THE OUTCAST
Blank hours passed. The glimmer of false dawn came and went again.
At last the day, inevitable, rose, like an opal, out of the East.
The silent world was overspread with clear light; and, in its first
moments, the bird, which till now had lain motionless on Oman’s breast,
fluttered up, hovered for a second over the quiet form, and then took
flight, winging away into the invisible. Oman was still sleeping: a
heavy, transitional sleep.
Day swept up the sky, and the blazoning sun whirled from the heart
of the hills. Now, at last, Oman opened his eyes, sat up, looked
around—stared, indeed, and all at once remembered fully. For the moment
memory unnerved him. Then the strain proved again too great; and, with
a renewed sense of dulness, he rose. The bird was gone. He seemed to
have known that before. He wished now to discover his whereabouts. In
the darkness he had reached the end of the ravine, and was at the edge
of a long, barren slope, to the west of Bágh. The houses of the town
began not far away. He could see people moving about there; and the
sight of them reminded him that he was hungry. He felt faint, a little
weak, and shaken, with the after effects of last night’s tumult. He
determined not to enter Bágh. With an undefined weight of grief and
ruin upon him, he began to toil upward along the slope, turning his
face to the north, where the high hills rose. And, as he went, he ate
the millet-loaf that Hushka had put into his hand.
It was a fair morning, hot, cloudless, blazing. Oman wilted in the
heat, but his steps went on, mechanically. He had already determined
in his mind to reach the hills that day. As he went, he found his
thoughts groping vaguely in once-accustomed ways: loneliness—fear of
people—hatred of those that shunned him—hunger—physical discomfort—all
the old details of that solitude that he knew so well. And still his
feet did not falter. It was his masculine nature that upheld him now;
but, adding to his dread, he felt the feminine, knocking—knocking at
his heart, at his brain; and he fought desperately against admittance,
knowing that, when it came, his suffering would be trebly increased.
His old training with Hushka stood him in good stead to-day. He made
progress. By noon, seven miles stretched between him and Bágh, and he
was now among the foothills of the great Vindhyas, which, so far as
he knew, stretched eastward before him into infinity. In this thought
there was something like comfort. Those dark-wooded wilds meant refuge
from men and the haunts of men. There should be no day in his life to
come when he would not be able to plunge into some deep ravine, or
mount some thickly jungled steep, knowing, in his heart, that whither
he went no curious, human eyes could rest on him, no living creature
follow. He felt just now that never again, while he was doomed to
remain on earth, would he suffer a glance from human eyes.
At noon, after a few moments’ rest, Oman plunged into the woods and
began to move upward to the heights. The underbrush was not too
thick to prevent progress; and the trunks of young trees afforded
grasping-places for his hands. In this sort of country snakes were
supposed to abound; but he moved on without any fear of them. No wild
thing would molest him. Only man he feared.
After a while he found refreshment. In the dense undergrowth were
bushes and trees bearing fruits; and many of these were at their
ripening season. Mangoes and custard apples there were in plenty, and
tamarinds and a few bananas. He was also presented with a cocoanut,
delivered by an interested monkey, who first flung it at him, and then
came hurrying to the ground to see what had happened. The incident
proved unfortunate, however. The suggestion of fellowship about the
little, bright-eyed thing, unnerved Oman for the space of a second.
In that second he was undone. The door opened to the woman. Tears
flooded his eyes, and, throwing himself upon the ground, he yielded
to an outburst of the wildest grief. The monkey, who had seated
himself near at hand, scratching his black head and chattering volubly
to the stranger, now looked on sorrowfully, and shed a few tears
himself:—wherefore, who can say? After a time, when Oman had recovered
again, the grotesque little creature broke the cocoanut against the
tree trunk, and solemnly offered half of it to his new friend. There
in the jungle they ate together; and presently, when the monkey had
run off to rejoin his tribe, Oman rose and moved on, comforted and
fortified.
The incident had turned his thoughts away from himself; and the
afternoon passed rapidly. At nightfall he halted once more, near the
summit of a hill, ate again of the fruits of Mother Earth, and lay
down in the solemn stillness, not to sleep very readily this time.
Physically, he was very tired. Mentally, he was waking. He must
now—alas!—begin to weigh his loss, and face the future. His thoughts
travelled back through the few intervening months to the spring, when
he had wandered southward with Hushka. Then he reviewed the early part
of the Vassa, and began to see how his life had broadened before him.
