Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  On downward, and forever downward, hour after hour, by paths such as cats and pheasants know, crossing and re-crossing a winding post-road, drenched by the shoulder-high rhododendrons, out through the mist into silvery moonlight and the warm air stealing upward tainted by lowland dust.

  At last the railway junction. It swarmed even before daylight with dark-skinned and bright-turbaned oddments from a hundred unrelated human breeds, to whom a train is an adventure, and time nothing.

  There was a smell of steam, oil, sweat, spices. The cries of sweetmeat vendors. The drone of ten languages spoken at once, like the laughter of water on gravel.

  Extremely obvious policemen pretending not to notice well-known faces in the lamplight. The scream of a frightened woman separated from her man.

  Near the booking-office entrance, a man with a bicycle, tired and even sleepy but volubly indignant with a railway police naik for refusing to hold the machine while he bought himself a ticket.

  “A Bahinchute, am I?” he shouted, as the man from Poonch went by shoving through the crowd between two heavy-shouldered Hillmen. “I will not rest until I have made you eat that word! I will follow you with my hatred until you shall swear the world is nothing but eyes that scorch your soul!”

  “Out of the way!” said Yussuf Aroun, shoving him. That brought him face to face with Daldeen Lai, who almost fell over the bicycle, barking his shins and maliciously siding with the naik.

  “Kick him! He hunts women all night long. His trick is to ask for a bicycle pump, that he may rob the fool who lends it to him!”

  Then the train, and the surge, in half-darkness, for seats in third-class carriages already crammed to bursting. Squatting on the floor between two Hillmen, the man from Poonch traced patterns with his heels in the mud that his slippers had collected on wet hillsides.

  “I have a knife, remember,” Yussuf Aroun whispered. “It can reach thy liver as a woman’s glance reaches a lover’s manhood. So beware of tricks. Sit still. Say nothing. Let me see where thy hands are at all times!”

  So the man from Poonch sat in the stifling heat, seeing nothing but legs and fruit-peel, except when the compartment door opened at stations.

  Then, with the draught of fresher air there would be a glimpse, between coppery legs, of the station bhisti with his sharp cry and clattering brass cups. Then a policeman would come and stare in.

  Twenty times before Delhi was reached the man from Poonch looked straight into a policeman’s eyes — sometimes into the eyes of an English police officer. But he never moved or made any sign; he could feel the point of Yussuf Aroun’s knife at his shoulder-blades. The policemen seemed uninterested. They stared, slammed the door shut and passed on along the train to continue inspection.

  All the talk among the passengers was of the great affair in Delhi, two days hence now: the opening of the great assembly, with the known risk of a clash between Hindu and Moslem. No two opinions were alike, but there was only one expectation — of trouble, red, reckless. When the train reached Delhi it was a rather silent crowd that poured forth to the platform. Anticipation held men by the throats and excitement smothered natural emotions, for the moment.

  Yussuf Aroun shepherded the man from Poonch along the teeming platform, observant but not noticeably nervous until a man behind him, shoving a bicycle, rang to invite him to make way — one, two — one, two, three — one, two.

  “Haie, you Pathan! You are not in your hills! When bells ring, that means ‘Be quick!’”

  Yussuf Aroun swore like a startled bear then. The man with the bicycle laughed. His little round embroidered cap made him look monkey-impudent.

  “Take care. You are not in your hills. I will summon my friends to teach you what to do when bells ring!”

  Yussuf Aroun made a swipe at him with a hairy fist, but he ducked and hurried until he was presently lost in the crowd. Then, presently, a swarming, clanging tramcar and the delirious heat and movement of city streets in lamplit darkness — stink, din, tumult and an ever deepening feel of tension, on the way toward teeming suburbs, past groups of special police and military posts at the throats of dark streets plunging into unguessable slums.

  “By Allah, this, city was built to be plundered!” said Yussuf Aroun. “Do thy task, thou of Poonch! Thou of Poonch, be sure and sudden! We others will not fail. Allah!”

