_Neela Deo, King of All Elephants (Continued)_
To possess one white elephant is calamity. But if Evil--the nameless
one--could possess a pair, he would breed an army able to break down the
very walls of Equity.
Indra--supreme hypocrite--fathered the first two, who were brother and
sister. Kali--wife of Shiva, the great destroyer--Kali--goddess of
plague and famine and fear and death--was their mother.
Beware the white elephant--who is never white. The stain of Indra is on
his skin; the shadow of Kali on his hair. Honour is not in him!
The Gul Moti had always loved adventures; and she had been in the throat
of several. But this was no lark; it was more serious than funny.
Thirty-eight of the most valuable elephants in India were rolling away
before her toward the Vindha Hills. If they once arrived there, no man
could say how many of them, or if any of them, would ever be recovered.
The Nerbudda River crossed their path mid-way--almost at flood. If they
entered that tide--deep and wide and muddy--state-housings of great value
would be hopelessly damaged.
Mitha Baba was beginning to show that she did not like the old mahout's
urging--but Mitha Baba was always willful. Indeed, the Gul Moti was
depending much on this same willfulness. The splendid female was still
young, but she had been for years a celebrated toiler of wild elephants;
and it was well known she had loved the game. Had she forgotten it?
Could she be reminded? First, it was supremely important to overtake all
the others this side the Nerbudda.
The old mahout gasped a broken cry, as Mitha Baba lifted him and set him
not too gently on the ground; she was in a hurry herself and she was
making speed on her own account--she objected to being urged. The Gul
Moti, understanding in a flash, cried quickly:
"No, no! Mitha Baba, I want him! Put him up to me--put him up to
me--soon!"
Mitha Baba wavered in her long stride.
"Mitha Baba, I want him--I want him!"
And the elephant turned on a circle and caught him up, throwing him far
enough back, so the Gul Moti could help him into the howdah.
"My day is done!" he said bitterly.
"Nay, father!" the girl physician answered him. "She knew you were not
safe there."
"Is it so?" the old man marvelled. "Indeed, she always loved me! Now I
am satisfied!"
Then, in the white fire of what men call genius, the Gul Moti stood up to
meet this new emergency--leaning toward Mitha Baba's head--and called in
ringing tones:
"Now come, Mitha Baba, we're away! We're going out to fetch them in!
Away, away, awa-a-ay!"
So long as he lived, the old mahout told of the intoxicating splendour of
that young voice--the golden beauty of those tones; of how Mitha Baba
reached out further and further every stride, to its rhythm, till the
earth rose up and the stars began to swing.
"We'll fetch them in, Mitha Baba, we'll fetch them in! . . . Away, away,
awa-a-ay!"
But the toiler of wild elephants had remembered the game she loved.
As they topped the crest of a low hill, the Gul Moti scanned the country
declining before her toward the Nerbudda. A string of jewels
appeared--incredibly gorgeous in mid-day light. It was thirty-eight
full-caparisoned elephants--going fast. Mitha Baba called on them to
wait for her; but they remained in sight only a few minutes. The Gul
Moti's high courage sank; the caravan was too near the river to be
delayed by Mitha Baba's calls--the river too far ahead.
"Do they ever obey her, Laka Din?" the Gul Moti asked.
"They always used to," the old man replied dubiously.
Finally Mitha Baba came out into the straight descent toward the river.
No elephants were in sight, but a blotch of colour showed on the bank.
"Well done for those mahouts!" the Gul Moti cried out in relief. "The
caparisons at least are safe. How did they do it?"
"It was well done, Hakima-ji," the old man exulted. "The masters were
listening to Mitha Baba, delaying between her and the river--space
of six breaths; then those men became like monkeys! It is no
easiness--unfastening everything from top of an elephant. (I who am old
have done it!) Also, some went down to loosen underneath buckles. You
shall see."
They found four very disconsolate mahouts on the bank of the river beside
the great pile of nicely arranged stuff.
"I want the smallest howdah you have!" called the Gul Moti, as the men
sprang in front of Mitha Baba.
"But, Hakima-ji," they protested, "by getting down--we were left behind!"