There had taken place his first struggles against himself; and there
could be marked his first victories. He recalled to mind passages of
the Dharma, which he had loved to think were made for him alone. And,
with this memory, the bitterness became intolerable. He lifted his arms
toward the stars and wailed his woe. And passively the stars shone on,
nor heeded him. The parts of nature, so imperturbable, so enduring, so
changeless,—were they satisfied? Had they received enough of God? Oh,
surely, yes! On all save him had the Creator showered blessings, to all
given gifts and mercies. He, only, was marked out for constant woe,
constant disappointment, constant misery. Having thus grieved through
long hours, the outcast finally closed his eyes upon his first day of
probation, and once more slept.
On the morrow he found himself able to make less progress. His
nature, lately accustomed to over-nourishment, demanded something
more substantial than fruit and nuts. He began to realize that, until
he became inured to this life, he must occasionally have a little
grain, or meat. Also, the utter loneliness of the vast jungle through
which he travelled, began to appall him. He had so lately known the
constant companionship of many men, that there hung over him a sense
of direst oppression, in this uninhabited wilderness. His recently
engendered dread and hatred of humankind was already giving way to an
unconquerable longing for the sight of a human face.
On the third morning he woke almost to desperation. Should nothing
happen to him to-day, he felt that he must break under the strain of
thought:—that empty, beating thought—of nothing. Meantime, there crept
upon him the insidious desire to try again, only once again, if men
would not accept him; if, knowing nothing of him, his mark must be
apparent to a point of instinctive aversion. And, at the same time with
this, he was coming to something that he had not had to endure before.
He was beginning to hate himself for what he was. His restless longing
to be respected among men turned him away from that rebellion against
them which had long possessed him; and, in the revulsion, he went to
the other extreme: hating himself because he could not be as others.
The whole afternoon of the third day he spent in toiling up a great
hill, the summit of which was reached at sunset; and from this
height he gained recompense for the long travail. Around him—to the
south—to the east—to the west, rolled great hills, verdure-clad. No
sign of plain or level land was visible. On three sides of him the
hills stretched away, a little lower than that on which he stood. But
in front, to the north, rose a series of gigantic, rocky heights,
which towered infinitely upward, bringing him a realizing sense of
his own pygmy unimportance. And now his eyes, travelling downward,
perceived the deep ravine that separated him from the first of the high
mountains; and, looking, his heart leaped within his breast. For there,
in that gulf, were houses:—mud huts, wooden ones—two, three, a score;
and beside them ran a swift mountain stream, the murmur of which rose
up to him through the stillness.
“I will go down! I will go down to them, for they are built of men!”
he said to himself, eagerly, like a child. And forthwith he began his
descent, walking with a new buoyance. As he proceeded, his way grew
difficult. The houses, far below, were hidden from his view in the
thickness of the undergrowth. The light was melting away; for the sun
lay on the edge of the horizon, behind the hills. Still he pressed on,
a tempered joy in his heart that was not to be stilled by reason.
Though he hurried, darkness was on him before he reached the level; and
then, indeed, it seemed as if he must resign himself to another night
of solitude. Nevertheless he fought, still refusing to abandon his
hope. And suddenly, from a more open space on the slope, he looked down
and saw, but a little way below, half a dozen shining lights—flames of
sacrificial fires. And after that no falls, no bruises, no difficulties
of the precipitous way, could keep him back. An hour after sunset he
stood at the edge of the clearing where the village was.
The first hut was near at hand: a square one, tiny, tumble-down,
even squalid. Yet it was roofed over with wood, and within the open
doorway firelight shone. There must be human creatures there; and
there Oman was determined to enter. He approached, almost reverently,
and halted before the door. Within, was only one person—a woman, or
girl, of perhaps sixteen. Her dress proclaimed her widowhood, and
her caste was too easily recognizable. Oman, however, accustomed to
such matters, thought of nothing but that she was a woman—kneading
barley-cakes before her fire; and, as he watched her, his heart warmed
with humanness, and he smiled. After a moment she, lifting her head,
perceived him, dimly outlined near the doorway. At once she rose,
though without any welcome in her eyes, and advanced, with respectful
salute, saying, in a voice that was pleasantly modulated:
“Enter, sir, enter. I have entertainment for him that desires it.”
Oman shook his head. “I come from out of the hills. Nor have I any
money,” he added, suddenly aware of his destitution.
But the girl only saluted him again: “The reverend One is a
Brahmana.[8] Enter, then, in the name of the gods.”
