Potpourri

by Ruskin Bond

  The following day Jai and Motu were very careful. The did not let the sheep out of sight even for a minute. Nor did they catch sight of the golden eagle. 'What if it attacks again?' wondered Jai. 'How will I stop it?'

  The great eagle, with its powerful beak and talons, was more than a match for boy or dog. Its hind claw, four inches round the curve, was its most dangerous weapon. When it spread its wings, the distance from tip to tip was more than eight feet.

  The eagle did not come that day because it had fed well and was now resting in its eyrie. Old bones, which had belonged to pheasants, snow-cocks, pine martens and even foxes, were scattered about the rocks which formed the eagle's home. The eagle had a mate, but it was not the breeding season and she was away on a scouting expedition of her own.

  The golden eagle stood on its rocky ledge, staring majestically across the valley. Its hard, unblinking eyes missed nothing. Those strange orange-yellow eyes could spot a field-rat or a mouse-hare more than a hundred yards below.

  There were other eagles on the mountain, but usually they kept to their own territory. And only the bolder ones went for lambs, because the flocks were always protected by men and dogs.

  The eagle took off from its eyrie and glided gracefully, powerfully over the valley, circling the Tung mountain.

  Below lay the old temple, built from slabs of grey granite. A line of pilgrims snaked up the steep, narrow path. On the meadows below the peak, the sheep grazed peacefully, unaware of the presence of the eagle. The great bird's shadow slid over the sunlit slopes.

  The eagle saw the boy and the dog, but he did not fear them. He had his eye on a lamb that was frisking about on the grass, a few feet away from the other grazing sheep.

  Jai did not see the eagle until it swept round an outcrop of rocks about a hundred feet away. It moved silently, without any movement of its wings, for it had already built up the momentum for its dive. Now it came straight at the lamb.

  Motu saw the bird in time. With a low growl he dashed forward and reached the side of the lamb at almost the same instant that the eagle swept in.

  There was a terrific collision. Feathers flew. The eagle screamed with rage. The lamb tumbled down the slope, and Motu howled in pain as the huge beak struck him high on the leg.

  The big bird, a little stunned by the clash, flew off rather unsteadily, with a mighty beating of its wings.

  Motu had saved the lamb. It was frightened but unhurt. Bleating loudly, it joined the other sheep, who took up the bleating. Jai ran up to Motu, who lay whimpering on the ground. There was no sign of the eagle. Quickly he removed his shirt and vest; then he wrapped his vest round the dog's wound, tying it in position with his belt.

  Motu could not get up, and he was much too heavy for Jai to carry. Jai did not want to leave his dog alone, in case the eagle returned to attack.

  He stood up, cupped his hand to his mouth, and began calling for his grandfather.

  'Dada, dada!' he shouted, and presently Grandfather heard him and came stumbling down the slope. He was followed by another shepherd, and together they lifted Motu and carried him home.

  Motu had a bad wound, but Grandmother cleaned it and applied a paste made of herbs. Then she laid strips of carrot over the wound—an old mountain remedy—and bandaged the leg. But it would be some time before Motu could run about again. By then it would probably be snowing and time to leave these high-altitude pastures and return to the valley. Meanwhile, the sheep had to be taken out to graze, and Grandfather decided to accompany Jai for the remaining period.

  They did not see the golden eagle for two or three days, and, when they did, it was flying over the next range. Perhaps it had found some other source of food, or even another flock of sheep. 'Are you afraid of the eagle?' Grandfather asked Jai.

  'I wasn't before,' said Jai. 'Not until it hurt Motu. I did not know it could be so dangerous. But Motu hurt it too. He banged straight into it!'

  Perhaps it won't bother us again,' said Grandfather thoughtfully. 'A bird's wing is easily injured—even an eagle's.'

  Jai wasn't so sure. He had seen it strike twice, and he knew that it was not afraid of anyone. Only when it learnt to fear his presence would it keep away from the flock.

  The next day Grandfather did not feel well; he was feverish and kept to his bed. Motu was hobbling about gamely on three legs; the wounded leg was still very sore.