"I must not be left--and yet you must take these clothes from her!" the
Gul Moti said, while they helped the old man to the ground.
"Then go to her neck--oh, Thou Healer-without-fear! She will not wait
long--she follows Nut Kut, the demon! and Gunpat Rao, who both got away
with everything on!"
Still hoping, the Gul Moti slipped over the edge of the big howdah and
climbed toward Mitha Baba's neck. The mahouts worked fast stripping her.
Then Mitha Baba flung her head, striding away from their puny fingers,
and plunged into the river. Sinking at first enough to wet the Gul Moti
a little, she rose beautifully as she found her swimming stroke.
Day went by--and no elephants in sight. Night came on--and no elephants
in sight. Mitha Baba rolled across the Nerbudda valley, as confident of
her way as if she travelled the great Highway-of-all-India. She began to
climb into the rising country beyond, as certain of her steps as if she
were coming in to her own stockades. The Gul Moti took up her call
again--thinking of the caravan they were following. But Mitha Baba was
not thinking of the caravan. It had happened that the Gul Moti's tones
had fallen upon those intonations used in High Himalaya, to send the
toilers out to toil wild elephants in.
It was night-time, before the moon came up, when a strange elephant
crashed past them--lunging in the opposite direction. It reeled as it
ran and went down on its knees; evidently having been done to death in a
fight. But the outline of it, in the shadows, appeared too lean to be
one of her own.
Soon after that, Mitha Baba trumpeted in a new tone of voice--one the Gul
Moti had never heard before. It sounded very wild, very desolate.
"In the name of all the gods, Mitha Baba, what's the meaning of that?"
the Gul Moti enquired with a little tension--it being one of those
moments when one gains assurance by speech.
But Mitha Baba's reply was in the very oldest language of India--one even
the mahouts know only a very little of. It rose in wild, wistful
tones--higher and higher. It was repeated from time to time; the sense
of it strangely thrilling to the girl on her neck.
. . . They were well up in the mountains, so far that the trees had
become massive of body and heavy and dense of top--the moon only just
showing through--when they heard the trumpeting of elephants, off toward
the east. Mitha Baba answered at once, turning abruptly toward the east.
"Mitha Baba!" the Gul Moti protested, "our people have never gone off in
this direction--where are we, anyway?"
Mitha Baba's calling was just as wild as before; but it had become wild
exultation.
. . . They were coming up into what reminded the Gul Moti of something
she had heard--that the really old jungle is always dark; that the light
of day never touches earth there. This was almost dark, the moon
glinting through black shadows--only at intervals.
The sense of this place was strange. It might be on another planet. And
that thought touched the root of the difference--this was not on, this
was in. Everything felt in--deep in.
Here Mitha Baba changed her voice again. (Nothing had ever happened to
the Gul Moti like it.) It was still wild, still wistful--quite as much
so as before. But there was a cooing roll in it--away and away the most
enticing thing human ears ever listened to. It sounded like
Nature--weaving all spells of all glamour, in tone; soft-flaming gold, in
tone; soft-flaming rose, in tone; and on and on--the very softest,
deepest magics of life-perpetual!
. . . The trumpeting ahead was fuller and nearer, distinctly nearer;
almost as if they were coming into it. Then, without warning, the mighty
mountain trees cut off the moon-lit sky. It had been dark before--now it
was utterly dark!
Suddenly the Gul Moti was aware of a strong earth-smell. There was no
stench about. It had a quality of incense made of tree-gums and
sandalwood and perfume-barks, all together. Then a dull thudding caught
her ear--almost rhythmic.
. . . The earth-smells deepened and the thudding thickened. Mitha Baba
was not climbing any more; moving smoothly, on what felt like firm soil,
she seemed to turn and turn again. It was fathoms deep in rayless
night--the place that never knew the light of day!
Carlin clung tight to Mitha Baba's neck and remembered everything actual,
everything definite, everything sound and sensible she knew. The
earth-smells filled her nostrils, her lungs, her blood; tree-gums,
sandal-wood, perfume-bark, body-warmth--charging the air.
