by Talbot Mundy
And Moses talked. He talked continuously. Quorn could have brained him with the ankus, but he talked on as some people do at the movies, making situations clear to one another:
“Rattee is beneath the parapet. He has a chain or something, and it is inviseeble because of shadow, but he leads the tiger, though it seems she does it. And the opium is not yet evanescent in the tiger, so he goes agreeablee. Oh yes, I think the babu also is behind the parapet, because I saw a piece of wood. I think he flourishes a threat.”
“Oh, cut your cackle!”
“And the deeficulty is, that there are statues. It was totalee insuperable, so they act extemporaniouslee. Then the tiger must go one way or the other, because the statue is in the middle. There may be an acceedent.”
There was an accident, of what a scientist would call coincidence. It brought the thump of Quorn’s heart up against his teeth. It stilled the multitude to such a pass of silence that Quorn actually heard the sweat splash from his chin to the back of his hand. He had his left hand on his breast, for no known reason. When the tiger reached the first statue he paused. He stood and gazed at the crowd beneath him, marvelous in moonlight.
“And I think now Rattee goes around the statue on the far side. It is impossible to see the tiger’s feet because of shadow. And I think that Rattee has him by a cord, because a chain would glitter. He is probablee provided with a hook or something, so that he can hook the cord around the statue under cover of the shadow. Then he can once more pull the tiger.”
“Silence, damn you!”
The Princess passed in front of the statue, but the tiger waited. And he seemed inclined to turn back. He stared behind him — then changed his mind and followed her. The crowd breathed.
“I think he saw the babu then,” said Moses.
There were three more statues; and the light was stronger at the right-hand end of the bridge; but the moon was getting lower second by second. Whatever trick was being worked was riskier each yard of the way, because eyes on the roofs up-street could watch the parapet from a higher angle. Perhaps they could even see its full width, although to Quorn it now looked like a silver beam, in which she and the tiger were striding ankle deep.
“And that Ratty is only a heathen,” Quorn reflected.
“He’s as like as not to make a fool break.”
In the midst, between the first and second statues, the tiger paused again and stared downward.
“And I think now somebodee is giving orders,” remarked Moses.
She did seem to be listening. She took advantage of the pause to change position. Something startled the tiger; he stared downward, inward, to his left, toward the dark floor of the bridge. She passed in front of him, and when the tiger started forward she was on the inside and he on the edge of the parapet. And now she was more than ankle deep in shadow, so that when they reached the second statue, and the tiger passed it, she and shadow served to hide whatever Ratty did. She had to follow the tiger; but on the far side he appeared to wait for her.
“And now I think that Rattee pulls him, but it was a veree stringent awkwardness,” said Moses.
She was out on the edge again, bathing her feet in the silvery sheen of moonlight. And she was lovelier now than legend. She was lovelier than anything that Quorn had ever seen, because she walked with a grace as perfect in its own way as the tiger’s. Moonlight softened and graced all outlines; and in contrast to the tiger’s skulky, lazy arrogance her attitude was of young enthusiasm looking forward. Whether she was smiling or not, she appeared to be smiling. She appeared to be in no haste, victim of no embarrassment. No Duse in the spotlight ever played her part more naturally; and Quorn did not know that nature needs unnatural restraint and discipline, intelligence and iron will, in order to appear as reasonable, logical, inevitable drama.
“Gee, but she’s born to it!”
“I think,” said Moses, “that the babu speaks to her continuouslee from behind the parapet. He is a man who speaks loquaciouslee to stop another person from becoming solemn. I beelieve he is a sinner who will swindle God in some way, if it can be managed. And I hope that God perhaps will not be veree sorree.”
There was no perceptible pause at the third statue. She went ahead and the tiger followed. But at the fourth statue, as the crowd was growing restless with a sound like rain-drenched undergrowth astir in steaming jungle, the tiger hesitated. He turned back. Something scared him and he snarled. She seemed to speak to him. He glanced right and left, then faced the street, crouching, as if about to leap upon the crowd beneath him. Then he came out of his crouch, and his shuddering, ominous, sulky roar re-smote down silence on the multitude.
