THE VILLAGE LEGACY.

"The case of Mussumat[30] Nuttia being without heirs," droned the

Court-Inspector.

"Bring her in."

"She is already in the Presence. If the Protector of the Poor will rise

somewhat,--at the other side of the table, _Huzoor!_--beside the

yellow-trousered legs of the guardian of peace,--that is Mussumat

Nuttia."

A child some three years of age, with a string of big blue beads round

her neck,--a child who had evidently had a very satisfying meal, and

who was even now preserving its contour by half-a-yard of sugar-cane,

stared gravely back at the Assistant Magistrate's grave face.

"She has no heirs of any kind?" he asked.

"None, _Huzoor!_ Her mother was of the Harni tribe, working harvests in

Bhamaniwallah-khurd. There the misfortune of being eaten by a snake

came upon her by the grace of God. Mussumat Nuttia therefore

remains,--"

"Oh, Guardian of the Poor!" said two voices in unison, as two tall

bearded figures swathed in whitish-brown draperies pressed a step

forward with outstretched petitioning hands. They had been awaiting

this crisis all day long with that mixture of tenacity and indifference

which is seen on most faces in an Indian Court.

"Give her in charge of the head-men of the village; they are

responsible."

"Shelter of the world! 'tis falsely represented. The woman was a

vagrant, a loose walker, a--"

"Is the order, written? Then bring the next case."

One flourish of a pen, and Mussumat Nuttia became a village-legacy;

the only immediate result being that having sucked one end of her

sugar-cane dry, she began methodically on the other. Half-an-hour

afterwards, mounted on a white pony, with pink eyes and nose, and a

dyed pink tail to match, she was on her way back to the cluster of reed

huts dignified by the name of Bhamaniwallah-khurd, or Little

Bhamaniwallah. Big Bhamaniwallah lay a full mile to the northward,

secured against midsummer floods by the high bank which stretched like

a mud wall right across the Punjab plain, from the skirts of the hills

to the great meeting of the five waters at Mittankote. But Little

Bhamaniwallah lay in the lap of the river, and so Bahadur, and Boota,

and Jodha, and all the grave big-bearded Dogas who fed their herds of

cattle on the low ground, and speculated in the cultivation of

sandbanks, lived with their loins girded ready to shift house with the

shifting of the river. That was why the huts were made of reeds; that

was why the women of the village clanked about in solid silver jewelry,

thus turning their persons into a secure savings-bank.

Mussumat Jewun, Bahadur the head-man's wife, wore bracelets like

manacles, and a perfect yoke of a necklet, as she patted out the dough

cakes and expostulated shrilly at the introduction of a new mouth into

the family, when Nuttia, fast asleep, was lifted from the pony and put

down in the warm sand by the door.

"She belongs to the village," replied the elders, wagging their beards.

"God knows what my Lords desire with the Harni brat, but if they ask

for her, she must be forthcoming; ay! and fat. They like people to grow

fat, even in their jail-_khanas_."

So Nuttia grew fat; she would have grown fat even had the fear of my

Lords not been before the simple villagers' eyes, for despite her

tender years, she was eminently fitted to take care of herself. She had

an instinct as to the houses where good things were being prepared, and

her chubby little hand, imperiously stretched out for a portion, was

seldom sent away empty. Indeed, to tell the sober truth, Nuttia was not

to be gainsaid as to her own hunger. "My stomach is bigger than _that_,

grandmother!" she would say confidently, if the alms appeared to her

inadequate, and neither cuffs nor neglect altered her conviction. She

never cried, and the little fat hand silently demanding more, came back

again and again after every rebuff, till she felt herself in a

condition to seek some warm sunny corner, and curl round to sleep. She

lived for the most part with the yelping, slouching village dogs,

following them, as the nights grew chill, to the smouldering

brick-kilns, where she fed the little dust-coloured puppies with

anything above, or beneath, her own appetite.

