_Blue Beast_
Across the river at the military camp, the cavalry outfits were
preparing for a jungle outing. It isn't easy to name the thing they
contemplated. Pig-sticking couldn't be called a quest, yet there are
"cracks" at the game, quite the same as at polo or billiards.
Horse and man carry their lives on the outside, so to speak. The trick
of it all is that a man never knows what the tusker will do. You can't
even count on him doing the opposite. And he does it quick. Often he
sniffs first, but you don't hear that until after it is done. Men have
heard that sniff as they lay under a horse that was kicking its life
out; yet the sniff really sounded while they were still in the
saddle--the horse still whole.
All the words that have to do with this sport are ugly. It's more like
a snort than a sniff. . . . You really must see it. A trampled place
in the jungle--tusker at bay---a mounted sticker on each side waiting
for the move. The tusker stands still. He looks nowhere, out of eyes
like burning cellars. That is as near as you can come with
words--trapdoors opening into cellars, smoke and flame below.
At this moment you are like a negative, being exposed. There is filmed
among your enduring pictures thereafter, the raking curving snout,
yellow tusks, blue bristling hollows from which the eyes burn. The
lances glint green from the creepers. . . .
Then the flick of the head that goes with the snort. The boar isn't
there--lanced doubtless. . . . Yes, the cavalry "cracks" get him for
the most part and then you hear men's laughter and bits of comment and
the strike of a match or two, for very much relished cigarettes. But
now and then, the scene shifts too quickly and the _other_ rider may
see his friend's mount stand up incredibly gashed--a white horse
possibly--and this _other_ must charge and lance true right now, for
the boar is waiting for the man in the saddle to come down.
Nobody ever thinks of the boar's part. Queer about that. It's the bad
revolting curve that goes with a tusker's snout, in the sag of which
the eye is set, that puts him out of reach of decent regard. Only two
other curves touch it for malignity--the curve of a hyena's shoulder
and the curve of a shark's jaw. Three scavengers that haven't had a
real chance. They weren't bred right.
Among the visitors that came in for the jungle play was Ian Deal, one
of the younger of Carlin's seven brothers; one of the two who hadn't
appeared for her marriage. The other missing brother was in Australia,
but Ian Deal had been in India at the time of the ceremony and not the
full-length of India away. Skag had thought about this; Carlin had
doubtless done more than that. Once she had flushed, when someone had
marked Ian's absence to the point of speaking of it. Before that, Skag
had only heard that Ian was one of the best-loved of all. . . .
He watched the meeting of the brother and sister. It was at the
railway station in Hurda, and Skag couldn't very well get away. There
was something almost like anguish in the face of the young man as he
hastened forward--anguish of devotion that never hoped to express
itself; anguish by no means sure of itself, because it burned with the
thought of Carlin being nearer to any man. Ian didn't speak, as he
stopped with a rush before his sister. He merely touched her cheek,
but his eyes were the eyes of a man whose heart was starving. The
English observe that this jealous affection occasionally exists between
twins; the Hindus suggest certain mysterious spiritual relations as
accounting for it. . . . Finally Skag realised that Carlin's eyes were
turned to him, something of pity in them and something of appeal.
It was all very quick then. Skag's hand was out to her brother. Ian
didn't see it. Only his right elbow raised the slightest bit; his dark
face flushed and paled that second. The stare was refined; it wasn't
hate so much as astonishment that any man could ever bring the thing
about to touch Carlin's heart. Back of it all was the matter that Ian
Deal would have died before confessing--the pain and powerlessness of a
brother who loves jealously.
Few beings of his years would have seen so deep and kept his nerve that
instant, but Skag had been different since his battle with the cobra.