Up went Asoka’s trunk. Up went his ears.
“And now I think it is catastrophee,” said Moses. But Asoka’s blast of anger drowned whatever else he said. The elephant began to dance as if he trampled something underfoot, and Quorn used the butt of the ankus on his skull. The tiger turned — he almost fled — not quite — he slunk away along the parapet. The Princess had to let go after they had passed the statue; he was moving too fast for her dignity. He vanished, leaping off the parapet into a gulf of darkness at the end of the bridge.
“And now what?” That was Quorn’s own voice. It startled him. His elephant was trudging, trudging, trudging, an imaginary tiger underfoot; but the rumps of elephants ahead prevented any forward movement. And the crowd was breathless. But the Princess, nearly knee-deep now in moonlight, possibly because the parapet sloped inward at the end, stood and raised her arms toward the crowd, her head back and her figure limned in silver light. She threw them her goodwill — flung it to them, three times — then turned and vanished. And Asoka’s huge head rose and fell, as he danced on an imagined tiger, crunching it beneath his feet.
The crowd grew frantic. Bedlam broke loose. There began a flow down-street beneath the bridge like one of nature’s timed, premeditated movements that obliterate past history. There was broken tumult. “Gunga sahib!” “She is Maharanee!” — laughter, and the wordless waterfall of sheer exultant din were all mixed in one uproar. There were explosions of sudden agreement; night shook with the excitement of group after group that caught on to the mystical significance of the tiger’s roar and the elephant’s answer. And Asoka danced! He kept on dancing! Destiny! Destiny! It was a true tale! Onward!
Crowning climax — as the low moon touched the city roofs, and the bridge uniting Siva’s breasts sank deeper into purple-black gloom, priests of Kali, led by Gunpat Rao, marched in single file along the parapet, waist-deep in shadow, waist-high in moonlight, bearing lanterns. They were chanting. They were wading forth from Kali’s dreadful death into the light of Siva’s everlasting rebirth. Gunpat Rao, snatching victory from ruin, for the first time in a score of generations led the ceremonial, symbolic ancient pilgrimage from death to life, that signified the endless rebirth and the endless triumph of the endlessly evolving man! He endorsed the legend! He accepted Sankyamuni! He approved the Gunga sahib!
“Bande! Bande!”
Elephants and van and roaring men were swept beneath the bridge like a river in flood. Beyond the bridge the crowd spread like a lake on the wide maidan that fronted Siva’s temple gate. It flowed the maidan full and was a torch-lit swamp of turbaned heads. Asoka, pausing once or twice to dance his trudge-step, elephantine instinct recognizing thunderous applause as something personal to him, remerged himself into the mob emotion. He became as manageable as the other elephants — obeyed the pressure on his neck and edged himself diagonally through the crowd toward the shut gate, where a hundred flaring torches smoked the glare, and sweating faces shone in lurid crimson light.
The gate opened, and the first man through it was the babu.
“Pinch hit now!” he shouted. He was sweating. He was furious. He shoved the crowd away from him. He fought his way toward the van, and in a spasm of ridiculous, dynamic energy — a fat man hoisted by his own excitement — he climbed to the roof by a wheel. From that he leaped into the howdah
of the elephant alongside — knelt there, imprecating the mahout until he turned his elephant; and in another moment he was alongside Quorn. He clenched both fists and yelled at him:
“To hell with luck, I tell you! Oh for God’s sake, pinch hit, Gunga sahib! This is awful!”
“What’s wrong?” Quorn had to yell at the top of his lungs. “Airplanes?”
“Much worse! They intend to scrag the Maharajah! Bughouse Bill is Gunpat Raoing! Damn him, he has stolen all my thunder! He is top dog! He is recognizing her as Maharanee. He is blessing her with incense, and his messengers are egging on the crowd to scrag the Maharajah! They will do it! He will blame me for it!”
“What the hell do you care?”
“She also will blame me! Dammit, she had planned to send him to the Riviera with an income! Oh for God’s sake, go and pinch hit!”
“Go where? Hit what?”’
“To the palace! Juldee, juldee! Beat your elephant! Find him — warn him — hurry him away!”
