round the door of which was congregated nearly the whole population of
the village. More than a score of persons, men, women, and children,
stood round an object in their midst, all talking excitedly to each
other and everybody at once. It was a buffalo they were looking at, and
the interest and excitement they showed arose from its having sustained
a severe injury. There was a gaping wound on its hind-leg, its hock
sinew having been cut through. The great ungainly brute, though so
seriously hurt, stood patient and quiet, looking about with a heavy
stupid air.
Among the crowd surrounding the buffalo was a young girl, whose light
colour, clean bright clothes, and profusion of jewellery, showed her
to be of superior caste and position to the others. She was Vallee,
the daughter of Ráman Ummiyan, the _púsári_ or village priest of
Pandiyán. She was a handsome girl, about fifteen years old; tall,
slender, and graceful, with regular features; large dark eyes, finely
arched eyebrows, and small sensitive mouth. She was engaged in washing
the blood and dirt from the buffalo’s wound. It was evident, from the
remarks addressed to her by the bystanders, condoling with her or
offering advice, that her father was the owner of the wounded animal.
‘It is no use, child,’ said an old man who had been examining the
wound. ‘He will never plough again. The sinew is cut through, and he
will be lame for life.’
‘Ap-pah! What will my father say when he comes home?’ exclaimed Vallee.
‘Ah, there will be a breaking of pots then, no doubt,’ replied the old
man.—‘Where was the beast found?’ he added.
‘Suriyan found him standing in the river helpless this afternoon, and
drove him home on three legs,’ replied Vallee.
‘Perhaps he cut himself on the sharp rocks in the river,’ suggested a
bystander.
‘No, no!’ said the old man. ‘The cut was made by a knife; and we would
not have to go far to find the owner of the knife,’ he added, muttering.
‘You are right enough, father,’ whispered the other, who had overheard
the old man’s remark. ‘We know very well who did this, and the púsári
will know too! There will be trouble when he comes home.—Ah, here he
comes!’
As he spoke, a man emerged from the jungle and entered the village,
and seeing the crowd, walked hastily towards it. It was Ráman Ummiyan,
the village priest. He was a tall, spare man, clad in a single yellow
garment. Several strings of sacred beads encircled his neck; and his
forehead, breast, and shoulders were smeared with consecrated ashes.
His face indicated a man of strong passions. His keen, close-set eyes;
deeply lined forehead; thin, sensitive nostrils; hard, straight mouth,
and other strongly marked features, showed him to be of an irritable,
quarrelsome disposition. As he advanced, the little crowd round the
wounded buffalo opened and made way for him.
‘What is this? What is the matter with it?’ he exclaimed as he glanced
at the animal.
‘See! father,’ replied Vallee, pointing to the wound. ‘Suriyan found it
at the river, and has just driven it here.’
For a moment the púsári bent and looked at the wound; then he burst
into a furious rage. Striking the end of his stick heavily on the
ground, he exclaimed passionately: ‘It is Iyan Elúvan who has done
this!’
The púsári and the man he spoke of were fellow-villagers and deadly
enemies. The feud between them had arisen from a quarrel about a field
which both men claimed. On going to law, the púsári had won the case,
and the other consequently hated him with a deep and deadly hatred.
Iyan Elúvan was a man of a cruel, malignant, cunning nature, and never
lost an opportunity of injuring or harassing his enemy. The quarrel was
now some years old, but his hatred was just as bitter as ever. Many a
time had the púsári had cause to regret having incurred his neighbour’s
ill-will. He was not equal to him in audacity and cunning, and was also
a much poorer man. He had brought many actions against his enemy; but
the latter’s keener brain and longer purse had almost always enabled
him to get the better of his adversary. The object of each man was to
drive the other out of the village; but the interests of both of them
in the village were too great to permit either to leave, so they lived
on within a stone’s-throw of one another, deadly enemies, always on the
watch to injure each other in every possible way.
‘Ah, ah!’ shouted the púsári, gesticulating furiously with his stick.
