The Jungle Books

  “Eat or blow smoke out of his mouth. Men always play with their mouths,” said Mowgli. And the silent trailers saw the old man fill and light, and puff at a water-pipe, and they took good note of the smell of the tobacco, so as to be sure of Buldeo in the darkest night, if necessary.

  Then a little knot of charcoal-burners came down the path, and naturally halted to speak to Buldeo, whose fame as a hunter reached for at least twenty miles round. They all sat down and smoked, and Bagheera and the others came up and watched while Buldeo began to tell the story of Mowgli the Devil-Child from one end to another, with additions and inventions. How he himself had really killed Shere Khan; and how Mowgli had turned himself into a wolf, and fought with him all the afternoon, and changed into a boy again and bewitched Buldeo’s rifle, so that the bullet turned the corner, when he pointed it at Mowgli, and killed one of Buldeo’s own buffaloes; and how the village, knowing him to be the bravest hunter in Seeonee, had sent him out to kill this devil-child. But meantime the village had got hold of Messua and her husband, who were undoubtedly the father and mother of this devil-child, and had barricaded them in their own hut, and presently would torture them to make them confess they were witch and wizard, and then they would be burned to death.

  “When?” said the charcoal-burners, because they would very much like to be present at the ceremony.

  Buldeo said that nothing would be done till he returned, because the village wished him to kill the jungle boy first. After that they would dispose of Messua and her husband, and divide their land and buffaloes among the village. Messua’s husband had some remarkably fine buffaloes, too. It was an excellent thing to destroy wizards, Buldeo thought, and people who entertained wolf-children out of the jungle were clearly the worst kind of witches.

  But, said the charcoal-burners, what would happen if the English heard of it? The English, they had been told, were a perfectly mad people, who would not let honest farmers kill witches in peace.

  Why, said Buldeo, the head-man of the village would report that Messua and her husband had died of snakebite. That was all arranged, and the only thing now was to kill the wolf-child. They did not happen to have seen anything of such a creature?

  The charcoal-burners looked round cautiously, and thanked their stars they had not, but they had no doubt that so brave a man as Buldeo would find him if any one could. The sun was getting rather low, and they had an idea that they would push on to Buldeo’s village and see the wicked witch. Buldeo said that, though it was his duty to kill the devil-child he could not think of letting a party of unarmed men go through the jungle, which might reveal the wolf-demon at any minute, without his escort. He, therefore, would accompany them, and if the sorcerer’s child appeared—well, he would show them how the best hunter in Seeonee dealt with such things. The Brahmin, he said, had given him a charm against the creature that made everything perfectly safe.

  “What says he? What says he? What says he?” the wolves repeated every few minutes. And Mowgli translated until he came to the witch part of the story, which was a little beyond him, and then he said that the man and woman who had been so kind to him were trapped.

  “Do men trap men?” said Grey Brother.

  “So he says. I cannot understand the talk. They are all mad together. What have Messua and her man to do with me that they should be put in a trap, and what is all this talk about the Red Flower? I must look to this. Whatever they would do to Messua they will not do till Buldeo returns. And so—” Mowgli thought hard with his fingers playing round the haft of his skinning-knife, while Buldeo and the charcoal-burners went off very valiantly in single file.

  “I go hot-foot back to the man pack,” Mowgli said at last.

  “And those?” said Grey Brother, looking hungrily after the brown backs of the charcoal-burners.

  “Sing them home,” said Mowgli with a grin. “I do not wish them to be at the village gate till it is dark. Can ye hold them?”

  Grey Brother bared his white teeth in contempt. “We can head them round and round in circles like tethered goats—if I know Man.”

  “That I do not need. Sing to them a little lest they be lonely on the road, and, Grey Brother, the song need not be of the sweetest. Go with them, Bagheera, and help make that song. When night is laid down, meet me by the village—Grey Brother knows the place.”

  “It is no light hunting to track for a man-cub. When shall I sleep?” said Bagheera, yawning, though his eyes showed he was delighted with the amusement. “Me to sing to naked men! But let us try.”

  He lowered his head so that the sound would travel, and cried a long, long “Good hunting”—a midnight call in the afternoon, which was quite awful enough to begin with. Mowgli heard it rumble, and rise, and fall, and die off in a creepy sort of whine behind him, and laughed to himself as he ran through the jungle. He could see the charcoal-burners huddled in a knot, old Buldeo’s gun-barrel waving, like a banana-leaf, to every point of the compass at once. Then Grey Brother gave the Ya-la-hi! Yalaha! call for the buck-driving, when the pack drives the nilghai, the big blue cow, before them, and it seemed to come from the very ends of the earth, nearer, and nearer, and nearer, till it ended in a shriek snapped off short. The other three answered, till even Mowgli could have vowed that the full pack was in full cry, and then they all broke into the magnificent morning-song in the jungle, with every turn, and flourish, and grace-note, that a deep-mouthed wolf of the pack knows. This is a rough rendering of the song, but you must imagine what it sounds like when it breaks the afternoon hush of the jungle:

  One moment past our bodies cast

  No shadow on the plain;

  Now clear and black they stride our track,

  And we run home again.

  In morning-hush, each rock and bush

  Stands hard, and high, and raw:

  Then give the call: “Good rest to all

  That keep the Jungle Law!”

  Now horn and pelt our peoples melt

  In covert to abide;

  Now crouched and still, to cave and hill

  Our jungle barons glide.

  Now, stark and plain, Man’s oxen strain,

  That draw the new-yoked plough;

  Now stripped and dread the dawn is red

  Above the lit talao.

  Ho! Get to lair! The sun’s aflare

  Behind the breathing grass:

  And creaking through the young bamboo

  The warning whispers pass.

  By day made strange, the woods we range

  With blinking eyes we scan;

  While down the skies the wild duck cries:

  “The day—the day to Man!”

  The dew is dried that drenched our hide,

  Or washed about our way;

  And where we drank, the puddled bank

  Is crisping into clay.

  The traitor dark gives up each mark

  Of stretched or hooded claw;

  Then hear the call: “Good rest to all

  That keep the Jungle Law!”

  But no translation can give the effect of it, or the yelping scorn the four threw into every word of it, as they heard the trees crash when the men hastily climbed up into the branches, and Buldeo began repeating incantations and charms. Then they lay down and slept, for like all who live by their own exertions, they were of a methodical cast of mind, and no one can work well without sleep.

  Meantime, Mowgli was putting the miles behind him, nine to the hour, swinging on, delighted to find himself so fit after all his cramped months among men. The one idea in his head was to get Messua and her husband out of the trap, whatever it was, for he had a natural mistrust of traps. Later on, he promised himself, he would begin to pay his debts to the village at large.

  It was at twilight when he saw the well-remembered grazing-grounds, and the dhâk-tree where Grey Brother had waited for him on the morning that he killed Shere Khan. Angry as he was at the whole breed and community of Man, something jumped up in his throat and made him cat
ch his breath when he looked at the village roofs. He noticed that every one had come in from the fields unusually early, and that, instead of getting to their evening cooking, they gathered in a crowd under the village tree, and chattered, and shouted.

  “Men must always be making traps for men, or they are not content,” said Mowgli. “Two nights ago it was Mowgli—but that night seems many rains old. To-night it is Messua and her man. To-morrow, and for very many nights after, it will be Mowgli’s turn again.”

  He crept along outside the wall till he came to Messua’s hut, and looked through the window into the room. There lay Messua, gagged, and bound hand and foot, breathing hard, and groaning. Her husband was tied to the gaily painted bedstead. The door of the hut that opened into the street was shut fast, and three or four people were sitting with their backs to it.

  Mowgli knew the manners and customs of the villagers very fairly. He argued that so long as they could eat, and talk, and smoke, they would not do anything else, but as soon as they had fed they would begin to be dangerous. Buldeo would be coming in before long, and if his escort had done its duty Buldeo would have a very interesting tale to tell. So he went in through the window, and, stooping over the man and the woman, cut their thongs, pulling out the gags, and looked round the hut for some milk.

  Messua was half wild with pain and fear (she had been beaten and stoned all the morning), and Mowgli put his hand over her mouth just in time to stop a scream. Her husband was only bewildered and angry, and sat picking dust and things out of his torn beard.

  “I knew—I knew he would come,” Messua sobbed at last. “Now do I know that he is my son.” And she caught Mowgli to her heart. Up to that time Mowgli had been perfectly steady, but here he began to tremble all over, and that surprised him immensely.

  “Why are these thongs? Why have they tied thee?” he asked, after a pause.

  “To be put to the death for making a son of thee—what else?” said the man, sullenly. “Look! I bleed.”

  Messua said nothing, but it was at her wounds that Mowgli looked, and they heard him grit his teeth when he saw the blood.

  “Whose work is this?” said he. “There is a price to pay.”

  “The work of all the village. I was too rich. I had too many cattle. Therefore she and I are witches, because we gave thee shelter.”

  “I do not understand. Let Messua tell the tale.”

  “I gave thee milk, Nathoo. Dost thou remember?” Messua said, timidly. “Because thou wast my son, whom the tiger took, and because I loved thee very dearly. They said that I was thy mother, the mother of a devil, and therefore worthy of death.”

  “And what is a devil?” said Mowgli. “Death I have seen.”

  The man looked up gloomily under his eyebrows, but Messua laughed. “See!” she said to her husband. “I knew—I said that he was no sorcerer! He is my son—my son!”

  “Son or sorcerer, what good will that do us?” the man answered. “We be as dead already.”

  “Yonder is the road through the jungle.” Mowgli pointed through the window. “Your hands and feet are free. Go now.”

  “We do not know the jungle, my son, as—as thou knowest,” Messua began. “I do not think that I could walk far.”

  “And the men and women would be upon our backs and drag us here again,” said the husband.

  “Hm!” said Mowgli, and he tickled the palm of his hand with the tip of his skinning-knife. “I have no wish to do harm to any one of this village—yet. But I do not think they will stay thee. In a little while they will have much to think upon. Ah!” He lifted his head and listened to shouting and trampling outside. “So they have let Buldeo come home at last?”

  “He was sent out this morning to kill thee,” Messua cried. “Didst thou meet him?”

  “Yes—we—I met him. He has a tale to tell, and while he is talking it there is time to do much. But first I will learn what they mean. Think where ye would go, and tell me when I come back.”

  He bounded through the window and ran along again outside the wall of the village till he came within earshot of the crowd round the peepul-tree. Buldeo was lying on the ground, coughing and groaning, and every one was asking him questions. His hair had fallen about his shoulders; his hands and legs were skinned from climbing up trees, and he could hardly speak, but he felt the importance of his position keenly. From time to time he said something about devils and singing devils, and magic enchantment, just to give the crowd a taste of what was coming. Then he called for water.

  “Bah!” said Mowgli. “Chatter—chatter! Talk, talk! Men are blood-brothers of the Bandar-log. Now he must wash his mouth with water; now he must blow smoke; and when all that is done he has still his story to tell. They are very wise people—men. They will leave no one to guard Messua till their ears are stuffed with Buldeo’s tales. And—I grow as lazy as they!”

  He shook himself and glided back to the hut. Just as he was at the window he felt a touch on his foot.

  “Mother,” said he, for he knew that tongue well, “what dost thou here?”

  “I heard my children singing through the woods, and I followed the one I loved best. Little Frog, I have a desire to see that woman who gave thee milk,” said Mother Wolf, all wet with the dew.

  “They have bound her and mean to kill her. I have cut those ties, and she goes with her man through the jungle.”

  “I also will follow. I am old, but not yet toothless.” Mother Wolf reared herself up on end, and looked through the window into the dark of the hut.

