Before Silindu reached the Kamburupitiya track, he stopped and squatted down with his back against a tree. He wanted to think. After the wild excitement which had possessed him now for three days, a feeling of immense lassitude came upon him. His mind worked slowly, confusedly; he had no clear idea of where he was going, or of what he ought to do. He was very tired, very unhappy now; but he felt no regret for what he had done—no remorse for the blood of the Arachchi and of Fernando could trouble him. So far as they were concerned, he only felt a great relief. He wanted to lie down and sleep. He lent back against the tree and began to doze, but he started up again immediately, listening for footsteps of pursuers. His first idea had been simply to run away into the jungle, to get away at any rate from the village. The hunt would begin; he would be hunted once again, he knew that. Then he thought of going east where the thick jungle stretched unbroken for miles. He could live there in some cave among the rocks; he could live there safe from his hunters for months. He had heard stories of other men doing this: strange men from other districts, whom the Government and the police were hunting down for some crime. They came down from the north, so it was said, flying to the sanctuary of the uninhabited jungle where they lay hidden for years; they lived alone in caves and in trees, eating leaves and wild fruit and honey, and the birds and animals which they managed to snare or kill. They were never caught; there were no villages in that wilderness from which information could come to the police. Sometimes one of the few bold hunters, who were the only people to penetrate these solitudes, would catch a glimpse of a wild, naked man in a cave or among the shadows of the trees. Some of them perhaps eventually, trusting to the lapse of time and to the short memory of the Government, went back to their villages and their homes. But most of them died of fever in the jungle to which they had fled.
If such a life were possible for men from distant villages, who did not know the jungle, it would be easy for Silindu. But as he squatted under the trees thinking of what he should do, a feeling of horror for such a life crept over him, and his repugnance to flying became stronger and stronger. He was very tired. What he desired—and the desire was sharp—was to rest, to be left alone untroubled in the village—in his hut, in his compound—to sleep quietly there at night, to sit hour after hour through the hot day under the mustard-tree in the compound. But in the jungle there would be no rest. It was just in order to escape that terror—the feeling of the hunted animal, the feeling that some one was always after him meaning evil—that he had killed the Arachchi and the Mudalali. And if he fled into the jungle now, he would have gained nothing by the killing. He would live with that feeling for months, for years, perhaps for ever. The hunt would begin again, and again it was he who would be the hunted.
Then he thought of returning to the village, but that too would be useless; he would get no peace there. He knew well what would happen. The Korala would be sent for; he would be seized, worried, bullied, ill-treated probably. That would be worse than the jungle. Suddenly the conviction came to him that it would be best to end it all at once, to go into Kamburupitiya and give himself up to the Ratemahatmaya and the white Hamadoru, to confess what he had done. He got up and started for the town immediately, keeping to the game tracks in the thick jungle, and avoiding the main tracks, for he did not wish to meet any one.
He walked slowly, following instinctively the tangled winding tracks. His lassitude and fatigue increased. He reached Kamburupitiya in the evening of the third day, and asked his way to the Ratemahatmaya's house.
When Silindu reached the Ratemahatmaya's house, no news of the murder had yet come to Kamburupitiya. He had walked slowly, but what was a slow pace for him was faster than that of the other villagers. He went into the compound, and walked cautiously round the house: in the verandah through the lattice-work he saw the Ratemahatmaya lying in a long chair. There was a table with a lamp upon it beside him. Silindu coughed. The Ratemahatmaya looked up and said sharply:
'Who is there?'
'Hamadoru, it is I. May I come into the verandah?'
'What do you want at this time? Come to-morrow. I can't attend to anything at night.'
'Hamadoru, I come from Beddagama. There has been a murder there.'
'Come in, then.'
Silindu came into the verandah and salaamed. He stood in front of the Ratemahatmaya.
'Hamadoru,' he said, 'I have killed the Arachchi and the Mudalali.'
The Ratemahatmaya sat up. 'You? What? What do you mean? Who are you?'