As she outgrew childhood's vestment of curves and dimples, some one

gave her an old rag of a petticoat. Perhaps the acquisition of clothes

followed, as in ancient days, a fall from grace; certain it was that

Nuttia in a garment was a far less estimable member of society than

Nuttia without one. To begin with, it afforded opportunity for the

display of many mortal sins. Vainglory in her own appearance, deceit in

attempting to palm the solitary prize off on the world as a various and

complete wardrobe, and dishonesty flagrant and unabashed; for once

provided with a convenient receptacle for acquired trifles, Nuttia took

to stealing as naturally as a puppy steals bones.

Then, once having recognised the pleasures of possession, she fought

furiously against any infringement of her rights. A boy twice her size

went yelling home to his parents on her first resort to brute force

consequent on the discovery of a potsherd tied to her favourite puppy's

tail. This victory proving unfortunate for the peace of the village,

the head-men awoke to the necessity for training up their Legacy in the

paths of virtue. So persistent pummelling was resorted to with the

happiest effect. Nuttia stole and fought no more; she retired with

dignity from a society which failed to appreciate her, and took to the

wilderness instead. At earliest dawn, after her begging-round was over,

she would wander out from the thorn-enclosures to the world--a

kaleidoscope world where fields ripened golden crops one year, and the

next brought the red-brown river wrinkling and dimpling in swift

current; where big brand-new continents rose up before eager eyes, and

clothed themselves in green herbs and creeping things innumerable;

going no further, however, in the scale of creation, except when the

pelicans hunched themselves together to doze away digestion, or a

snub-nosed alligator took a slimy snooze on the extreme edge. If you

wished to watch the birds, or the palm-squirrels, or the jerboa rats,

you had to face northwards and skirt the high bank. So much of Dame

Nature's ways, and a vast deal more, Mussumat Nuttia learnt ere the

setting sun and hunger drove her back to the brick-kilns, and the

never-failing meal of scraps--never-failing, because the Lords of the

Universe liked people to be fat, and the head-men were responsible for

their Legacy's condition.

So when an Assistant Magistrate--indefinite because of the constant

changes which apparently form part of Western policy--included the

Bhamaniwallahs in his winter tour of inspection, a _punchaiyut_, or

Council of Five, decided that it was the duty of the village to provide

Nuttia with a veil, in case she should be haled to the Presence; and

two yards of Manchester muslin were purchased from the reserve funds of

the village, and handed over to the child with many wise saws on the

general advisability of decency. Nuttia's delight for the first five

minutes was exhilarating, and sent the head-men back to other duties

with a glow of self-satisfaction on their solemn faces. Then she folded

the veil up quite square, sat down on it, and meditated on the various

uses to which it could be put.

The result may be told briefly. Two days afterwards the Assistant

Magistrate, being a keen sportsman, was crawling on his stomach to a

certain long low pool much frequented by teal and mallard. In the rear,

gleaming white through the caper bushes, showed the usual cloud of

witnesses filled with patient amazement at this unnecessary display of

energy; yet for all that counting shrewdly on the good temper likely to

result from good sport. So much so, that the sudden uprising into bad

language of the _Huzoor_ sent them forward, prodigal of apology; but

the sight that met their eyes dried up the fountain of excuse. Nuttia,

stark naked, stood knee-deep in the very centre of the pool, catching

small fry with a bag-net ingeniously constructed out of the Manchester

veil.

The _punchaiyut_ sat again to agree that a child who could not only

destroy the sport of the Guardian of the Poor, but could also drag the

village honour through the mud, despite munificent inducements toward

decency, must be possessed of a devil. So Nuttia was solemnly censed

with red pepper and turmeric, until her yells and struggles were deemed

sufficient to denote a casting out of the evil spirit. It is not in the

slow-brained, calm-hearted peasant of India to be unkind to children,

and so, when the function was over, Mussumat Jewun and the other

deep-chested, shrill-voiced women comforted the victim with sweetmeats

and the assurance that she would be ever so much better behaved in

future.

