THE WANDERER
For a long moment Oman bent close over the intruder, staring into those
strange orbs, his mind groping back, back, into the dim past, wondering
where it was that he had known them before. Then, as the old man
uttered a faint moan, he started to himself again, asking anxiously:
“You are better? You can speak?”
“I am better. Help me—to rise,” answered the other, feebly.
Oman, newly compassionate, lifted the light form in his arms, carried
it farther into the cave, and laid the unbidden guest upon his own
grass bed in the far corner. Then he set about the tedious task of
making a fire. Before his sticks were ready, however, the newcomer,
summoning him, in a high and querulous voice, to the bed, gave him a
flint and steel, and a piece of inflammable substance that he carried
in his pouch. These Oman thankfully made use of, and presently a fire
burned again in the rude habitation. Then, out of his stores, the
hermit prepared a meal for both of them: rice and dried fruits, which,
with fresh water, formed a repast that seemed luxurious enough in
Oman’s eyes. When it was ready he approached the stranger, and asked
gently if he desired to be fed. For answer the old man drew himself
into a sitting posture, and then, after a moment’s effort, rose to his
feet, walked to the fire, and sat down; but before Oman had placed his
portion of the meal before him, he looked into the young man’s face,
and said, in a harsh and trembling tone:
“This is charity that you give. I cannot repay you for the shelter. I
am a mendicant, old, feeble, very near to death.”
“And I am a hermit. The lonely have need of little. What I possess,
therefore, I will share with you.”
So they began their meal. It was a silent one. The stranger did not
make any effort to talk; and Oman, watching him, sank by degrees into
a fit of abstraction in which his memory moved, groping, searching,
wandering back through time to find the clew to his recognition of
this man. The stranger himself, though probably he had been in a
half-starved condition, showed no great eagerness for his food. He ate
slowly and little, and seemed to droop forward, while he sat, with the
weariness of age; and Oman began to wonder how he had ever reached such
a height as the Silver Peak.
While they sat there at their meal, the sun set, and the swift twilight
faded. And when the old man rose and moved toward the mouth of the
cave, the stars were shining, close overhead. After gazing for a moment
at the shadowy lines of hills stretching away to the east and west, the
old man turned to his host, and said:
“I will go out now and spend the night upon the mountain. For the
hospitality you have given me, I thank you, in the name of Siva.”
“Out upon the mountain! Why, thou wilt perish there! The nights are
cold at this height. Nay, surely my cave is large enough for two.
Remain here till dawn, at least, O stranger.”
The old man turned on him those peculiar eyes, in which there now
lurked an expression of suspicion, of craftiness, of secrecy:—the
expression of a dotard; and there was an evil smile upon the old,
trembling lips as he said: “No, no. I shall sleep alone. There is no
one to prevent me. Hermit, it is thirty years since I slept in a human
habitation. No, no. No one shall get the better of me in my sleep. No,
no. And look you,” his tone grew querulously savage, “look you that you
do not try to seek out my bed!” As he spoke these last words, one hand
crept up to a string that was about his throat, its end lost under his
robe, and the other went to his girdle, wherein a knife was stuck.
Believing him now to be insane, Oman made no further protest; and
the man, with another look at him, went out into the darkness of the
eastern slope, with a step that tottered with weakness.
Amazed by the strange incident, Oman turned into his cave again, and,
worn out with many days of privation and discomfort, lay down to sleep.
All night his dreams were troubled. The personality of the old man
had laid strong hold upon him, and he appeared in his sleep: now in
the guise of some grewsome spirit of evil, now as a guardian angel
shielding him from mysterious dangers. Oman woke at dawn, troubled
and scarcely refreshed, the old man still uppermost in his thoughts.
Possibly he had been feverish through the night; for his mouth was
parched, and he longed for water. In the cool twilight of new day he
rose, crossed the open plateau, and went a little down the eastern
slope to the spring. As he reached his destination, his ear caught a
faint sound that came from some distance to the right:—the sound of a
human voice, moaning, as if from pain.
