In the Permanent Way

by Flora Annie Webster Steel

"One and twenty, sir--more by token I come to man's estate, as the sayin' is, at the bottom o' that there well. Lordy! I can see it now! A sort o' mist o' light from Je-rewsalem above a-fadin' away half down the stairs, and leavin' the rest to get darker an' darker to the black spot o' water; but it had a glint o' light on it too that come, God knows how, when the sun was low." As he spoke I had noticed a curious change in his voice; a sort of refining process, as if he were going back to a self that was less rough, less common, and the change was still more marked when, after a pause, he began again: "It was an awful hot year, sir, just a white flame of heat--a burning fiery furnace; but there wasn't none of us come through it praisin' an' magnifyin'--leastways I didn't, but then I was a wild lot. Run away from home, sir; that is how I came to be in the country, knowing a good bit of the lingo for a youngster. Served my way out before the mast, and then backed my luck. And won it too; for a Rajah fellow paid me to wrestle with his men, and play monkey tricks. Lordy! I remember the first time I got in grips with the champion, and he stood head down expectin' me to go on buttin' like a goat. There wasn't one of them could touch me, sir, but that wasn't no protection when the time came. It's an odd sort of thing, I do assure you, for a man who knows he could lick every one he sees, to be runnin' like a hare for dear life, hidin' by day an' circumventin' the villages by night; but that was how it was for three weeks before I come plumb--as the sayin' is--on the King's Well. It was right in the worst country, and I was footsore, and stumblin' like as if I were in liquor with the fever. A queer sort o' place it was as I saw it first in the dawn which come--as the dawns had a trick o' doin' in those times--a deal too soon for Nathaniel James. It was right in the open in the middle o' a lot o' broken bricks and little mounds o' mud--miles and miles of them it had seemed to me, footsore an' stumblin'; for the place had been a big city, so I'm told, sir, in the old times. And now it was nothin' but a plain o' broken brick an' graves, except for a cluster of tall old houses with the usual mud-huts a-crowdin' up round them. And I knew from what I'd heard that the biggest murdering villains o' the lot lived in them houses, poor budmarsh[^[32]] Mohammedans, proud as Lucifer, a-screwing the tails o' the ryots for a livin'--though why ryots, sir, is hard to say, for a more peaceable lot o' able-bodied men and women never was. Well, there I was in the worst place I could have chosen, and the dawn comin' sudden all in a blaze. Then, right at my feet I sees the bawly; just a hole o' broken masonry, an' the steps leading down like a rabbit burrow. They didn't seem to be much used that side furthest from the village among the graves, for the drifted sand was a-lying thick on the topmost steps, and I didn't see no footmarks to speak of, only a queer sort o' track that might 'ave bin a man's and mightn't. Anyhow I thought I'd risk it, seeing as if any one come down the one stair, I could hoof it up the other, an' there's generally a lot o' little arched recesses at the bottom o' bawlies where I could lie low. So I chanced it. An' Lordy! wasn't it cool as I hobbled down them vaulted steps. 'Twas a fine place, sir, when all was said an' done. Half-a-dozen steps or so, and then a landin', as the sayin' is, with a sort o' travellers' rest on either side; but I went right down to the bottom, so as to see what sort o' trap I'd got into. An' I found it none so bad, for there wasn't no passage round as there is in most bawlies, but only a' arched room on either side my stairs ending sheer in the drop o' ink which filled up a round sort o' well that was vaulted over up in the dark somewhere. So there wasn't no way of getting from one stair to the other but by a leap such as there wasn't one but Nathaniel James in the country side as could leap it; an' that would give me time. Still I do assure you, sir, it takes the spunk out of a fellow to go skulkin' round for three weeks with your life in your hand in baggy silk trousers an' a dressin' gown--for I'd put on what they calls a killit as the Rajah give me for smashing up another Rajah's champion--that's a dress o' state, sir, an' killit or not, it nigh killed me, for it was chock full o' embroidery an' that hot; but beggars mustn't be choosers, and that night I run off from the Palace it was all I could lay hands on. An' did its work too--just to give what them surveyor chaps calls the proper contour, as the sayin' is. Anyhow, what with the stain, a deal more knowledge of the lingo than I have now, sir, an' through my being considerable stronger than