  'Don't go too far with the sheep,' said Grandmother. 'Let them graze near the house.'

  'But there's hardly any grass here,' said Jai.

  'I don't want you wandering off while that eagle is still around.'

  'Give him my stick,' said Grandfather from his bed. Grandmother took it from the corner and handed it to the boy.

  It was an old stick, made of wild cherry wood, which Grandfather often carried around. The wood was strong and well-seasoned; the stick was stout and long. It reached up to Jai's shoulders.

  'Don't lose it,' said Grandfather. 'It was given to me many years ago by a wandering scholar who came to the Tung temple. I was going to give it to you when you got bigger, but perhaps this is the right time for you to have it. If the eagle comes near you, swing the stick around your head. That should frighten it off.'

  Clouds had gathered over the mountains, and a heavy mist hid the Tung temple. With the approach of winter, the flow of pilgrims had been reduced to a trickle. The shepherds had started leaving the lush meadows and returning to their villages at lower altitudes. Very soon the bears and the leopards and the golden eagles would have the high ranges all to themselves.

  Jai used the cherry wood stick to prod the sheep along the path until they reached the steep meadows. The stick would have to be a substitute for Motu. And they seemed to respond to it more readily than they did to Motu's mad charges.

  Because of the sudden cold and the prospect of snow. Grandmother had made Jai wear a rough woollen jacket and a pair of high boots bought from a Tibetan trader. He wasn't used to the boots—he wore sandals at other times—and had some difficulty in climbing quickly up and down the hillside. It was tiring work, trying to keep the flock together. The cawing of some crows warned Jai that the eagle might be around, but the mist prevented him from seeing very far.

  After some time the mist lifted and Jai was able to see the temple and the snow-peaks towering behind it. He saw the golden eagle, too. It was circling high overhead. Jai kept close to the flock—one eye on the eagle, one eye on the restless sheep.

  Then the great bird stooped and flew lower. It circled the temple and then pretended to go away. Jai felt sure it would be back. And a few minutes later it reappeared from the other side of the mountain. It was much lower now, wings spread out and back, taloned feet to the fore, piercing eyes fixed on its target—a small lamb that had suddenly gone frisking down the slope, away from Jai and the flock.

  Now it flew lower still, only a few feet off the ground, paying no attention to the boy.

  It passed Jai with a great rush of air, and as it did so the boy struck out with his stick and caught the bird a glancing blow.

  The eagle missed its prey, and the tiny lamb skipped away.

  To Jai's amazement, the bird did not fly off. Instead it landed on the hillside and glared at the boy, as a king would glare at a humble subject who had dared to pelt him with a pebble.

  The golden eagle stood almost as tall as Jai. Its wings were still outspread. Its fierce eyes seemed to be looking through and through the boy.

  Jai's first instinct was to turn and run. But the cherry wood stick was still in his hands, and he felt sure there was power in it. He saw that the eagle was about to launch itself again at the lamb. Instead of running away, he ran forward, the stick raised above his head.

  The eagle rose a few feet off the ground and struck out with its huge claws.

  Luckily for Jai, his heavy jacket took the force of the blow. A talon ripped through the sleeve, and the sleeve fell away. At the same time the heavy stick caught the eagle across its open wing. The bird g
ave a shrill cry of pain and fury. Then it turned and flapped heavily away, flying unsteadily because of its injured wing.

  Jai still clutched the stick, because he expected the bird to return; he did not even glance at his torn jacket. But the golden eagle had alighted on a distant rock and was in no hurry to return to the attack.

  Jai began driving the sheep home. The clouds had become heavy and black, and presently the first snow-flakes began to fall.

  Jai saw a hare go lolloping done the hill. When it was about fifty yards away, there was a rush of air from the eagle's beating wings, and Jai saw the bird approaching the hare in a sidelong drive.

  'So it hasn't been badly hurt,' thought Jai, feeling a little relieved, for he could not help admiring the great bird. 'Now it has found something else to chase for its dinner.'