And over all--wild, and wistful, and pulsing-tender--the weaving of Mitha
Baba's enchantment through the dark.
The thudding all about her on the ground--must be the sound of many wild
feet! This must be--the "toiling in."
. . . A rending, tearing noise broke in on Mitha Baba's voice; and at
once a great crash among the trees, high up. (Someone had torn a sapling
from its place and flung it far.)
. . . The keen squeal of a very little elephant--right near--and the
angry protest of a strange voice. (Some mother's baby had been pinched,
in the crowd!)
. . . It must be imagination--this strong nearness! The Gul Moti,
putting out her hand, touched--skin! And within the same breath, on both
sides of Mitha Baba--first this side and then that side--two great
elephants challenged each other. They were both long, rocking blasts, a
little above and almost against the Gul Moti's quickened ears. She
shivered under the shock.
Mitha Baba, without breaking her step, backed away from between them; and
the impact of frightful blow meeting frightful blow, bruised through the
outbreak of much trumpeting.
As Mitha Baba went further and further from the fighters, the Gul Moti
was amazed at the sounds of their meeting--like explosions. She
remembered their tonnage; and recalled having heard that an elephant
fight is not the sort of thing civilised men call sport.
. . . A soft, _feeling_ thing crept from the Gul Moti's shoulder along
down her back! With convulsive fingers she clung tighter to Mitha Baba's
neck. Instantly Mitha Baba turned a bit, driving sidewise at the
stranger with her head. The Gul Moti's confidence in the great female's
intention to protect her, was established!
At last, lifting her head sharply to utter a different call, Mitha Baba
developed a peculiar drive in her motion; a queer drive in the whole huge
body that had something to do with a wide swinging of the head. It made
them both touch the strange elephants, every few minutes; and always
there was a storm of trumpeting all about. Gradually these outbreaks
began to sound toward one side; but the direction kept changing--so the
Gul Moti made out that Mitha Baba was moving round and round on the
outside of the mass.
After a while they came again into the vicinity where the big males were
still fighting. Mitha Baba rocked on her feet a moment, calling a
curious low call--a question, softly spoken. At once there was the sound
of rapid movement in front. Then Mitha Baba literally whirled--plunging
away at incredible speed--almost exactly in the opposite direction from
the one she had been facing.
Doctor Carlin Deal Hantee tried to remember Skag--tried to remember her
own name. She locked herself about that neck with her strength--she
clung with her might. She flattened her body and gripped with her
fingers and with her toes--long since having kicked off her low shoes.
Away and away they went, coming out into the moonlight--long enough to
see a mass of dun shadows rising and falling, lurching and rolling, on
all sides. Surely the Gul Moti had known that this was a wild elephant
herd--these hours. Surely the Gul Moti had heard the "toiling" of them
in! But what was Mitha Baba going to do with them--now that she had them?
Down the long slopes and up the steep inclines--the two big elephants
close on either side of Mitha Baba--plunging into khuds and out
again--most of the time up-ended, one way or the other, at astounding
angles--the wild herd raced with Mitha Baba toward whatever destination
she might choose.
Dawn broke upon them while they were still in the very rugged hills; and
as the mountain outlines cleared of mist, the Gul Moti saw that Mitha
Baba was leading her catch straight away back to Hurda. True to her
training--there being no trap-stockades near--the toiler was taking them
home! The situation was absurd; but it roused the Gul Moti--like one out
of a dream--to actual joy.
Through grey avenues of forest trees--rolling down khuds, ringing up
crags--the voice of Nut Kut went on out beyond the mountain peaks, to
meet approaching day. Nut Kut, the great black elephant who had been
trapped in these same Vindha Hills only a few years ago, was rejoicing in
freedom again. Nut Kut, who had already made his reputation as the most
deadly fighter known to the mahouts, was exulting in strength. It was
his joy-song. It came from straight ahead. Mitha Baba answered with a
rollicking squeal. But the wild herd voices were savage--chaotic. Now
Nut Kut's challenge came back--looming. The situation was no longer
absurd.
It meant a fight--an open fight--between the wild herd and the caravan.