  One, two — one, two, three — one, two. A bicycle bell rang when they left the tramcar to plunge on foot down zigzag alleys, But there were scores of bicycles; they flitted like bats in all directions. On through a shadowy, stinking maze, whose darkness felt like one vast eye, whose silence whispered. Stars seen against sheeted harems on flat roofs. They threaded a devious course too swift for legs cramped by the long railway journey, but when the man from Poonch lagged he was threatened:

  “Allah! Is it a spur thou needest?”

  Daldeen Lai was leading. There were glimpses of him, at moments, at corners. The other men followed at careless intervals, one by one, independently, until at last Daldeen Lai fumbled at a gate in a wall and passed through. The man from Poonch was thrust through after him, into an ebony shadow beneath a parallelogram that was a purple street of stars — the roof of a pair of apparently endless high walls.

  “Lo, the runway!” said Yussuf Aroun. He stretched out his left arm. “Day after to-morrow, that way lies thy road to hell or heaven!”

  The remainder of the party filed in, one after another, some invisible watchman taking word and sign, countersign, and some other mysterious signal.

  “Allah! It is true that good thieves sleep in gun-rooms,” said Yussuf Aroun. “There is a police khana half a stone’s throw yonder, and beyond that stands a prison! Nevertheless, lo and behold, the runway; and who knows of it save God and we ourselves! It is now three months since the air-ee-o-per-lane was ready. But a man to ride it? We have slain three. It was I who slew them. Three vain boasters who were offered a chance to fly to hell or heaven failed us for one reason or another. Poonchling, it is thy turn! Let me see thee examine this wonder.”

  Daldeen Lai — a voice, a vague sensation in the dark — spoke urgently:

  “Thou from Poonch, now listen. I will show you.”

  Yussuf Aroun shoved him. “Lead on, and turn on a light! Let me watch him take hold. By Allah, as a woman knows a man by his eye, I know a horseman by the way he looks at a horse from a mile off. And a birdman is as easy. Lead on!”

  Pavement, between walls. An iron roof. A, sliding corrugated-iron door, opening silently — shut again with a thud. Metal on metal. A man stumbling amid tin cans, cursed for a clumsy rat by Yussuf Aroun. The Pathan was excited; he gripped the arm of the man from, Poonch with fingers like a trap’s jaws. Sudden electric light and —

  “Is it good, thou Poonchling? It is good, by Allah! Is it not good?”

  It looked perfect, even to the paint — new-born like a dragon-fly, beneath a makeshift crane, amid shadows etched on white walls. Four engines — a stream-line pattern that should make a falcon jealous — gold-and-aluminum, with black walnut propellers — white tires on gold-and-aluminum wheels, stainless steel wiring — a bomb, torpedo- shaped, snug as a roe in a herring —

  Ting-ting — ting-ting-ting — tingting! It was the bicycle bell.

  Crack! The left fist of the man from Poonch shot a half-hook upward at the peak of Yussuf Aroun’s jaw. The Pathan reeled on his heels; his hand went to his knife. The fist struck him again — gain. A right went to his solar plexus. The roof split, like a packing-case coming apart, and the light went out. The man from Poonch felt a head in the dark and punched it — found another head — cracked both together — fell, he and two others, on top of Yussuf Aroun. There was a sudden spitting-cracker-cat-fight of teeth, oaths, knives — in the dark — in a din. Then star-light — flash-light — a command in English:

  “Grab him! Don’t be afraid to kill him! That’s the style! Light, somebody! Light here! Two more men here! Come on, two more!”

  Somebody found the swi
tch. The full light went on. Thirty-two policemen, bearded, beautiful with sweat and malice and the gun-crew grin that viewed a shot square on the target.

  The bicyclist of the round embroidered cap, mud spattered on his loose white loin-cloth, let himself be pulled from under Daldeen Lai, fingering his ear; there was blood on it from Daldeen Lai’s teeth.

  “Pip, pip!” he remarked as he felt himself for injuries.

  The man from Poonch, rubbing a raw knee, laughed at him. “All right, Moti? Not hurt? That was neat work. Timed it beautifully. Where’s Charley?