Oman hurriedly started toward it; and, after some moments’ search, came
upon the body of the wanderer, lying in a smooth space surrounded by
trees. His eyes were closed, his color ghastly, and, from his parted
lips there came, with every breath, the deep moan that had drawn Oman
thither. The hermit knelt beside his strange visitor and lifted one of
the cold hands. At the touch, the prostrate one opened his eyes, as
it were with an effort. Seeing Oman beside him, he murmured, with a
suggestion of relief in his tone:
“Hermit—is it thou?” and immediately relapsed into a state of
semi-consciousness.
Oman did, at once, the only thing to be done. Lifting the body in his
arms again, he carried it up the slope and back into the cave, where
the fire still smouldered; and, laying the old man again on his grass
bed, began to work over him.
The day passed without his returning to a normal state. Oman knew that
he was very ill, but whether with some disease, or simply as the result
of old age and exposure, he could not tell. He warmed him, fed him,
bathed his brows with water, and sometimes caught what he took to be a
murmur of gratitude from the feeble lips. As night came on, he began to
fear lest the stranger should make some attempt to leave him again; but
the fear proved groundless. With the setting of the sun, a hot fever
rose in the aged and world-weary body. The sick one’s mind wandered
through far-off regions, and he talked, loudly, of fragmentary things.
For Oman there was no sleep that night. With a great pity for the
helplessness of his guest, he watched over him tenderly, doing for him
those things that only a woman would have thought of. During that night
of anxiety, there rose up in the heart of the hermit something that for
many years he had been striving vainly to kill. It was the hunger for
human love and affection, a desire for something to care for. Suddenly,
this last had been given him. This old man, querulous, evil-eyed,
unlovable bodily and mentally, had become sacred in his eyes, an object
of trust for which he should be answerable; and, in this thought, all
the starved affection in Oman’s nature welled up within him, till his
heart was full and overflowing with pain and joy.
On the evening of the second day of the stranger’s illness came the
rains; and Oman knew that now, for the space of a month, at least, they
were safe from intrusion. He and his charge were alone at the mercy of
Nature; and, far from being dismayed at the prospect, Oman hailed it
with joy. For him, who was now become veritably the mountain’s child,
the old fear of the tempest was quite gone. Lightning and wind and rain
were his brothers, when they sported across the peaks; and, since they
brought him security against the impertinence of the people of the
valleys, he blessed them anew for their presence. Thus, relieved from
any untoward anxiety, he turned with all his strength and all his will
to the assistance of the worn and world-weary creature whom chance or
God had sent him to be his charge.
In the beginning, Oman always hoped that a few days would see the old
man recovering, in some measure, his strength. But little by little
that hope faded away. The illness, however, was never very alarming.
By night there was always low fever, by day sometimes an abnormal
chilliness, which Oman frequently strove to overcome by the heat
of his own body. He would lie by the hour stretched along the bed,
clasping the old form to his own, literally feeding his strength into
the other. The stranger never tried his patience, at least. He was
perfectly passive, obeyed every suggestion of his guardian, ate and
drank whatever was given him, and never asked for more. Much of the
time, indeed, Oman was in doubt as to whether he knew what was going on
around him. By night his mind wandered, and he talked in his dreams;
but by day he generally lay like one in a stupor, heeding nothing
that passed. The one hour when he seemed to regain possession of his
faculties, was at sunset. Usually, at this time, he would open his
eyes, and, if Oman were not already beside him, would call for him, and
ask a few questions, or address him on topics of interest to himself,
the significance of which was lost on his listener. For a few days,
just at first, he would often ask to sleep apart from his companion,
would suggest vague dangers that were surrounding him, and certain
suspicious circumstances that he believed himself to have noticed.
From the general tenor of this talk, Oman gathered that he was in
constant fear of being robbed; and, from watching the hands that were
forever fumbling and playing with the string about his neck, he guessed
that this string must be attached to the object of his anxiety. He
was, therefore, scrupulously careful never to mention, and, so far as
was possible, not even to look at this string; and the result of his
consideration was what he hoped for:—very soon the old man dropped
his suspicions, and seemed to feel for Oman a spirit of friendliness,
almost affection.