'I am Silindu of Beddagama. The Arachchi brought a false case against me and my son-in-law. May I sit down, Hamadoru? I am very tired. Babun was sent to prison by the judge Hamadoru, but to me he said, "Clear out." The case was false. They were trying to bring evil upon me and my daughter. The Mudalali wanted the girl. They were still trying to bring evil on me, so I said, "Enough." I took the gun and I went out with the Arachchi over there to the chena, and I shot him through the back. He is dead, lying there on the track. Then I went back to the village and shot the Mudalali in the belly through the stile. He was not dead then, but I looked over and saw the blood coming fast from the belly low down. He must be dead now.'
The Ratemahatmaya was not a brave man. As he listened to Silindu's short expressionless sentences, the bald description of the shedding of blood, given in the tired voice of the villager, he became afraid. He sat up in his chair looking at Silindu, who crouched in front of him, motionless, watching him. The light of the lamp fell upon the dark, livid face. It was the face of the grey monkeys which leap above the jungle among the tree-tops, and peer down at you through the branches; a face scarred and pinched by suffering and weariness and fear. It was as if something evil from the darkness, which he did not understand, had suddenly appeared in his quiet verandah. He looked out nervously over Silindu's head into the night: the light of the lamp in the verandah made it seem very dark outside. The Ratemahatmaya became still more afraid in the silence which followed Silindu's speech. He suddenly got up and shouted for his servant. There was the sound of movements in the back of the house, and a dirty servant boy, in a dirty vest and cloth, came blinking and yawning into the verandah. The Ratemahatmaya told him to stand by Silindu.
The Ratemahatmaya drew in a deep breath of relief. The beating of his heart became quieter.
'Now, yakko!' he said in a sharp angry tone, 'stand up.'
Silindu did not move; he looked up at the Ratemahatmaya with weary eyes and said, 'Hamadoru! I am very tired. For days now there has been no rest for me. Aiyo! I cannot remember how long it is now since I sat quiet in my compound. Let me sleep now. I have come straight to you and told you all. I thought at first I would run away. I could have lived out there for months, and you would not have caught me. But I was tired of all this: I am very tired. I thought: No. What is the good? Out there away from the village, and the hut, and the compound, and the daughter? It is the evil all over again. Aiyo! how tired I am of it. It is better to end it now. So I came here. I have told you no lies. What harm can I do now? Let me sleep here, and to-morrow you can do what you like to me.'
'Do you hear what I say? Stand up, yakko, stand up. Make him stand up.'
The servant boy kicked Silindu in the ribs, and told him to stand up. Silindu rose slowly.
'Now, then. You say you have killed the Arachchi and the Mudalali. Is that Fernando, the boutique-keeper?'
'Yes, Hamadoru, yes. Fernando, the boutique-keeper.'
'Fetch me ink and paper and a pen.'
The servant boy fetched the paper, ink, and pen. Meanwhile Silindu again squatted down. The Ratemahatmaya prepared to write.
'Didn't you hear me tell you to get up? Get up, yakko' (the servant boy kicked Silindu again). 'Now, then. When did you kill them, and how?'
'Three or four days ago. It was in the morning. I went with the Arachchi to the chena. I shot him through the back.'
'Where did you get the gun?'
'It was my gun. I had it in my house.'
'Was it licensed?'
'Yes, Hamadoru. I am very tired. What is the good of all these questions? I tell you I killed them both. Let me be. I cannot think of these things now. To-morrow, perhaps, to-morrow. Surely you have me here safe, and can do with me what you like to-morrow.'
The Ratemahatmaya was a self-important, fussy little man; he was also timid, and not fond of taking responsibilities. The sudden appearance of Silindu with this strange story out of the darkness had upset him. He was very annoyed when Silindu again sank down into a squatting position. 'Stand up, fellow,' he said. 'Stand up. Didn't you hear me, pariah? Stand up. You've got to answer my questions. Now, then. What did I ask last? Now, then——' He paused and thought for a moment. 'It is not, perhaps, too late. Perhaps I had better take him at once to the magistrate. Yes, that's better. You there get the bull put into the hackery. No, no, stop there; you must look after the man. Keep him there. Kalu Appu! Kalu Appu! Call Kalu Appu! Kalu Appu! Hoi! D'you hear? Wake up! Put the bull in the hackery and hurry up.'