  Almost casually, from the outer darkness, bleeding a little and bruised in places, a smiling Englishman in shorts and shirt, made his way through the police to the man who might have been from Poonch.

  “Got ’em all!” the newcomer remarked. “Got each last one of ’em!”

  He passed a flask. “I thought you might need a spot of this.”

  There were gurgles. “Thanks. You always were thoughtful.” Somehow that man no longer looked as if he came from Poonch. He glanced at the wings of the plane that loomed above him. “This ought to cause a sensation. What?”

  Charley’s eyes met his in silent laughter. “Might have been serious, Grayson, mightn’t it? I’ll have to get the high explosives section of the C.I.D. to come and draw the teeth of that egg.

  “You’re tired, old man. Hungry? How about a tub, then the club and some dinner? We can make out reports together after dinner.”

  Yussuf Aroun, handcuffed and snarling between dark-eyed Sikh constables, spat some blood from his teeth and swore a streak of Northwest frontier blasphemy:

  “I knew that Poonch tale was a lie! Another second and thy liver should have lain like—”

  He who, it now appeared, undoubtedly was not from Poonch, looked at his barked knuckles. Then his eye sought the flask,

  “Give my friend Yussuf a drink,” he suggested. “He’s quite a character. I hit him a bit harder than was necessary. Yes, then I’m ready when you are. Dinner? I’ve forgotten what good food tastes like.”

  THE END

  MYSTIC INDIA SPEAKS

  MANY years ago, in Rajputana, the writer climbed several thousand feet above sea level for a moonlight view of an historic landscape. He was, in those days, an opinionated young Englishman, rather recently from public school, educated in the traditional “white man’s burden” theory of empire and in the Church of England attitude toward religion. After months of wandering in India, it was only just beginning to dawn on his not very observant, nor particularly critical, but rather idly curious mind, that virtue is neither racial, national, nor even international, but universal; and that possibly lots of Western theories are wrong.

  The effect of that dim perception was humiliating. As it happened, it coincided with a personal dilemma that called for an immediate decision. The result was acute anxiety. There appeared to be a choice of two alternatives, each equally distressing.

  A chance-met Indian acquaintance had remarked that when perplexed and baffled he always sought solitude amid the most beautiful surroundings he could find. He had said it was an infallible aid toward reaching wise decisions. He had rather casually mentioned that particular mountain. I don’t know to this day whether he knew in advance what I was likely to find near the summit. At any rate, I had decided to try the experiment.

  There was a full moon. The trail was easy, but it was a long climb; so it was close on midnight when I neared the summit. On a knoll that commanded the superb view was one wind-bent tree that looked as if it had been painted there by a master artist. Beneath the tree, on a mat, was a native of India wearing a yellow turban; he was accompanied by three younger Indians, who sat a few yards away from him and who appeared to be in a state of trance, as if the marvel of the moonlit view overwhelmed their senses. I did not know in those days that there is any difference between a trance and concentrated meditation. The older man in the yellow turban, on the mat beneath the tree, seemed, however, to be fully conscious and aware of my approach.

  Rather than disturb total strangers, with whom I didn’t want to talk in any event, I turned aside in search of another view point, where I could be alone with my own thoughts. It was rather irritating to be overtaken presently by one of the younger men, who invited me to come and be seated beneath the tree. I hesitated, almost declined, then yielded suddenly to curiosity. I am quite sure that curiosity was my only conscious motive, but what inspired the curiosity I don’t know. I suspect the man under the tree of having used a perfectly legitimate metaphysical means of capturing my attention.

  After one glance at me he dismissed his companions. They vanished like soldiers obeying an order, giving the impression that it pleased them to obey. Then, offering me a Kashmir shawl as protection against the cool night breeze, he signed to me to sit beside him. For about ten or fifteen minutes he appeared to gaze at the view.

  I studied him. I recalI a very definite sensation that, though his gaze was in another direction, he was studying me. I felt intensely curious, wondering whether he might be one of those mysterious gurus that are so often told about but seldom met. He didn’t look like an ascetic or a specially saintly person, but I began to conceive a respect for him that may have had something to do with my not starting the conversation.