The wild herd would never give Mitha Baba over to her own--they would
surely fight to keep her. Everything tightened in the Gul Moti and
locked--hard. She had known most of the caravan elephants all her
life--what would happen to them? They had lived among men these many and
many years--never permitted to fight--they could not be equally
fighting-fit. The herd would be much leaner--it must be much tougher.
So she bruised her head and her heart between the things that were due to
happen to her caravan--horrible punishments and almost certain deaths.
When the caravan appeared, the males were leading; the four females well
in the rear. Nut Kut's flaming orange and imperial-blue trappings
covered and cumbered him; and young Gunpat Rao's gorgeous saffron and
old-rose burned through the Gul Moti's eyes to the hard lump in her
throat--it was the one time in their lives when they should be free.
At once the wild females gathered their youngsters--and some who seemed
almost mature--cutting them out from the herd and driving them back.
This revealed the wild fighters--many more in number than those of the
caravan. The approaching challenges, from both sides, were thundering
thick and fast now. The two bodies of elephants were plunging down the
opposite sides of a deep khud and would meet in the broad bottom. Mitha
Baba--the big males on each side of her--was setting the pace for this
side, as if everything depended on time. But when they were quite close,
she rushed ahead--straight through the caravan and beyond.
Mitha Baba had been leading her catch to her own stockades--being in no
wise responsible that they were not trap-stockades! Now, the home
elephants having come to receive it, she had rushed it in--exactly as she
would have rushed it into a trap. But Mitha Baba was not satisfied.
With a curious little call she wheeled, coming back to face the wild herd
from her own side.
It was a turmoil that looked and sounded like nothing imaginable. The
fighting pairs were choosing each other and taking place. They had
plenty of room. When it was settled between them, Nut Kut was facing the
most powerful-looking of the wild fighters; and Gunpat Rao, another who
looked almost as dangerous. The extra males of the wild herd--every one
formidable--were skirmishing about, watching for a chance to interfere.
It looked bad for the caravan.
The mahouts--the Gul Moti had scarcely remembered them till now--were
calling back and forth about a bad one, a "tricky elephant." Following
their gestures, she saw a pale shape moving around in the open. They
left no doubt that he represented the worst of all danger. They were
charging each other to watch him--never mind what.
. . . The fight was on. Plainly--in every tone, every action--the wild
went in with wild enthusiasm, the tame with grave determination. Mitha
Baba, having come in closer than any of the other females, did not
move,--save for a constant turning of her head under the Gul Moti's icy
fingers--seeming to keep an eye on all the separate fights at once.
Her fear for the caravan elephants was anguish, her fatigue extreme; but
excitement held the Gul Moti in a vise. She saw the fighters meet, skull
to skull. (Those were the frightful blows she had heard in the dark,
through the trumpeting of a whole herd!) How could any living thing
endure the impact of such weight? She looked to see the skin break away
and fall apart at once. She expected to see an elephant's head split
open. It was nerve-wrecking--an arena of giant violence.
"Pray the gods to send Neela Deo!" one of the mahouts shouted.
"Pray the gods to send Neela Deo!" others called back.
The Gul Moti knew that Neela Deo did not fight; that it was his
leadership they needed. Soon she heard a muffled cry from the same
mahout:
"Men of the Hills, mourn with me!"
(A low wind of tone replied.)
His elephant seemed slower than the one against him; slower in getting
back--in coming on. . . . Now he was wavering--shaken through his whole
bulk by every meeting. . . . He was not running--he was dazed--he was
down! Staring wide-eyed at the horror--the way a barbarian elephant
kills--the Gul Moti was glad Skag did not see! . . . The mahout had
managed to reach a tree in time to save his own life and was crouching on
a branch, with his head buried in his arms.
Nut Kut was finishing with the leader of the wild herd--more mercifully
than the wild was of doing it--when two of the extras charged him
together. Ram Yaksahn, his mahout--whose voice had not been heard
before--cried out; and Mitha Baba went in like a thunder-bolt. How it
happened no one could tell, but one of the wild elephants--before Mitha
Baba's rush, or in the instant when she reached him--caught his tusk
under Nut Kut's side-bands. They were made of heavy canvas, with chains
on top. As Mitha Baba drove at him and Nut Kut turned--his tusk ripped
out sidewise. With a frantic scream he got away, running up into the
jungle--still screaming so far as they could hear.
