King-Errant

by Flora Annie Webster Steel

CHAPTER IV

In this world's inn, where sweetest song abounds
There is no prelude to one song that sounds;
The guests have quaffed their wine and passed away
Their cups were empty and they would not stay.
No sage, no stripling, not a hand but thine
Has held this goblet of poetic wine;
Rise, then, and sing! Thy fear behind thee cast
And, be it clear or dull, bring forth the wine thou hast.

Jami.

Babar could not tear himself away from his uncle's camp. He lingered on and on, watching the military operations with a more or less critical eye, but absorbing culture wholesale.

It was a revelation to him, meeting men to whom fighting was not the end and aim of life; and these Begs and nobles of his uncle's court, though they were all supposed to be engaged in warfare with Khosrau Shâh who was holding Hissâr over the river, for his nominee the nincompoop, had yet time for other things.

Ali-Shîr, for instance, was wise beyond belief in all ways. Incomparable man! So kind, so courteous. Babar profited by his guidance and encouragement in his efforts to civilise himself. Thus becoming--since there is not in history any man who was greater patron of talent than Ali-Shîr--one of that great company of poets, painters, professors, and musicians who owe everything to him, who, passing through this world single and unencumbered by wife or child, gave himself and his time up to the instruction of others.

So far, therefore, as the clash of intellect went, young Babar was satisfied. In regard to the clash of arms it was different. How such a mighty body of Mirzas, Begs, and chiefs, who, with their followers, if they were not double the number of the enemy over the water were at least one-and-a-half times that number, could content themselves with practical inaction passed his understanding.

When, too, they had such battering rams and catapults as positively made his mouth water! There was one of the latter which threw such a quantity of stones and with such accuracy that in half an hour--just before bedtime prayers--the enemy's fort was beautifully breached. But the night being deemed rather dark for assault and the troops preferring the safety and comfort of their trenches, no immediate attack was made; the result being that before morning the breach was repaired.

There was absolutely no real fine fighting, and at this rate his uncle, the Sultan, would doubtless spend the whole winter on the banks of the Amu river, and when spring came, patch up some sort of a peace from fear of the floods which always came down with the melting snow.

"That is his way," asserted Kâsim with a shrug of his shoulders. "He leads his army forth with pomp and state, and in himself is no mean general; but ever it comes to naught. It is so, always, when folk take to rhyming couplets, and putting spices to their food. Give me orders that hang together, and plain roast venison."

But all the while the honest man was stuffing his mouth full of lamb and pistachio nuts, and Babar smiled. Still he felt that, so far as the art of war went, he might go back to little Andijân without fear of leaving behind him any knowledge worth the learning. It was otherwise with the culture, and he flung himself with characteristic vitality into music lessons, and dancing lessons, elocution lessons and deportment lessons, until as he entered the court audience no one could have told that but a few weeks before, he had been as rough and as uncouth as old Kâsim, who stoutly refused veneer.

"What I am, God made me," he would say, "and if folk like it not let them leave. I budge not."

To which uncompromising independence, one pair of hands--delicate, long-fingered, ivory hands--gave fluttering applause. They belonged to a young man who, almost at first sight, impressed young Babar more than anyone he had seen in all his life. He was a helpless cripple who yet took his part in life like any other man. Every evening his spangled litter would be brought into the big audience tent and set down just below the King's. For Mirza Gharib-Beg (who styled himself Poverty-prince in allusion to the meaning of his name--poor) was the King's son by a low-born woman who had been passionately loved. So, despite the fact that he had been born misshapen, ugly, and that ill-health had always been his, Poverty-prince still had a hold on his father's affection. And no wonder; since, though his form was not prepossessing he had a fine genius, and though his constitution was feeble, he had a powerful mind. There was nothing, it seemed to Babar, that he could not do. He could rhyme with Ali-Shîr, play the guitar with Abdulla-Marwârid and paint with Bahzâd. What is more, he could talk mysticism far better than Kamâl-ud-din, with his wagging black beard, who pretended to raptures and ecstasies and had written a portentously dull book about Sufism which he called "The Assembly of Lovers"--portentously dull and also profane--which was inexcusable.