Nuttia eyed them suspiciously, but ate her sweetmeats. This incident

did not increase her confidence in humanity; on the other hand, the

attitude of the brute creation was a sore disappointment to her. She

might have had a heart instinct with greed of capture and sudden death,

instead of that dim desire of companionship, for all the notice taken

by the birds, and the squirrels, and the rats, of her outstretched

handful of crumbs. She would sit for long hours, silent as a little

bronze image set in the sunshiny sand; then in a rage, she would fling

the crumbs at the timid creatures, and go home to the dogs and the

buffaloes. They at least were not afraid of her; but then they were

afraid of nobody, and Nuttia wanted something of her very own.

One day she found it. It was only an old bed-leg, but to the eye of

faith an incarnation. For the leg of an Indian bed is not unlike a huge

ninepin, and even a Western imagination can detect the embryo likeness

between a ninepin and the human form divine. Man has a head, so has a

ninepin; and if humanity is to wear petticoats one solid leg is quite

as good as two--nay, better, since it stands more firmly. Arms were of

course wanting, but the holes ready cut in the oval centre for the

insertion of the bed-frame formed admirable sockets for two straight

pieces of bamboo. At this stage Nuttia's treasure presented the

appearance of a sign-post; but the passion of creation was on the

child, and a few hours afterwards something comically, yet pitifully,

like the Legacy herself stared back at her from that humble studio

among the dirt-heaps--a shag of goat's hair glued on with prickly-pear

juice, two lovely black eyes drawn with Mussumat Jewun's _khol_ pencil,

a few blue beads, a scanty petticoat and veil filched from the child's

own garments.

Nuttia, inspired by the recollection of a tinsel-decorated bride in Big

Bhamaniwallah, called her creature Sirdar Begum on the spot. Then she

hid her away in a tussock of tiger-grass beyond the thorn enclosures,

and strove to go her evening rounds as though nothing had happened. Yet

it was as if an angel from heaven had stepped down to take her by the

hand. Henceforward she was never to be alone. All through the silent

sunny days, as she watched the big black buffaloes grazing on the muddy

flats--for Nuttia was advanced to the dignity of a herd-girl by this

time--Sirdar Begum was with her as guide, counsellor, and friend.

Whether the doll fared best with a heart's whole devotion poured out on

her wooden head, or whether Nuttia's part in giving was more blessed,

need not be considered; the result to both being a steady grin on a

broad round face. But there was another result also--Nuttia began to

develop a taste for pure virtue. Perhaps it was the necessity of posing

before Sirdar Begum as infallible joined to the desire of keeping that

young person's conduct up to heroic pitch, which caused the sudden rise

in principle. At all events the Legacy's cattle became renowned as

steady milkers, and the amount of butter she managed to twirl out of

the sour curds satisfied even Mussumat Jewun's demands; whereupon the

other herds looked at her askance, and muttered an Indian equivalent of

seven devils. Then the necessity for amusing the doll led Nuttia into

lingering round the little knots of story-tellers who sat far on into

the night, discoursing of _jins_ and _ghouls_, of faithful lovers,

virtuous maidens, and the beauties of holiness. Down on the edge of the

big stream, with the water sliding by, Nuttia rehearsed all these

wonders to her adored bed-leg until, falling in love with

righteousness, she took to telling the truth.

