"A whirlpool of uncertainty,
a prison of punishment,
a basket of illusion,
the open throat of hell."--_The Spring Sataka_.
A brick and some plaster clattered about Jan Cuxson's feet as he
crossed the temple chamber and stood looking out at the jungle, and the
animals of all sizes and shapes which were hurtling through the
undergrowth. For a minute he stood twirling the rusty knife blade
between his fingers, then hid it carefully behind a block of broken
masonry.
"Better so," he muttered, "not much good as a weapon of defence, but
better than nothing; might put the old man on the track if he happened
to find it on me when he comes to tie me up. My God! to think of it;
I, strong and healthy and sane, at the mercy of that old priest,
actually under his will--hypnotised, forced to do exactly what he tells
me. Please heavens the ghee will hold the plaster together round the
ring, and oh! I can't stand _much_ more of this suspense."
He had come to the end of his endurance.
Day had followed night, and night had followed day monotonously,
without a change in the heartbreaking dreariness of their round.
During the day he had watched the jungle over the outer wall for hours,
rewarded by an occasional glimpse of deer; once by a striped yellow
shade which had slunk between the trees, causing him to yearn for his
rifle; at night he had lain gazing at the stars, comfortable enough
upon a thick bed of leaves, untroubled by the mosquito which, as he had
learned, does not thrive in the Sunderbunds Jungle; and day and night
over the wall, or up at the stars, he strove to look into the future
and found a dreary blank.
But upon _this_ night he turned with a smile and a question on his lips
when the priest suddenly emerged from behind the heap of stones and
hurried across the flags towards him.
"Haste, sahib! The Mother is infuriated at the long waiting, and I go
to make sacrifice to appease her. _Haste_, for it is not good for man
if she stamps with both her holy feet. Come, and struggle not! Nay,
look not at me in such fashion lest I lay the stress of my will upon
you."
He looked so frail, that for an instant the white man had been tempted
to fling himself upon him, and find deliverance for himself and his
beloved by choking the wizened neck, or cracking the old pate against
the stones.
But one is rather at a disadvantage when thoughts are liable to be
read, and plans disclosed before they are even matured; and he walked
submissively towards the ring in the wall, and seated himself
abjectedly upon the floor, just as a handful of plaster inserted itself
between his neck and the open collar of his shirt, and the back of his
head bumped the wall.
"Something like a slight----"
"Haste, sahib! I must away to placate Kali, the Goddess of
Destruction. There is not long now to wait for the great sacrifice for
which she has waited all these weary years; and then, and only then,
shall the plague, and the pestilence, and the famine be ended, and the
people of India return to their old-time happiness."
He never once removed his eyes from those of the man beneath him, and
Cuxson sighed with relief, well content that the glaring eyes should
not move beyond his face.
Having knotted the thongs tightly, the old man straightened himself,
and smiled up at the silvery heavens in the ecstasy of his worship.
"Such sacrifice, O Mother, as thou hast longed for, and which has long
been forbidden thee through the might of the white man who rules us.
The temple is strewn with flowers, and the flames of hundreds of lights
shine in thy fish-shaped eyes, thou daughter of the eternal snows." He
looked down suddenly to Cuxson, and bending, whispered in his ear.
"The white woman approaches, O _feringhee_, even she who has caused
this land to travail in agony all these years. And you shall see her,
she shall come to you and know you not, and you shall hear her voice
upraised in worship as she lies upon the altar at her Mother's feet
while you are bound to the ring in the wall. She has done well in
worship, even in sacrifice, but it is in her rich warm blood that Kali
the Terrible would lave her hands. Struggle not, for behold, although
I have lifted my will from you that you should be tormented even as my
race has been tormented by a woman of your land, yet will the ring and
the hide hold you fast."
Like some huge bird of prey he ran swiftly back across the flags and
disappeared behind the mass of stones, and Cuxson, not daring to move
for fear of tightening the thongs, sat almost numb with anxiety as he
wondered if his luck would hold at the crucial moment.
Except for the crash of the frightened animals as they fought their way
through the undergrowth, there was no sound whatever in the place, but
as the moon took her seat above the exact centre of where once had been
the temple roof, he moved, and leant forward as far as the two feet of
raw hide would allow him, and from between his clenched teeth there
came one word:
"_Hell_!"
For the silence had been suddenly broken by a girl's sharp, hysterical
laugh, and though the sound was but a travesty, yet it was surely
Leonie's laugh.
Twisting his arms in the space the two feet of raw hide allowed him,
the slow, sure, desperate man with a mute appeal to _his_ God, sought
and caught the iron ring in his hands.
And in the jungle clearing where the fire smouldered dimly, and the
coolies, flat on their faces from abject terror, refused to move, Madhu
Krishnaghar sat, garbed as a servant, his brain in a whirl of religion
and hate, and his heart filled with love of the white girl he had sent
to certain death.