But when Poverty-prince spoke of roses and nightingales and even of the red wine cup, he took you into another world; and he evidently believed what he said, whereas Kâmal-ud-din was all pose.

Yet the next instant the thin ugly face would show almost impish in its amusement and its owner would burst out with some sally that would set them all a-laughing; and him a-coughing for the change of air which was to have done him good was doing him harm; though he would not admit it.

"Wherefore should I?" he laughed gaily in some anxious face. "A man is as ill as he thinks himself--he is all things that he believes himself to be. So I am strong, and well, and young, and deeply enamoured of a beauteous lady. She is called Feramors--a pretty name," and he would catch up a lute over which his thin, long, ivory hands would flutter like butterflies and sing:

"Say! is it Love or Death, O Feramors!
That hides behind thy bosom's pearly doors?
I care not, so I reach the heart within.
Oh! let me in;
Open the closed doors, O Feramors!"

Truly he was a marvellous person! To Babar, boy as he was, the most marvellous thing in the camp. How could he, cripple, suffering, almost dying as he was, keep life at bay as it were? How could he sit so free of it? He, Babar, with his health and strength was not so independent, though he was more so than most, for, almost unconsciously, he set himself as free as he could from encumbrance even of thought.

He shrank even from so much as came to him from Gharîb, and avoided his cousin in consequence, spending such time as he could spare from his numerous lessons, and the watch Kâsim made him keep on military matters, in hunting amid the low hills.

But it was no use. That dark, curiously be-scented tent wherein the cripple lay laughing at life, had a strange attraction for him. He took to dropping into it on his way elsewhere, until old Kâsim grew uneasy.

"He lays spells on you, my liege," he protested. "They tell me he can do it to all young folk--so have a care!"

"Smear my forehead with lamp-black against the evil eye; then shall I be safe," laughed the boy, and yet in his heart he felt the spell. And, oddly enough, he liked it. He was fascinated by something in this distant, faraway cousin of his; so far-away that it scarcely seemed worth while calling him cousin. Yet, as grandmother Isân-daulet would say: "all men were descended from Adam!"

"Come in on thy return from the chase," said Poverty-prince one day when he had looked in on the scent sodden tent, a picture of youth and strength and health, in his fur posteen and his high peaked cap. "And bring thy bag with thee for this lifeless log to see. What shall it contain? Imprimis--a brace of chameleon birds. I love to see their iridescent necks and the six different colours between head and tail--mark you! how I remember thy description, cousin-ling?"

Babar blushed. "Thou said'st thou had never seen them," he began apologetically.

"Save through thine eyes and they are good enough for most folk. Be not ashamed, coz, of the gift God hath given thee. And thou shalt bring me a fat deer and some kalidge pheasant--and, with luck, a cock minâwul. Then we will look at it with the same eyes--thou and I--" A wistfulness had crept into his voice, and he said no more.

But the curious thing was that the bag was ever just what Poverty-prince had predicted, neither more, nor less.

"Thou art a wizard, for sure," said Babar half seriously. "The thought of thy words makes my aim sure at times, and at another sets my bow arm a-quiver. Wert thou to say 'naught,' I should return empty-handed."

"So be it," laughed the cripple. "Why should we kill God's pretty creatures?"

And thereinafter two whole hunts produced nothing. Whether it was a fresh fall of snow in the hills that brought ill luck Babar could not say, but he looked at his cousin with awe.

"Thou hast more power I verily believe," he said, "than the Dream-man whom Uncle Hussain keeps--"

"For his amusement," put in Poverty-prince with a frown. "But that is black magic; mine is white. I do naught. 'Tis thy mind that answers--" he broke off and his large eyes--the only unmarred feature in his face--narrowed themselves to a piercing glance. "Wherefore should I not say it, cousin? Has it not struck thee, that had'st thou been born crooked and not straight, or had I been born straight and not crooked, we should have been as two twins? That is why I like thee, and thou likest me."