At last another servant boy was woken up, the bull was put into the hackery. The Ratemahatmaya put on a dark coat, and, with many curses and complaints, got into the cart. Silindu followed slowly with the servant boy. They trailed wearily along the dark roads for three-quarters of a mile: then the cart stopped in the compound of the magistrate's bungalow. The Ratemahatmaya got out and went round to the back of the house to announce his arrival through the servants. Silindu squatted down near the hackery; he was no longer quite conscious of what was going on around him; after a while the Ratemahatmaya called to him to come round into the house, and the boy who had driven the bullock poked him up with the goad.
He was taken along a broad dark verandah, and suddenly found himself in a large well-lit room. Had it not been for the stupor of his fatigue he would have been very frightened, for he had never seen anything like this room before. It seemed to him to be full of furniture, and all the furniture to be covered with strange objects. In reality there was only a little travel-battered furniture in the barn-like white-washed room. There was matting on the floor, and rugs on the matting. An immense writing-table littered with letters and papers stood in front of the window. There were three or four tables on which were some ugly ornaments, mostly chipped or broken, and a great many spotted and faded photographs. A gun, a rifle, and several sentimental pictures broke the monotony of the white walls. The rest of the furniture consisted of a great many chairs, two or three lamps, and a book-case with thirty or forty books in it.
When Silindu entered the room with the Ratemahatmaya, the magistrate was lying in a long chair reading a book. He got up and went over to sit down at the writing-table. He was the white Hamadoru, whom Silindu had seen before in the court. He was dressed now in black, in evening-dress. He sat back in his chair and stared at Silindu in silence for a minute or two with his 'cat's eyes'; he looked cross and tired. Silindu had instinctively squatted down again. The Ratemahatmaya angrily told him to stand up. The magistrate seemed to be lost in thought: he continued to stare at Silindu, and as he did so the look of irritation faded from his face. He noted the hopelessness and suffering in Silindu's face, the slow weariness of effort with which he moved his limbs. 'He need not stand,' he said to the Ratemahatmaya. 'He looks damned tired, poor devil. You can take a chair yourself, Ratemahatmaya. God! This is a nice time to bring me work, and you seem to've brought me a miserable-looking wretch. You say it's a murder case?'
'Yes, sir. Or rather it appears so. I do not know much about it. In fact, sir, only what this man has told me. He appeared at my place just now—not half an hour ago—and says that he has killed the Arachchi of his village and another man. I brought him straight to you, sir.'
'Oh, damn it! That means I'll have to go out there to-morrow. How far is it? Beddagama? I don't know the place.'
'It's up the north track, in the jungle, sir. It must be between fifty or sixty miles away, sir.'
'Oh, damn! And there are any number of cases fixed for to-morrow. Well—poor devil—he looks pretty done himself! By Jove! I believe he is the man who was before me as an accused in that theft case the other day. I would not charge him, I remember—no evidence against him. It might have been better for him, perhaps, if I had, and convicted him, too.' He turned to Silindu, and said in Sinhalese, 'You were accused of theft before me a few days ago, weren't you?'
'Yes, Hamadoru.'
'Ah, I thought so. Well, Ratemahatmaya, I suppose I had better record your statement first in form. Come on, now.'
The Ratemahatmaya made a short statement of how Silindu had come to him, and what he had said. The magistrate wrote it down, and then turned to Silindu, and explained to him that the offence with which he was charged was murder, and that he was prepared to take down anything he wished to say, and that anything which he did say would be read out at his trial.
Silindu did not quite understand, but he felt vaguely encouraged by the white Hamadoru. He had spoken Sinhalese to him; he had not spoken in an angry voice, and he was the same Hamadoru who had told him to clear out of the court when he was charged before.
'It is as the Dissamahatmaya[48]said. I have killed the Arachchi and the Mudalali. If the Hamadoru sends to the village, he will find that what I say is true. The Hamadoru remembers the previous case; he knew that they brought a false case against me. He told me to clear out. But the whole case was false—against Babun, too. Am I to tell everything? I am very tired, Hamadoru. For three days now I have been walking and no food but the jungle fruit and leaves. If I might rest now a little, and sleep until to-morrow.... What can I do? I have told all. I am almost an old man, very poor. What can I do?'