He had decided never to lose his nerve again. This was the first test
since that day. . . . His throat tightened a second, so that he had to
clear it. All he knew then was that her brother was striding away,
having muttered something about the need to see after unshipping Kala
Khan, his Arab mount, which was aboard the train. There was a sort of
shimmer between Skag's eyes and Ian Deal's vanishing legs that made
them seem lifted out of all proportion. Then Carlin caught his arm,
carried him forward and to her at the same time, as she whispered:
"You were perfect, Skag-ji. I never loved you so much as that moment,
when poor Ian refused to take your hand--"
Skag cleared his throat a second time. . . . Carlin had used that name
only once or twice before; and only in moments of her greater joy in
him. He had been told by Horace Dickson that "ji" used intimately was
"nicer" than any English word.
Something in this experience threw Skag back to the point of the cobra
and the last experience with crippling nerves. Of course, it was the
thought of Carlin imprisoned in the playhouse that broke him. Starting
to run when he first saw the cobra on the threshold, he counted
Failure. That burst of speed for ten steps had put the king into
fighting mood. Skag had beaten thin in his own mind the possibility of
ever committing Failure again. A man must not lose his nerve in the
stress of a loved one's peril. One doesn't act so well to bring the
event to a winning. In fact, there is no excuse and no advantage and
no decency in losing one's nerve, any time, any place. . . .
Skag had _known_ things in certain seconds of his duel with the cobra.
(Mostly, a man only thinks he knows.) Carlin had stood on the
threshold, not more than fifteen feet away, while he was engaged. No
one had told him at that time, that the man does not live who can
continue to keep off a fighting cobra from striking home; but Skag
learned in that short interval. He faced not only the fastest thing he
had ever seen move, but it was also the _stillest_. It would come to a
dead stop before him--stillness compared to which a post or a wall is
mere squat inertia. This lifted head and hood was sustained,
elate--having the moveless calm one might imagine at the centre of a
solar system. Its outline was mysteriously clear. Often the
background was Carlin's own self. The action took place in the period
of the Indian afterglow, in which one can see better than in brilliant
sunlight, a light that breathes soft and delicate effulgences. The
cobra at the point of stillness was like dark dulled jewels against
it--dulled so that the raying of the jewels would not obscure the
contour.
And once toward the last, as he fought (the inside of his head feeling
like a smear of opened arteries), Skag had seen Carlin over the hood of
the cobra. She had seemed utterly tall, utterly enfolding; his
relation to her, one of the inevitables of creation. Nothing could
ever happen to take her away for long. Matters which men call life and
death were mere exigencies of his scheme and hers _together_.
In a word, it was a breath of the thing he had been yearning for, from
the moment he first saw her in the monkey glen; the need was the core
of the anguish he had known in the long pursuit of the thief elephant;
the thing that must come to a man and a maid who have found each other,
if there is to be any equity in the romantic plan at all, unless the
two are altogether asleep and content in the tight dimensions of
three-score-and-ten.
Skag had seen that he could not win; but he had also seen that Carlin
was _there_--there to stay! . . . Something in her--that no fever or
poison or death could take away--something for him! The thing was
vivid to him for moments afterward; it lingered in dimmer outlines for
hours; but as the days passed, he could only hold the vital essence of
what he had learned that hour.
Carlin was more to him every day--more dear and intimate in a hundred
ways; yet always she held the quest of her before him; a constant
suggestion of marvels of reserve; mysteries always unfolding, of no
will or design of hers. It seemed to the two that they were treading
the paths of a larger design than they could imagine; and Skag was sure
it was only the dullness of his faculty and the slowness of his taking,
not Carlin's resources of magic, that limited the joy.
Ian Deal took up his quarters across the river with the cavalry. He
did not come to the bungalow.
"He has always been strange," Carlin said. "In some ways he has been
closer to me than any of the others. Always strange--doing things one
time that showed the tenderest feeling for me and again the harshest
resentment. You could not know what he suffered--remaining away when
we were married. He has always hoped I would stay single. The idea
was like a passion in him. Some of the others have it, but not to the
same degree. . . . You know we have all felt the tragedy over us. We
are different. The English feel it and the natives, too; yet we hold
the respect of both, as no other half-caste line in India. It is
because of the austerity of our views on one subject--to keep the
lineage above reproach as it began. . . . No, Ian will not come here.
