Chandra Sen moved, and a lamp shone up into his face. William locked eyes with him, and tucked the forefinger of his right hand into his waistband.
‘Yes, yes, Jemadar-sahib, the rumal, Kali’s rumal!’ the men in the barn murmured. ‘The rumal for the apostate!’ They had seen William when he came into the barn. They had whispered of him as the great jemadar whose band had killed more and won more than any other. Now they saw him get up and walk forward, touching the place where his rumal lay, and they murmured in agreement.
The warm waves of their approval lapped William’s back. He relaxed his shoulders. These men were his, not Chandra Sen’s, because he was a killer while Chandra Sen was a thinker. He could do with them what he willed. He walked on, much more slowly, looking into Chandra Sen’s eyes.
Suddenly from the darkness Chandra Sen dragged out a man whose hands were bound behind his back and thrust him into the light. It was Hussein, dusty, head hanging on one side, eyes downcast.
Chandra Sen spoke only to William, but with a piercing softness that all in the barn could hear. ‘
This
is the man, great Jemadar.’
William did not look at Hussein. He stood close against Chandra Sen, and stared into his face, and sought the meaning of the riddle. Chandra Sen said, ’Ask him, great Jemadar, can the sweetness of Kali’s sugar ever leave the mouth of man?’
William said, not turning his head, ‘Hussein, can the sweetness of Kali’s sugar ever leave the mouth of man?’
‘Of some men, yes,’ Hussein said and lifted his head.
‘No, no, never!’ Chandra Sen cried, and the Deceivers echoed, ‘Never, never!’
Chandra Sen said to William, ‘Great Jemadar, Prince of Stranglers, Beloved of Kali, give this traitor his disproof. Strangle him!’
William gazed at the thin, ascetic face and knit his brows. An inner radiance transfigured Chandra Sen and glowed behind the wide eyes, wider now in a wonder of adoration. Chandra Sen knew him but had not come here to kill him. This was not Chandra Sen the patel, or Chandra Sen the jagirdir. This was a priest of Kali, at whose right hand Kali now stood. No vengeance or anger troubled the soul behind the eyes, only a burning glory of salvation -- William’s salvation. William might have to be killed, but first the priest must save his soul and fix him for ever in Kali’s breast.
Chandra Sen said again, ‘This is the man, great Jemadar. How can he escape, in life, when he has eaten the sugar, taken the silver, used the rumal? Only Kali can give him back his wife, his unborn child. Strangle him!’
The large eyes were warming William’s own, and his wrists itched, and the goddess touched the small of his back with her lips. Hussein had no wife, and no child, born or unborn. It was Mary, and his old life, that Kali offered him through Chandra Sen’s two-edged words. To recover them he must give up his soul to Kali. For them he must take the oath in the death throes of this lopsided little man who was looking at him and who wanted a red coat. The Deceivers in the barn waited for him to kill. They were his servants only while he loved Kali. To keep them he had to kill -- someone, Hussein. He could make up a story afterwards, but now he had to kill. Here was the crisis of his spirit, for death was Kali’s love.
He stood, blinded by the white clarity of his mind, his hands at his waist. Why should he not kill Hussein, and so save his own life, and Mary’s? And afterwards, when they were safe, tell all? Hussein was a murderer many times over and worthy of death.
He saw in Chandra Sen’s eyes that he would be let free if he killed. And he saw that Chandra Sen knew that the oath, so taken, would not be broken. There was nothing to stop him -- except himself.
Chandra Sen was right, Kali was right. To kill, in this mind and in these circumstances, would break him loose for ever from the love he had believed in and sought now so desperately to find again. Once he had been an ordinary man, one among a thousand million undistinguished others of every race and colour and creed, who lived, strongly or weakly, by love. This killing that tingled in his hands would rank him for ever where he now stood, among the select who lived by scorn, without love. Nor was he just a man, or only of this place and time; he was a part of eternity. If he failed, how many others, following, would fail? Kali’s road wound up high hills, and from their summits she had shown him the spreading cities of the plain which could be his kingdom. He felt the press of the future, the pushing feet of men unborn who would dedicate whole peoples to the rule of Kali, and take possession of countries in her name, and still call themselves Christian, and their feet would follow only where his had led.
He thought of Mary and his child. They were the actual flesh of love. He would not see his wife or his baby unless he whirled the rumal. For the fourth time. A murderer, a soldier, a robber-baron . . . another murderer. What was the difference?
