Oriental Stories/Volume 1/Issue 1/Eyes of the Dead
Eyes of the Dead
By Lieutenant Edgar Gardiner
Mahbub, the Afghan hillman, went far to avenge the
death of his kinsman, Yar Khan
"Salaam, Sikar Bahadur!"
Officer Trowbridge turned swiftly at the sound of the familiar voice. Through shrewd gray eyes he took in the form of the gaunt, emaciated hillman who stood in the doorway. The voice was as familiar as this apparition was strange.
"Now is my heart sad, Trowbridge sahib, oh my friend! For we two have spoken together with naked hearts and our hands have dipped into the same dish and thou hast been to me as a brother! Yet now thou knowest me not! Ahi! Ahi!"
The Englishman started from his seat:
"Mahbub, by God!"
"By Allah, the Dispenser of Justice—by Allah-al-Mumit; it is I." The tall hillman seated himself wearily upon the cloth he spread upon the floor.
Trowbridge looked upon him with pained eyes. Was this the smart, trim native officer to whom he had given permission to leave the Thana [police station] on private business six weeks before? He looked into the burning, sunken eyes, glowing restlessly—had the man slept at all since he left? He eyed the soiled, travel-stained garments—never had he seen Mahbub in clothing so filthy or so disordered! Was this indeed the officer who had been the pride of the Thana; was this his trusted right hand who would follow a criminal even to the gates of Jehanum?
"I am returned, as was my promise to the Presence."
Trowbridge nodded slowly.
"And now, I pray you, give me permission to depart from the Presence. Great honor has the sahib shown me."
"You would now leave the service of the British Raj, Mahbub?" Trowbridge asked slowly, his eyes upon the lean figure before him. The Afghan shook his head.
"Nay, oh Trowbridge sahib. I am weary. The way was long, my brother. My clothes are fouled because of the dust upon the Great Road. My eyes are sad because of the glare of the sun. My feet are swollen because I have washed them in bitter water, and my cheeks are hollow because the food was bad."
Commissioner Trowbridge tapped a bell beside his elbow. To the fat Bengali servant who appeared he gave a few short swift orders. Presently that mountainous one reappeared bearing a tray whereon reposed two tall tinkling glasses, their sides beaded with moisture. He set the tray down upon the flat-topped desk and unobtrusively withdrew, casting one long sharp glance at the ragged, dirty figure sitting impassive upon the floor.
"He knew thee not, Mahbub, save as an Afridi. He is new here with me since thy going, oh my friend." Trowbridge picked up one of the glasses and stretched it out toward the Afghan, who shook his head in firm negation.
"Drink! It is but the chilled juice of mangoes." The hillman took it from him, sipping the cool contents slowly.
"And now, before I give thee 
permission to depart, what of thy quest, Mahbub? As thou hast said, oh my friend, we twain have talked together with naked hearts; we have eaten salt and broken bread together."
"In the name of Allah returning thanks, thrice!" Mahbub intoned as he drained the last cooling sip from the glass in his hand. "My mouth is dry for straight talk. When the grief of the soul is too heavy for endurance it may be cased by speech. Moreover, the mind of a true man is as a well, the pebble of confession dropped therein sinks and is seen no more. In my chest burns a fire that is like the fires of the Pit itself."
A long space he paused while Trowbridge waited patiently.
"Yet before I tell thee of my quest, oh my brother, oh my friend, bid thy servants of the Thana lock safely away that one whom I brought with me."
Once more Trowbridge's keen eyes darted swiftly over the disreputable form before him.
"It shall be done at once, Mahbub," he said at last.
"Again I give thanks to the Presence," Mahbub said softly when the native constabulary had roughly taken the filthy bundle of rags that sat stupidly on the broad veranda without the Thana and had locked him safely within a cell.
"He is one the Presence urgently desired—it is Kundoo who slew Yar Khan."
"What!" Trowbridge started from his chair in his excitement. After a pause, "So that was your quest, Mahbub, was it? I should have known."
The other nodded.