The latter half of October and the first fortnight in November were
wild weeks on the mountain top. It seemed as if the very elements were
struggling over that soul in the cave. Never had such storms of hail,
rain, wind, and snow raged round the Silver Peak. In all that time,
however, Oman’s weaker nature never once manifested itself. He was
using all the man and all the strength in him for the wanderer, whom
the wild weather greatly disturbed. Indeed, often, during the storms,
he would lie cowering with terror in his far corner of the shelter,
talking deliriously of strange things, or uttering wild and terrified
cries that wrung Oman’s very heart.
It was early in the afternoon of a mid-November day that one of the
fiercest of these storms began, and lasted till early evening, when a
great and unexpected peace descended upon the earth. Remarkably, the
working of Nature was paralleled within the cave by an inexplicable
scene. All through the morning the stranger had been conscious, sane,
and unusually tranquil. After the noon meal he lay back on his bed
with the avowed intention of sleeping; and Oman seated himself in the
doorway of the hut, to watch the clouds roll up from the west and
swirl close round the peak, in moisture-laden mists. For some moments
the storm had been imminent; and Oman’s nerves were keyed for the
first rush of the wind. His back was toward the bed. He could not know
that the figure of the old man was suddenly upright. He could not see
the fire of madness burning in the weird eyes, nor perceive that the
shrunken muscles were as tense as those of a panther about to spring.
But, in the first roar of the blast, with the first, fierce sweep of
hail across the mountain top, the storm within also broke. Oman felt
himself seized about the throat in an iron grip, and heard the shouting
of the madman above the fury of the gale.
The half hour that followed he never clearly remembered. There was a
fierce, almost mortal struggle. Locked in each other’s arms, the two
reeled and rolled about the cave, like animals. Oman fought simply
to preserve himself; but he was pitted against a madman’s strength.
Blinded and half-stunned by the suddenness of the attack, it was many
minutes before he got full control of his own forces. He soon became
aware that a flood of wild ravings was pouring from the old man’s lips;
and finally, at the very climax of the battle, when Oman felt his
strength giving way, the wanderer suddenly dropped his arms, and his
maniacal force seemed to throw itself into words, which he screamed out
till they sounded high above the gush and clamor of the storm:
“Thou shalt not have it—thou shalt not, dog! Nor thou! Nor thou!—It is
mine! The Asra ruby is mine own, given me in payment for work.—Ah—ye
shall not take it from me! Faces—faces—faces!”
The last words sank, grewsomely, to a whisper, as he struck out once
and again into the air at the phantom forms that closed him round.
Then, suddenly, without any warning, he flung both hands over his head,
reeled, and dropped in a heap at Oman’s side.
For a moment or two the hermit stood perfectly still, exhausted by the
struggle that had passed. Then he took the unconscious man by the arms,
and dragged and pulled him back to the bed, on which he placed him,
limp and unresisting. Afterwards he went to replenish the fire, over
which he busied himself for some minutes. Finally he returned to the
doorway, and seated himself so that he could watch both the bed and the
world without.
He was thoroughly tired. He could not remember ever experiencing such
a battle as the one just passed; and it had taken all his strength. In
the corner, the stranger had now begun to moan, faintly; but Oman made
no move to go to him. Just now he felt no desire to help a creature who
had so lately attempted his life. Rather, there was a new bitterness in
him. Had it not been always thus—a return of evil for good? This was
all that unselfishness or self-sacrifice had ever brought him. Where
was the divine justice to be found? Where was that universal law of
compensation? Alas! Experience was once more accomplishing its work,
narrowing its victim down to the little present, blotting out all the
breadth of view that reflection and solitude had brought.
For many hours Oman sat there, musing bitterly, till the cloud-veiled
sun was down, and night, still filled with the rush of tempest,
advanced. Then, at last, he turned within, replenished his fire, and
cooked himself a meal of rice. As he ate, he glanced over toward the
stranger, who, however, made no sign. When he had finished, Oman crept
quietly to the bed, and looked down at his charge, to see if he had
need of anything. But he found the old man fast asleep.