The boy sat and stared at him, almost incredulously. He could not imagine his youth and strength pent up in that prison of a body; and yet ...

Yes! without doubt there was some tie. Else why should he feel so intimate--why should he speak to Poverty-prince of things which every decent young Mahomedan was taught to keep to himself; for instance of Dearest-One and the possibility of her marrying Baisanghâr?

The blood rushed to his face, however, with shame when he felt his cousin's hot, long-fingered, trembling hand close on his wrist in quick arrest.

"Marriage--say not the word! Dost not know? Nay--I forgot thy youth--and I will not soil thine ears with the tale. But we in foul Herât know most wickedness, most degradations. And there is that in miserable Baisanghâr's life that bars marriage with any woman worthy the name. Aye! and he knows it--poor maimed soul enmeshed for ever by the wickedness of one who should have protected him--May God's curse light on him for ever. So think not of marriage, cousin."

Babar shook off his cousin's clasp haughtily. It was not that he resented having substance given to his vague doubts of Baisanghâr--it was better to know for sure; but interference with his womenkind was intolerable. And he had brought it on himself!

"By your leave," he said with terrific dignity, "we will speak no more on such private matters. 'Tis my own fault. Such subjects are not meet for public conversations."

Poverty-prince lay back on his cushions and kindly raillery took possession of his face. "Not meet, sayest thou cousin-ling? Yet are they the best half--nay! the three quarters of life. Dost know that even to me, cripple, marriage hath played the major part?"

Babar's eyes involuntarily travelled over the distorted body, the crumpled limbs, and Poverty-prince laughed cynically.

"Thou art right, boy," he went on; "loathsome to sight and touch, what had I to do with weddings. But princedom weighs heavy with the pandars of the court. And 'twas done early. Mayhap they did not dream I would grow up so monstrous--as I did." He paused and his pale face grew paler, his hot fingers clasped and unclasped themselves. "Mayest thou never--nay! thou will not--see fear upon a girl's face. I saw it. Dost understand? Nay, thou art but a child still. Thank God! I did. So she waits for release by my death. And then--" He paused again and this time bright, cold raillery took possession of his face as he said: "Thou wilt make a fine bridegroom, cousin-ling, some day! Fair maids will not be alarmed at thee!"

"Likely I shall be of them," answered the boy stoutly; and it was true; barring Dearest-One, the stupid, mincing creatures filled him with dismay.

This passed but a few days before Kâsim, who thought his young charge had had quite enough of the camp, proposed starting homewards. There seemed no prospect of the campaign coming to a close. Quite a variety of strategical movements had been made, mines had been dug, forts besieged, but the result was nil. And time was passing. Events had not been going smoothly at Samarkand, the moment for intervention might be near and Grandmother Isân-daulet had sent a messenger advocating return.

None too soon, for the very same day King Hussain's runners brought news of a conspiracy to turn out Baisanghâr, and bring in a younger brother Ali-Khân.

"But he is not of the blood, either," said Babar hotly. "Kâsim! we must go back at once." The desire for conquest was stirring in him once more.

"The sooner the better, sire," replied the stout warrior, settling his sword belt. He had wearied terribly among the smart soldiers and was longing for a real raid once more.

"To say farewell," echoed Poverty-prince, when Babar looked in that night at his cousin's tent; "I thought it was not to be for a week yet." And his hot hand clasped the cool one with a lingering touch.

"There was news from Samarkand," replied the lad, regret tempering the keenness which had come to his face with the prospect of action. "And, cousin, it matters little--'tis but a few hours' difference--"

"A few hours?" echoed the cripple, speaking, for the first time since Babar had known him, almost regretfully; "that means much to one who has but a few days or weeks to live. Not that it does so really, coz," he added, recovering his usual serenity. "And thou wilt spare me one of the hours? I dare claim so much of my twin?"