"There is a reward," Trowbridge began.
"Nay, oh my friend!" protested Mahbub. "The fire burn your money! What do I want with it? I am rich and I thought you were my friend, but behold! you are like all the rest—a sahib. Is a man sad? Give him silver, say the sahibs. Is he dishonored? Give him money, say the sahibs. Hath he a wrong upon his head? Then give him filthy gold, say the sahibs. Such are the sahibs and such art thou—even thou!. . . Nay! I beg thee to forget my foolish words. Forgive me, oh my brother! I knew not what I said. I shall pour dust upon my head, yet I am an Afridi! Because of my sorrow I revile thee, oh my friend—even as a Pathan!"
Trowbridge sat immovable. Across
his face shone no flicker of emotion
now; it was the calm visage of a Buddha—or
a poker player. After a pause the
Afghan went on:
"To Delhi my quest first led me, Protector of the Helpless. From that stinking city I sped swiftly to the west to Bahadurgath and Rania, led only by a Voice. Smile not, oh my friend. That Voice was a djinn calling to me from out the hot parched earth. There are no devils, oh Trowbridge sahib? Smile not, for I have seen them pass before my face. I have heard them calling to each other in the parched Rechna as a stallion calls to his mares.
"Yet always before me fled him whom I sought. I came unto Fazilha and passed through swiftly, sleeping not, eating not, while the fire within my breast flared like the flames of the Pit itself. A dancing girl of the bazars told me he whom I sought had gone to Okara with a caravan of horse-traders. Like a leopard on a hot scent I followed, even to the rail that runs to Montgomery, and there the Voice bade me turn upon the road from Jhang, Samundri and Gugera until I came to Sahiwal.
"The one I pursued stood before a sweetmeat stall but the crowd moved thickly to and fro. When I pushed my way to the place where I had seen him he was gone. Did he see me or no I knew not; perhaps a djinn whispered in his ear. Once more I hurried on, past the sandy wastes of the Rechna where devils called and rioted in the evening winds. Though I went swiftly, yet the one before me was winged by the terror of Death that rode upon his crupper.
"The Jehalum was in flood. I forced my mare into the ford, for I would not wait. But the river god was angry. My mare was washed away and so would I have been also save for that pearl among elephants, Ram Pershad, and his mahout, who drove the great beast into the tawny flood below the ford and so rescued me. But he whom I followed was safe upon the further shore, having crossed twelve hours before I came.
"Thrice the sun rose before I could go on. Ahi! Alghies! Ahi! In the light of the third morning I was paddled across that muddy stream, for the ford was yet too deep to travel. I must retrace my steps a long weary way from where the river god's resistless might had driven me.
"The Voice led me co the Salt Hills and on to Shapur, and there again I heard tidings of him I sought. He had sold horses to a sahib near Pindigeb. Though I was far from the Great Road that leads past the cantonments and the iron road that runs to the south which, as the Presence knows, is the winter path of the dealers, I journeyed fast to Sialkit.
"I thanked Allah that we twain would soon be among the mighty hills and the little matter between us would be settled according to our own hill custom. But a Jullalee [Evil Spirit] must have whispered to him. At Sialkit he had doubled back upon his own track toward the south where men are rats and trulls the women. A fit place for such as he! And the flame within me burned the hotter now for I must remember my oath and bow before the Law. Ahi! Ahi!
"Long was the way of my quest but at the end thereof I found him that I had followed so long and so tirelessly. I have brought him before the PrcseAce as I had given my word to do. And now the Presence would offer me money, even as any sahib! I am the sahib's friend. I have drunk water in the shadow of his house and he has blackened my face! What more is there to do? Will the sahib give me an anna to complete the insult?
"I crave permission to depart, oh Trowbridge sahib. Upon my valley lies the bloom of the peach orchards like henna on a maiden's flesh, the pleasant winds sweep through the mulberry trees, the streams riot with the white snow waters and I may be among men once more.