'I think I had better take down what you have to say now. But you need not stand. You had better begin from the case. What happened after that?'
'Aiyo, Hamadoru, aiyo! I am very tired. After the case——It was a false case. The Arachchi for long had been trying to do me harm. How long I cannot remember, but for many years it seems to me. At that time it was because of my daughter; he wanted to take her from Babun and give her to the Mudalali. Well, after the case I set out for the village with the daughter. And all the way I was thinking—thinking how to end this evil. For I knew well that when they came back to the village it would begin again, all over again. They had put Babun in jail—it was a false case, but how should the Hamadoru know that?—with all the lies they told. And they would get Punchi Menika for the Mudalali. Then, as I went, I thought of the old buffalo who is wounded and charges upon——' Silindu caught sight of the gun and rifle, and stopped. 'Ah! the Hamadoru is a hunter, too? He knows the jungle?' he asked eagerly.
'Yes, I know the jungle.'
'Good; then the Hamadoru will understand. The evil and the killing there——"Yes, it is time," I thought, "to end the evil. I must kill them both." I was a quiet man in the village, all know that. I harmed no one; I wanted to live quietly. I went back to my compound, and sat down and waited. In the evening came the Punchi Arachchi to his house; I saw him go in. Then I took my gun, and went to him, and said: "Ralahami, you may give the woman to the Mudalali, and in return give me back my chena." The Arachchi thought to himself: "Here is a fool." But he said: "Very well, I will give the chena back to you." Then we started for the chena, and as we went on the track I shot him from behind. He is lying dead there now—on the track which leads from the village to the chena. If the Hamadoru sends some one, he can find the body.'
'Yes, and then?'
'Then, Hamadoru, I loaded the gun again, and went back to the village. There was still the Mudalali. I saw him in the Arachchi's garden. He called to me. "Where is the Arachchi?" I went close up to him—he was standing by the stile, and through it I saw his big belly. I shot him too. He must be dead now.'
'Yes, and then?'
'Then? I went to my house, for the women ran out screaming. I put the gun in my house, and went out into the jungle. I was tired. I am a poor man, and I have harmed no one in the village. I am getting old: I wanted to live quietly in my hut. I wanted to rest, Hamadoru. What good, I thought, to fly into the jungle? Only more evil. So I came straight to the Dissamahatmaya. I told him what I had done. That is all.'
The magistrate wrote down what Silindu said, and when he had finished, sat thinking, the pen in his hand, and looking at Silindu. It was very quiet in the room; outside was heard only the drowsy murmur of the sea. Suddenly the quiet was broken by the heavy breathing and snoring of Silindu, who had fallen asleep where he squatted.
'Leave him alone for a bit,' the magistrate said to the Ratemahatmaya. 'There's nothing more to be got from him to-night. We shall have to push on to Beddagama early to-morrow. I suppose it's true what he says.'
'I think so, sir.'
'Damned curious. I thought he wasn't right in the head when I saw him in court before. Well, I'm glad I shan't have to hang him.'
'You think he will be hanged, sir?'
'He'll be sentenced at any rate. Premeditation, on his own showing—clearly. And a good enough motive for murder. A very simple case—so they'll think it. You think so, too?'
'It seems to be a simple case, sir.'
'I see you would make a very good judge, Ratemahatmaya. I don't mind telling you—unofficially of course—that I'm a very bad one. It does not seem at all a simple case to me. I shouldn't like to hang Silindu of Beddagama for killing your rascally headman. Now then, Ratemahatmaya, here you are; a Sinhalese gentleman; lived your whole life here, among these people. Let's have your opinion of that chap there. He's a human being, isn't he? What sort of a man is he? And how did he come suddenly to murder two people?'
'It's difficult, sir, for me to understand them; about as difficult as for you, sir. They are very different from us. They are very ignorant. They become angry suddenly, and then, they kill like—like—animals, like the leopard, sir.'