He has seen his sister. He will make that do--"
"Why don't you go to him?" Skag asked.
She turned her head softly.
"You Americans are amazing."
"Why?" he laughed.
"An Englishman or any of my brothers in your place, wouldn't think
India could contain Ian Deal and himself."
"It wouldn't do any good to fight that sort of feeling," Skag said.
"Only a man whose courage is proven would dare to say that."
"If I were on the right side, it would not be my part to leave India."
Carlin liked this so well that she decided Skag deserved to hear of a
certain matter.
". . . Ian has something on his side. You see I had almost decided not
to marry--almost promised him. He always said he would never marry if
I didn't; that our people would do better forgotten--so much hid sorrow
in the heart of us. . . . Something always kept me from making the
covenant with him; yet I have been closer and closer up the years to
the point of giving my life to the natives altogether. . . . That day
in the monkey glen, after the work was done . . . I looked into your
face! . . . You went away and came again. I had heard your voice.
The old tiger down by the river had made _you_ forget everything--but
your power"--
Carlin laughed. The last phrases had been spoken low and rapidly.
"I didn't forget everything, dear," she went on. "I didn't forget
anything! Everything meant _you_--all else tentative and preparatory.
I knew then that the plan was for joy, as soon as we knew enough to
take it--"
On the third morning of the pig-sticking Ian Deal rode by the elephant
stockades in Hurda just as the American passed. The hands were long
that held the bridle-rein, the narrowest Skag had ever seen on a man.
The boots were narrow like a poster drawing. It was plainly an
advantage for this man to ship his own horse from the south for the few
days of sport. The black Arab, Kala Khan, seemed built on the same
frame as its rider--speed and power done into delicacy, utter balance
of show and stamina. When the Arab is black, he is a keener black than
a man could think. His eyes were fierce, but it was the fierceness of
fidelity; of that darkness which intimates light; no red burning of
violence within.
Ian's face was darker from the saddle; the body superb in its high
tension and slender grace. Was this the brother that Roderick Deal,
the eldest, had spoken of as being darker than the average native? Yet
the caste-mark was not apparent; the two bloods perfectly blent.
The depth of Skag's feeling was called to pity as well as admiration.
The rift in this Deal's nature was emotional not physical--some mad
poetic thing, forever struggling in the tight matrices of a hard-set
world. India was rising clearer to Skag; even certain of her profound
complexities. He knew that instant how the fertilising pollen of the
West was needed here, and how the West needed the enfolding spiritual
culture which is the breath within the breath of the East. This swift
realisation had something to do with his own real work. It was filmy,
yet memorable--like the first glimpse of one's sealed orders, carried
long, to be opened at maturity. Also Skag had the dim impulse of a
thought that he had something for Ian Deal. He meant to speak to
Carlin of this at the right time.
"Pig-sticking no-end," the cavalry officers had promised and they were
making good.
That third afternoon Carlin and Skag took Nels out toward the open
jungle, which thrust a narrow triangular strip in toward the town. At
intervals they heard shouts, far deeper in. The Great Dane was in his
highest form, after weeks of care and training by Bhanah. He could
well carry his poise in a walk like this; having his full exercise
night and morning. A marvel thing, like nothing else--this dignity of
Nels. . . . The two neared their own magic place--not the monkey glen;
that was deeper in the jungle--the place where they had really found
each other as belonging, in the moment of afterglow.
"It was wonderful then," he said, "but I think--it is even more
wonderful now."
That was about as much as Sanford Hantee had ever put into a sentence.
Carlin looked at him steadily. They were getting past the need of
words. She saw that he was fulfilling her dream. Their story loomed
higher and more gleaming to him with the days. He had touched the
secret of all--that love is Quest; that love means on and on, means not
to stay; love from the first moment, but always lovelier, range on
range. It could only burn continually with higher power and whiter
light, through steady giving to others.
A woman knows this first, but she must bide her time until the man
catches up; until he enters into the working knowledge that the farther
vistas of perfection only open as two pull together with all their art
and power; that the intimate and ineffable between man and woman is
only accomplished by their united bestowal to the world.
