Chapter VII · (continued 2)

'Yes, Appochchi, but what to do now, when they come back to the village?'

'Those two! Ah! now you listen, child. I have thought over it all this time and there is only one way. I shall kill them both.'

'Kill them! O Appochchi, no, no. You are mad!'

'Am I mad? And what if I am? Haven't they always called me mad, the mad vedda. Well, now let them see if I am mad or not. Have they not hunted me for all these years and am I always to go running like a stupid deer through the jungle? No, no, little Arachchi; no, no. This time it is the old wounded buffalo. Three times, four times that night in the hut when I saw it first I got up to get my gun and end it. And again, after the court, I would have done it, had I had a gun. But I thought—no, not yet, for once we must act cunningly, not in anger only. The buffalo's eye is red with anger, but he stands quiet until the hunter has passed. Then he charges.'

'But, Appochchi, you must not say that. You cannot do it. You must come away. They will take you and hang you.'

'What can I do? I cannot leave the village; I will not; I have told you that. There is no other way.'

'But what are you going to do?'

'Ah! I must think. It needs cunning and skill first. I must think.'

'No, no, Appochchi; no, no. It would be better to give me to the Mudalali!'

'I would rather kill you than that. Do you hear? I shall kill you if you go to the Mudalali.'

'Oh! oh! isn't it enough that they should have taken my man from me? And now more evil comes.'

'I tell you that I will end this now. Now I shall sleep and to-morrow think of the way.'

Silindu refused to listen any further to Punchi Menika's expostulations. He lay down by the fire and soon slept. Next day, and throughout their journey to the village, he was very silent, and refused to discuss the subject at all with her. The lethargy habitual to him had left him completely. He was in an extraordinary state of excitement, goaded on perpetually by great gusts of anger against Babehami and Fernando. When he got back to his house he sat down in the compound in a place from which he could see the headman's house, and waited. He watched the house all day, and, when in the evening he saw the headman return, he smiled. Then he got up and went into the hut. He took his gun which stood in the corner of the room, unloaded it, and reloaded it again with fresh powder and several big slugs. He examined the caps carefully, chose two, and put them in the fold of his cloth. Then he lay down and slept.

Next morning he was very quiet and thoughtful; but if any one had watched him closely, he would have seen that he was really in a state of intense excitement. After eating the morning meal he took his gun and went over to the headman's house. To the astonishment of Babehami and his wife he walked into the house, put his gun in the corner of the room, and squatted down. Babehami watched him closely for a minute or two; he felt uneasy; he noted that the curious wild look in Silindu's eyes was greater than ever.

'Well, Silindu, what is it?' he said.

'Arachchi, I have come to you about this chena. I cannot live without chena. You must give it back to me.'

'You heard in the court that the chena cannot be given to you. It has been given to Appu. Let us have an end of all this trouble.'

'Yes, Arachchi, that is why I have come to you. I want an end of all this trouble. Do you hear that? An end now—to-day—of trouble. Trouble, trouble, for years. We must end it to-day. Do you hear?'

'What do you mean?'

'Yes. What did I say? This, this. Now, Arachchi, that was nothing; do not mind what I said then. I was thinking, thinking. You know they call me mad in the village. Well, I was thinking, you know, now that Babun is over there for six months, I heard the judge Hamadoru say that clearly, but to me he said merely, "Clear out"—I was never a friend of that Babun—all the trouble has come from him—he took Punchi Menika from me, and then Hinnihami. I saw her lying in the jungle by the deer—what did we call him? Kalu Appu? Punchi Appu? Yes, yes, Punchi Appu, that was long ago. They beat her. They threw stones at her. That was long ago—in the jungle. But now Babun is away for six months. When he comes back, I shall say to him, "Clear out," as the judge Hamadoru said. They laughed at me then. A foolish old man, a mad old man, eh? Ha, ha! little Arachchi, little Arachchi, you have laughed at me too—for years, haven't you, haven't you?'

'What is all this, Silindu? What do you mean? I don't understand.'