  He was a healthy-looking, brown-eyed man, clean-shaven and no darker than an Italian; broad-shouldered, deep-chested and apparently muscular. He almost exuded health and cleanliness. His first words were a question:

  “Sahib, has this beauty introduced you to the calm that you came seeking?”

  It had not yet, and I said so. His question even brought on a kind of mental panic as I remembered how soon I must decide the problem that had made sleep impossible. He asked another question:

  “Are you familiar with poetry?”

  “No more of it than they made me memorize at school.”

  “Music?”

  “No.”

  “Painting? Sculpture? Architecture?”

  “No.”

  “But you do seek relief from worry?”

  “Yes.”

  “And inspiration? You came craving an idea?”

  “Yes — although I don’t know how you knew that.”

  He chuckled. “That is no secret. I saw the color of your thought from far off. But if we should discuss your trouble, that might lead to making much of it. To flatter trouble is to feed it. Shall I not rather speak of the remedy?”

  Leaping at once to a wrong conclusion, I supposed he was probably one of those professional fortune tellers who read their client’s thought and predict as a surely forthcoming event, what the client wishes might happen. Thousands of Indians can do that trick. Without enthusiasm I invited him to say what he pleased.Promptly he surprised me with another question, “What is beauty?”

  Receiving no answer, he continued, “You perceive the beauty of this valley beneath?”

  “Yes. I came here for that purpose.”

  “And the beauty of the moonlit mountains, and of the purple sky and the stars?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what is it? Since you perceive it, tell me what beauty is.”

  He waited, but I could think of nothing better than a dictionary answer, learned at school: “Beauty is a quality of what we see, or hear, or feel.”

  He was silent for so long that I supposed he was disgusted with the answer. But after a while I followed the direction of his gaze and saw what he was looking at. Along a ledge of rock to our right, slightly higher than where we sat, a tiger had crept into view, not fifty feet away. The magnificent beast stood in full moonlight, motionless, gazing down into the valley, apparently unconscious of our presence. The man beside me didn’t whisper; he murmured, so that his voice was like one of nature’s sounds:

  “You perceive his beauty? Be aware of it. Look! It is only ugliness that kills. There is no harm in beauty. But does brother Bagh perceive the beauty of the view? Not he! He looks for food for his belly. Brother Bagh must live
thousands of lives before beauty, to him, will mean other than cunning and strength and a full meal.”

  The tiger caught the sound of his voice, turned suddenly, stared at us, snarled and disappeared.

  “Strong!” said the man beside me. “But he is afraid! Are you also a tiger, that you also are afraid?”

  I had not been conscious of the slightest fear of the tiger. I said so.

  “But you’re afraid of beauty! You can’t define it. A tiger can’t even perceive it. If your definition were right, there would be no beauty if there was none of us to see, hear, feel it. Is beauty then nothing? Why do you fear nothing?”

  “I am not afraid of it.”

  “Then why do you hide from it behind a definition? Was it not for the same reason that the tiger just now ran away from us?”

  “I don’t think so. The tiger suspected we might have guns.”

  “The tiger defined us as dangerous. Was he right?”

  “No.”

  “Conscious of his own ferocity, the tiger saw ferocity in us. He fled from his own ignorant opinion of you and me. And what have you fled from, that brought you climbing hither in the night?”

  “Something personal,” I said. “I don’t care to discuss it.” But I felt that was a graceless answer, so I changed the subject, a bit awkwardly:

  “I have heard,” I ventured, “of people who can control tigers mentally. Did you control that one?”

  “Did he harm you or me?” he retorted. Then he chuckled. After a moment he said, “It is true that tigers obey impulse. But they don’t discriminate. They obey the impulse, whatever it is. Are you a tiger, that you obey impulse — whatever it is? Do you define impulse also as a quality — perhaps of what you do?”

  I replied: “I suppose the quality of what I do depends upon the nature of the impulse.”

  Then he asked a strange question,

  “What are the dimensions of an impulse?”

  I was silent. I could think of no answer.