The pathetic playfulness of the appeal went straight to the lad's soft heart; he fell on his knees beside the cushions, then sat back in the Mahomedan attitude of prayer. "Nay, brother," he said--and there was quite a tremble in his young voice--"say not so--I am but a poor creature beside thee. Thou art--truly I know not what! Sometimes I think an angel from God's paradise--thou art so splendid!"

"Knowest thou if angels be splendid?" asked Poverty-prince with radiant raillery. "For myself I know not--only this--that I shall miss my double--" He looked at the lad's lithe limbs, at his long legs, his great stretch of arm. "And to think," he muttered, "that I might have been born so--My God! to think of it."

Then suddenly he clapped his hands and gave a peremptory order to the servant who appeared.

"See that I be not disturbed--that no one enters."

He waited till they were alone, then drew something from his bosom and held it before him in both hands. It was a tiny crystal bowl scarce large enough for his finger tips. But they held the glittering thing lightly. It looked like a diamond body to two fluttering ivory wings, as he said slowly, musically.

"It hath lain in my breast, ever. I found it in the hand of death," he said dreamily, "but the Riddle-of-Life ends for me, and begins for thee. So take it, when I have told thee how it came to me."

Those ivory hands of his seemed more like wings than ever as, still holding the bowl before him, he lay back and it showed clear against the shadows of the tent.

"Thou knowest," he went on, "the graveyards of the hill-folk? Set on an hill and thick with iris flowers--the flowers of immortality--the green sword leaves guarding the blossoms, guarding the quiet dead below? It was the day I saw fear in a maiden's eyes--there was such a graveyard not far from her father's dwelling--he is dead now and she awaits the release of death amongst beneficent ladies in a House-of-Rest at Herât--and I bid them carry me there; for my heart was aflame and I cursed God for this carcase, seeing she was fair. So they left me there overlooking the valley, and when they had gone I lay amid the crushed iris and writhed--but of that no more. It hath passed.

"So, suddenly, between my empty wide-spread arms and clutching fingers I saw something amid the crushed blossoms. It must have been a very old grave on which I lay, since the iris roots matted thick upon it as if to hide the dead that lay in the hollow of it; for the rams and the winds sweeping on that high exposed spot had torn the covering of soil from Mother Earth's bosom. What I saw was this crystal cup. Perchance it had been used when the dead was laid to rest, and forgotten. Perchance some sad lover had set it there with flowers and tears in the poignancy of first grief, and gone away to love another. Who knows? The iris-roots had grown to a cup around it; twisted, white, iris-roots like dead fingers; and I took it from them. Take thou it, O Zahir-ud-din Mahomed, from one close to the Adventure of Death. I burden the gift with but one condition--if ever thou comest across a frightened maid--" here his whole face became radiant with smiles--"be not afraid of her. So take it cousin-ling. It is no cup of King Jamsheed to bring thee counsel in thy need. Yet it hath its virtue to those, who, like thou hast, have eyes to see. It can bring content."

Content! was this the secret of Poverty-prince's charm? Babar, bold, young, every fibre of him keen-strung for the Life, on the brink of which he stood, cared little for content. Yet he took the cup and looked at it curiously. Quaint of a surety! Taller than it was broad. Small enough to lie in the hollow of the hand. The brim over-thick by reason of heavy bosses below the edge: five bosses like those in blown glass, but oval, like eyes. The rest faintly frosted by fine scratchings (were they without or within?--within surely) which, were they letterings, would need a magnifying glass ere they could be deciphered. But at the bottom, so disposed that one must read in drinking, these words showed clear:

"Save the cup of life, what gift canst thou bring?"

That was from Hâfiz surely?

"Aye! divine Hâfiz," replied his cousin answering his thought boldly. "Now, hold it to the light, cousin-ling, and see its virtue."