  In a minute she dropped noiselessly, and all she said was: “I gave thee thy first milk, but Bagheera speaks truth: Man goes to Man at the last.”

  “Maybe,” said Mowgli, with a very unpleasant look on his face, “but to-night I am very far from that trail. Wait here, but do not let her see.”

  “Thou wast never afraid of me, little frog,” said Mother Wolf, backing into the high grass, and blotting herself out, as she knew how.

  “And now,” said Mowgli, cheerfully, as he swung into the hut again, “they are all sitting round Buldeo, who is saying that which did not happen. When his talk is finished, they say they will assuredly come here with the Red—with fire and burn you both. And then?”

  “I have spoken to my man,” said Messua. “Khanhiwara is thirty miles from here, but at Khanhiwara we may find the English—”

  “And what pack are they?” said Mowgli.

  “I do not know. They be white, and it is said that they govern all the land, and do not suffer people to burn or beat each other without witnesses. If we can get thither to-night we live. Otherwise we die.”

  “Live then. No man passes the gates to-night. But what does he do?” Messua’s husband was on his hands and knees digging up the earth in one corner of the hut.

  “It is his little money,” said Messua. “We can take nothing else.”

  “Ah, yes. The stuff that passes from hand to hand and never grows warmer. Do they need it outside this place also?” said Mowgli.

  The man stared angrily. “He is a fool, and no devil,” he muttered. “With the money I can buy a horse. We are too bruised to walk far, and the village will follow us in an hour.”

  “I say they will not follow till I choose, but a horse is well thought of, for Messua is tired.” Her husband stood up and knotted the last of the rupees into his waist-cloth. Mowgli helped Messua through the window, and the cool night air revived her, but the jungle in the starlight looked very dark and terrible.

  “Ye know the trail to Khanhiwara?” Mowgli whispered.

  They nodded.

  “Good. Remember, now, not to be afraid. And there is no need to go quickly. Only—only there may be some small singing in the jungle behind you and before.”

  “Think you we would have risked a night in the jungle through anything less than the fear of burning? It is better to be killed by beasts than by men,” said Messua’s husband. But Messua looked at Mowgli and smiled.

  “I say,” Mowgli went on, j
ust as though he were Baloo repeating an old Jungle Law for the hundredth time to an inattentive cub, “I say that not a tooth in the jungle is bared against you, not a foot in the jungle is lifted against you. Neither man nor beast shall stay you till you come within eye-shot of Khanhiwara. There will be a watch about you.” He turned quickly to Messua, saying: “He does not believe, but thou wilt believe?”

  “Aye, surely, my son. Man, ghost, or wolf of the jungle, I believe.”

  “He will be afraid when he hears my people singing. Thou wilt know and understand. Go now, and slowly, for there is no need of any haste. The gates are shut.”

  Messua flung herself sobbing at Mowgli’s feet, but he lifted her very quickly with a shiver. Then she hung about his neck and called him every name of blessing she could think of, but her husband looked enviously across his fields, and said: “If we reach Khanhiwara, and I get the ear of the English, I will bring such a lawsuit against the Brahmin and old Buldeo and the others as shall eat this village to the bone. They shall pay me twice over for my crops untilled and my buffaloes unfed. I will have a great justice.”

  Mowgli laughed. “I do not know what justice is, but—come thou back next rains and see what is left.”

  They went off towards the jungle, and Mother Wolf leaped from her place of hiding.

  “Follow!” said Mowgli. “And look to it that all the jungle knows these two are safe. Give tongue a little. I would call Bagheera.”

  The long, low howl rose and fell, and Mowgli saw Messua’s husband flinch and turn, half minded to run back to the hut.

  “Go on,” Mowgli shouted, cheerfully. “I said there might be singing. That call will follow up to Khanhiwara. It is the favour of the jungle.”

  Messua urged her husband forward, and the darkness shut down on them and Mother Wolf as Bagheera rose up almost under Mowgli’s feet, trembling with delight of the night that drives the Jungle-People wild.

  “I am ashamed of thy brethren,” he said, purring.