‘I will have vengeance for it! I swear by Púliya I will not rest till
I have repaid him with interest, though it cost me my last rupee!—How
long,’ he continued, turning fiercely to the villagers, who stood round
silent but sympathising—‘how long are we to bear with this man? He is
a wild beast, as cruel and dangerous as the fiercest brute in these
jungles. He will stand at nothing to gratify his hate. He has robbed
me and slandered me, and brought false cases against me; and now, see
the brutal way he has injured this poor brute of mine! He will try
to murder me next. But I will have vengeance; I will complain to the
headman!’
‘Not much use in that, _iya_’ [a term of respect], remarked the old man
who had before spoken.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed the púsári passionately, ‘he will bribe the headman as
usual, no doubt. But I will outbid him! The múdliya shall have my last
ricepot ere I be balked of my vengeance!’ So saying, he strode into his
house, muttering curses and threats.
Vallee, after a short time, followed him in. ‘The rice is ready,
father,’ she said. ‘Shall I serve it?’
‘No!’ replied her father sternly. ‘I will neither eat nor drink till I
have seen to this matter. I shall go at once to Mánkúlam and see the
múdliya.’
‘Father!’ said Vallee hesitatingly, ‘perhaps Iyan did not do this;
perhaps’——
‘You’re a fool, child!’ returned the púsári sharply. ‘Who but he could
have done it?’
‘Valan told me’—— began Vallee timidly.
Her father interrupted her with an angry exclamation. ‘Did I not order
you never to speak to him? Have you dared to listen to the brother of
my bitterest enemy?’ and he raised his hand threateningly. ‘Now listen,
daughter! If you ever speak to Valan or listen to him or have aught to
do with him again, I will beat you as I would a dog; I swear to you I
will.—Now, hearken to my words and obey!’ And with a threatening look
and a suggestive shake of his stick, the púsári stalked out. After
another look in silence at the wounded buffalo, he left the village and
strode off in the direction of Mánkúlam, leaving Vallee crouching in a
corner of the hut with her hands over her face and sobbing aloud.
Valan Elúvan, of whom they had been speaking, was the younger brother
of the púsári’s enemy, and was Vallee’s lover. He was a man of a very
different nature from his brother, being open-hearted, generous, and
good-natured. Nevertheless, the púsári hated him almost as much as he
did his brother. The understanding between Valan and Vallee had only
recently been come to. For a long time, Valan had watched and admired
the graceful maiden; but owing to the bad feeling between the two
families, had not ventured to speak to her. One day, however, seeing
her in difficulties with a troublesome cow she was trying to milk, he
went to her assistance. She thanked him shyly, but with such evident
pleasure at his attention, that he was emboldened to speak to her
again, when he met her one day going to a neighbouring village. After
that, they frequently found occasion to meet alone, and gradually
their acquaintance grew to intimacy, and finally ripened to love.
Unfortunately, her father discovered accidentally what was going on,
and sternly forbade Vallee ever to speak to her lover again. Since
then, she had only had one opportunity of seeing Valan. This fresh
outrage on the part of Iyan Elúvan, she knew but too well, finally
extinguished all chance of her father ever accepting Valan as her
lover; so, crouching in the dark hut, she gave vent to her grief.
Meanwhile, the púsári was striding along the jungle-path leading to
Mánkúlam, his mouth full of curses, and his heart full of hatred and
thoughts of vengeance. The path was narrow and winding, leading now
along sandy torrent-beds, then through lofty forest or thorny jungle.
The village was three miles distant, and it was now evening, so he
walked as fast as he could, finding some vent for his feelings in the
violent exercise. When he had walked two-thirds of the way, he arrived
at a broad river. It was now nearly dry, it being the hot season, and
was merely a wide reach of deep sand, with shallow pools here and
there under the high banks. The púsári had crossed the river and had
just entered the jungle on the other side, when he suddenly uttered a
curse and stopped short. Coming along the path towards him, and alone,
was a man. It was his enemy, Iyan Elúvan! He was a broad-shouldered,
big-headed man, with a round face, out of which looked two little
pig-like, cunning eyes. A slight contraction of one side of his face
causing him to show his teeth, gave him a peculiar, sinister, sneering
expression. He had been at work cutting fence-sticks, for he was
carrying his _katti_ or jungle-knife over his shoulder.
On catching sight of each other, the two men stopped and looked at one
another. The púsári’s face worked with passion, his eyes glittered,
and the veins stood out on his forehead. The other had a mocking, evil
smile on his face, which seemed to irritate his enemy beyond endurance.
