that the priests were forever behind and in advance of every new turn of affairs. That “the priests think, then the diwan moves” was a proverb.
It was plausible, and even likely, that the priests should have forestalled the diwan’s action. They had done that frequently in the memory of all who followed events with discernment.
So within the hour the city’s humor changed from irritable anger to excited guessing as to what the other side would do. In vain the priests sent broadcast contradictions of the story. Those were taken for official fibs intended to deceive the enemy. The man in the street was on the inside this once, and the more the priests denied it, the more implicitly the mob believed.
Long after dark those who could struggle past the cordon of Maharajah’s troops swarmed around the guest-house because someone said the diwan was in there conferring with Ommony. And none needed to tell the old diwan why they came; he had all the news by telephone.
And hot-foot through the sweating cordon and the clamoring mob, with shouts of “Tar! Tar!”* that made even that throng yield a passage for him, came a messenger in loin-clout and khaki jacket. [* Telegram]
“Tar for the diwan sahib!”
It was perfect — better than a play or than the tales men listen to of evenings. Verily the gods all had a hand in this! Events were on the anvil. Siva the Destroyer was evolving out of Siva who creates.
“Now watch!”
But it was too dark then to see from the top of the wall, and for fear of soldiers none dared penetrate within the guest-house grounds to see the diwan, vis-à-vis to Ommony on the veranda, tear open the envelop and sign for it. His hands were trembling so he could hardly read the penciled message. But Ommony chuckled.
The paper bore the marks of sweating thumbs, and was even crumpled. In all likelihood a copy of it was in Parumpadpa’s hand that minute:
Cotswold Ommony accredited as temporary acting substitute for Gould, who is withdrawn on the ground of illness. His Majesty’s Government regard with grave concern report that priests are suspected of responsibility for disappearance of Mrs. Craig. Please send motor-boat to railhead to meet Sir William Molyneux, who is proceeding on today’s train to take over Residency. Pending his arrival please accord Mr. Ommony all privileges and assistance in tracing Mr
s. Craig, who has His Majesty’s Government’s official recognition.
He passed the telegram to Ommony, who squealed delight.
“That’s ‘Brass-Face’ Molyneux! A damned fine fellow, but the hardest nut in the bag. They keep him for emergencies. It was he who horse-whipped Rajah Kutch Dowlah—”
“He deserved worse,” said the diwan.
“Yes, but nobody but Brass-Face would have dared. It saved a massacre. Now—”
“You see I am to help you find Mrs. Craig,” the diwan interrupted, judging that no time for reminiscences.
“Go ahead. Help me.”
“We know where she is!”
“The priests don’t. The wire doesn’t say where we’re to find her.”
The diwan stroked his beard, but his kind old eyes grew terrified. Not for amusement had he fought the priesthood during thirty intriguing years. He knew the depth of their ability to wreak havoc and avoid responsibility.
“My friend—”
“I accept full liability,” said Ommony. “They’ll break me on the wheel if this fails. I promise to absolve you.”
“But isn’t it the easiest thing to answer that telegram and say Mrs. Craig is safe and sound?” the diwan objected. “Then let Sir William Molyneux—”
“Come and wonder what the stew was all about, eh? Brass-Face is no diviner of subtleties. You’ll get no trees. The priests will have scored. They’ll lay the whole blame to the missionaries. Brass-Face will insult Craig — he hates the tribe.”
“You’ll be superseded. Your successor will be nominated by the priests. No, sahib, we’ve got to win this main!”
The diwan nodded. He was as clay in the hands of this man. No sooner was he nervous than the memory of something he had seen Ommony do brought back confidence.
“What then?” he asked, his eyes resuming their accustomed brown placidity.
“It’s Parumpadpa’s move next,” Ommony answered. “He’s sure to do something imprudent. The crowd’s in no mood for—”
“Very nearly out of hand,” the diwan answered. “Hear them!”
Over and through the trees surrounding the triangle on which the guest- house stood a gradually rising uproar increased and waned as if from two sides centers of commotion were approaching. It was hard to distinguish between rage and exultation, but it seemed as if the two elements were mixed. And in among the din the shouts of troopers and their officers ordering the crowd back subtracted nothing from the tumult.
Anger and adulation slowly separated into vortices, approaching separate gates at angles of the grounds, and they could hear the troopers leave one party to care for itself and go to the rescue of the other. Then through both gates mounted men entered galloping.
“Parumpadpa sends his emissary demanding audience!” said the first man.
“Craig sahib asks admittance!” said the other. Ommony caught the diwan’s eye and nodded twice.
“Admit both!” the diwan ordered.
Neither spoke while the difficult business of letting the right ones in and keeping out unauthorized intruders was under way. Advice at the last minute to the man who must take the reins distracts. Then nothing but assurance of strong support is of the least use, and that is best done without words. The diwan felt aware that whether he should play his hand supremely well or make mistakes, he could count on Ommony to help face consequences, some men having the gift of conveying that assurance silently.
First came Craig, alone, white-suited, striding like a phantom up the graveled drive, hat in hand and brushing sweat with three fingers from his forehead.