[8] Wandering fakirs of any religion were called “Brahmanas,” a word
to be distinguished from “Brahmans.”
Once more, though slowly and with deep reluctance, Oman shook his head.
“I am neither Bhikkhu nor Brahmana,” he answered. “I am—an outcast.”
For a moment the woman turned away her head, and Oman’s heart sank.
But, all of a sudden, she ran to him, taking him by the hand, and
looking at him so that he perceived the gentleness of her face and
eyes. “Enter,” she whispered. “I am lonely. I will share my cakes with
you. And there is milk.—But my husband’s brother must not know this
thing. He is of the weaver caste; and he is very proud.”
Chattering in a subdued voice, she led him in, and placed him before
the crackling fire, the smoke of which escaped through a hole in the
roof. The cakes which she had just kneaded and shaped lay on a board
before the fire, baking questionably. Now she ran to a cupboard in the
corner and took therefrom a large jar of meal, a little of which she
put into an earthen pot, near at hand. Water, from another jar, was
poured over the grain; and then she set the dish in the fire, where the
simple porridge was soon steaming pleasantly.
Oman sat silent on the floor, looking on with rising emotions. It was
such an unspeakable luxury to watch her, low-caste and poverty-stricken
as she was, moving about in the one-roomed hut which was none too
tidy in its simple arrangements, that he could not be ashamed of his
beggary. The meal was soon ready; but, before he ate, the wanderer,
suddenly realizing what his appearance must be, took occasion to make
use of some of the contents of the water-jar for his face and hands.
The girl brought him a piece of cloth on which he dried himself; and,
when he turned to the fire again, she cried out:
“Why! Thou art beautiful! And—ah! You are not an outcast!” And, leaning
over, she laid her hand on the Brahman cord still fastened over his
left shoulder.
Oman looked at it—and flushed. He had a momentary impulse to tear the
thong away. But the impulse passed, and it was not done. His father
had not removed it. Why should he? So, without answering the girl’s
exclamatory question, he turned again to the fire, and she, with great
forbearance, refrained from pursuing the subject.
It was a pleasant meal,—the pleasantest, perhaps, that Oman had
ever known. The girl, who gave her name as Poussa, chattered to him
unrestrainedly:—of her life; of her brother-in-law, who took most of
her wages, and beat her when these were too little; of the doings of
the little village; and a thousand details of the people therein, that
brought new warmth to Oman’s heart. In return he told her something of
himself:—that he had been a weaver, but had gone to join the Bhikkhus,
with whom he had now tired of living. She seemed satisfied with what he
said, and they talked, comfortably, while she cleared away the remains
of their meal, and then, returning, seated herself in front of him, and
took his two hands and kissed them.
“See how my heart inclines to my lord. I love him,” she said, simply.
Oman started to his feet, shaking her from him violently. Then he
strode to the doorway, and stood there, staring into the night, till
Poussa, frightened, crept to him again, and, kneeling at his feet,
timidly sought his pardon.
“Nay, Poussa, nay, there is no fault. But I must not remain with thee,
for I am not of thy kind—not like other men.”
“Lord, I know it well. Thou art far above me; yet I beseech thee to
remain, and I will trouble thee no more. Ah, let my lord incline
himself to my forgiveness!” And so prettily did she entreat, and so
weak was he with the yearning for sympathy, that, in the end, he did as
she asked, and returned into the hut, where they fell to talking again.
Before he slept that night, however, Oman learned something of the
personal life of his pathetic little hostess. They were still before
the fire, but their talk had grown fitful and full of pauses, when,
out of the blackness beyond the open door appeared a man, lean, ill
shapen, but well clothed. His face was not good to look upon, and his
expression made it worse. In the doorway he halted, apparently not
intending to come in, after he had seen Oman. Nor did he speak; but
stood still for a moment, looking hard at Poussa. Words from him were
unnecessary. Oman and the girl saw him at the same moment, and she,
her face instantly losing its tranquil look, sprang to her feet, and,
running to the door, saluted the newcomer with profoundest respect. The
man snarled some words at her, the purport of which Oman caught. They
related to money—apparently a demand to see what she had earned during
the day. Poussa fell upon her knees, pleading, in a low tone, that
her guardian would refrain from altercation in Oman’s presence. The
man seemed to accede to her request, and, after a few words more, the
lowered tone of which did not lessen their ugliness, strode off again
into the darkness.