The Gul Moti, numb with weariness, had held on with her last ounce of
strength. Now she sat amazed at her escape--while a tumult of trumpeting
shattered the air about her. There was disturbance among the fighting
pairs; some staying with each other, some changing--running to and
fro--charging at odd angles. But when the confusion cleared--more fresh
ones had come in!
Now Nut Kut was a whirl-wind--he was unbelievable. One broke away from
him and ran--demoralised. One died--fairly defeated. Still others came
to meet him; yet his challenges were triumphant to the point of frenzy.
"Call on the gods! The devil is in!" rang out.
Gunpat Rao was now fighting for his life. The "tricky elephant" had
charged him from the open. This was the bad one whom the mahouts had
recognised on sight--had feared from the beginning. Gunpat Rao was one
of the finest young elephants in captivity; one of the swiftest in the
caravan; but the mahouts knew he could not think a trick! The sense of
his danger swept them.
The Gul Moti knew that "white elephants" are always feared--being almost
always bad. This one was not white; nor grey, nor yellow. He was
whitish-grey--dull-tawny overcast--unclean looking. He was larger in
frame than Gunpat Rao; but very lean--long, loose-jointed. He moved like
a suckling trying to caper. But there was a rakish look about him.
In spite of all their own stress--every one of their elephants being in
some degree of jeopardy--the mahouts gave as much attention to Gunpat Rao
as they could. It was foregone conclusion--he was doomed. Bracing
themselves to witness his defeat, expecting to see his bitter death in
the end, yet the bad one's method at the start maddened them beyond
control.
"He was bred in the Pit!" one mahout called.
"His father was Depravity!" another called back.
And they cursed him with the curses of the Hills.
Chakkra, who was Gunpat Rao's mahout, was a plucky little man; but his
face had gone old.
The pale one's behaviour was entirely different from any the Gul Moti had
seen. He was doing nothing regular--not using the common methods at all.
He was giving Gunpat Rao no chance to get back--to put his body-weight
into his drive. He was staying too close. He was circling--starting to
rush in and veering away--round and round, in and out. Then the Gul Moti
saw! He was manoeuvring to strike Gunpat Rao back of his ear! He was
trying to "hit below the belt!"
So Gunpat Rao was kept pivoting in his own tracks to face the danger,
with scant room to meet a rush when it came. And always it came when
least suggested by the other's manner. Then the pale one squealed--a
succession of thin, cutting tones--and Gunpat Rao answered with a charge.
The pale one raced away from him, wheeling suddenly and coming in behind
his head. (An instant before, it looked as if they would meet fairly.)
But Gunpat Rao, being in full drive and not on guard against such a
manoeuvre, could not stop quickly; yet he swerved just enough to clear
that yellow tusk--with a long slash in his flank! . . . Gunpat Rao began
to show that he was baffled. His trunk came around--feeling of Chakkra!
"He wants Neela Deo! His heart is alone!" Chakkra cried out.
"Pray the gods to send Neela Deo!" the mahouts answered together.
And from the khud-wall behind them, a thundering challenge rolled down.
It was like an avalanche of dynamic power.
Now the elephants of the Chief Commissioner's stockades gave account of
themselves. Youth had returned to them--courage had been restored. They
clamoured to heaven that they were doing well. They shouted to the
universe that they belonged to him--to Neela Deo, their King!
Sanford Hantee scarcely saw--an impossible thing--Carlin on Mitha Baba's
neck! Her face was actually strange--the awful pallor--the fire. It
left his brain a blank to other impressions, for minutes.
The Gul Moti only glimpsed the stone-white face of her American, beside
the Chief Commissioner, as Neela Deo charged past, on his way to take
over the fight that was taxing Gunpat Rao to the last breath before
defeat. Neela Deo had seen at once where he was needed most. He went in
with a charging challenge that was intoxication to those who heard--all
the assurance of ancient mastership in it.
