Presently, a party of villagers, full of pleasant excitement and curiosity, started off for Mánkúlam, the scene of the murder, and the púsári decided to go with them. As they went along, he listened with grim, bitter amusement to the remarks his fellow-villagers made about him. His unneighbourly hatred of Iyan Elúvan, his violent temper and quarrelsome nature, were the subject of general condemnation. It appeared, by what they said, that one and all of the party had long foreseen what his evil passions would bring him to. Every man of them believed him to be guilty of the murder, and there was not one to express any doubt or to say a good word for him.
In such pleasant converse the party arrived at Mánkúlam, and went to the headman’s house. It was crowded inside and out by an excited, curious throng. The púsári made his way into the hut. On a bed, in the middle of it, lay the body of the múdliya. A wound in the throat, exposed to view, showed how he had come by his death, and indications were not wanting that he had struggled hard for life. A number of women, relatives of the deceased, were shrieking in chorus the death-wail over the corpse. In a corner of the hut sat a young man, a minor headman from a neighbouring village, busily engaged in inquiring into all the circumstances of the murder. He was occupied in making a list, from the statements of the murdered man’s relatives, of the missing articles of jewellery. The strong-box from which they had been stolen stood, with its lid broken, before him. Lying on the floor beside him was a knife, which the púsári immediately recognised as his own, though how it got there and came to be covered with blood, was more than he could guess. As he listened to the questions of the headman and heard the remarks of the bystanders, the púsári began to feel a kind of grim satisfaction in the fact of his being invisible, so black seemed the case against him. He could not but feel that the evidence produced more than justified them all in believing him to be the murderer.
As he moved invisibly about the hut, he suddenly caught sight of his enemy Iyan Elúvan entering the door. Iyan was accompanied by his younger brother Valan, Vallee’s lover, a tall, well-made young man, with handsome, pleasant features. The two men were very unlike each other in every way—in features, expression, and manner, and no stranger would have thought them to be brothers. On catching sight of Iyan, the púsári moved close to him and watched him keenly. He had a nervous downcast air, very different from his usual hard, bold expression. He looked furtively and quickly round, and the púsári noticed a peculiar expression pass over his face as he glanced at the corpse and then hurriedly averted his eyes. A thought, a suspicion suddenly rushed into the púsári’s mind. There stood the murderer! It was Iyan Elúvan who had taken the múdliya’s life; and he had used his enemy’s knife, of which he had in some way got possession, in order to cast the suspicion on him. As the thought struck him, the púsári stepped fiercely forward to seize and denounce him; then he recollected his strange position, and with a strong effort, restrained himself. For some moments he stood glaring malevolently but invisibly at his enemy.
‘This is an awful thing, Iyan,’ remarked a man standing by.
‘Ay,’ he responded in a gruff, harsh voice. ‘I felt sure that mad fool Ráman Ummiyan would do this. I met him yesterday on his way here, and heard him swear he would have the múdliya’s life.’
On hearing this lie, the púsári’s rage boiled over, but he could do nothing but utter inaudible curses and threats. He soon tired, however, of his useless ravings, and calmed down once more. Iyan did not remain long in the house; he went to the headman, who took down his statement, to which he swore, adding many cunning and malicious embellishments, which made the lie seem very like truth. As he left the hut accompanied by his brother, the púsári followed them. The brothers separated in the village, and Iyan started for Pandiyán with his unseen enemy behind him. The púsári could not rid himself of the feeling that he was still visible, and so followed at some distance. Iyan walked fast, glancing over his shoulder from time to time and muttering as he went.
The púsári followed his enemy about all day. Iyan did but little work of any kind, but sat moody and restless in his hut all the afternoon, only going occasionally to the door and glancing anxiously around. He was alone in the hut, as he was a widower and had no children, while Valan, who lived with him, was absent at Mánkúlam. Late in the afternoon he began to make preparations for cooking the evening meal, but in a very preoccupied, desultory manner. When it grew dusk, he suddenly stopped, went to the door, and looked out to see if he was being watched; and seeing he was not, slipped out, through the fence, into the jungle at the back of his hut. The púsári followed him. Iyan pushed his way through the dense undergrowth for some distance till he came to a huge hollow tree that had been blasted by lightning; here he stopped for a few minutes in a listening attitude. Hearing nothing to alarm him, he fell on his knees and thrust his arm into a hole under the roots and drew out something tied up in a cloth. The púsári saw his enemy open the bundle, and then his suspicion that he was the murderer of the headman was fully confirmed, for it was full of jewellery and rupees. For some minutes Iyan remained gloating over his ill-gotten wealth, counting the money and fingering the jewels. Once he started, and a look of terror passed over his face. He had heard a rustle overhead; but it was only caused by a small monkey in the tree above, which was watching his movements with intense curiosity. At length Iyan tied up his booty and replaced it in the hollow tree, and then sneaked back to his hut, unseen by any one but his invisible enemy. Soon afterwards, his brother Valan returned home, and the two men cooked and ate their evening meal almost in silence. After watching them for some time, the púsári went off to his own house.
He found Vallee lying moaning in a corner, utterly prostrated by the heavy blow that had fallen on her. A kind-hearted woman of the village had brought her some food, as she had not cooked anything for herself; but the weeping girl refused to eat, and lay moaning and sobbing as if her heart was breaking. The púsári longed to be able to speak to her and assure her of his innocence; but made no attempt to do so, knowing how useless it would be. At length the woman went away, and the púsári sat for a long time watching with an aching heart his sorrowing, unhappy daughter. At last, exhausted by her weeping and grief, Vallee fell asleep. Seeing this, he rose, and went out into the village. It was now quite dark, and nearly every one had retired to rest. He wandered aimlessly about till he found himself before the little temple on the dam of the tank. All was dark within save where a faint light shone through a hole in the roof on to the hideous little idol. He entered the temple and stood before the shrine. Long and earnestly did he pray to the god to deliver him from the spell that had been cast on him, and many were the promises and vows he made should his prayer be granted. Then he began to dance before the idol, chanting sacred manthras or hymns. All night long did the púsári remain in the temple, sometimes offering púja, sometimes praying, and at other times dancing wildly before the shrine. But the little stone god stood black and silent in its niche, and no answer came to the púsári’s passionate prayers.
A NIGHT-RAID ON DONEGAL SMUGGLERS.
On a wild, stormy evening, some years ago, the writer was returning to Ballyroughan, a miserable little town on the bleak coast of Donegal. It had rained heavily all day, but having cleared up a little, I drew rein as I approached the town. On such an evening the scene was far from inspiriting. The road followed the windings of the seashore, here bounded by huge rocks, over which the waves were dashing furiously, like demons storming a fort. About five miles from the mainland lay the little island of Innismurry, almost shrouded in mist, and only discernible by the ring of white foam which marked its coast. Beyond, stretched the Atlantic, raging with all the force and passion of a November storm. I had barely time to take in this scene, when I was accosted by a man, who seemed to rise out of the road at my side.