The flame-gatherers

by Margaret Horton Potter

“Look—it is here,” he observed, quietly. “Here is the Asra ruby; the great stone that I have kept my own for thirty years. Here it is, in this box, safe to the end. And Fidá is gone—and I cannot—See, hermit! It lies in this little box, that treasure. Thou hast never made move to take it from me since I have dwelt with thee; and therefore it shall be thine after my death. Yes, I have said it. Thine. But take it not from me until I have passed. Dost thou hear, hermit?” His tone grew threatening and harsh. “I am dying, and thou mayest take it from me dead.” He glared again into Oman’s face; but, seeing the gentle expression there, lost his sudden angry fear, and dropped again into the lighter tone.

“The years—the years are many since it came to me. I was not then a young man; and I had done much wrong in the world. My name—no one knows it now. I have never told it since that night. But I may speak it at last. My name is Churi, and I was a slave, a doctor, in the palace of Mandu.”

“Mandu!” echoed Oman, quickly, in a strange tone.

“Yes, I was a doctor there, as well as a slave; and I was valued and trusted by my Rajah. But I wanted my freedom. I planned to buy my freedom, that I might no longer be called ‘slave’. And then Fidá was brought thither. The Rajah, returning from war in the north, brought back a noble captive who was made royal cup-bearer, and afterwards raised to high favor in the palace. But Fidá loved. Ha! He loved a woman of the zenana—not a slave, mind, but a wife, and the favorite wife. And she loved him also. And because I guarded a door of the zenana by night, he gave me the ruby to open the door to him. And I, hoping by it to buy my freedom, accepted it, knowing that it was the life of his race.”

“This man—his name,” suggested Oman, trembling a little.

“His name?—I have said it,—Fidá el-Asra. That was his name; and the gem was the gem of the Asra. When he gave it away, he became cursed; and the evil fell on all of us. For many weeks I sanctioned the crime in the zenana: for months played I traitor to my Rajah, for the sake of the ruby, and because I loved Fidá and Ahalya, and because they were happy together. Then at last the slave fell sick of a sickness that would not be cured, though I even returned the ruby to him to be worn, in order that he might be well again. But it could not help him then; and he gave it back to me.

“It was spring. I hoped daily for the coming of a certain merchant to whom I would sell the ruby for the price of my freedom. But alas! freedom and vengeance came upon me together, without the selling of the stone. There was a new war. Rai-Khizar-Pál marched away, leaving his favorite slave to be guardian of the young lord Bhavani, his son. Then, in the fair April, it fell upon us:—death! death! death!

“We found it in the early dawn,—Kasya and I. We found the body of Ragunáth, dead, in the champak bushes, by the water-palace. He was lying in his blood.—And Ahalya and Fidá had not come back from him. They were gone. Soon everything must be known; and I should surely be betrayed to my death when Kasya learned the things that I had done; for there was a little Arab slave—Ahmed—who also knew. Therefore, by night, I stole away from Mandu, and out—out—into the hills, carrying the ruby with me. Blood was upon it. Blood it had brought, and with the fire of blood it gleamed. I dared not part with it. It ate into my flesh, and yet I could not sell it. I suffered from heat and from cold, from hunger and thirst and nakedness, while I bore on my body this great wealth. For thirty years, hermit, I have wandered over the earth, carrying fear with me. Each man has worn for me the mask of Rama. Each bite of food has had for me the flavor of poison. I have wandered the Vindhyas over, from east to west, from Dumoh to Khambot. And ever Mandu has drawn me back toward her. Terror and death have dogged my footsteps; yet have I lived long, till I am very old. Suffering, hardship, sickness, most hideous remorse—all these I have known, and still have clung to life. My spirit was broken long ago; but I have not wanted to die. I should have fought with any that threatened to take life from me. Tell me, Wise One, what is this love of living? Why have I, most miserable of creatures, clung so long to it?

“But behold—behold—the face of Rama stares at me, from the shadow yonder! Back, Rama! Back yet for a little! Back!” For a second, the old man lifted himself from the bed, and levelled a tremulous hand at the haunting visage. Then he fell, weakly, and for a long time was still. Oman, sitting beside him, still under the spell, could not speak. Finally Churi himself broke the silence again, this time in a voice that had faded to a thin whisper:

“I am dying, hermit. Rama’s face grows brighter in the gloom. The visage is less fearful, now. My madness is gone. I see clearly. But for many years I have been mad. It is the ruby. It holds evil in it for all but the race of Asra. I had dreamed of returning it to them. But thou, who hast sheltered me and fed me, to thee I say: the ruby is cursed. I warn thee of it. Better burn it on my body.—Hark!—hark!—the drums of Rama! I am dying, hermit. Take me by the hand!”