After a time he returned to his post in the doorway. He found the
night changed. Through torn and shimmering mists, the golden moon came
rolling up out of the hills, bringing with her a court of stars, and
driving the heavier clouds away down the western slope of the sky.
Peace had come upon the height. The ruin wrought by the storm was being
atoned for now. It was the hour of Nature’s repentance. Oman looked,
and his own soul grew calm. This scene was so familiar to him! How
many times, in his long sojourn on the height, had he not gazed upon
it thus, gloried in it, loved it? But to-night, when its mission had
been accomplished, and he had been restored to tranquillity, he turned
his thought to other things—one other thing:—a strange, foreboding
sense of recognition of some of the words spoken by the wanderer: “The
Asra ruby is mine own—given me in payment—” And it was Oman himself
who involuntarily added, in thought, the last words that his charge
had uttered: “Faces! Faces! Faces!” What were the faces rising round
him here, in the firelit night? What pale ghosts of the long ago were
taking shape? What was it now burning behind his brain, struggling
to break the barrier of the past? Oman bent his head, and clasped
it in his two hands, thinking in vain, yet ever with the sense that
remembrance was imminent. He was at a high pitch of nervousness when
the unwelcome voice reached his ears:—a voice faint, and weak, and low,
as if it came out of the depths of the bygone years:
“Hermit—art thou there?”
With a passing shiver, Oman rose and went to the bed where the old
man lay. As he approached, the stranger lifted one hand slightly, and
murmured:
“Fear not, hermit. I am not now mad. Nay—all things are clear before
me, for I am approached by Rama.”
Oman knelt beside him, and gazed earnestly into the gaunt,
white-bearded face, across which the fire cast a flickering light that
brought out every smallest line and wrinkle. An ashen pallor pinched
his features, giving them the unmistakable, waxen look that comes only
to those whose souls are poised for flight. Oman saw at once that death
was near; and his heart contracted, painfully:
“Yes,—thou seest it,” said the wanderer, quietly, as he looked into
Oman’s eyes. “It is time. My spirit is glad of its release.”
He lapsed into silence again; nor had Oman any desire to break the
stillness over which, as he knew, Rama brooded. The wanderer retained
his consciousness: seemed, indeed, to be lost in a revery, while Oman
sat watching him. After a time, in the course of his musing, the dying
man’s hand crept up to that string which was about his neck; nor, this
time, did his touch stop with the string. With an air of delivering
himself of a heavy secret, he drew, from beneath his loose garment, a
tiny, golden box. Lifting this in his thumb and first finger, he turned
his face to Oman, and began to speak, disjointedly, at first, as if he
were thinking aloud; then, by degrees, launching into narrative form,
with a story that held Oman spell-bound at his side.
“Look—it is here,” he observed, quietly. “Here is the Asra ruby; the
great stone that I have kept my own for thirty years. Here it is, in
this box, safe to the end. And Fidá is gone—and I cannot—See, hermit!
It lies in this little box, that treasure. Thou hast never made move
to take it from me since I have dwelt with thee; and therefore it
shall be thine after my death. Yes, I have said it. Thine. But take
it not from me until I have passed. Dost thou hear, hermit?” His tone
grew threatening and harsh. “I am dying, and thou mayest take it from
me dead.” He glared again into Oman’s face; but, seeing the gentle
expression there, lost his sudden angry fear, and dropped again into
the lighter tone.
“The years—the years are many since it came to me. I was not then a
young man; and I had done much wrong in the world. My name—no one knows
it now. I have never told it since that night. But I may speak it at
last. My name is Churi, and I was a slave, a doctor, in the palace of
Mandu.”
“Mandu!” echoed Oman, quickly, in a strange tone.
“Yes, I was a doctor there, as well as a slave; and I was valued
and trusted by my Rajah. But I wanted my freedom. I planned to buy
my freedom, that I might no longer be called ‘slave’. And then Fidá
was brought thither. The Rajah, returning from war in the north,
brought back a noble captive who was made royal cup-bearer, and
afterwards raised to high favor in the palace. But Fidá loved. Ha! He
loved a woman of the zenana—not a slave, mind, but a wife, and the
_favorite_ wife. And she loved him also. And because I guarded a
door of the zenana by night, he gave me the ruby to open the door to
him. And I, hoping by it to buy my freedom, accepted it, knowing that
it was the life of his race.”