the only two fellars as caught me napping, here I was in the King's bawly watching them two round spots o' Je-rewsalem like a man in his grave a-waitin' the last trump; an' the first pair o' feet I saw on the stairs opposite set me a-tremblin' like a ferreted rabbit, even though I knew that wot with the stairs, an' the drop o' ink, I'd 'ave a good five minutes' start. But then I heard the jingles on them, sir, and knew it was only a woman from the village comin' down to fill her water-pot. There was a lot o' them come chatterin' and laughin' during the day, but always down the further stair. And Lordy! it was cool after the fiery furnace! I had a mouthful or two o' corn I'd looted, so when dusk came it seemed to me as if I couldn't move on--small blame to me, sir, seein' how cool an' quiet it was, and I so close on done. But just as I was a-callin' myself names for bein' lazy, come a footfall on my stair. Now you know, sir, them bawlies bein' arched an' all that, is awful echo-ey places, an' I do assure you I made up my mind a man was coming down, slow and deliberate-like. I looked out, an' couldn't see nothing, but there was the footfall just like a procession; an' then somethin' let loose a bellow, and I felt inclined to cut. But then I thought I'd wait a bit seein' I was stronger nor most, an' the drop o' ink was handy for a corpse. So I waited until the bellow come again; an' this time--bein' close as it were, an' out o' the echo--I knew my friend, for I do assure you, sir, it was nothin' but the biggest bull toad you ever see, coming flop, flop down the stair for his evenin' drink. A great green thing with a yaller waistcoat as sat up on the last step looked at me quite proud-like. Lordy! how I laughed! It was the first laugh I'd laughed for three week, an' it done me good; that an' seeing the bull toad go douse into the water like a man, for it set me a-longin' for a swim too, an' when I come out o' that drop o' cold ink I was a new man. Slept like a babby in its cradle and woke to see through the maze o' arches a woman on the t'other side a-rinsin' out her brass pot quite calm-like. She was a-takin' his breakfast to her man in the fields, I expect, for there was a pile o' them flapjacks on a platter beside her. I dun'no, sir, if it was the sleep, or the sight o' food and me ravenin' wolves, or just sheer devilry--for I was a wild lot--but I out o' my rabbit 'utch an' let loose a yell. You may well call 'em bawlies, sir, for I do assure you I felt kind o' queer myself havin' made all that noise. She gave no look, but let loose another yell of her own as she turned tail and ran up them stairs like a lamplighter. It seemed to me as if she was callin' on 'the King--the King,' but I didn't stop to think. Now was my time. I was over the drop o' ink clear on to the second step in my hurry, before she was half-way up to Je-rewsalem, an' I was back again to the 'utch with the flapjacks making ready to run if need be for dear life, when I heard the silver tinkle again an' women's voices. Every word, sir, I could hear through its bein' a bawly, an' I heard her"--he paused sharply, waited a second, and began again--"There was two on them now, disputin' an' half-laughin', half-cryin'; one was pullin' the other an' tellin' her she was a fool; there wasn't no King, more's the pity, and if there was she wasn't afraid seein' he was her bâpdâda;--that's ancestors, sir--but the t'other wouldn't hear of it, an' kept sayin' 'twas well enough for some folk as pretended wisdom, but every one knew the King's footmark on the stair an' had heard his voice after dusk. My friend the bull toad, thinks I, feelin' considerable easier in my mind, for I knew enough o' their ways you see, sir, to know as there wasn't much chance o' any one else comin' down my stairs if a ghost lived there; so I listened to the argufying quite interested-like. But it wasn't no good--the half-laughin' voice hadn't a chance even when it grew sober, and cried shame on bein' frightened at the spirit of the good King, who every day come down to his bawly all alone, so that any pore soul as wanted justice might go down the other stair and tell him what was amiss across the black water with no fear. 'If he was only there now instead o' bein' where saints are,' I heard her say, 'I'd go down this instant an' tell him to stop it all--but there's no one to listen nowadays--no one.' An' with that she come tinkling down the steps alone--a tall girl, sir--but, there--'tain't no good describin' her, for I never see her but in half-light till---- Well! she just rinsed out her pot like the rest o' them and filled it; but afore she went she stood so with it on her head on the t'other side o' the black water for a moment, an' said quite loud an' bold-like, 'Salaam Mâhârdj.[^[33]]