“Mr. Ommony! Your Excellency! Can either of you tell me where my wife is?”
He spoke the instant his foot was on the veranda and approached their corner with one hand on the rail as if grateful for something to lean on. Ommony rose from his chair and pushed Craig into it.
“Thank you. I’m tired out. I’ve searched every conceivable place she might have gone to. Your boatmen, Mr. Ommony, tell me priests have carried her off. They assured me that one of our converts, John Ishmittee, saw it happen; but he has disappeared. Now the crowd say the same thing. I’m afraid—”
“Not you!”
Ommony spoke abruptly. The old diwan was too aware of sympathy to trust himself; it was not his way to cause unnecessary anguish. But Ommony was like a surgeon with a sharp knife, daring for the sake of what he saw beyond.
“Sit down here. Wait and see. Have you eaten?”
Over Craig’s protest he called for sandwiches, and those arrived simultaneously with Parumpadpa’s emissary — Jannath — none less — sent that he might be blamable if plans miscarried, since it had been he who first proposed them.
Jannath, rather puffy-faced and ivory-pale in the lantern-light, stood on the path below them with the official meekness and abominable pride so blended as only a Brahman can accomplish. He would not set foot on the veranda lest its touch defile his feet, and he waited for the diwan, who was not a Brahman, to salute him first.
The diwan accorded him the superficial gesture of reverence and mumbled request for a blessing that Brahmans accept perforce when deeper homage is refused. Jannath, equally perfunctory, responded.
Then for the space of a minute there was silence, broken only by Craig’s munching at a sandwich that annoyed the priest until his eyes blazed indignation. It was not cow-meat between the bread, but Jannath chose to suppose it was.
“What good fortune brought you here?” the diwan asked at last politely.
“Parumpadpa sent me. He demands to know why you have told the people that the missionary’s wife is in our hands. We know nothing of her.”
“I said no such thing,” the diwan answered quietly.
“Then whence the tale?”
The insolence was perfect, but the diwan knew the uselessness of letting that draw fire. His voice was gentle and his manner almost deferent:
“You priests know better than I whence rumors spring. By coming you have saved me from going to ask you that very question. Where is she? Whence the rumor?”
“We know nothing of her!” Jannath answered with disgust.
Craig left his chair suddenly, gulping the last of a sandwich, and leaned forward over the rail to peer into Jannath’s face. Behind his back Ommony caught the diwan’s eye.
“He can only do good,” he whispered.
“If you priests don’t know where my wife is, at least you can find her if anyone can,” he said, speaking the language fluently enough but with a Western idiom that made the reasonable statement ring doubly offensive in the priest’s ears.
Jannath stood like an insolent image in painted wood, ignoring him; and that offended Craig much worse than hot retort. He resumed:
“I’ve never harmed you. Repeatedly I’ve offered to be friendly. All the return I’ve ever had has been unfair accusations and malignant lies about my converts. I believe you priests were at the bottom of that elephant business. I believe you know where my wife is.
“If you priests kept your hands off her for reasons of policy, nevertheless I’m sure you know what happened. Indirectly, at least, if not directly, you’re responsible for her disappearance. I demand her back at your hands!”
He paused, not for breath, for he was quite unconscious of himself, but to watch for the effect on Jannath, whose face remained as stolid as an idol’s. Not for any inducement in the world was Jannath willing to appear to recognize before witnesses this enemy of all his kind. Craig, used to unresponsive audiences, came at him again, leaning forward, as it were with both hands on a pulpit-rail.
“Now I’m a Christian. You hate me for it. That’s the offense in your eyes for which you’ve visited this cruel wrong on me. But I’ll prove to you here and now what Christian ethics are. No vengeance. No, not even punishment if you’ll reverse yourselves.
“Give me my wife back unharmed, and I’ll ask the diwan and the British Government to take no steps against you. Now, tonight, I want her at your hands!”
Perhaps that was all the trouble. If so — he would not yield on any point of principle; but the financial argument —
“If you return my wife unharmed to me tonight I will withdraw my claim for the damage done to my mission buildings. I will not retaliate. There shall be no consideration on my part of revenge.”
“You hear him?” asked the diwan.
They both might just as well have spoken to the empty air. The priest refused to acknowledge by word or gesture that he was even conscious of Craig’s demand. But the diwan seemed encouraged. He moved in his chair with a chess-player’s suddenly born activity and read the telegram aloud, translating it for Jannath’s benefit.
“You see,” he said, “the British Raj is interfering. They accuse you priests. When Sir William Molyneux comes there is no knowing what will happen. It is best to have Craig memsahib found before he arrives.”
“We know nothing of her!” Jannath insisted hotly.
“Be advised by me,” the diwan answered. “Tell Parumpadpa to produce her before Sir William Molyneux arrives. They say he has scant respect for Brahmans.”
For sixty breathless seconds Jannath dwelt on his retort, his face immobile but his eyes ablaze with energy that burned in the subtle brain behind them. But he reserved his subtlety for future use.