Suddenly the púsári grasped his heavy iron-shod stick and made two
steps forward. In an instant Iyan swung round his jungle-knife and
stood on the defensive, while his sneering smile gave place to a look
of concentrated hate. For a few moments they stood glaring at each
other, and then the púsári slowly stepped to one side and motioned
to the other to pass on, which he did, keeping an eye on his foe,
however, and passing out of reach of him. As soon as he had gone by,
the púsári resumed his journey, his rencontre with his enemy having
added fresh fuel to the fire of evil passions blazing in his heart.
Iyan watched him till he had gone some distance, and then, after a few
moments’ hesitation, turned and followed, keeping him in sight, but
remaining a long way behind.
A walk of a mile further brought the púsári to the village of Mánkúlam,
with Iyan following in the distance. It was rather a large village,
consisting of about a score of huts, scattered about a wide open spot
in the jungle, with a tank on one side, and rice-fields stretching
beyond it. On the outskirts of the village was a house larger and more
pretentious than any of the others, and boasting a dense plantain
grove, growing close to the hut, and a few cocoa-nut palms. This was
the residence of the múdliya, or headman of the district. On entering
the inclosure through the rude stile or gap in the fence, the púsári
paused for a moment, for the place seemed deserted, no one being in
sight. He heard, however, the sound of voices inside the hut, so,
stepping forward, with a loud unceremonious ‘Salaam, múdliya!’ he
entered the hut. Seeing his enemy enter the headman’s house, Iyan came
cautiously forward, but paused irresolutely at the gate. A glance round
showed him that the people of the house were all indoors, so, sneaking
into the inclosure, he crept stealthily through the grove of plantain
trees till he got close to the door of the hut, when he crouched down
under the eaves. From his hiding-place he could hear all that was said
in the hut.
‘What do you want?’ he heard a wheezy, unpleasant voice say, and he
knew it was the headman who spoke. The tone in which the question was
asked was harsh and unfriendly, and an ugly smile passed over the
listener’s face as he noted it.
‘I am come to lodge a complaint against Iyan Elúvan,’ replied the
púsári shortly.
‘I thought so,’ wheezed the headman. ‘You are as quarrelsome as a
wanderoo he-monkey. Do you think I have nothing to do but to listen to
your fools’ quarrels?’
‘You will listen readily enough,’ retorted the púsári angrily, ‘when
Iyan Elúvan comes with his hands full of rupees!’
‘What!’ exclaimed the headman, wheezing and choking with wrath, ‘do you
charge me, the múdliya of Mánkúlam, with receiving bribes?’
‘Ay, I do,’ replied the púsári sternly. ‘All the villages know it.
Many a time have I brought just complaints to you, and you would not
hear them. When Iyan threw a dead dog into my well; when he set fire
to my straw stack; and when, by manthiram’ [magical arts], ‘he caused
my cattle to fall ill, why did you not inquire into the complaints I
made—why? but because your granary was bursting with the rice that Iyan
gave you as hush-money!’
‘Get out of my house!’ screamed the headman huskily—‘get out, I say!’
‘I’ll have justice,’ shouted the púsári fiercely. ‘I am a poor man, and
cannot bribe you; but I swear by Púliya-deva that I will have justice.
I will make you both suffer for this. You shall pay for that buffalo
that Iyan has lamed to the last hair on his tail. It shall be an evil
day for you that you refused me justice. Look to yourself, múdliya;
look to yourself, I say!’
‘Leave my house, you madman!’ exclaimed the headman in a voice scarcely
articulate with rage.