Oman, relieved at the departure, looked up, prepared to find Poussa
smiling again. He was disappointed. The girl finally rose from her
knees and came back again. But her head was bent, and her whole
attitude one of deep dejection. Indeed, by the glow of the low fire,
Oman perceived that slow tears were rolling from her eyes, and that her
hands were clasped as if in pain.
“Why do you weep? He is gone. You are safe,” he began, half timidly.
Poussa looked up at him with eyes full of misery. “Early to-morrow he
will come again. And then—I shall be beaten. Oh, I shall be beaten!”
“But why—why will he beat you?” he demanded, in astonishment.
“Because—no, it is nothing.” She would not speak.
Oman took her by the shoulders. “Why will he beat you?” he asked,
stupidly.
“He is my brother-in-law,” she responded, as if that were quite
sufficient to explain any cruelty.
“He desired money,” muttered Oman to himself. “Ah—ah—I see! _I_
have no money for you! _I!_”
Poussa quivered under his touch, and her answer was only a faint moan.
“Oh! Oh! It is unendurable! Do you hear? It is unendurable! Let me go
after him! I will tell him.”
“No.” The word was firm. “No. He would only beat you. He is master in
this village. I am used to it. See, I will not weep—I weep no more.
Come, we will sleep now. Let us sleep.”
But Oman was not satisfied. He had too much of the woman in him to
be indifferent to the prospect of a woman’s suffering. Because of
charity to him, a woman was to be beaten! The thought was too much.
In his agitation, he began to pace up and down the little room,
thinking—suffering—once again cursing his fate. Suddenly something
caught his attention. In the dark corner of the room, beside the
unshuttered window, was a rough hand-loom, half filled with a piece of
badly woven cloth. Before this Oman paused, considering.
“Thou sayest thy husband’s brother is a weaver?” he asked.
“Yes. He is a weaver. He caused this loom to be built in my house,
that I might occupy my idle hours in working at it. But I cannot weave
evenly enough for him to sell the cloth I make. Therefore only my own
garments can be fashioned from what I do,” she explained, in a dreary
tone.
Oman, however, had suddenly recovered himself. “It is well, Poussa. I
shall repay thy brother for thy charity. Come, I beseech thee, do not
weep.” He laid a hand upon her shoulder, smiled into her eyes, and
presently, in spite of herself, she was comforted; and, through Oman’s
gentle words, forgot her trouble. In a little time they went to rest,
Poussa lying upon her accustomed bed, Oman on the floor near the door.
And both of them being weary with the day, they shortly slept.
In the first gray of morning, however, Oman was astir. While the light
in the hut was still too faint for him to see clearly, he took the
empty water-jar from its place, ran down through the still, shadowy
hamlet to the edge of the mountain stream, into which he first plunged
himself, coming out shivering and gasping, but refreshed; and then,
after drying himself in the air, he replaced his tattered garments,
filled his jar with water, and returned to Poussa’s hut, where a bright
daylight now threw the meagre furniture into bold relief. Poussa
herself still lay upon the pallet, sleeping like a child. And Oman,
after looking at her for a moment with a sudden tenderness in his
heart, sat himself down at the loom, and, with a thrill of independence
and pleasure, set to work, first remedying and straightening the
knotted and uneven warp already stretched; and then, seeing that there
was plenty of yarn left for the weft, began to throw it on.
A full hour later Poussa woke to the “hock-hock-hock” of the loom,
before which sat her guest of the previous evening. The shuttle was
flying fast over the straight and even threads, and, under Oman’s
fingers, which had lost none of their skill of five months before, the
finished cloth was slowly gathering in the frame: as fine a bit of work
as her brother himself could have put forth. After a moment’s staring,
to wake herself from a supposed dream, Poussa, with a little cry, ran
to the loom and gazed into Oman’s face.
“Thou! Thou an outcast! Thou’rt even Krishna himself!” she cried,
throwing herself on her knees before him, while he ceased his work and
bent over her, smiling and protesting.
“In this way I pay my debt to thee. Tell me! When I have worked all
day, and have produced a piece of cloth that will bring twenty copper
pieces, will he then forbear to beat thee?” he asked.
Poussa stooped over the loom, examining the work at first anxiously,
then with delight. “Yes—ah yes! It is more than enough. Thou hast saved
me!” and, throwing herself on the floor, she touched Oman’s feet with
her brow. Then, when he had raised her up, she began, joyously, the
more useful task of preparing breakfast.
