When the púsári came to his senses, he found himself lying in the
jungle. It was early morning; but there was sufficient light for him to
distinguish the surrounding objects. He sat up and looked about him.
At first, he could not realise where he was; but when recollection of
his night’s adventure flashed across his mind, he became instantly
wide awake. He looked curiously and anxiously round. There was not
the least sign of any village or habitation of any sort—only dense,
pathless jungle all round! For some time he sat trying to recall the
incidents of the past night. It seemed to him like a wild dream. He
shuddered when he thought of it, and rising hastily, he prepared to
leave the uncanny spot. But he could see no path or track of any kind.
At length, noting the position of the sun, he decided that Pandiyán
must be in a certain direction, and at once began to make his way
through the jungle towards it. It was laborious and slow work forcing
his way through the dense undergrowth; but in about half an hour he
struck a path which he recognised as leading from a neighbouring
village to Pandiyán. He had not gone far along this path when he met
a man driving a number of pack-bullocks. To his surprise, the leading
bullock came straight towards him, as if it did not see him; and the
path being narrow, he had to step aside into the jungle to avoid it.
‘Hallo, brother!’ he said to the man driving the bullocks, ‘where are
you going, and what have you got in the packs?’
The man took no notice and made no answer, but merely shouted to his
bullocks and passed on. The púsári was inclined to be angry at the
man’s supposed rudeness; but thinking that perhaps he was deaf and had
not seen him, he went on his way without remark.
Presently he met a man from a neighbouring village whom he knew well,
coming along the path towards him. ‘Salaam, Arúmúkam!’ he said as they
neared each other; ‘you are about early this morning.’
To his great astonishment, the man came striding along as if he neither
saw nor heard him; and the púsári had to jump hastily aside, lest he
should be thrown down. For a few moments he stared after his retreating
friend, amazed at his extraordinary conduct; then he burst into a
passion, and shouting after him loudly, cursed him and his manners. But
the man went quietly on without replying, or even turning his head.
Very much surprised at what had happened, and in an angry, disturbed
frame of mind, the púsári resumed his journey. Soon he came to
the river. As he went down the steep descent to the water, he was
horror-struck to see a huge wild elephant appear from behind the bushes
overhanging the river, a few yards off, and come towards him. There
was no way of escape. The banks of the river rose perpendicularly on
either side of him, and there was no time for him to scramble back by
the way he had come. On came the elephant, dripping with water from its
morning bath in the river, and lazily swinging its trunk and flapping
its ears. The púsári stood petrified with terror in full view of the
animal, unable to move hand or foot. The elephant advanced till it
stood directly over him. But instead of throwing him down and crushing
him to death, as the púsári momentarily expected, it leisurely broke
off a branch from a bush on the bank above him and slowly munched it.
He could feel its hot breath as he crouched against the bank under its
huge head. Suddenly it turned away, listened for a moment to some sound
in the distance, and then walked slowly off down the river. With a
feeling of intense relief, he watched it out of sight. It was evident
the elephant had neither seen nor smelt him; but for what reason he
could not imagine.
Picking up his stick, which he had dropped in his fright, the púsári
went down to the water to wade through to the other side; and then
he discovered the reason of the strange behaviour of the two men he
had met, and why the elephant had not molested him. As he entered the
pool, he happened to glance down, and instantly saw, to his intense
horror, that his form was not reflected in it! It was some moments
before he realised what had happened. He was invisible! The water he
had drunk at the pisási village was a magic draught, and its effect
had been to make him invisible. Long and earnestly did he gaze down
into the water; but in vain; only the reflection of the blue sky and
overhanging trees appeared on the bright face of the pool. At length,
in an agony of alarm and distress, he waded through the water, without,
however, causing the faintest ripple on its surface, and hurried off
to the village, in the hope of finding that his dreadful suspicion was
not true. Close to the village he met a boy, the son of a neighbour,
driving some cattle to the tank pasture; the urchin passed him without
a word and without looking at him. The púsári groaned aloud and passed
on. Soon he reached the village, and passed through, glancing about
him with terrified anxiety, in the hope that some one would recognise
him. But though several of the villagers were standing about, not one
of them took the smallest notice of him. He went straight to his own
house. Just as he reached the gate, his daughter came out carrying
a water-pot on her hip; she was going to the well for water. The
púsári stood before her in an agony of fear and expectation. To his
unutterable horror, she walked past him without the slightest sign of
recognition!
‘Vallee, my child!’ he cried, stretching out his hands beseechingly,
‘do you not see me?’ But the girl walked on unconcernedly.
Just then a woman came out of a hut near by bound on the same errand as
herself. ‘Well, child,’ she exclaimed, addressing Vallee, ‘what did the
múdliya say to your father?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied; ‘he has not come back yet.’