'Ah, Arachchi, it is nothing. Do not mind what I say. I do not know what I was saying. I am a poor man, Arachchi, very ignorant, a little mad. But I am a quiet man; I have given no trouble in the village. You know that well, Arachchi, don't you? I cannot speak well—like you, Arachchi—in the court. But this is what I want to say. I do not like this Babun; all the trouble has come from him. I am a quiet man in the village, you know that. I said to my daughter on the way here by the big palu-trees at the second hill—I said to her, "The man is now sent away; he will be over there for six months. He is a foolish man. It is he who has brought the trouble. The Mudalali is a good man. The Arachchi, too, is a good man. Why should we quarrel with those two? There is no shame in your going to the Mudalali." Then my daughter said, "I will do as you think best, Appochchi." Do you understand now, Arachchi?'

Silindu stopped. The Arachchi had been watching him narrowly. He began to understand the drift of Silindu's incoherent words. But he still felt uneasy. As Silindu spoke, his suppressed excitement became more and more apparent in his voice and words. But Babehami knew well that he was mad, and that he was also wonderfully stupid. It was just like him to do things in this wild way. The more Babehami thought of it, the more he became convinced that the conviction of Babun had done its work. Silindu and Punchi Menika had given in.

'Yes, I think I understand,' he said. 'It is true that the Mudalali will take your daughter. He is a good man; and the trouble came from Babun, as you say.'

'That is it, Arachchi, that is it. Let the Mudalali take Punchi Menika. My daughter cannot live with thieves now. She will go to the Mudalali. Do you understand?'

'Yes, Silindu. But it must be done quietly. She cannot go openly to his house, or there will be silly talk, after what was said in the court.'

'No, no. It must be done quietly, very quietly.'

'I will tell the Mudalali, and she can come at night to him. Afterwards, perhaps, she can live at the house; but at first she must go secretly at night.'

'Ha, ha, Arachchi. You are clever! How clever you are! You think of all things. Yes, it must be all done quietly, quietly.'

'Very well, Silindu, I will tell the Mudalali. It is a good thing to end all this trouble, like this.'

'Yes, it is a very good thing to end it—like this. Yes—like this, like this. But now the chena, Arachchi. I cannot live without the chena. Without a chena I must starve. You cannot see me starve. Even now there is no grain in my house. You must give me the chena.'

Babehami thought for a while, then he said:

'Well, I will see what can be done; perhaps I can arrange with Appu about the chena. We will see.'

'Yes, Arachchi, but let us have done with it once for all. The thing is settled. Appu cannot be left there. Come.'

'Why, what do you want? Don't you trust me?'

'Yes, I trust you—why not, Arachchi?—but I am afraid of Appu. If he is left there to do work, he will refuse to go. He is in the chena now. It would be better to go and tell him at once.'

'I cannot go now. To-morrow, perhaps.'

'Arachchi, it is but two miles. You said it is a good thing to end the trouble. Let us settle it now, to-day, and the Mudalali can have Punchi Menika to-night.'

Babehami was silent. He disliked being hurried. On the other hand he would be very glad to see the whole matter settled. His action with regard to the chena troubled him because it was dangerous. He knew that the petition had been presented, and he was not at all sure that he would come off as well in an inquiry as he had in the court. It would also be wise to bind Silindu to him by giving him back the chena, and not to risk his changing his mind about the Mudalali and Punchi Menika. He argued a little more, and stood out half-heartedly against Silindu's urgings to start at once. At last he gave in, and they started for the chena.

They followed a narrow jungle track which had been lately cleared. The tangle of shrubs and undergrowth and trees was like a wall on each side of the track. The headman walked first, and Silindu, carrying his gun, followed. For the first three-quarters of a mile they walked in silence, except for a word or two which the headman shouted back to Silindu without turning his head. Silindu had fallen somewhat behind; he quickened his pace, and came up close to the headman; he was muttering to himself.

'What do you say?' asked Babehami.