Suddenly he sprang to his feet, and tearing his raiment from him flung
it wide, and stood nude save for the loin cloth about the slender
middle, and the turban which outlined his tortured face, looking like
some lost bronze statue in the deserted places of the jungle. He
raised his hands to heaven and prayed.
"O Mother, spare her! O great god, have pity upon her," and the
suddenly risen wind took up his words and lifted them above the tree
tops, wafting them perhaps--and why not--to the God of Infinite Love.
Yet even as he prayed Leonie crept up to the doorway of the temple,
staring unblinkingly at the far end of the interior illuminated by the
flickering wicks of the hundreds of little lights. She inhaled deeply,
and half closed her glaring eyes as the overpowering sickly perfume of
flowers, and some other indescribably sickening odour went to her head
like cheap wine.
"Yes?" she said questioningly, although no sound had broken the intense
stillness, and stood quite still with her head a little on one side,
then dropped to one knee and commenced to unlace her high boots, the
slap of the laces pulled through the holes cutting the silence like a
knife.
With her hands clasped to her breast, and walking on the tips of her
bare toes, she moved through the shadows towards the light, alone and
obedient to a will that had no pity. Flowers were strewn thick in
every direction, and over them she passed to her death, while the eyes
of the priest never once left her face as he crouched in the opening
which led to the secret places of the temple; he even smiled when she
came to a standstill in front of the altar and swayed, slightly
overcome by the heavy atmosphere even in her trance; and he nodded his
head gently when she bent down and gathering handsful of the flowers,
flung them up above her head and laughed the hysterical, crazy laugh
which had reached the ears of the man she loved.
At her feet were _thalees_, brass plates laden with offerings of grain,
of woven stuffs, of gold and silver; at her right hand a crimson silk
_sari_ lay upon a heap of fallen stones, and upon it was a garland of
white flowers; and the slanting mother-o'-pearl eyes of the Goddess
Kali looked down from out the black face at this girl who was to be
sacrificed in atonement for the misery she had unwittingly brought upon
the land of India and her people.
Leonie's hands moved mechanically to her hair, which she unfastened and
shook out in all its glory; then they moved to the fastening of her
jersey, and one by one her garments slipped to the floor, leaving her
nude save for the covering of her hair.
Leaning down she lifted the _sari_, and with one quick movement twisted
it about her waist and across her breast; slipped the garland of white
flowers about her neck, and flinging back her hair raised her hands
above her head and shouted.
She did not sing or cry aloud, she shouted with her mouth wide open,
and her head thrust forward between her uplifted arms, a degrading
picture of religious sensuality; and gathering up armsful of flowers
from the floor, ran lightly over to the priest upon the tip of her bare
toes which were stained a hideous red, and putting the palm of one hand
against her forehead salaamed and said "Yes?" questioningly.
He laid no hand upon her, he made no sign and spoke no word, but she,
as drugged by another's will as if she were under the bane of opium,
followed him unhesitatingly into the secret places of the temple. Her
bare feet made no sound on the dust of centuries; her eyes looked back
unwaveringly into the eyes of the gods who leered down upon her; her
hair caught around those others of which it is not seemly to write; and
before them all she cast her flowers, and upon them all she laid her
open palm.
And Jan Cuxson held his breath when she quietly sidled round the block
of fallen masonry, and standing in a moonray glanced at him from the
corner of her eyes. Hung with flowers, she looked like a bacchante,
with one beautiful arm and shoulder showing bare through her mantle of
tumbled hair.
And his eyes caught the shadow of the priest cast by the passage lights
on to the floor as he stood hidden by the fallen stones, and he kept
still, but he called to his beloved, striving by his will to break her
chains, and truly at the sound of the loved voice the frozen horrors of
her face seemed to break like ice-floes before the sun in spring.
"Leonie," he called gently, "Leonie, come to me, come here to _me_!"
Her eyelids suddenly closed upon the staring gold-flecked eyes; her
mouth quivered in a little smile as she let fall the flowers about her
bloodstained feet and ran swiftly across to Jan; kneeling she touched
his face gently with her finger-tips, and stretched her hands across
his shoulders towards the thongs which bound him to the ring in the
wall.
Her hair fell upon him as she leaned towards him, and a memory of the
day he had found her in Rockham Cove flashed across his mind; her
mouth, her beautiful scarlet virgin mouth had almost touched his when
the priest's power, closing down, jerked her back into the horrible
travesty of her sweet, gentle self.
She sat back upon her heels and laughed, and said one word in
Hindustani which is best translated as dog, although it means
infinitely more and worse; and having uttered it she smote him across
the mouth with the flat of her hand and rose to her feet.
She stood for a moment laughing silently, looking down upon him, and
turning, ran swiftly across the flags to the block of fallen stones.
There she paused and glanced at the white man bound to the wall with
the light of battle in his eyes, before she disappeared, beckoning to
the priest who followed as she ran down the passage of the gods, making
obeisance before them as she passed.