"I can go in peace. The fire within me will die slowly to cold ashes, for, Trowbridge sahib, my friend and my brother, thou shalt promise me that Kundoo shall pay to the British Raj for the crime he committed."
Long minutes Trowbridge sat motionless.
"Mahbub, oh my friend, I give you my word that I shall do all that I can. But what proof have I that Kundoo did indeed commit that murder? The ways of the white sahibs are not as the ways of the Afridi. Had I his own talk with which to confront him and confound the lies he will assuredly tell before the court—Mahbub, my friend and my brother! I talk to thee once more with naked heart as an own blood-brother. No other among those at this Thana could have done the deed that thou hast done. I shall not again offer thee money after the way of the Anglesi, but the finest mare or the fleetest stallion in all the bazars is thine and a Bokharan belt of finest workmanship. Nay! It is a gift of friendship I would offer thee!
"Yet, Mahbub, is my heart heavy. How may I confront Kundoo with his misdeed? How may I out of his own mouth make him confess to that which we both know? Canst thou show me a way?"
It was Mahbub's turn to pause, to consider, his chin bowed upon his breast. Trowbridge, watching him, felt a thrill of compassion for this Afghan who times innumerable had stood manfully at his side regardless of all odds. Between them lay, the ceremony of blood brotherhood.
Mentally he reviewed again that tireless, merciless chase. Like a mongoose after a cobra, Mahbub had trailed his quarry; against stupendous obstacles he had carried on, until he had brought the culprit in to the Thana. A six weeks' chase. And as if that were not enough, now he was asking the impossible of Mahbub once more. How could Mahbub, or any one else, force from the prisoner's lips the confession of guilt? The Afghan raised his head.
"Trowbridge sahib, it is an order?" he asked.
"Not so, Mahbub. I ask in the name of friendship. You have done well. I could not have asked of any man what you have done unbidden." Trowbridge's voice betrayed his sincerity.
"Then is my heart made fat and my eye glad," Mahbub exclaimed."An order is an order until one is strong enough to disobey. But the desire of a true friend—Holy Kurstad and the Blessed Imans! I will do what I can. First, I ask of the Protector that he awaken Kundoo." He smiled fleetingly. "That degraded Mussulman sleeps soundly yet. There was no other way to bring him before you. I but gave him bhang."
"It shall be done at once," Trowbridge responded. "And then?"
"Let none others come near his cell save myself, Bahadur—or Sunua Manji." Mahbub rose swiftly, all traces of his weariness apparently forgotten, and left the Khana.
Trowbridge looked somberly after his departing form as he telephoned for the doctor. He had wondered not a little how Mahbub had managed to bring in his countryman a prisoner without bloodletting.
Yet he had himself seen that Kundoo was unharmed, though he was sluggish, seemingly with no mind of his own. His brows knit into a frown as he thought of that even greater task he had but now set for his underling. It would be a calamity indeed if, after such an epic chase, the wily Kundoo should go free for lack of positive evidence or through the efforts of lying paid witnesses.
He half wished that Kundoo had gone beyond the border in that grim, long-drawn-out pursuit. Had he done so, Mahbub would have returned alone and the Empire would have been saved the cost and trouble of a trial. That Mahbub would have dealt hill justice to Kundoo before he turned back Trowbridge was as sure as he was of Kundoo's guilt.
The little doctor bustled in, pompous as a bantam cock, and after a few desultory words with the Commissioner, passed from Trowbridge's sight. Trowbridge gave strict orders for all to keep away from Kundoo's cell; then, as an afterthought, he ordered them to admit Mahbub, whom they all knew, at any time he might choose to come. Those matters attended to, he hurried out and was immediately immersed in the multiplicity of routine that made of him the most overworked official, perhaps, in all that populous district.
Kundoo awoke slowly from his
drugged sleep as the shadows
lengthened in the evening. He gazed
stupidly about him at the clean bare
room, the narrow bed on which he lay,
the high window with its dose-set grating.