“Where?”
“Rail-head!”
“On Asoka? He ain’t fit to—”
“Pinch hit, I tell you! I will send some men to follow you with horses. Get him out of the way! I will send his friends to—”
“Come on!” Quorn shouted. “Get into the howdah and I’ll take you to him. He won’t do what I say. Jump in!”
“Do you take me for a simpleton?” The babu’s mouth was frothy with excitement. He used his turban-end to wipe it. “Can I leave her? This is no time for mistakes, and she will make them just as sure as Jiminy unless I watch her! In a minute she will be signing her name to something! Gunpat Rao will be eating the canary! Go, I tell you! Go like Gallagher! Oh put some ginger in it! For the love of this babu, be ruthless! Ride hard!”
“Okay.”
The iron ankus rapped Asoka’s skull to call attention to a new mood — new necessities. It was the stand-by bell. And like a swaying boat amid a sea of living flare-lit waves, Asoka gradually wore away toward the outer darkness. On a parapet of Siva’s temple, in a torch-lit crimson glare, the Princess stood alone, unveiled, unmoving, and the crowd went mad again at sight of her. There was a roar that rent the firmament. But some took note that Quorn was leaving, and the din was broken into counter-tumult as a sea breaks when a cross-wind smites it. Quorn was in darkness, but he was not yet on the outskirts of the crowd when purpose shaped itself and motion thundered into being.
“Maharaj-j-j-j-!”
There was a shriek at the end of that — a worse sound than the savage rage of wind that rips a ship to death on unseen rocks. It turned the streaming sweat cold. It froze emotion. Quorn was running away, and he knew it, when he reached a dark street, and Asoka plunged along it toward silence. And then Moses’ voice in Quorn’s ear:
“They are saying that you go to slay the Maharajah, because that is legendaree also!”
“Curse that babu! Why the devil couldn’t he have known that this ‘ud happen! They’ll kill that drunkard, and I’ll swing for it! Better find him, I guess.”
Nothing on four legs can travel much faster than an elephant for a mile, or a mile-and-a-half. Asoka rushed up dark streets like a gray ghost, and the thunder of the tumult died behind him — but not very far behind him. Crowds, like water, flow by short cuts.
“They are coming, sir!” said Moses. “I can hear them. I can see the torches, that are dancing. They are running rapidlee. It is nip-and-tuckish, and I think the militaree will be—”
Speed at a corner swept his words away into the pitchblack shadows. Quorn set his teeth. He had no more notion what to do than Asoka had. He tried to think of what to say if he should find the Maharajah. He expected to be shot by sentries. He imagined himself and Moses seizing the reluctant Maharajah by the arms and dragging him into the howdah, somehow; even those mad moments failed to picture that exactly. He must pinch hit, must he?
“Damn that babu! Wisht I was in Philadelphia!” Then utter unexpectedness. The palace gate — no sentries — and the gate wide open, looming. Had the Maharajah taken flight already? Something was in the gate — it was big, dark — men’s figures moved; they were working furiously. One man stood alone and looked on. Panting like a furnace bellows Asoka swayed to a standstill, close to the jaws of the open gate, and Moses switched on the flashlight.
“Koi hai?” demanded some one harshly.
Stalled in the gate was the Maharajah’s auto, lights out. There was no one in it. Two men sweated with their heads beneath the engine cover, and a third was on his knees, with the battery out on the running board.
“Ye’re as crazy as hell!” Quorn shouted. It was no use trying to control his voice; it roared in spite of him. “There isn’t time to fix that. Where’s your Maharajah? Pitch him up here?”
The man who stood alone and looked on took a few strides closer, staring along the beams of Moses’ flashlight.
“You Quorn?” he demanded.
“Yes, sir. I came looking for you. Climb up and I’ll ride you toward rail-head. Things ain’t healthy.”
There was a moment’s silence. Framed in the circle of Moses’ light the Maharajah’s handsome face looked scared but thoughtful. Then he said suddenly:
“I will direct you where to take me.”
“Can you climb up by the roof of the auto?” Quorn asked. “It’ll save time. There’ll be a mob here in a couple o’ minutes.”