They walked long in silence and deeper into the jungle before halting
again. Nels brushed the man's thigh and stood close. Skag's hand
dropped and he felt the rising hackles, before his eyes left Carlin's.
They heard the Dane's rumble and the world came back to them--the
shouting nearer.
For a moment they stood, a sense of languor stealing between them.
Without a word, their thoughts formed the same possibility, as two who
have a child that is vaguely threatened. They were deeper in the
jungle than they thought. . . . The cordon of native beaters was still
a mile away in its nearest arc, but there is never any telling what a
pig will do. . . . They turned back, walking together without haste,
Nels behind. They heard the thudding of a mount that runs and swerves
and runs again. It was nearer. . . . Their hands touched, but they
did not hasten.
When Carlin turned to him, Skag saw what he had seen on the cobra
day--weariness, but courage perfect. A kind of vague revolt rose in
him, that it should ever be called again to her eyes--more, that it
should come so soon. _He_ was ready, but not for Carlin to enter the
vortex again.
This foreboding they knew, together. Love made them sentient. Not
merely a possibility, but almost a glimpse had come--as if an ominous
presence had stolen in with the languor.
"Let's hurry, Carlin--"
She was smiling in a child's delicate way, as their steps quickened.
The thrash of the chase was nearer; the jungle was clearing as they
made their way to the border near Hurda. The low rumbling was from
Nels. He would stand, turning back an instant, then trot to overtake
them. . . . No question now. One pig at least, was clear of the
beaters, coming this way, someone in chase.
The great trees were far apart. They were near _their_ place, after
many minutes. They had caught a glimpse of a mounted man through the
trees--playing his game alone--the pig, but a crash in the
undergrowth. . . . There was silence, as if the hunter were
listening--then a cutting squeal, a laugh from the absorbed horseman,
and it was all before their eyes!
The tusker halted at the border of their little clearing. He had just
seen them and the dog--more enemies. . . . Hideous bone-rack--long as
a pony, tapering to the absurd piggy haunches--head as long as a pony's
head, with a look of decay round the yellow tusks--dripping gash from a
lance-wound under one ear--standing stock just now, at the end of all
flight!
Nels seemed to slide forward two feet, like a shoved statue. It was a
penetrating silence before the voice of Ian Deal:
"You two--what in God's name--"
That was all of words.
His black Arab, Kala Khan, had come to halt twice a lance-length from
the tusker. Carlin and Skag and Nels stood half the circle away from
the man and mount, a little farther from the still beast, the red right
eye of which made the central point of the whole tableau.
Ian looked hunched. He seemed suddenly ungainly--as if all sport like
this were mockery and he had merely been carried on in these lower
currents for a price. His lance wobbled across his bridle-arm which
was too rigid, the curb checking the perfect spring of the Arab's
action.
The tusker was bone-still, with that cocked look which means anything
but flight. Skag moved a step forward. His knees touched Nels; his
left hand was stretched back to hold Carlin in her place. There was no
word, no sound--and that was the last second of the tableau.
The tusker broke the picture. Flick of the head, a snort--and he
wasn't there. He wasn't on the lance! His side-charge, with no turn
which the eye could follow, carried him under the point of Ian's thrust
in direct drive at the black Arab's belly.
Kala Khan was standing straight up, yet they heard his scream. The
boar's head seemed on a swivel as he passed beneath. Ian Deal standing
in the stirrups swung forward, one arm round his mount's neck, but
badly out of the saddle. . . . The tusker turned to do it again.
Skag spoke. That was the instant Nels charged. In the same second,
the Arab, still on his hind legs, made a teetering plunge back, to
dodge the second drive of the beast, and Ian Deal fell, head-long on
the far side, his narrow boot locked in the steel stirrup.
Skag spoke again. It was to Kala Khan this time. Nels' smashing drive
at the throat had carried the tusker from under the Arab's feet. His
rumbling challenge had seemed to take up the scream of the horse; it
ended in the piercing squeal of the throated boar.