It was a fatal mistake in a cattle-lifting district, and

Bhamaniwallah-khurd lay in the very centre of that maze of tamarisk

jungle, quicksand, and stream, which forms the cattle-thief's best

refuge. So Bahadur, and Jodha, and Boota, together with many another

honest man, made a steady income by levying black-mail on those who

sought safety within their boundaries; and this without in any way

endangering their own reputations. All that had to be done was to

obliterate strange tracks by sending their own droves in the right

direction and thereafter to keep silence. And every baby in both

Bhamaniwallahs knew that hoof-prints were not a legitimate subject for

conversation; all save Nuttia, and she--as luck would have it--was a

herd-girl! They tried beating this sixth sense into her, but it was no

use, and so whenever the silver-fringed turban, white cotton gloves,

and clanking sword of the native Inspector of Police were expected

in the village, they used to send the Legacy away to the back of

beyont,--right away to the Luckimpura island maybe, to reach which she

had to hold on to the biggest buffalo's tail, and thus, with Sirdar

Begum tied securely to its horns, and her own little black head bobbing

up and down in its wake, cross the narrow stream; after which the three

would spread themselves out to dry on the hot sand. Nuttia took a great

fancy to the island, and many a time when she might have driven the

herds to nearer pastures, preferred the long low stretches of

Luckimpura where a flush of green lingered even in the droughts of

April.

But even there on one very hot day scarcely a blade was to be found,

and Nuttia, careful of her beasts, and noting the lowness of the river,

gathered them round her with the herdsman's cry, and drove them to the

further brink, intending to take them across to a smaller island

beyond. To her surprise they stood knee-deep in the water immovable,

impassive, noses in air, with long curled horns lying on their necks.

The Legacy shaded her eyes to see more clearly. Nothing was to be seen

but the swift shallow stream, the level sand, and gleams of water

stretching away to the horizon. Something had frightened them--but

what? She gave up the puzzle, and with Sirdar Begum bolt upright before

her sat on a snag, dangling her feet over the stream for the sake of

the cool air which seemed to rise from the river.

The buffaloes roamed restlessly about, disturbed doubtless by the cloud

of flies. The sun beat down ineffectually on the doll's fuzzy head, but

it pierced Nuttia's thick pate, making her nod drowsily. Her voice

recounting the thrilling adventures of brave Bhopalutchi died away into

a sigh of sleep. So there was nothing left but the doll's wide

unwinking eyes to keep watch over the world.

What was that? Something cold, icy-cold! Nuttia woke with a start. One

brown heel had touched the water; she looked down at it, then swiftly

around her. The buffaloes huddled by the ford had ceased to graze, and

a quiver of light greeted her glance at the purple horizon. She sprang

to her feet, and breaking off a root from the snag, held it to the

dimpling water. The next instant a scared face looked at the horizon

once more. The river was rising fast, rising as she had never seen it

rise before. Yet in past years she had witnessed many a flood--floods

that had swept away much of the arable land, and driven the villagers

to till new soil thrown up nearer the high bank. Ay! and driven many of

them to seek new homes beside the new fields, until Bhamaniwallah-khurd

had dwindled away to a few houses, a very few, and these on that hot

April day deserted for the most part, since all the able-bodied men and

women were away at the harvest. Even the herds had driven their cattle

northwards, hoping to come in for some of the lively bustle of the

fields. So there remained none save Nuttia on the Luckimpura island,

and Mussumat Jewun with her new baby and the old hag who nursed her, in

the reed huts. All this came to the girl's memory as the long low cry

of the herd rose on the hot air, and with Sirdar Begum close clasped in

her veil she drove the big buffalo Moti into the stream. How cold the

water was--cold as the snows from which it came! The Legacy had not

lived in the lap of the river for so long without learning somewhat of

its ways. She knew of the frost-bound sources whence it flowed and of

the disastrous floods which follow, beneath a cloudless sky, on unusual

heat or unusual rain in those mountain fastnesses. The coming storm

whose arch of cloud, shimmering with sheet-lightning had crept beyond

the line of purple haze, was nothing; that was not the nightmare of the

river-folk.

She stood for a moment when dry land was reached, hesitating whether to

strike straight for the high bank or make for the village lying a mile

distant. Some vague instinct of showing Sirdar Begum she was not

afraid, made her choose the latter course, though most of the herd

refused to follow her decision and broke away. She collected her few

remaining favourites, and with cheerful cries plunged into the tamarisk

jungle. Here, shut out from sight, save of the yielding bushes, her

thoughts went far afield. What if the old _nullah_ between the reed

huts and the rising ground were to fill? What if the low levels between

that rising ground and the high bank were to flood? And every one

beyond in the yellow corn, except _Mai_ Jewun and people who did not

count,--babies, and old women, and the crippled girl in the far hut!