A moment later, Iyan, from his hiding-place, saw his enemy burst out
of the house almost beside himself with rage, his eyes ablaze, his
lips drawn back in a grin of fury, and his whole frame trembling with
excitement. He watched him stride across the inclosure and make for
the path leading to Pandiyán, swinging his arms and gesticulating like
one demented. Just as the púsári disappeared, a little boy came out
of the hut, and Iyan heard him uttering exclamations of excitement
and astonishment. He could also hear the voice of the headman inside
wheezing out threats and curses. Presently, the little boy went out at
the gate and disappeared in the village, and Iyan rose to leave his
hiding-place. As he did so, he saw lying in the path a knife, which
he at once knew must have been dropped by the púsári as he rushed out
of the hut. Picking it up, Iyan crept back into his hiding-place, and
crouching down, examined it long and earnestly, feeling its edge, and
making motions with it in the air. Suddenly, an idea seemed to strike
him. He looked up hastily and around with a scared, startled air, and
then felt the edge of the knife again with his thumb slowly while he
gazed earnestly in the direction of the door of the hut. Presently, an
evil, cruel smile curled his lips and sent a baleful gleam into his
little eyes. Muttering to himself, ‘Yes; I’ll do it; the suspicion is
sure to fall on him!’ he rose slowly, glanced round again, to assure
himself that no one was watching him, and then, with a rapid, silent
step, entered the hut.
Meanwhile, the púsári was hurrying along in the direction of his
village, cursing and raving. The injury done him by his enemy, and
the refusal of the headman to give him justice, had angered him to
the verge of madness. As he strode furiously along swinging his heavy
stick, and grasping at the air with his other hand, as if he was in
imagination tearing his enemy to pieces, he was quite oblivious of
all surroundings, and only conscious of his wrongs and desire for
vengeance. Blind with rage, he hurried on, heedless of where he was
going.
By this time, the sun had sunk and night was rapidly coming on.
Gradually the path grew less and less distinct, and the surrounding
forest more gloomy and fearful. Suddenly, the púsári stopped and looked
about him. Being unable to see his way, he had at last come to his
senses. All that was visible of the path now was a dim white streak
before him. For a few moments he stood looking round. Even in that
faint light the path seemed strange to him, and he peered about in vain
for some familiar object by which he could ascertain his position. He
soon satisfied himself he was not in the well-known path between the
two villages, but was following some game-track; however, he felt sure
he was going in the right direction, so went on, instead of turning
back to look for the lost path. Every now and then he stopped to
listen, hoping to hear the distant barking of dogs or lowing of cattle
at Pandiyán; but he only heard the sharp barking cry of deer in the
jungle and the dismal hooting of a pair of owls. It grew darker and
darker, and the path worse and worse. Soon it was so dark that he could
not see his hand before his face. He tried to feel his way with his
stick, but nevertheless stumbled against the trees and over roots and
stones. More than once he stopped and shouted long and loudly; but no
answer came but the mocking hooting of the owls. The púsári was a brave
man; but the dense darkness, the loneliness and silence of the jungle,
were beginning to shake his nerves.
Suddenly, just as he was about to give up in despair the attempt to
find his way, a brilliant light appeared in the jungle ahead of him.
Uttering an ejaculation of surprise, pleasure, and relief, the púsári
pressed towards it. A few moments later he was standing, with open
eyes and startled expression, gazing at a scene such as he had never
before looked on. Before him stretched a long narrow bazaar of houses,
shops, and sheds, huddled irregularly together. Close behind them, and
overhanging them, rose the jungle like a wall of ebony, densely dark.
Above, stretched a sky of inky blackness, starless and cloudless.
The whole bazaar was ablaze with light from numerous fires, torches,
and lamps. It was crowded with people, men, women, and children, all
apparently busily engaged in buying and selling and other occupations.
But they were people such as the púsári had never before seen—black,
lean, ungainly, with thin evil faces, and long black hair flowing
wildly over their necks and shoulders. He noticed, too, that their
feet and hands resembled more the claws of wild beasts than human
appendages. But the strangest thing of all was that, though the bazaar
appeared to his eyes to be full of bustle and noise, and all the people
to be talking, wrangling, singing, and laughing, he could not hear a
sound! Could he have shut his eyes, he might have fancied himself alone
in the jungle again.
For some moments the púsári stood staring before him, bewildered at
the sight. To come suddenly upon a large village that he had never
heard of, close to his own, filled him with speechless amazement He
rubbed his eyes and felt his ears, thinking his senses must be playing
him false. Suddenly his heart stood still, and he gasped with horror.
He had realised where he was—it was an enchanted or magic village of
_pisásis_ or demons that he had intruded on! As the full horror of his
situation, alone among demons in the depths of the jungle at midnight,
burst upon him, the púsári turned to flee. To his intense surprise
and terror, on turning, he found behind him, not the jungle, as he
expected, but another part of the bazaar! Rows of huts and shops,
crowded so closely together that there was no way through them into the
forest beyond, barred his way. After a moment’s hesitation, he plucked
up courage, and muttering prayers and charms, started off to walk
through the bazaar. Grasping his stick firmly, he walked boldly on,
showing no outward sign of fear, but with deadly terror at his heart.