Hazily he remembered the caravanserai
where he had talked with the
stranger countryman. That one seemed
overjoyed at meeting one from his own
valley, he had retailed all the petty gossip
of the high hills and, best of all, had
insisted on paying the reckoning.
Though Kundoo had cared little for the other's news or his company, yet he was not one to refuse free entertainment. Kundoo's financial standing, always precarious, was just now even more so than usual. A little affair that had promised well in the beginning had in the doing turned out quite the reverse. Jewels and money—much money—he had thought to obtain through it. Instead, he got a beggarly handful of silver for his trouble and had, in addition, been forced to leave precipitately for other parts. Kundoo was beginning to think that perhaps his sudden flight had been ill-advised. He should have stayed and faced it out instead of running. Reluctantly he was beginning to feel that the pursuit he had so dreaded was only a figment of his own imagination after all.
The closer he neared the border the more sure he was that his entire course in the affair had been wrong, and he had turned back before he reached it. There were other unsettled matters beyond that border that counseled prudence, matters more serious than the one from which he fled. No, they were not greater, but justice over there was a personal matter and it was swift and sure. On sober second thought Kundoo had decided to retrace his steps.
If he had been followed, a fact that he now doubted quite as strongly as he had believed in it before, his devious doublings and turnings must assuredly have put such followers hopelessly at fault. And insistently the South called to him, where the gains for such as he were better than in the poorer northern provinces, while the hardy tribesmen who followed fast and far to avenge a personal wrong were almost unknown in the Southlands.
Kundoo had eaten sweetmeats innumerable since that ocher countryman paid for them, he had drunk heavily because it cost him nothing. Had that countryman paid also for this room, Kundoo wondered? He raised his voice, shouting Loud and long. There was no answer. He staggered to his feet and essayed to open the iron-barred door. The door was locked!
Kundoo sat down suddenly. The riddle was clear to him now. That vaguely familiar face of the other Afridi, chat insistent hospitality—everything was clear. He had been drugged!
This was no caravanserai lodging! The stout-locked grille that did duty as a door, the high narrow barred window, all were as clear to Kundoo as the long ugly nose upon his unprepossessing face. While he lay helpless in a drugged stupor that unknown had brought him to this unknown place that was surely a prison, a Thana. Kundoo was a prisoner! The long arm of the British Raj had reached out just when he had fancied himself safe; he was in the clutches of the Law!
For a brief interval blind panic seized him. He beat futilely against the stout door, he shouted himself hoarse, without avail. Yet by degrees his native cunning returned to him. The Law could prove nothing. On the other hand, with bribed witnesses, he could lay so convincing a web of lies that he would surely be freed from whatever charge might be laid against him. But to do that would take money, more money, he feared, than the little that was left from that unsavory affair of six weeks since. He felt in his wide belt for his purse.
Once more fierce imprecations poured from his lips. He called aloud on the Prophet and all the Blessed Imans; he called upon the multiplicity of Hindoo Gods, cursing that unknown countryman, root and branch, to his last ultimate ancestors. Kundoo had been robbed as well as imprisoned!
The Tittle room grew swiftly darker. Kundoo peered watchfully into the corridor through the narrow-gratinged opening. He was hungry. Every fiber of his drugged body called for water. His unholy rage over his predicament had left him spent. No one came; no one paid any attention to him. Outside the building he heard the noisy gabble of natives about their trivial evening affairs.
It was dark when he first saw those glowing eyes—Kundoo was sure they were eyes—staring unwaveringly at him. He retreated hurriedly to his bed and threw himself upon it. He closed his eyes tightly. When he could hold them so no longer he peered through the blackness of that narrow room, looking all about him save where he had glimpsed that apparition. At long last he looked beyond the grating to where they had first appeared.
Cold sweat started out upon his face. The eyes were still there, glowing with cold malevolence. He shrieked and covered his face with shaking hands. At his continued uproar a light appeared far down the corridor, footsteps approached rapidly. Kundoo looked into the face of Mahbub, trim in his spotless uniform. In a flood of words the shaken wretch poured out the tale of that fantastic, unbelievable thing.