Only herself and Sirdar Begum to be brave, for _Mai_ Jewun was sick.

"Wake up! Wake up! _Mai_ Jewun! the floods are out!" broke in on the

new-born baby's wail as Nuttia's broad, scared face shut out the

sunlight from the door.

"Go away, unlucky daughter of a bad mother," grumbled Jewun drowsily.

"Dost wish to cast thy evil eye on my heart's delight? Go, I say."

"Yea! go!" grumbled the old nurse, cracking her fingers. "Sure some

devil possesseth thee to tell truth or lies at thy own pleasure."

But the crippled girl spinning in the far hut had heard the flying

feet, caught the excited cry, and now, crawling on her knees to the

door, threw up her hands and shrieked aloud. The water stood ankle-deep

among the tamarisk roots, and from its still pool tiny tongues licked

their way along the dry sand.

"The flood! the flood!" The unavailing cry rang out as the women

huddled together helplessly.

"_Mai_ Jewun! there is time," came the Legacy's eager voice. "Put the

baby down, and help. I saw them do it at Luckimpura that time they took

the cattle over the deep stream, and Bahadur beat me for seeing it.

Quick! quick!"

Simple enough, yet in its very simplicity lay their only chance of

escape. A string-woven bed buoyed up with the bundles of reeds cut

ready for re-thatching, and on this frail raft four people--nay five!

for first of all with jealous care Nuttia placed her beloved Sirdar

Begum in safety, wrapping her up in the clothes she discarded in favour

of free nakedness.

Quick! Quick! if the rising ground is to be gained and the levels

beyond forded ere the water is too deep! Moti and a companion yoked by

plough-ropes to the bed, wade knee-deep, hock-deep, into the stream,

and now with the old, cheerful cry Nuttia, clinging to their tails and

so guiding them, urges the beasts deeper still. The stream swirls past

holding them with it, though they breast it bravely. A log, long

stranded in some shallow, dances past, shaving the raft by an inch.

Then an alligator, swept from its moorings and casting eyes on Nuttia's

brown legs, makes the beasts plunge madly. A rope breaks,--the churned

water sweeps over the women,--the end is near,--when another frantic

struggle leaves Moti alone to her task. The high childish voice calling

on her favourite's courage rises again and again; but the others, cowed

into silence, clutch together with hid faces, till a fresh plunge

loosens their tongues once more. It is Moti finding foothold, and they

are safe--so far.

"Quick! _Mai_ Jewun," cries Nuttia, as her companions stand looking

fearfully over the waste of shallows before them. She knows from the

narrowness of the ridge they have reached that time is precious. "We

must wade while we can, saving Moti for the streams. Take up the baby,

and I--"

Her hands, busy on the bed, stilled themselves,--her face grew

grey,--she turned on them like a fury. "Sirdar Begum! I put her

there--where is Sirdar Begum?"

"That bed-leg!" shrilled the mother, tucking up her petticoats for

greater freedom. "There was no room, and Heart's Delight was cold. Bah!

wood floats."

"_Hull-lal-lal-a lalla la!_" The herdsman's cry was the only answer.

Moti has faced the flood again, but this time with a light load, for

the baby nestling amid Nuttia's clothes is the only occupant of the

frail raft.

"My son! My son! Light of mine eyes! Core of my heart! Come back! Come

back!"

But the little black head drifting down stream behind the big one never

turned from its set purpose. Wood floated, and so might babies. Why

not?

Why not, indeed! But, as a matter of fact, _Mai_ Jewun was right. A

dilapidated bed-leg was picked up on a sand-bank miles away when the

floods subsided; and Moti joined the herd next day to chew the cud of

her reflections contentedly. But the village Legacy and Heart's Delight

remained somewhere seeking for something,--that something, doubtless,

which had turned the bed-leg into Sirdar Begum.