Hussein was an ordinary man who wanted a red coat. All the simple world, and love, were there. William smiled suddenly at him and swung round, the rumal in his hand. Hussein jumped at Chandra Sen, throwing himself bodily on top of him. A thickset man lunged at William from the shadows. It was Bhimoo the watchman. William began to swing the rumal, but it burned in his hand and he punched the watchman in the throat, then hurled the rumal down the barn. It flew through the air, its tail curling out behind the weight of the rupee in its head, and landed on a blanket of jewels. The Deceivers came struggling to their feet, gasped, and began to shout.
Hussein fought to his knees, his hands still locked behind his back. Mary’s oak cross fell from his waist among the rushes. He shouted to William, ‘They haven’t taken her yet! Go, go, for your God’s sake, go!’ and threw his body forward on to the nearest lamp. It smashed, spilling oil over the floor and the rushes took fire. William struck out with his fists and reached a window. The pick-axe hanging at his waist caught on the sill and he tugged it fiercely through. Until then he had forgotten it -- but he would not let them have it back now.
Hands grabbed at his feet. He kicked out. Under his arm he saw Hussein’s face and the flames that ran up Hussein’s hair and clothes and sent Chandra Sen and the Deceivers reeling away from him to grab at the corners of the jewel-laden blankets. As he fell to the ground outside he heard the little lopsided man’s last cry: ‘
Ane wala hun -- I am coming!
’ the standard, million-times-heard answer of a chuprassi to his master’s call.
The uproar in the barn had not permeated to the street. A knot of men near the corn-chandler’s store rose in astonishment as William ran out of the yard. They started to run because he was running. He flung up his arm and shouted, ‘Traitors! Thieves!’
They all ran together, shouting. William burst through among them, untethered the nearest horse, leaped into the saddle, and jabbed his heels into its sides. The animal broke into an ungainly see-sawing gallop and lumbered west down the street. The tumult behind increased. At the limit of the village William looked over his shoulder and saw men tumbling out of the barn and running for their horses. Their shouts clashed out in anger against the night. His horse had a mouth of iron; he tugged savagely at the right rein and turned into the fields.
For an hour the pursuit hovered behind him. Under the full moon, his horse ran strong and surefooted, but not fast. Sometimes the pursuers would guess that the lay of the land would force him to turn; then he heard them moving out on a flank and calling to one another cross the fields. Sometimes, in the woodland stretches, he heard nothing. He rode straight on, as near north-west as possible, through thicket and bush and field and marsh.
A jungle wall sprang back and a river opened up in front of him. The horse shied, backed away, and screamed. He pounded the pick-axe helve on its quarters until it jumped off the bank, splashed thunderously into the water, and began to swim. This must be the Seonath; the Bhadora ferry was a mile or two to his left. On the other side of the river he galloped through a narrow strip of jungle and saw a rise of land, and on it the ghostly ramparts and shadows on a moonlit village -- Chandra Sen’s domain of Padwa. He galloped up the street, watching the silent houses, wondering whether here too Deceivers flanked his path. The grey dogs ran out from the big house to snarl at his horse’s heels, until it bucked and lashed out and broke one’s head, and the other fell back.
William galloped on, always north-west. Under the moon the country began to whisper in his ear. By this lonely shrine he had talked with Chandra Sen one cold-weather morning. Under that hill he had sat beside the little stream and waited for the gudgeon in the pools to bite. His horse was stumbling now and would not jump. He forced it through the stream and rode on.
Near midnight he came to his bungalow in Madhya and slid down at the steps. He held a pillar for support and cried, ‘Hey! William Savage here! Let me in!’ Then, towards the distant servants’ quarters, ‘Sher Dil!
Koi hai! A-jao, jaldi!
‘
The horse hung its head, and shuddered, and breathed in roaring gasps. Someone moved about inside the bungalow. A tremulous voice behind the door said, ‘Who -- who’s there?’
‘William Savage. Is my wife there? Let me in. Quick, man!’
Footsteps came to him, running across the compound, and he turned with his fists doubled, but it was only Sher Dil, disbelieving wonder in his face and tears in his eyes. He seized William’s knees and hugged them and sobbed loudly. The bungalow door opened an inch, and George Angelsmith looked out. He came forward, a pistol in one hand, a candle in the other. The candlelight dimmed under the brilliant moon. George’s face was dead white, the pistol jumping in his fist. William stared at him, confused for the moment, wondering whether he had come to the wrong place. He did not know whom he had expected to see in Madhya, but certainly it was not George Angelsmith.
George said, ‘William . . .?’
‘Where’s Mary?’
‘Gone to Sagthali this afternoon.’
‘Christ’s mercy! When, what route, what escort? Sher Dil, take this horse away, get food, load my pistols, tell the groom to saddle Jerry, send a man running to bring all the police here.’
Sher Dil grabbed the horse’s bridle and ran off without a word. William pushed past George into the bungalow. George put the candle down on top of the escritoire in the drawing-room but kept the pistol in his hand, half concealed behind his back.
William snapped, ‘Why did you let her go?’
George began to talk slowly, carefully examining William and his clothes as he spoke. ‘She wanted to go. I tried to stop her. I did delay her. She wanted to go in the middle of the night. Where have you been?’
‘Following the Deceivers. Didn’t a man come here with a message -- Hussein, the fellow with his head twisted on one side? Didn’t he come? Didn’t he say something?’
‘He came,’ George said slowly. ‘He had some story about Deceivers at Parsola.’
‘Yes, yes, what have you done?’
‘I was to get the cavalry out from Khapa or Sagthali -- again! But Chandra Sen had just told me you were alone in Parsola, begging, mad. I did nothing.’
‘What?’
William sprang up, shouting.
George whipped up the pistol and pointed it at the pit of William’s stomach. He said unsteadily, ‘Keep off, Savage! Keep your distance!’
William found his hand fumbling in the loincloth for the rumal, but it was not there, and even in his white passion of anger he thanked God it was not. Holding himself in, he said carefully, ‘Do you think I am mad?’
After these months on the road he knew men. George Angelsmith was relieved that he had come back, and frightened at the expression on his face, and -- something else. Angry. He relaxed as George suddenly began to talk. The police were on their way, so no time was being wasted.
George said, ‘I don’t know if you are mad, but I do know you are under departmental arrest. Orders. And what do you mean by running away from all the important things here? For the first four months I had to double up, do my work at Khapa as well as yours here. It’s too much. Everything’s gone wrong. Complaints. Troubles. The people are swine -- keep coming in, complaining, writing to Mr Wilson. I had no time.’
William laughed suddenly. ‘D’you mean to say you’ve got a black mark in the record, George? That’s calamitous!’ He began to speak with insistent force. He could not be angry with George any more. ‘Listen, please. The biggest criminal conspiracy in history is on your doorstep, in Parsola, ready to be unmasked. There’s glory for you in Parsola -- far more than in finding me. Act fast and boldly now, and your name will be greater in the department than anyone’s has ever been. More than that: you will be world famous. I don’t want any credit, honestly I don’t.’
For this man he had no better bait to offer, and he watched narrowly as George swam up like a golden fish out of the weeds of indecision to inspect the lure. But George wasn’t a fish, just a shiny, shallow man. William saw the old gentleman with the purple ribbon land on George’s shoulders, and saw George’s mouth curl unhappily. His own muscles flexed of themselves for action. The pick-axe at his waist came under his hand.
‘Here is food for my sahib. He is hungry.’ Sher Dil’s low voice behind him.
George nodded. ‘All right, put it down. I don’t believe you, William. You want to ruin me for -- for -- I don’t know. Jealousy. You’re out of your mind. I’m going to lock you up in the bathroom here. Didn’t I hear you send for the police? That’s all they’ll do tonight -- guard you. I’m the Collector.’
‘Here, sahib,’ Sher Dil said, bowing respectfully, a plate of cold curried vegetables on his palm. As he bowed he scooped back his hand and hurled the plate into George Angelsmith’s face. George shrieked as the mess stung his eyes, raised the pistol and jerked the trigger. The ball thumped through the ceiling cloth into the rafters. William knocked the pistol from his hand and turned and ran, shouting over his shoulder, ‘For God’s sake, believe me, and send to Khapa for the cavalry! I’m going to Sagthali.’
He jumped into Jerry’s saddle and found Sher Dil beside him on George Angelsmith’s Arab. ‘It’s no good waiting for the police, sahib,’ the butler muttered. ‘They will only arrest you. The memsahib was going to take the Jabera road.’ William nodded, gripped with his thighs, and began to ride. On the Arab, Sher Dil flopped and jolted along in the unaccustomed English saddle.