Nevertheless, he stayed only a day longer in this mountain hamlet. His departure was not easy. Through Poussa it had become known that he was Brahman-born; and immediately a post as second priest was offered him by Nala himself. Here Oman might have ended his days, universally revered and beloved. But Fate was pulling at his sleeve. The yearning for the dreamland, the land of the Ruby, had not left him; and his heart told him that it actually existed, while Fate whispered in his ear, bidding him go find it. Thus, obedient to the voice, he said farewell to his new friends, detached Poussa’s clinging hands from his knees, smoothed the rough hair back from her face, pressed his lips to her brow, and then set off, alone, into the jungle.
Now began his period of wandering:—the long progress through the Vindhyas, which occupied many months. It was not a time of suffering. Long inured to the greatest hardships of the body, neither fatigue nor hunger dismayed him, nor did the mountain woods and ravines hold for him any terror. The animals of the wild would not molest him. Indeed, he encountered singularly few. The winter weather was pleasant; the sun’s rays mild. With a stout wooden staff in his hand, he journeyed leisurely, halting at any villages he came to, finding welcome and acclaim wherever he arrived; for his appearance proclaimed his estate. It became his regular custom to preach in the market-place; and he never lacked an audience. Perhaps from the memory of Hushka, perhaps out of the depths of his own solitude, he had drawn a kind of picturesque eloquence that rushed upon him as he began his talks, and drew his listeners to him like a magnet. An Indian will listen to any fantastic creed, interest himself in any philosophy, nor deem it heresy to his million gods. It is, with him, either the instinctive knowledge that Truth in any form is good; or else, and more probably, a kind of inconsequential, dreamer’s grasping of all happily expressed maxims that bear the stamp of understanding. At this time, Oman made no attempt to get to the root of his success. It was enough for him that it existed. Joy walked with him on the road; and the stimulus of his popularity seemed to know no reaction.
Fortunately, he never felt any desire to take up a permanent abode in these mountain towns. Some of them were of fair size, boasted of a petty ruler, and had some military force. Many had open offices for such as he, where he might have taken a place of rank. Almost all were set in surroundings of great natural beauty, calculated to appeal strongly to Oman’s inbred love of nature. But he never entertained the least idea of settling in one of them. His early purpose, vague as it was, lay enshrined in his heart. He was a pilgrim to the land of vision and memory: a high and holy place, peopled with ghosts of beloved dead, a shrine that all twice-born love to carry in their hearts. For months he hid his desire. He longed constantly to make inquiry of the men among whom he passed, but he always hesitated, fearing to be taken for a fool should he speak of a country the name of which he could not tell, and no part of which he could definitely describe.
The winter months drew along pleasantly; but, with the coming of spring and the thought of the hot weather, his restlessness and the vision in his heart grew, till one day he was driven to speech. He was walking through a narrow valley, a long strip of which had been recently ploughed for the first time; and a man was at work there, sowing millet. On the edge of the field Oman paused, till the farmer, bag at belt, right arm working mechanically in and out, came slowly toward him, and then halted.
“Fair spring and a rich crop to thee!” said Oman.
“Alas! It is too late in the year for a heavy crop! But a peaceful journey to thee, reverend sir,” returned the man, civilly.
Then Oman, resolutely putting away his fears, began, in haste: “Friend, I am seeking a far country:—a kingdom that lies on the edge of the hills, high in the sunlight, while below it are a broad plain and a great river. Canst thou tell me the name of such a place?”
The man looked at him, first surprised, and then puzzled, but not asking a closer description. “A high kingdom,” he muttered, knitting his brow. Oman’s chance words had caught his imagination. “Ah! Perhaps—there is a plateau, lying five days’ journey to the west and south, that is called Mandu—”
“Mandu! Mandu! It is the name! Churi said it! Tell me, stranger, tell me again! The place lies west and south? A plateau! Thou hast been there?”
The farmer shook his head. “Nay, I am newly come from the north. But traders and mendicants have spoken of it. It is well known:—a Rajah’s land. South of it, below, is the Narmáda, the holy stream. Doubtless thou wouldst bathe there. But Mandu, I have been told, is to be reached from the mountains by a causeway. Yes, I have heard much of that place.”