Mahbub smiled his disbelief.
"Fool's talk," he sneered. He swung the light about. "See? There is nothing here!"
Kundoo looked with wide eyes at the bare, freshly whitewashed wall.
"Gampati! [God preserve us]" Mahbub went on. "You must be drunk! A Mussulman! Chapper-band! [Robber] Boh! [Bandit] It must be the eyes of one whom you have killed and who was not avenged that you see. Be quiet now, or must I beat thee with a stick?" he added as he picked up the light and retreated down the corridor.
Partly reassured by that scrutiny under the glaring light, Kundoo lay on his bed and pondered over this absurd idea. Absurd! Was it? Could it have been the eyes of that one Involuntarily he glanced out past the grating. His body stiffened, his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth in his terror. The eyes were glaring at him once more.
The long night dragged endlessly
through its age long length. Whenever
he looked, Kundoo could see that
cold unwinking glare fixed upon him.
He fancied he could even make out the
menacing form of his last victim in the
velvety darkness. His terrorized shrieks
brought him only beatings from the tall
Mahbub; the light reappearing time and
again showed the corridor bare of every
living thing. In vain Kundoo begged
that the light be left with him. To all
his pleadings and entreaties Mahbub
turned a deaf ear.
As the hot morning flamed, a cowering, shaking wretch begged piteously for Trowbridge sahib. Mahbub reviled him and spat contemptuously upon him:
"What can such a louse as you want of the gorra-log [white man]?" he demanded. "Trowbridge sahib sleeps. No djinns disturb his rest. The dead do not glare at him all the night because their deaths are unavenged. In this cell you must stay day after day until the wakils [lawyers] shall argue before the Raj."
At the prospect of endless nights with that nameless terror Kundoo grovelled upon the floor. Piteously he begged to be taken away—anywhere at all! He threw himself at Mahbub's feet. The dapper Afghan's face was hard as flint.
"You did not fear Yar Khan when he lived. Why do you fear him now when only his eyes seek you out in the darkness, calling ever for justice? So shall his eyes follow you ever while life exists in your miserable carcass. Thou crow! Jackal! Dung-beetle! Pathan!"
He stalked majestically toward the door.
The wretched Kundoo shrieked the louder.
"Only for one thing will I call the Kumar Bahadur [Son of a King]," Mahbub said as he opened the door. "If you wish to tell the sahib how and why you killed Yar Khan I shall ask him if he will see you and try to stop that uneasy dead one from troubling you until the Raj takes your worthless life."
Eagerly the wretched Kundoo begged that Trowbridge sahib be sent for.
The noonday sun stood high overhead.
Commissioner Trowbridge had given orders to have the shaking, nerveless wretch removed to another cell and closely guarded, had promised him a light burning ever during the long night hours. Kundoo's full confession, properly attested and signed, was in his hands; he tapped the folded sheets thoughtfully against his opened hand. He looked curiously about the bare little cell. Mahbub held the grating door open for him to leave.
"It is done, Trowbridge sahib, oh my brother," he said softly.
"It is done, indeed, Mahbub; though how it was done, I know not. Perhaps the Gods of Hind—perhaps the Holy Imans" He stopped. His eyes were fixed upon the corridor wall. With a curious fingernail he scratched idly at the two little discolored spots that marred its white surface.
"Fungus! Phosphorescent fungus! Foxfire!" he breathed. "How did this get here, Mahbub?" he asked sharply, swinging upon the trim officer. "This wall was whitewashed but three days gone!"
Mahbub shrugged.
"Servants are careless," he retorted.
"Nonsense!" the commissioner retorted impatiently. "This is a jungle fungus that grows only on rotten wood. Mahbub, what dost thou know of this thing? By the blood brotherhood between us I ask thee to speak the truth from naked heart."
Mahbub closed the grating behind his superior with a clang.
"I know only that Yar Khan, son of my mother's brother, shall not die unavenged," he answered as he preceded the Commissioner down the corridor toward the Thana office.