Skag still talked to Kala Khan, as he moved forward. The Arab stood
braced, facing him now--the tumbled head-down thing to the left, arms
sprawled, face turned away. A thousand to one, among the best mounts,
would have broken before the second charge and thrashed the hanging
head against the ground.
Skag's tones were continuous, his empty hand held out. There was never
a glance of his eye to the battle of the Dane and the beast. Four feet
from his hand was the hanging rein, his eyes to the eyes of the black,
his tones steadily lower, never rising, never ceasing. His loose
fingers closed upon the bridle rein; his free hand pressed the Arab's
cheek.
He felt Carlin beside him and turned--one of the tremendous moments of
life to find her there. (It was like the last instant of the cobra
fight, when he had seen her over the hood--utterly white, utterly
tall.) She took the rein from his hand. Her face turned to Nels'
struggle--but her eyes pressed shut.
Skag stepped to Kala Khan's side, lifted the leather fender, slipped
the cinch, and let the light hunting saddle slide over, releasing Ian
Deal. Then he sprang to Nels, calling as he caught up the fallen lance:
"Coming, old man--coming to you!"
Nels on his feet was bent to the task--the tusker sprawling, the piggy
haunches settling flat.
". . . So, it's all done, son," the man said softly. "You're the best
of them all to-day."
He laughed. Nels looked up at him in a bored way, but he still held.
Skag went back to Carlin. Ian Deal had partly risen. The American did
not catch his eye, and now Kala Khan stood between them, Carlin still
holding the rein. Skag's hand rested upon the wet trembling withers,
where the saddle had covered. There was a blue glisten to the
moisture. Skag loved the Arab very hard that moment, and no less
afterward. Kala Khan needed care at once. His wound was long and
deep, from the hock on the inside, up to the stifle-joint.
Ian Deal was on his feet, the Arab still between him and Skag's eyes.
But now her brother drew off, back turned, walking away, his arms and
hands fumbling queerly about his head, as he staggered a little.
"He will come back!" Carlin whispered.
Nels loosed now, but sat by his game--sat upon his haunches, bringing
first-aid cleansing to his shoulders and chest, where the pinned tusker
had worn against him in the battle. . . . All in astonishingly few
seconds--the blue beast still with an isolated kick or two.
It was as Carlin said. They had scarcely started toward Hurda before
they saw Ian Deal following. His pace quickened as he neared--his
first words queerly shocking:
"Is he hurt--oh, I say--is the Arab hurt?"
Skag answered: "A bad cut, but he'll be sound in a week or two."
"One might ask first, you know. He's rather a fine thing--"
Carlin seemed paler, as she held her brother with curious eyes. Ian
didn't see her. He was slowly taking in Skag, full-length.
"One might ask, you know," he repeated presently. "One couldn't make a
gift of a damaged thing. Oh, yes, you're to have him, Hantee. Things
of Kala Khan's quality gravitate to you--I was thinking of the dog, you
know--"
Skag shook his head.
"Don't make it harder for me!" Ian said fiercely. "He belongs to
you--Carlin, too, of course--no resistance of mine left. A man sees
differently--toes up."
Carlin pressed Skag's arm.
The American bowed. Ian Deal straightened.
"That's better," he breathed. "You'll see to the mount? I'd do it for
you, but I need an hour--in here among the trees, you know,
alone. . . . If it isn't quite clear to me, I'll cock one foot up in
the crotch of a tree--until it's straight again. . . . But it's clear,
Hantee," he added. "I'm seeing now--the man she sees--or something
like!"
Ian turned toward the deeper growths. . . . They walked in silence.
The untellable thing--for Skag alone--lingered in Carlin's eyes, in the
pallor of her face. She was the one who spoke:
"It is terrible--terribly dear, like a blending of two souls in a white
heat together--those moments at the play-house and now--as you held
Kala Khan--"
"It was not one alone," he answered strangely. "Something from you was
with me--half, with mine."