'What? Was I talking? I do not know, Arachchi. They say the hunter talks to himself in the jungle. It is a custom. Have you ever been a hunter, Arachchi?'

'No. You know that well enough.'

'Oh yes. You are no hunter. Who should know that better than I? But do they call me a good hunter, Arachchi? skilful, cunning? Do I know the tracks, Arachchi?'

'Of course, every one knows you to be the best hunter in the district.'

'Aiyo, the best hunter in the district! And do you know, Arachchi, that I am afraid of the jungle?'

'So they say. What are you afraid of?'

Silindu began to speak with great excitement. As he went on his voice began to get shriller and shriller; it trembled with anger and fear and passion.

'I am afraid of everything, Arachchi; the jungle, the devils, the darkness. But, above all, of being hunted. Have you ever been hunted, Arachchi? No, of course you are not a hunter, and therefore have never been hunted. But I know. It happens sometimes to the cleverest of us. The elephant, they say; but that I have never seen. But the buffalo: I have seen that—here—on this very track—before it was cleared—many years ago. The buffalo is stupid, isn't he, little Arachchi? Very stupid; he does not see—he does not hear—he goes on wallowing in his mud. And they hunt him year after year—year after year—he does not know—he does not see them—he does not hear them. Do you know that? I know it—I am a hunter. Then—then having crept close, they shoot him. It was near here. At first, crash—he tears away through the jungle, the blood flowing down his side. He is afraid, very afraid—and in pain. But the pain brings anger, and with anger, anger, Arachchi, comes cunning. And now, Arachchi, now comes the game, the dangerous game. The young men laugh at it, but the wise hunter would be afraid. There he stood, do you see?—there—under that maiyilittan-tree, head down, very still. And the hunter—fool, fool—crept after him through the undergrowth: there was no track then. Ah, it was thick then: he could not see anything but the shrubs and thorns; he did not see the red eyes behind him nor the great head down. For the other was cunning now, cunning, and very angry. And when the hunter had gone on a little—just where you are now, Arachchi—then—do you hear, little Arachchi?—then, out and crash, he charged, charged, like this——'

Babehami had at first hardly listened, but the fury and excitement of Silindu had at last forced his attention. As Silindu said the last words, Babehami half stopped and turned his head: he just saw Silindu's blazing eyes and foam on the corner of his lips; at the same moment he felt the cold muzzle of the gun pressed against his back. Silindu pulled the trigger and Babehami fell forward on his face. A great hole was blown in the back, and the skin round it was blackened and burnt; the chest was shattered by the slugs which tore their way through. The body writhed and twisted on the ground for a minute, and then was still. Silindu kicked it with his foot to see whether it was dead. There was no movement. He reloaded his gun and turned back towards the village. His excitement had died down: the old lethargy was coming upon him again. He felt this himself and walked faster, muttering, 'Even now it is not safe. There were two of them. There is still the other.'

When Silindu got back to the village, Fernando was in the headman's compound. When he saw Silindu he came down towards the fence and called out to him, 'Where is the Arachchi? They say he went out with you.' Silindu walked up towards the stile, and stopping levelled his gun at the Mudalali. Fernando stepped back, his mouth wide open, his eyes staring, his whole face contorted with fear. He cowered down behind the stile, stretching his hands vaguely out between the wooden bars, and shouted:

'Don't shoot! don't shoot!'

The stile was little or no protection: between the two bottom bars Silindu could see the Mudalali's fat stomach and legs. He took careful aim between the bars and fired. Fernando fell backwards, writhing and screaming with pain. Silindu went and looked over the stile: at the same moment Babehami's wife rushed out of the house. But he saw that his work had been accomplished; blood was pouring from the Mudalali's stomach; his two legs and one of his hands were shattered. 'The trouble is ended,' he muttered.

He walked very slowly to his house. He put the gun in the corner of the room, thought for a minute, and then immediately left the hut. He saw that already there was a crowd of people in the headman's compound: the women were screaming. Silindu turned into the jungle at the back of his house, and walking quickly cut across to the track which led to Kamburupitiya.