This answer completely dispelled the hope that the púsári had clung
to—that his daughter might yet recognise him. He knew now what a mighty
spell was on him, and that he was invisible to mortal eyes, and had no
substance or voice. Wringing his hands and wailing aloud, but inaudibly
to all human ears, he followed the two women to the well, and listened
with agony and despair in his heart to their chatter and laughter.
Several times he shouted, as he thought loudly, to his daughter, in the
hope of making her hear, and also attempted to seize her by the arm;
but she neither heard his voice nor felt his touch. Before entering
the house again, on her return from the well, Vallee looked for some
moments in the direction of the path to Mánkúlam, in the hope or
expectation, apparently, of seeing her father appear, little thinking
how near he was to her. The púsári entered the hut with her and sat
down in his accustomed corner, overwhelmed by his terrible misfortune.
Suddenly there was a noise in the village outside. Some one, in loud
excited tones, was relating something which seemed to be of startling
import, from the loud ejaculations of surprise that followed. Listening
intently, the púsári heard a man say: ‘Yes, the múdliya has been
murdered, and his money-box broken open and rifled!’
Vallee, too, had evidently caught the words, for, starting up, she
rushed out, and was followed by her father. A number of villagers were
standing under a tree listening to a man whom the púsári recognised
as an inhabitant of Mánkúlam. He was talking rapidly and with much
gesticulation. On catching sight of Vallee, he stopped short, and with
a glance round, asked loudly and abruptly: ‘Where is your father,
child?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied the girl, noting with surprise the meaning
looks which the villagers exchanged. ‘He went last night to Mánkúlam to
see the múdliya, and has not yet come home.’
‘The múdliya has been murdered,’ said the man gravely; ‘and the
púsári’s knife has been found, and it is covered with blood!’
Vallee instantly understood what the man implied. With widely opened
eyes and parted lips, she stood transfixed to the spot. She knew too
well her father’s uncontrollable temper, not to feel him capable of any
deed, however atrocious, when his passions were roused. Yet she loved
him fondly and sincerely, and when she realised the awful nature of the
crime with which he was charged, she threw herself on the ground and
abandoned herself to grief and despair, refusing the comfort offered
her by the women standing round.
The villagers, meanwhile, plied the bringer of the news with questions.
He related how the múdliya’s little grandson had been present at a
stormy interview between his grandfather and the púsári, at which
the latter had uttered many threats; how, after the púsári had left
the house, he had returned when the múdliya was alone, and had
murdered him, and then robbed him of all his money and jewels. This
was proved by the finding of his knife covered with blood, and by
his disappearance, he having clearly fled to escape the penalty of
his crime. The púsári’s rage on hearing himself charged with such a
dreadful deed was excessive. Boiling over with wrath, he turned about
in the crowd, addressing one and then another with indignant denials
and protests. But though he shouted and raved and gesticulated, no one
saw or heard him; and at length, seeing how fruitless his efforts to
make himself heard were, he quieted down and waited to see what would
be done next.
Presently, a party of villagers, full of pleasant excitement and
curiosity, started off for Mánkúlam, the scene of the murder, and
the púsári decided to go with them. As they went along, he listened
with grim, bitter amusement to the remarks his fellow-villagers made
about him. His unneighbourly hatred of Iyan Elúvan, his violent temper
and quarrelsome nature, were the subject of general condemnation. It
appeared, by what they said, that one and all of the party had long
foreseen what his evil passions would bring him to. Every man of them
believed him to be guilty of the murder, and there was not one to
express any doubt or to say a good word for him.
In such pleasant converse the party arrived at Mánkúlam, and went to
the headman’s house. It was crowded inside and out by an excited,
curious throng. The púsári made his way into the hut. On a bed,
in the middle of it, lay the body of the múdliya. A wound in the
throat, exposed to view, showed how he had come by his death, and
indications were not wanting that he had struggled hard for life. A
number of women, relatives of the deceased, were shrieking in chorus
the death-wail over the corpse. In a corner of the hut sat a young
man, a minor headman from a neighbouring village, busily engaged in
inquiring into all the circumstances of the murder. He was occupied in
making a list, from the statements of the murdered man’s relatives,
of the missing articles of jewellery. The strong-box from which they
had been stolen stood, with its lid broken, before him. Lying on the
floor beside him was a knife, which the púsári immediately recognised
as his own, though how it got there and came to be covered with blood,
was more than he could guess. As he listened to the questions of the
headman and heard the remarks of the bystanders, the púsári began to
feel a kind of grim satisfaction in the fact of his being invisible,
so black seemed the case against him. He could not but feel that the
evidence produced more than justified them all in believing him to be
the murderer.