“This man—his name,” suggested Oman, trembling a little.
“His name?—I have said it,—Fidá el-Asra. That was his name; and the gem
was the gem of the Asra. When he gave it away, he became cursed; and
the evil fell on all of us. For many weeks I sanctioned the crime in
the zenana: for months played I traitor to my Rajah, for the sake of
the ruby, and because I loved Fidá and Ahalya, and because they were
happy together. Then at last the slave fell sick of a sickness that
would not be cured, though I even returned the ruby to him to be worn,
in order that he might be well again. But it could not help him then;
and he gave it back to me.
“It was spring. I hoped daily for the coming of a certain merchant
to whom I would sell the ruby for the price of my freedom. But alas!
freedom and vengeance came upon me together, without the selling of the
stone. There was a new war. Rai-Khizar-Pál marched away, leaving his
favorite slave to be guardian of the young lord Bhavani, his son. Then,
in the fair April, it fell upon us:—death! death! death!
“We found it in the early dawn,—Kasya and I. We found the body of
Ragunáth, dead, in the champak bushes, by the water-palace. He was
lying in his blood.—And Ahalya and Fidá had not come back from him.
They were gone. Soon everything must be known; and I should surely be
betrayed to my death when Kasya learned the things that I had done;
for there was a little Arab slave—Ahmed—who also knew. Therefore, by
night, I stole away from Mandu, and out—out—into the hills, carrying
the ruby with me. Blood was upon it. Blood it had brought, and with
the fire of blood it gleamed. I dared not part with it. It ate into my
flesh, and yet I could not sell it. I suffered from heat and from cold,
from hunger and thirst and nakedness, while I bore on my body this
great wealth. For thirty years, hermit, I have wandered over the earth,
carrying fear with me. Each man has worn for me the mask of Rama. Each
bite of food has had for me the flavor of poison. I have wandered the
Vindhyas over, from east to west, from Dumoh to Khambot. And ever
Mandu has drawn me back toward her. Terror and death have dogged my
footsteps; yet have I lived long, till I am very old. Suffering,
hardship, sickness, most hideous remorse—all these I have known, and
still have clung to life. My spirit was broken long ago; but I have not
wanted to die. I should have fought with any that threatened to take
life from me. Tell me, Wise One, what is this love of living? Why have
I, most miserable of creatures, clung so long to it?
“But behold—behold—the face of Rama stares at me, from the shadow
yonder! Back, Rama! Back yet for a little! Back!” For a second, the old
man lifted himself from the bed, and levelled a tremulous hand at the
haunting visage. Then he fell, weakly, and for a long time was still.
Oman, sitting beside him, still under the spell, could not speak.
Finally Churi himself broke the silence again, this time in a voice
that had faded to a thin whisper:
“I am dying, hermit. Rama’s face grows brighter in the gloom. The
visage is less fearful, now. My madness is gone. I see clearly. But for
many years I have been mad. It is the ruby. It holds evil in it for all
but the race of Asra. I had dreamed of returning it to them. But thou,
who hast sheltered me and fed me, to thee I say: the ruby is cursed. I
warn thee of it. Better burn it on my body.—Hark!—hark!—the drums of
Rama! I am dying, hermit. Take me by the hand!”
Feebly he held out his shrunken fingers, and Oman clasped them close
and steadied him. Then Rama and his hosts came by, and halted for a
moment at the cave till their number was joined by one. Thereafter they
moved on again, beating their muffled drums. And Oman was left alone on
the Silver Peak, with the body of Churi, the dying fire, and the gem,
enclosed in its golden box. Long Oman sat there, beside the body of the
vagabond, thinking. Finally, when the dawn was still three hours away,
he rose and made ready for his task. But first, perhaps unconscious of
what he did, he loosened the treasure from the stiffening fingers of
the dead, and slipped the string, with its yellow box, about his own
neck.