The Jungle Books (43 page)

This time Mowgli was frightened. “It is here also!” he said half aloud. “It has followed me,” and he looked over his shoulder to see whether the It were not standing behind him. “There is no one here.” The night noises in the marsh went on, but never bird or beast spoke to him, and the new feeling of misery grew.

“I have eaten poison,” he said, in an awe-stricken voice. “It must be that carelessly I have eaten poison, and my strength is going from me. I was afraid—and yet it was not
I
that was afraid—Mowgli was afraid when the two wolves fought. Akela, or even Phao, would have silenced them, yet Mowgli was afraid. That is sure sign I have eaten poison…. But what do they care in the jungle? They sing and howl and fight, and run in companies under the moon, and I—
Hai mai!
—I am dying in the marshes, of that poison which I have eaten.” He was so sorry for himself that he nearly wept. “And after,” he went on, “they will find me lying in the black water. Nay, I will go back to my own jungle and I will die upon the Council Rock, and Bagheera whom I love, if he is
not screaming in the valley, Bagheera, perhaps, may watch by what is left for a little, lest Chil use me as he used Akela.”

A large warm tear splashed down on his knee, and, miserable as he was, Mowgli felt happy that he was so miserable, if you can understand that upside-down sort of happiness. “As Chil the Kite used Akela,” he repeated, “on the night I saved the pack from Red Dog.” He was quiet for a little, thinking of the last words of the Lone Wolf, which you, of course, remember. “Now Akela said to me many foolish things before he died, for when we die our stomachs change. He said…. None the less, I
am
of the jungle!”

In his excitement, as he remembered the fight on Wainganga bank, he shouted the last words aloud, and a wild buffalo-cow among the reeds sprang to her knees, snorting: “Man!”

“
Uhh!
” said Mysa the Wild Buffalo (Mowgli could hear him turn in his wallow), “
that
is no man. It is only the hairless wolf of the Seeonee Pack. On such nights runs he to and fro.”

“
Uhh!
” said the cow, dropping her head again to graze, “I thought it was Man.”

“I say no. Oh, Mowgli, is it danger?” lowed Mysa.

“Oh, Mowgli, is it danger?” the boy called back mockingly. “That is all Mysa thinks for: Is it danger? But for Mowgli, who goes to and fro in the jungle by night watching, what care ye?”

“How loud he cries?” said the cow.

“Thus do they cry,” Mysa answered contemptuously, “who having torn the grass up know not how to eat it.”

“For less than this,” Mowgli groaned to himself, “for less than this even last rains I had pricked Mysa out of his wallow and ridden him through the swamp on a rush halter.” He stretched his hand to break one of the feathery reeds, but drew it back with a sigh. Mysa went on steadily chewing the cud and the long grass ripped where the cow grazed. “I will not die
here
,” he said angrily. “Mysa, who is of one blood with Jacala and the pig,
would mock me. Let us go beyond the swamp, and see what comes. Never have I run such a spring running—hot and cold together. Up, Mowgli!”

He could not resist the temptation of stealing across the reeds to Mysa and pricking him with the point of his knife. The great dripping bull broke out of his wallow like a shell exploding, while Mowgli laughed till he sat down.

“Say now that the hairless wolf of the Seeonee Pack once herded thee, Mysa,” he called.

“Wolf!
Thou?
” the bull snorted, stamping in the mud. “All the jungle knows thou wast a herder of tame cattle—such a man’s brat as shouts in the dust by the crops yonder.
Thou
of the jungle! What hunter would have crawled like a snake among the leeches, and for a muddy jest—a jackal’s jest—have shamed me before my cow? Come to firm ground, and I will—I will….” Mysa frothed at the mouth, for he has nearly the worst temper of any one in the jungle.

Mowgli watched him puff and blow with eyes that never changed. When he could make himself heard through the spattering mud-shower, he said: “What man pack lair here by the marshes, Mysa? This is new jungle to me.”

“Go north, then,” roared the angry bull, for Mowgli had pricked him rather sharply. “It was a naked cowherd’s jest. Go and tell them at the village at the foot of the marsh.”

“The man pack do not love jungle-tales, nor do I think, Mysa, that a scratch more or less on thy hide is any matter for a council. But I will go and look at this village. Yes, I will go. Softly now! It is not every night that the master of the jungle comes to herd thee.”

He stepped out to the shivering ground on the edge of the marsh, well knowing that Mysa would never charge over it, and laughed, as he ran, to think of the bull’s anger.

“My strength is not altogether gone,” he said. “It may
be the poison is not to the bone. There is a star sitting low yonder.” He looked at it steadily between half-shut hands. “By the bull that bought me, it is the Red Flower—the Red Flower that I lay beside before—before I came even to the first Seeonee Pack! Now that I have seen I will finish the running.”

The marsh ended in a broad plain where a light twinkled. It was a long time since Mowgli had concerned himself with the doings of men, but this night the glimmer of the Red Flower drew him forward as if it had been new game.

“I will look,” said he, “and I will see how far the man pack has changed.”

Forgetting that he was no longer in his own jungle where he could do what he pleased, he trod carelessly through the dew-loaded grasses till he came to the hut where the light stood. Three or four yelping dogs gave tongue, for he was on the outskirts of a village.

“Ho!” said Mowgli, sitting down noiselessly, after sending back a deep wolf-growl that silenced the curs. “What comes will come. Mowgli, what hast thou to do any more with the lairs of the man pack?” He rubbed his mouth, remembering where a stone had struck it years ago when the other man pack had cast him out.

The door of the hut opened and a woman stood peering out into the darkness. A child cried, and the woman said over her shoulder: “Sleep. It was but a jackal that waked the dogs. In a little time morning comes.”

Mowgli in the grass began to shake as though he had the fever. He knew that voice well, but to make sure he cried softly, surprised to find how man’s talk came back: “Messua! O Messua!”

“Who calls?” said the woman, a quiver in her voice.

“Hast thou forgotten?” said Mowgli. His throat was dry as he spoke.

“If it be
thou
, what name did I give thee? Say!” She had half shut the door, and her hand was clutching at her breast.

“Nathoo! Ohé Nathoo!” said Mowgli, for, as you know, that was the name Messua gave him when he first came to the man pack.

“Come, my son,” she called, and Mowgli stepped into the light, and looked full at Messua, the woman who had been good to him, and whose life he had saved from the man pack so long before. She was older, and her hair was grey, but her eyes and her voice had not changed. Woman-like, she expected to find Mowgli where she had left him, and her eyes travelled upwards in a puzzled fashion from his chest to his head, that touched the top of the door.

“My son,” she stammered, and then sinking to his feet: “But it is no longer my son. It is a godling of the woods!
Ahai!
”

As he stood in the red light of the oil-lamp, strong, tall, and beautiful, his long black hair sweeping over his shoulders, the knife swinging at his neck, and his head crowned with a wreath of white jasmine, he might easily have been mistaken for some wild god of a jungle legend. The child half asleep on a cot sprang up and shrieked aloud with terror. Messua turned to soothe him while Mowgli stood still, looking in at the water-jars and cooking-pots, the grain-bin and all the other human belongings that he found himself remembering so well.

“What wilt thou eat or drink?” Messua murmured. “This is all thine. We owe our lives to thee. But art thou him I called Nathoo, or a godling, indeed?”

“I am Nathoo,” said Mowgli, “I am very far from my own place. I saw this light and came hither. I did not know thou wast here.”

“After we came to Khanhiwara,” Messua said timidly, “the English would have helped us against those villagers that sought to burn us. Rememberest thou?”

“Indeed, I have not forgotten.”

“But when the English Law was made ready we went to the village of those evil people and it was no more to be found.”

“That also I remember,” said Mowgli, with a quiver of the nostril.

“My man, therefore, took service in the fields, and at last, for indeed he was a strong man, we held a little land here. It is not so rich as the old village, but we do not need much—we two.”

“Where is he—the man that dug in the dirt when he was afraid on that night?”

“He is dead—a year.”

“And he?” Mowgli pointed to the child.

“My son that was born two rains ago. If thou art a godling give him the favour of the jungle that he may be safe among thy—thy people as we were safe on that night.”

She lifted up the child, who, forgetting his fright, reached out to play with the knife that hung on Mowgli’s chest, and Mowgli put the little fingers aside very carefully.

“And if thou art Nathoo whom the tigers carried away,” Messua went on choking, “he is then thy younger brother. Give him an elder brother’s blessing.”

“
Hai mai!
What do I know of the thing called a blessing? I am neither a godling nor his brother, and—O Mother, Mother, my heart is heavy in me.” He shivered as he set down the child.

“Like enough,” said Messua, bustling among the cooking-pots. “This comes of running about the marshes by night. Beyond question, a fever has soaked thee to the marrow.” Mowgli smiled a little at the idea of anything in the jungle hurting him. “I will make a fire and thou shalt drink warm milk. Put away the jasmine wreath, the smell is heavy in so small a place.”

Mowgli sat down, muttering, his face in his hands. All manner of strange feelings were running over him, exactly as though he had been poisoned, and he felt dizzy and a little sick. He drank the warm milk in long gulps, Messua patting him on the shoulder from time to time, not quite sure whether he were her son Nathoo of the
long-ago days or some wonderful jungle being, but glad to feel that he was at least flesh and blood.

“Son,” she said at last. Her eyes were full of pride. “Have any told thee that thou art beautiful beyond all men?”

“Hah?” said Mowgli, for of course he had never heard anything of the kind. Messua laughed softly and happily. The look in his face was enough for her.

“I am the first, then? It is right, though it comes seldom, that a mother should tell her son these good things. Thou art very beautiful. Never have I looked upon such a man.”

Mowgli twisted his head and tried to see over his own hard shoulder, and Messua laughed again so long that Mowgli, not knowing why, was forced to laugh with her, and the child ran from one to the other laughing too.

“Nay, thou must not mock thy brother,” said Messua catching him to her breast. “When thou art one-half as fair we will marry thee to the youngest daughter of a king and thou shalt ride great elephants.”

Mowgli could not understand one word in three of the talk here; the warm milk was taking effect on him after his forty-mile run; so he curled up and in a minute was deep asleep, and Messua put the hair back from his eyes, threw a cloth over him and was happy. Jungle-fashion, he slept out the rest of that night and all the next day, for his instincts, which never wholly slept, warned him there was nothing to fear. He waked at last with a bound that shook the hut, for the cloth over his face made him dream of traps, and there he stood, his hand on his knife, the sleep all heavy in his rolling eyes, ready for any fight.

Messua laughed and set the evening meal before him. There were only a few coarse cakes baked over the smoky fire, some rice, and a lump of sour preserved tamarinds—just enough to go on with till he could get to his evening kill. The smell of the dew in the marshes made him hungry and restless. He wanted to finish his spring running, but the child insisted on sitting in his arms, and Messua would have it that his long blue-black
hair must be combed out. So she sang as she combed, foolish little baby songs, now calling Mowgli her son, and now begging him to give some of his jungle-power to the child. The but door was closed, but Mowgli heard a sound he knew well, and saw Messua’s jaw drop with horror as a great grey paw came under the bottom of the door, and Grey Brother outside whined a muffled and penitent whine of anxiety and fear.

“Out and wait. Ye would not come when I called,” said Mowgli in jungle-talk, never turning his head, and the great grey paw disappeared.

“Do not—do not bring thy—thy servants with thee,” said Messua. “I—we have always lived at peace with the jungle.”

“It is peace,” said Mowgli, rising. “Think of that night on the road to Khanhiwara. There were scores of such folk before thee and behind thee. But I see that even in spring-time the Jungle-People do not always forget. Mother, I go.”

Messua drew aside humbly—he was indeed a wood-god she thought—but as his hand was on the door the mother in her made her throw her arms round Mowgli’s neck again and again.

“Come back!” she whispered. “Son or no son, come back, for I love thee—and look, he too grieves.”

The child was crying because the man with the shiny knife was going away.

“Come back again,” Messua repeated. “By night or by day this door is never shut to thee.”

Mowgli’s throat worked as though the cords in it were being pulled, and his voice seemed to be dragged from it as he answered: “I will surely come back.”

“And now,” he said, as he put aside the head of the fawning wolf on the threshold, “I have a little cry against thee, Grey Brother. Why came ye not, all Four, when I called so long ago?”

“So long ago? It was but last night. I—we—were singing in the jungle, the new songs, for this is the Time of New Talk. Rememberest thou?”

“Truly, truly.”

“And as soon as the songs were sung,” Grey Brother went on earnestly, “I followed thy trail. I ran from all the others and followed hot-foot. But, O Little Brother, what hast
thou
done—eating and sleeping with the man pack?”