No one had ever seen Neela Deo fight before. Kudrat Sharif was so
astonished that he barely got back from his neck in time to be out of the
way. The mahouts were amazed--Neela Deo did not fight! Neela Deo was
the Lord of peaceful rule!
Many of the fighting pairs broke away from each other, when they heard
Neela Deo's charging challenge, as if agreeing that the destiny of all
hung on the issue of his contest. This left most of the mahouts free to
watch. With passionate distress they saw the King--wounded almost to
death less than four months since--carrying a heavy howdah and three
men--going in to fight with a bad elephant who was all but fresh. They
cursed the wild elephant with every inward breath, seeing as little hope
for Neela Deo as they had seen for Gunpat Rao.
The Gul Moti watched--appalled. It seemed to her that the pale one had
been playing--before he engaged with Neela Deo. But he did not play any
more. He manoeuvred so fast that his body appeared to glance in and out.
But Neela Deo foiled him with still greater speed. Her eye could not
follow all--the maze, the glamour, the incredible spectacle.
Neela Deo's first blow had shaken the pale one, carrying a different
dimension of force from any in himself. He gave way--backing from it
with an angry scream, showing surprise and rage in every movement. When
he circled round, trying to get in on Neela Deo's side, the King was too
quick for him--forcing him out, forcing him further out; not permitting
him to follow his chosen course, whatever direction he took. He came in
with his peculiar art of approaches--the jarring blow was there! He
played all his lightning feints--the shock that rocked him was a flash
quicker! Neela Deo met him squarely, whatever curve he made--whatever
tangent he turned upon. This, every time, in spite of himself; for he
always meant to avoid that crash!
He tried his falsetto squeals--all aggravation in them. But Neela Deo
refused to accept taunts. This caused an instant's pause--the pale one
seeming to consider. Then he raced away and came back on a full drive,
as if meaning to meet the King in a legitimate encounter--after all. But
Neela Deo only lowered his head a fraction, leaning a bit forward; and
the pale one, instead of finishing straight, or passing alongside close
enough to strike--swerved out. This was the moment when Neela Deo
charged him and he ran, dodging--far beyond the range of the fighting
arena--down the khud valley. Everyone followed; the wild elephants
running by themselves--screaming in harsh tones; the caravan--trumpeting
in clear, full tones; the mahouts, calling the name of the King--beside
themselves with delight.
But Neela Deo was at the pale one's heels--his tusks not dangerous,
having been shortened and banded. Yet they were sharp enough to make the
pale one turn and defend himself. And desperately he fought, using every
faculty of his nature--every value of his wild fitness. Still the crook
in him showed. It was all faster now than in the beginning, but he was
not exhausted, he was not broken; only a bit less certain, a breath less
quick, when he tried the same old trick--to get in back of Neela Deo's
ear. And it was on that false turn that Neela Deo caught him fairly in
the throat--caught him and finished him in one thrust--with the blunt
point of a banded tusk. (That was the miracle of it all--the banded
tusk!)
Then Neela Deo stood back, put up his trunk and uttered a long, strong
blast. They were ringing tones--mounting clarion tones, with tremendous
volume at the top. They were the King's proclamation of victory.
The mahouts answered him in High Himalayan voices--full of unleashed
devotion. The caravan made announcement of that allegiance the heart of
an elephant gives--sometimes. But the wild herd broke away and ran
shrieking up into the Vindha Hills.
Coming down from Mitha Baba's neck between Skag's hands, the Gul Moti
smiled into his anguished eyes.
"Carlin! Are you--safe?" he asked.
"Safe--now!" she answered.
The tone of that low "now" startled him.
"Where have you been?" he breathed.
"Far--" she said, "very far!"
"But where?" he questioned.
"It was not in _our_ world, Skag," she said. "It was--dark!"
The Chief Commissioner had come close, to hear; was stroking her
shoulder, in fact--in an absent-minded way--shaking his head.
"You can't mean--_the dark_?" he broke in.
"I mean it was utterly dark, sir," she said. "It was absolutely dark!"