“Make the elephant kneel,” he answered.
Argument would waste more time, so Quorn obeyed him. Asoka went down like a landslide at the order, nothing loath; he was blown, and the howdah was heavy. That brought Quorn and the Maharajah face to face, but Moses switched off the flashlight. There were no lights in the palace windows. It was all dark. Starlight hardly penetrated through the shadows of gate and shrubbery.
“Damn your manners — dismount!” said the Maharajah.
“Who is that in the howdah?”
“Suit yourself,” Quorn answered. “Manners eat up time, but it’s not my funeral.” He vaulted to the ground and stood still. “Get out, Moses. Meet his Highness.”
Moses jumped out like a cat with hot feet and withdrew himself within the darkness of Asoka’s loom.
“Insolent dog! You damned adventurer!” The Maharajah took a long stride nearer, but he was on the far side of the elephant from Quorn. “Give me that ankus!”
Hardly believing, Quorn leaned across Asoka’s neck to listen. His ears were full of the roar of a crowd. A mob was coming — coming hotfoot. The Maharajah swore in his own language and repeated:
“Give me that ankus! I can ride my elephant! Do you hear me?”
The men who were trying to repair the auto suddenly let go of everything and ran. The Maharajah called to them. There was no answer. Then he reached out for the ankus. His left hand touched the tiger-claw wound near Asoka’s left eye. There was a scream of anger from the elephant. The hurt brute rose like earth up-thrown by dynamite. It was impossible to see what happened then, but the Maharajah, legs first, rose against the star-lit sky, screaming, neck and shoulders tortured in Asoka’s trunk. The elephant swung him — shook him — and then hurled him to earth and trampled him — trudge, trudge, trudge — another tiger’s carcass.
“Flashlight!” shouted Quorn, but Moses failed him that time. He had to go in alone with the ankus, face the eleplant and drive him off his victim.
“You big fool, you’re done for! Now they’ll shoot you sure! Let up! Let up, you hear me! Go on, kill me if you dare, you sucker! I don’t give a God-damn!”
He could not make Asoka obey him. But he felt no fear. In a sort of delirium — numb — bereft of care or thought of consequences — he attacked and struck out with the ankus, wondering that the huge brute backed away instead of killing him. He backed into the auto, screamed at it, and dashed past Quorn in panic, vanishing amid the beds of bougainvillæ and roses, crashing through them like an avalanche.
“And that is destinee, I think,” said Moses’ voice.
&n
bsp; “The hell with destiny!” Quorn answered. “You’ll swing too! They’ll swear we came o’ purpose and—”
“You have a flashlight? Let me have it,” said a voice in English. “Quickly!” Some one stepped out from behind the auto and stood for a moment listening to the roar of an approaching mob. “Push that car inside and close the gate,” he ordered sharply. Shadowy forms obeyed him and the gate clanged shut in the sight of sweating faces that came pouring forward in the flare-lit smoke of torches. There was a dim view up and behind them of the heads of elephants.
“Be quick now — help me!” said the same voice. He was a tall man, hatless and in riding breeches, wearing a white shirt open at the neck. He used the flashlight half a second and then he and Quorn and Moses raised the Maharajah’s body. “Into the car,” he commanded. And as they slammed the car door some one in the mob discovered that the gate was not locked. It clanged open. Torches and a yelling crowd rushed through and poured past. “Luckily for you, I saw that happen,” said the voice, and Quorn leaned back against the auto. He gulped.
“Who are you, sir?” he asked after a moment.
“I am the Resident,” said the quiet voice. “I heard some rumors of this at rail-head, so I almost killed two horses getting here. However, it seems I came a bit too late to present credentials. Who is that?”
On an elephant, surrounded by a sweating, yelling, torch-lit swarm of dancing maniacs, the Princess rode unveiled. Behind her, in the howdah, soiled and sweating but important looking, sat Chullunder Ghose, the babu. He appeared to be talking to her, and she seemed to listen.
“She’s the Queen, I reckon,” Quorn answered. “No, that’s not the right word. She’s the Maharanee.”
“And who is the fat man?”