The boy did as he was bid, feeling dazed and dreamful. A seven-lamped tripod behind his cousin's cushions had been lit--at least he could not remember that it had been there when he came in--Seven little lamps ...

Why! those five bosses were deftly arranged to gather the light and send it ... God and His Prophet! How beautiful!

Through the clear eye before his eyes he saw his cousin's face--all glorified--splendid utterly ...

That something which came to him ever with the sight of beauty, filled him with joy ...

But stay! the bosses must be magnifying glasses also! He could read something.

What was it?

Ishk (love)? or Ashk (tears)?

"Thou wilt see more clearly when thou hast learnt to use the five eyes of the soul," came his cousin's voice; "then thine own thoughts will return to thee from the Mirror-of-Life. Now put it into the bosom of thy fur coat. There is room there for it and majesty likewise. And now I will sing the Song-of-the-Bowl ere thou goest."

He clapped his hands once more, and the boy sighed and rubbed his eyes dreamily. Surely the seven lamps had been lit? But now they were not; the semi-darkness of the scent-sodden tent closed in on him, and that was his cousin's every-day voice:

"Bring me my dulcimer, slave! Lo! King-ling, it suits the measure better than the cithâra and I am proud of the tune! 'Tis my own."

So, after a while, the tinkling notes began, the voice rose plaintively:

"Clear Crystal Bowl! Thy sun-sparkles blind

Every poor soul whose eyes seek to find

Way through Life's wilderness on thy bright brim,

Crystal Bowl!

What wilt thou bring to him,

Darkness or Light?

Clear Crystal Bowl! Thy touch, icy cold,

Chills lovers lips that lay overbold

Hot clinging kisses on thy bright brim,

Crystal Bowl!

What wilt thou bring to him,

Love or Despair?

Clear Crystal Bowl! I laugh like thy wine!

Bring me Life's whole! all things must be mine!

Is not the wide world mirrored in thee

Crystal Bowl?

I bid thee bring to me

Joy, Grief, Life, Death--"

The voice ceased and there was silence for a little while.

But in all the long after-years the memory of those tinkling notes, that thin voice claiming the whole of life, remained with Zahir-ud-din Mahomed.

"Well! God's peace go with thee," said Poverty-prince brightly at the last; "methinks thy boyhood is about past, and sterner stuff hath to come. But keep the gift of death and if thou lose it--at least remember my poor verses. And, coz--" here the wizened face almost dimpled with laughter, "if thou comest across the frightened maid--I give no names, they are an encumbrance, remember to make her not frightened of my twin! Farewell."

It was a stirring night. The river had to be crossed silently in the very face of Khosrau Shâh's pickets (for he was holding the north bank for his nominee the nincompoop) and a stealthy way made skirting the enemy's camp, ere they could reach the hills beyond. Some of the party felt inclined to put Andijân tactics in force, make a rush through the out-posts, give and take a few sabre cuts, and so make off; but Babar, even though old Kâsim hesitated, had learnt something besides accomplishments in his uncle's camp; he had learnt that time was long, and that it was well to choose your own. So he rode canny.

It was dawn ere they reached the last vantage ground whence they could see the camp they had left. It lay curiously calm and peaceful. Kâsim, more than half-asleep on his horse now there was no chance of a fine fight, yawned, and stretched his arms wide.

"No more of that for me," he said lustily. "I am for cut and thrust and a good bellyful of plain food."

"But I am for all things," laughed Babar. He was trying to pick out his cousin's tent, and as he spoke he put his hand into the bosom of his coat to feel for the Crystal Bowl.

He could not find it!

Had it dropped out or what...?

"I must go back," he said, half to himself--"I must, I must!"

"Go back? Wherefore?" asked old Kâsim. "What is it, sire--to go back is Death; the enemy is awake by now."

The boy-King looked at him keenly. "Aye!" he said shortly, "and to go on is Life. I must remember, as he said. Forward! gentlemen!"