  The hare saw the eagle and dodged about, making for a clump of junipers. Jai did not know if it was caught or not, because the snow and sleet had increased and both bird and hare were lost in the gathering snow-storm.

  The sheep were bleating behind him. One of the lambs looked tired, and he stooped to pick it up. As he did so, he heard a thin, whining sound. It grew louder by the second. Before he could look up, a huge wing caught him across the shoulders and sent him sprawling. The lamb tumbled down the slope with him, into a thorny bilberry bush.

  The bush saved them. Jai saw the eagle coming in again, flying low. It was another eagle! One had been vanquished, and now here was another, just as big and fearless, probably the mate of the first eagle.

  Jai had lost his stick and there was no way by which he could fight the second eagle. So he crept further into the bush, holding the lamb beneath him. At the same time he began shouting at the top of his voice—both to scare the bird away and to summon help. The eagle could not easily get at them now; but the rest of the flock was exposed on the hillside. Surely the eagle would make for them.

  Even as the bird circled and came back in another dive, Jai heard fierce barking. The eagle immediately swung away and rose skywards.

  The barking came from Motu. Hearing Jai's shouts and sensing that something was wrong, he had come limping out of the house, ready to do battle. Behind him came another shepherd and—most wonderful of all—Grandmother herself, banging two frying-pans together. The barking, the banging and the shouting frightened the eagles away. The sheep scattered too, and it was some time before they could all be rounded up. By then it was snowing heavily.

  'Tomorrow we must all go down to Maku,' said the shepherd.

  'Yes, it's time we went,' said Grandmother. 'You can read your story-books again, Jai.'

  'I'll have my own story to tell,' said Jai.

  When they reached the hut and Jai saw Grandfather, he said, 'Oh, I've forgotten your stick!'

  But Motu had picked it up. Carrying it between his teeth, he brought it home and sat down with it in the open doorway. He had decided the cherry wood was good for his teeth and would have chewed it up if Grandmother hadn't taken it from him.

  'Never mind,' said Grandfather, sitting up on his cot. 'It isn't the stick that matters. It's the person who holds it.'

  Bitter Gooseberries

  (A tale from Burma)

  This is the story of the snake and the gooseberries and much else besides, so be still, don't interrupt, and don't ask questions. Are you listening? Well, then. There was once a snake, and he lived in a gooseberry bush, and every night he turned into a handsome prince. Now there is nothing extraordinary about this, it happens all the time, especially in Burma where everyone is handsome anyway... But a story can't succeed unless there's a woman in it, so there was also a woman who lived in a little bamboo house with orchids hanging in the verandah, and she had three daughters called Ma Gyi, Ma Lat, and Ma Nge. And Ma Nge was the youngest and the nicest and the most beautiful, because a story can't succeed unless she is all these things.

  Well, one day the mother of Ma Nge had to go out to fetch gooseberries from the forest. They were bitter gooseberries: Burmese ladies call them zi-byu-thi, and prefer them to sweet gooseberries. And the woman took her basket along; and just as she was starting to pick gooseberries, the snake who lived in the gooseberry bush hissed at her, as much as to say: 'Be off.' This was the snake who was a prince by night, but now of course it was broad daylight, and anyway Burmese women aren't afraid of snakes. Moreover, the snake recalled that this was the mother of three daughters, and he had a fondness for daughters, so he changed his mind about sending the woman away, and waited for her to speak first, because she was a woman, and women are remarkable for their business capacity.

  The woman said: 'Please give me a gooseberry.' Women are always wanting something; it's a part of their business philosophy.

  But the snake said no. He had remembered that he was a prince and that princes aren't supposed to say yes to anything; not at first, anyway. It was a matter of principle.

  Then the woman said: 'If you like my eldest daughter, Ma Gyi, give me a gooseberry.' He didn't care for Ma Gyi, because he knew she had a terrible temper (or perhaps it was a distemper), but he gave the woman a gooseberry as a matter of policy. 'One gooseberry is about all that Ma Gyi's worth,' he said to himself.