"I was that wild sort, as I might have given a bellow just to frighten her for the fun o' the thing, but I kept somehow a-thinkin' o' what she had said of the old King a-trailin' down them steps in his royal robes, and listenin' in that bawly to all the pore folks' troubles, an' a-promisin' never to forsake them but to bring justice with him down the stairs to the end o' all things. Not that he was an old King, sir, as I found out afterwards, but a young sort o' saint, as got killed afore his time. You see I heard a lot o' talk from the women as came down in companies, skeery, and just in a mortal hurry to fill their jars and git home because of the girl as said she had heard the King in the daytime. So that it came to me, sir, that I couldn't do better nor lie hidden a day or two and get strong where I was, for there wasn't no manner o' hurry. Like as not I'd get killed somehow before I got to the river, and I couldn't help anyways, seein' as I couldn't look to get into any o' the places where we was holdin' out against the black devils. An' that evenin', when the old bull toad come down for his swim, I just laughed again quite light-hearted, and says as she said, 'Salaam Mâhârâj!'

"Well, she was the only one as come alone after that, but come she did, an' every time she come she would stand an' say loud-like, but a bit wistful, 'Salaam Mâhârâj!'

"She was a tall girl, but there--it ain't no use describing her.

"So what with the women coming all together I didn't have much chance o' flapjacks, and what with the village bein' walled in an' full of them murderin' nobility, I wasn't, so to say, successful in thievin', an' at last I see it was time to move on. A bad time, too; for I heard from the women's talk as there was crowds o' sepoys about a-screwin' the pore folks' tails, an' I heard her say to 'em once as it were their fault. 'If they wasn't so frightened o' the King,' said she, 'maybe he'd come back and give 'em justice.' An' that evenin' when she come down she stood so with her arms spread out lookin' up the stair and said again, bowing down after their fashion, 'Salaam Mâhârâj!, your slave waits!'

"There was a pile o' flapjacks on the platter beside her water-pot, an' maybe it was the sight o' them, and knowin' they would be worth gold to me, or maybe because it was my last time o' askin', or maybe the devil that was in me, but I just out o' my rabbit 'utch, in my baggy silk trousers and dressing-gown--in the whole blessed killit, sir--and stood quite still on the steps. It was most dark, you see, sir, an' the contours was correc', so 'twas no wonder she give a little cry, half-glad, half-afraid, as she come up from her salaam. I guessed she'd run and leave me the flapjacks, but she wasn't that sort. A tall girl--but there, it ain't no use describin'. Well afore I could think what to do she was at it; such a tale o' wrong, sir, not about herself, though she was one of those pore souls as is born widows, but about Lord knows what of the people. An' I listened. Did you ever listen, sir, to a woman's voice just chock full o' confidence in your bein' a good sort? Well, I did; an' I dunno how 'twas, sir, but the confidence was catchin'. I was a reckless, bold chap, you see, an' I knew she had grit, so the next moment I was over that circle o' black water and beside her. She give another little cry, but, my Lord! she had grit, for she drew back quick against the wall and thrust out her hands to keep me off.

"'The King! the King!' she said, 'I thought you was the King!'

"An' with that I caught her by the hands. 'I'm not the King,' says I, 'but don't you be afraid, I'm only a pore man as won't hurt you.'

"'I'm not afraid,' she says, tryin' to make believe. 'You come down the King's stairs o' justice,' she said, 'an' that's enough.'

"Then somehow, I dunno how it was, sir, but all in a moment it come home to me that I'd go my whole pile on her, an' I drop her hands an' I says: