Part 7 (1/2)

”Dhoop Kichari-lal? That is the name of a colour which the woman from far wears; she whom Jiwan Kawi loved and would have wed. And Koob Soonder--small sister of Jiwan Kawi--our strong young man who went away; she whose mother was taken by Fear when she was a babe, she who was stricken by the blight when she began to run--she who was named for her perfect beauty, before the Gra.s.s Jungle had seen beauty more perfect--”

”Do you know all the story?” Cadman interrupted, with dry lips.

”All,” said the man. ”Am I not here to teach the little people with the telling of tales? Jiwan Kawi was sent on the great adventure, to change our silks for cotton cloths--which the people consider more desirable.”

(There was the hint of a tender smile on his lips, as he said the last words.) ”Jiwan Kawi was the most strong, the most beautiful of all our young men when these same leaves were small, in the spring.” He paused, seeming to forget them--his eyes on the leaves.

Then his manner changed, taking on a quality of austere impressiveness, as he continued:

”Jiwan Kawi returned from the great adventure; but a woman came after him--sunrise to sunset behind. She had followed him from the place of the mult.i.tudes, where all the people dwell together. He had seen her there; he had loved her there; he had fled in fear from her beauty; he had fled in distraction away back to his own place. Now--his joy showed, past telling. But she had come without a mother to give her in marriage; and marriage cannot be, otherwise.

”If it had not been for her so great beauty! Surely our women are beautiful--as the G.o.ds know how to make common women. But when they saw her--they went back into their houses and covered their faces from the light of her eyes.

”That was the calamity; for a woman must be given in marriage by the heart of a woman--sincere and unafraid. And there was not one without fear. Jiwan Kawi went out into the jungle that night; and he never came back. Fear may have taken him.”

The man looked away toward the horizon.

”Then she put on her body the one garment of hindu-widowhood, unadorned; but without marriage. She said, 'I will mourn for the children that have not been--that are not--that cannot be.' The women heard the voice of her mourning; and they forgot her too-great beauty, to serve her too-great pain--when it was late.

”They gave her the little Koob Soonder, to mother. Now it is that the child, who has no wit and little reason, goes out into the place of sacrifice to find Fear; and the woman in a widow's garment goes after, to fetch her back. Then the woman who mourns for unborn children, goes out into the night-paths--as Jiwan Kawi went--and the little Koob Soonder follows, to fetch her back.

”So they are going, always going out into the place of sacrifice--where Fear lives. Some day or some night--Fear will take them.”

”What kind of fear?” Cadman asked, with a dry throat.

”Fear is name enough. There is none other.”

The man's reply was spoken in conclusive tones. He sat as if oblivious, for several minutes. Then searching them both earnestly with haggard eyes, he spoke direct:

”Have you looked on Dhoop Ki Dhil, for whom you come so far? Have you heard her voice?”

Both the Americans shook their heads.

”Will you look on her in the paths of my understanding? Will you render yourselves to know her in the currents of my blood?”

”We will,” Cadman answered tensely.

The man lifted his face toward the night-sky, becoming perfectly still before he spoke:

”She is the breath of the early spring-time, when the pulse of the earth awakes. She is the midnight moon of all summers, in all lands. The rose of daybreak is in her smile; the flames of sunset in her face.

Lightnings of the monsoon break from her eyes; and she mothers the mothers of men with their tenderness. Her body moves like flowing water; and she is the joy of all joy and the sorrow of all sorrow, in motion.”

The man lifted his hand, as if to interrupt himself.

”The majesties of High Himalaya are in her voice; and distances of star-lit night.”

He stopped, seeming to listen to something they could not hear.

”The tides of the seasons flow through the blood of common men,” he went on; ”they carry the gold of delight away; and the rock-stuff of strength.

Then men are old. It is not so with her. Bitter waters of grief have drenched her, they have covered her as the deep covers the lands below; but her ascending flames of life consume them all. She rises like a creature made of jewels, to enlighten men against the snares of that same deep from which she has come up--wearing splendours of loveliness for garmenture.