  But women all over the world, from Burma to Bermuda and beyond, are never satisfied with only one of anything, and she said: 'If you like my second daughter, Ma Lat, give me another gooseberry.'

  The prince knew that Ma Lat had a squint, but he didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings, so he gave the woman another gooseberry; and thus encouraged, she said: 'And if you like my youngest daughter, Ma Nge, give me another gooseberry.'

  At that the snake trembled so violently from tip to tail that every gooseberry fell off the bush; for the snake-prince knew that Ma Nge was the youngest and nicest and most beautiful of them all. And the woman gathered up all the gooseberries, put them in her basket, and took them home because they were bitter (zi-byu-thi), and because she was a woman of remarkable business capacity.

  On the way she met a signpost and gave it a gooseberry, saying: 'If a snake comes enquiring which way I have gone, don't tell him, but point in the opposite direction.' She said this because she knew the signpost would do just the opposite.

  Then she went on and said the same thing to two more signposts (everything has to be done three times in the best stories), and the posts all did the same thing, which was to show the snake the proper road, because that is what signposts are supposed to do.

  The snake had little difficulty in following the woman to her house. He hid in a large jar, and when she came to get something, he slid out and coiled round her arm in the manner of a prospective son-in-law.

  'If you love my daughter Ma Gyi, let go,' cried the woman, pretending to be frightened. (She knew quite well that the snake was a prince.)

  But the snake hung on, because he didn't love Ma Gyi, who had a bad temper and probably distemper too.

  'If you love Ma Lat, let go!'

  But the snake hung on. Although he, personally, had nothing against squinty-eyed women, he did not relish the prospect of being stared at by one all his life.

  And then (because everything must be done three times) the woman cried: 'If you love my daughter Ma Nge, let go!'

  The snake fell swooning to the ground. And as night had come on quite suddenly, in the snake's place the mother found the supplicant prince, smitten with love for her youngest daughter. And she wasted no time in getting him married to Ma Nge.

  That ought to be that end of the story. But in Burma stories don't end, they just go on and on forever, so that sometimes it is difficult to print them. But the prince had to do something to break the spell, because after some time Ma Nge found it rather irritating being married to a prince who was her husband by night and a snake by day. She said she preferred a man about the place even during the day. It was she who managed to break the spell because, like her mother, she had this remarkable business capacity. All she did was to find her husband a job of work, and the shock was so great that i
t broke the spell. It was the first time in his life that the prince had been expected to do any work, and he was so shaken that he completely forgot how to turn himself back into a snake. But the prince stuck to his job, and worked so hard that sometimes his wife felt quite lonely; she didn't know that his employers had given him a beautiful secretary, and that this was encouraging him to work overtime. And so, when he came home late and went straight to bed after dinner, she began to scold him and complain of his indifference. One morning he became so disgusted with her constant nagging that he found he could remember the magic spell and immediately turned himself into an enormous snake.

  He started by trying to swallow his wife's feet. Ma Nge called out to her mother, but her mother said that was quite all right.

  'He has swallowed my knees,' sailed poor Ma Nge.

  Never mind, dear,' replied her mother, who was cooking in the next room. 'You never can tell what an amorous husband will do.'

  'He has swallowed my neck.'

  The mother thought this was going too far; and when no further calls came from her daughter, she burst into the room and remonstrated with the snake, who had entirely swallowed Ma Nge.

  'Give her up at once,' cried the indignant mother.

  'Not unless you agree to may terms.' said the snake. 'First, I'm to be a snake whenever I feel like it. Second, I'm to be a real prince and go to work only when I feel like it. How can your daughter love me if I come home tired from the office like any other man? You wanted a prince for a son-in-law. You got one. Now you must let me live like a prince.'

  The mother agreed to his terms, and he unswallowed his wife, and from that day onwards the two women did all the work while the prince sat in the verandah under the hanging orchids and drank a wonderful beer made from bitter gooseberries.

  Escape from Java

  'No one, it seemed, was interested in defending Java, only in getting out as fast as possible.'