Oman was true to his word. All the morning, barring the half hour in
which he and Poussa broke their fast, he toiled at the loom, till
Poussa’s guardian came for the expected money. The interview with him
Oman undertook, making as much explanation as he saw fit, and allowing
Salivan to examine his handiwork critically. Salivan was satisfied.
His own vanity could not deny that the work was good. Though the
man’s words were few and not overgracious, Poussa’s face, after his
departure, all radiant as it was with relief and pride, doubled Oman’s
reward, and he toiled from pure pleasure to the last moment of the
light.
In the early afternoon Poussa, whose work began late in the day,
went to the forest to gather firewood; and Oman, left alone at the
loom, began to meditate. His first musings were vague: instinctive
impressions rather than definite ideas; but he was too much master of
this art of thought to leave them, as most Hindoos would, in embryo.
As his shuttle flew in and out of the warp on the loom, so were his
thoughts busy weaving a new pattern on his fabric of life. But, in
his imagination, there grew two distinct possibilities, one of which
must soon be made a fact, the other discarded. One was the natural
existence of a man among his fellows—himself, settling quietly down in
this world-sheltered spot, to weave away his life in tranquil monotony.
The other presented to him a strange aspect, beginning in hardship, in
loneliness, in unceasing trial and probation, and ending in—he knew not
what. And perhaps just in this uncertainty lay the fascination that,
from the beginning, made the harder course seem so much more attractive
than the other. After all, he was not as other men; and, by the
arrangement of inscrutable providence, life could never look to him as
it looked to those who had been given individual lives and individual
chances.
For many hours Oman’s fancy played thus with destiny; and all the
while, in his inmost heart, he knew that, when the choice came,
he should not hesitate. He knew that Fate enwrapped him, grim,
unconquerable. And he knew that he should run the course prescribed by
her, though all the temptations of humankind were placed in his way.
For so much of the scheme of his life disclosed itself to him.
At dusk, Poussa returned, staggering under a weight of boughs. Oman
met her at the door, and took half of her load from her, as a woman
might, she standing by the while, wondering what manner of man it was
that would help her at such a task. When the Agnihotra was burning the
two sat down, cross-legged, beside the fire; and she, assuming for a
moment, unconsciously, a rôle of Fate, began to try him, tempting:
“O High-born, listen! It has been spread about through the village
that thou, a master weaver, art come among us. Soon my brother-in-law
will ask you to take up your abode with him, that you may jointly ply
the trade. My master, say not again that thou art outcast of men. Come
thou and dwell near me, and let me serve thee, who will then have the
happiness of thy nearness. As Krishna pities women and protects them,
so do thou!”
It was thus that she brought up a new battle in Oman’s soul. Two forces
struggled again within him: one, man’s natural need; the other—what?
The summoning of the higher law? The half-conscious necessity for the
fulfilment of his mission? Something of these. Something that would
not yield the battle. Something that had taken possession of Oman’s
mind, and would not lessen its hold, but forced from him words that
were scarcely his own. Yet even secretly rebelling, he recognized the
power that had hitherto held him. He perceived that it was the first
choice that had been given him:—his first glimpse of the two roads
that stretch before every living thing. And, in gratitude for this new
trust, he yielded to the power, and spoke as Prophets speak:
“Nay, Poussa. I may not dwell among you. My way lies upward and on. My
destiny cannot be the destiny of men; for I travel the road of those
that have sinned. ‘A burning forest shuts my roadside in.’ One more
night I shall remain with you, and then I set out again—up—to the
heights above, there to finish my soul’s travail. Yet I shall see thee
again; for, in my weakness, I must return to thee for help. Do not
grieve. For what I do has been already decreed, and is now turning from
the wheel of present time. Let us speak of it no more.”
Poussa obeyed him. Nor was he to be moved by the suave arguments of
Salivan, who returned, that evening, to examine his work, and to lay
the proposition of partnership before him. Yet, in the silent watches
of the night, doubts came, and he wondered at himself for his choice.
The morning scarcely brought comfort; and how it was that he fulfilled
his word, it would be hard to say. But it is true that, while the day
was young, he withdrew himself from Poussa’s clasp and set out, alone
once more, into the world, up, toward the great mountain that overhung
the village to the north, and was called of men the “Silver Peak”.
Thither went Oman, driven by destiny, to attain to the heights that
held for him, though he knew it not, on the one hand the scourge of
suffering and blind wandering for the soul; on the other the crown of
victory and life.