"But--I'm not able to understand!" her old friend protested.
"It was there Mitha Baba found them," the Gul Moti explained. "It was
there she did the '_toiling in_.' Then, she was leading them home to
Hurda, when we met the caravan--at dawn."
Some of the mahouts had gathered about. The Chief Commissioner spoke to
them in their speech and they answered him--calling others. Soon the men
of High Himalaya drew near with grave deference, slowly stooping to touch
the ground at her feet.
"No human has ever been in _that_ before," said Kudrat Sharif. "We will
prepare rest for her--Chosen-of-Vishnu, the Great Preserver!"
It was after they had cared for the Gul Moti with the best they
had--water from a mountain stream and food Neela Deo had carried, in a
shelter made of tender deodar tips, where she now slept on a bed made of
the same--that the mahouts told the Chief Commissioner and Skag, all they
themselves had seen.
By this time concern had spread from Hurda throughout the country. Neela
Deo had gone out to find the Gul Moti, carrying the Chief Commissioner
and Son of Power. No one had come back. Calamity must have fallen. Men
went out on horses to trace them. But it was certain priests of Hanuman
who found the caravan first. (The Gul Moti having saved the life of a
monkey king once, her safety was their concern also.) Without being seen
or heard themselves, they went close enough to learn that she was making
recovery from great exhaustion; and that the mahouts were caring for an
elephant unable to travel by reason of a bad wound. They overheard talk
of strange happenings; but more about Neela Deo's undreamed-of
achievement.
Before any of the searchers from Hurda reached the caravan, mysterious
gifts of provisions--much needed--were found by the mahouts, with a crude
writing beside them: "For the Healer-without-fear." And those same
priests of Hanuman--preparing a signal-system as they came--brought the
good word back to the anxious people, who became joyous at once. Their
Gul Moti was safe! Neela Deo was safe--everyone was safe. (But that was
a strange saying--that Neela Deo had fought!)
Bonfires blazed up in every village within sight of the caravan's way
home--from so far away as watchers on Hurda's highest hill could
see--burning night and day. At last the one furthest from Hurda went
out. The watchers raced in--Neela Deo's caravan was coming! One by one,
the bonfires went out--till it was this side the Nerbudda. Then the
people made ready.
They thronged out the great Highway-of-all-India, meeting the caravan
where the slow-moving elephants turned in from open jungle. Eagerly
striving to see the Gul Moti's face, eagerly pointing at Neela Deo, yet
it was a stranger silent multitude. Only many tears on many tears showed
their feeling.
The Gul Moti sat in Neela Deo's howdah, with the Chief Commissioner and
Son-of-Power. Two men came close, carrying a long slender shape covered
with pure white cloth--dripping wet.
"We be poor men," one said, "but our hands bring to thee, oh Healer--from
the people of Hurda, oh Healer--" and breaking off, because his lips
could speak no more, he stooped reverently to lay aside the covering.
A great folded leaf appeared; a long heavy stalk; then the flawless
splendour of one bloom--immaculate! a sacred lotus, brought from far
lakes. The Gul Moti received its ineffable loveliness and rose to
stretch her fingers toward the multitude. Then their shouts swept the
horizon.
Still, their concept of Neela Deo's character must be either shattered or
restored--and soon; they would not wait. Ominously quiet questions went
up to the mahouts; and the mahouts were full-ready to answer! In the
end, it sounded like a wild Himalayan chant about Neela Deo's great fight
to save Gunpat Rao. The people listened patiently, till an inward
meaning enlightened them. Then they exulted:
"Neela Deo, Neela Deo, King of all elephants!"
"Exalted in majesty, Defender of honour, protecting his own with
strength! We will remember him!"
"Neela Deo, Neela Deo, King of all elephants!"
"He with the wisdom of ages. Destroyer of devastators, preserving his
friend with blood! Our children shall not forget!"
"He the Discerner of men, Equitable King! He the Discerner of evil,
Invincible King! All generations after us shall hear of him; but we have
looked upon his face!"
"Neela Deo, Neela Deo, King of all elephants!"