The bazaar seemed to lengthen before him as he went. He walked on
and on, but it seemed to have no end. He turned aside into several
by-lanes, but they only led into others. He looked in vain for any gap
between the huts by which he could escape into the jungle. As he went,
he passed through crowds of demon-folk. They took no notice of him,
but he felt they were all watching him with their gleaming red eyes.
To the púsári, everything around him seemed to be alive. The boughs
of the trees waved above him threateningly like weird skinny hands
and arms; hideous faces peered out at him from all sorts of strange,
unlikely places. Even the rice mortars and pots lying about, and the
articles being hawked about or lying exposed on the stalls, seemed to
assume grotesquely human faces and figures and to watch him stealthily.
Numbers of strange, vicious-looking cattle, and gaunt, evil-faced dogs
wandered about, and the púsári noticed them leering at him and each
other with a human sort of expression which showed him what they were.
Rows of fowls of queer shape were perched on the roofs of the huts, and
watched him as he passed with heads knowingly on one side.
Many a strange sight did the púsári see as he walked along. The shops
were full of curious and extraordinary things such as he had never seen
exposed for sale. He passed at one place a party of pisásis engaged in
beating drums of strange shape with drumsticks of bones. Soon after,
he came to a part of the bazaar where a furious quarrel appeared
to be raging. In a dark corner he caught sight of a large party of
she-pisásis, who appeared to be engaged in some horrible rite. More
than once he thought he saw the mock-animals wandering about the bazaar
talking to the keepers of the shops and to each other. It seemed to
the púsári that he had been walking for hours, yet the bazaar appeared
to be as interminable as ever. He walked on as in a dream, for, in
spite of the apparent bustle and excitement around him, he could hear
nothing. Stupefied by his fearful position, he walked on mechanically,
having now lost the sense of fear, and feeling only a sort of vague
wonder.
And now a raging thirst seized on the púsári. He had been on foot all
day in the sun, and all the afternoon his mouth had been hot and bitter
with curses. He had drunk nothing for many hours. As he walked along,
the craving for water grew stronger and stronger, till he could bear it
no longer. He realised vaguely the peril he ran in accepting anything
from the hand of a pisási, nevertheless he stopped and looked about, in
the hope of finding something to drink. Near at hand was a small shop
presided over by a hideous old she-pisási. Undeterred by the horrible
aspect of the red-eyed, wrinkled, old hag, the púsári approached her
with the intention of asking for a drink of water. As he did so, he
felt conscious that all the pisásis had suddenly stood still and were
watching him. The she-pisási’s shop contained some strange things.
On one side lay a huge rock python cut into lengths, each of which
was wriggling about as if full of life. On the other side lay a young
crocodile apparently dead; but as the púsári approached, it turned
its head and looked slily at him with its cold yellow eye. Over the
old hag’s head hung a crate full of live snakes, that writhed about
and thrust their heads through the withes. Strings of dead bats, and
baskets full of loathsome reptiles and creeping creatures, filled the
shop. In front of her stood a hollow gourd full of water.
‘Mother! I am thirsty,’ said the púsári as he pointed to the water. But
though he said the words, he did not hear his own voice. The old hag
looked fixedly at him for a moment, and then raising the gourd, gave
it to him. He raised it to his lips, and drank long and eagerly. As he
put the empty vessel down, he felt everything reel and swim about him.
Gazing wildly round, he grasped at the air two or three times for some
support, and then fell to the ground motionless and senseless.
AN EVERY-DAY OCCURRENCE.
There are in all our lives episodes which we should be glad to forget;
of which we are so much ashamed, that we scarcely dare to think of
them, and when we do, find ourselves hurriedly muttering the words
we imagine we ought to have said, or making audible apologies for
our conduct to the air; and yet these are not always episodes which
necessarily involve a tangible sense of wrong done either to ourselves
or to others. Some such episode in a commonplace life, such as must
have fallen to the lot of many men, we would here reveal.