As he moved invisibly about the hut, he suddenly caught sight of his
enemy Iyan Elúvan entering the door. Iyan was accompanied by his
younger brother Valan, Vallee’s lover, a tall, well-made young man,
with handsome, pleasant features. The two men were very unlike each
other in every way—in features, expression, and manner, and no stranger
would have thought them to be brothers. On catching sight of Iyan, the
púsári moved close to him and watched him keenly. He had a nervous
downcast air, very different from his usual hard, bold expression. He
looked furtively and quickly round, and the púsári noticed a peculiar
expression pass over his face as he glanced at the corpse and then
hurriedly averted his eyes. A thought, a suspicion suddenly rushed into
the púsári’s mind. There stood the murderer! It was Iyan Elúvan who had
taken the múdliya’s life; and he had used his enemy’s knife, of which
he had in some way got possession, in order to cast the suspicion on
him. As the thought struck him, the púsári stepped fiercely forward to
seize and denounce him; then he recollected his strange position, and
with a strong effort, restrained himself. For some moments he stood
glaring malevolently but invisibly at his enemy.
‘This is an awful thing, Iyan,’ remarked a man standing by.
‘Ay,’ he responded in a gruff, harsh voice. ‘I felt sure that mad fool
Ráman Ummiyan would do this. I met him yesterday on his way here, and
heard him swear he would have the múdliya’s life.’
On hearing this lie, the púsári’s rage boiled over, but he could do
nothing but utter inaudible curses and threats. He soon tired, however,
of his useless ravings, and calmed down once more. Iyan did not remain
long in the house; he went to the headman, who took down his statement,
to which he swore, adding many cunning and malicious embellishments,
which made the lie seem very like truth. As he left the hut accompanied
by his brother, the púsári followed them. The brothers separated in the
village, and Iyan started for Pandiyán with his unseen enemy behind
him. The púsári could not rid himself of the feeling that he was still
visible, and so followed at some distance. Iyan walked fast, glancing
over his shoulder from time to time and muttering as he went.
The púsári followed his enemy about all day. Iyan did but little work
of any kind, but sat moody and restless in his hut all the afternoon,
only going occasionally to the door and glancing anxiously around.
He was alone in the hut, as he was a widower and had no children,
while Valan, who lived with him, was absent at Mánkúlam. Late in the
afternoon he began to make preparations for cooking the evening meal,
but in a very preoccupied, desultory manner. When it grew dusk, he
suddenly stopped, went to the door, and looked out to see if he was
being watched; and seeing he was not, slipped out, through the fence,
into the jungle at the back of his hut. The púsári followed him. Iyan
pushed his way through the dense undergrowth for some distance till he
came to a huge hollow tree that had been blasted by lightning; here he
stopped for a few minutes in a listening attitude. Hearing nothing to
alarm him, he fell on his knees and thrust his arm into a hole under
the roots and drew out something tied up in a cloth. The púsári saw his
enemy open the bundle, and then his suspicion that he was the murderer
of the headman was fully confirmed, for it was full of jewellery and
rupees. For some minutes Iyan remained gloating over his ill-gotten
wealth, counting the money and fingering the jewels. Once he started,
and a look of terror passed over his face. He had heard a rustle
overhead; but it was only caused by a small monkey in the tree above,
which was watching his movements with intense curiosity. At length Iyan
tied up his booty and replaced it in the hollow tree, and then sneaked
back to his hut, unseen by any one but his invisible enemy. Soon
afterwards, his brother Valan returned home, and the two men cooked and
ate their evening meal almost in silence. After watching them for some
time, the púsári went off to his own house.
He found Vallee lying moaning in a corner, utterly prostrated by the
heavy blow that had fallen on her. A kind-hearted woman of the village
had brought her some food, as she had not cooked anything for herself;
but the weeping girl refused to eat, and lay moaning and sobbing as
if her heart was breaking. The púsári longed to be able to speak to
her and assure her of his innocence; but made no attempt to do so,
knowing how useless it would be. At length the woman went away, and the
púsári sat for a long time watching with an aching heart his sorrowing,
unhappy daughter. At last, exhausted by her weeping and grief, Vallee
fell asleep. Seeing this, he rose, and went out into the village.
It was now quite dark, and nearly every one had retired to rest. He
wandered aimlessly about till he found himself before the little temple
on the dam of the tank. All was dark within save where a faint light
shone through a hole in the roof on to the hideous little idol. He
entered the temple and stood before the shrine. Long and earnestly did
he pray to the god to deliver him from the spell that had been cast
on him, and many were the promises and vows he made should his prayer
be granted. Then he began to dance before the idol, chanting sacred
manthras or hymns. All night long did the púsári remain in the temple,
sometimes offering púja, sometimes praying, and at other times dancing
wildly before the shrine. But the little stone god stood black and
silent in its niche, and no answer came to the púsári’s passionate
prayers.