'Savages, you mean? Well, I don't know. I rather doubt it. You don't help the psychologist much, Ratemahatmaya. This man, now: I expect he's a quiet sort of man. All he wanted was to be left alone, poor devil. You don't shoot, I believe, Ratemahatmaya, so you don't know the jungle properly. But it's really the same with the other jungle animals, even your leopard, you know. They just want to be left alone, to sleep quietly in the day, and to get their food quietly at night. They won't touch you if you leave them alone. But if you worry 'em enough; follow 'em up and pen 'em up in a corner or a cave, and shoot '450 bullets at them out of an express rifle; well, if a bullet doesn't find the lungs or heart or brain, they get angry as you call it, and go out to kill. I don't blame them either. Isn't that true?'
'I believe it is, sir.'
'And it's the same with these jungle people. They want to be left alone, to reap their miserable chenas and eat their miserable kurakkan, to live quietly, as he said, in their miserable huts. I don't think that you know, any more than I do, Ratemahatmaya, what goes on up there in the jungle. He was a quiet man in the village, I believe that. He only wanted to be left alone. It must take a lot of cornering and torturing and shooting to rouse a man like that. I expect, as he said, they went on at him for years. This not letting one another alone, it's at the bottom of nine-tenths of the crime and trouble; and in nine-tenths of that nine-tenths there's one of your headmen concerned—whom you are supposed to look after.'
'It's very difficult, sir. They live far away in these little villages. Many of them are good men and help the villagers. But they are ignorant, too.'
'Oh, I'm not blaming you, Ratemahatmaya. I'm not blaming any one. And it's late if we are to start early to-morrow. You had better take your friend away with you and put him in the lock-up. Tell them to give him some food if he wants it. Good night.'
The Ratemahatmaya shook Silindu until he woke up. It was some little while before he realised where he was, and then that he had to set out again with the Ratemahatmaya. He turned to the magistrate.
'Where are they taking me to, Hamadoru?'
'You will be taken to the prison. You will have to stay there until you are tried.'
'But I have told the truth to the Hamadoru. Let him give his decision. It is to end it all that I came here.'
'I can't try you. You will have to be tried by the great judge.'
'Aiyo, it is you I wish to judge me. You are a hunter, and know the jungle. If they take me away now, how do I know what will happen? What will they do to me? Let it end now, Hamadoru.'
'I am sorry, but I can't do anything. You will be charged with murder. I can't try you for that. The great judge tries those cases. But no harm will come to you. You will be able to rest in the jail until the trial.'
'And what will they do to me? Will they hang me?'
'I'm afraid I can't tell you even that. You must go with the Dissamahatmaya now.'
Silindu, passive again, followed the Ratemahatmaya out of the room. The latter, grumbling at the late hour and the foolish talk of the magistrate, got into his hackery, and the procession trailed off again into the darkness towards the lock-up. Here a long delay occurred. A sleepy sergeant of police had to be woken up, and the whole story had to be explained to him. Eventually Silindu was led away by him and locked up in a narrow bare cell, which, with its immense door made of massive iron bars, was exactly like a cage for some wild animal. In it at last he found himself allowed to lie down and sleep undisturbed.
The rest, which the magistrate had promised him, seemed however to be still far off; for early next morning he was taken out of his cell and made to start off with the police sergeant for Beddagama. The magistrate, riding on a horse, and the Ratemahatmaya, in his hackery,[49] passed them when they were two or three miles from the town. A little while afterwards a messenger from Beddagama met the party, bringing the news of the murder to the Ratemahatmaya.
Silindu was being taken to Beddagama to be present at the magistrate's inquiry, but he did not understand this. He was weak and tired after the excitement of the trial and the murder, the long days upon the road, and the little food. He began to think that he had been a fool to give himself up; as he walked behind the police sergeant through the jungle, of which he knew every tree and track, a great desire for it and for freedom came upon him again. He thought of the great bars of the cell door through which he had seen the daylight for the first time that morning. Babun was even now lying behind such bars, and would lie there for six months. And he himself? He might never see the daylight except through such bars now for the rest of his life—unless they hanged him. He thought of the great river that cut through the jungle many miles away: it was pleasant there, to bathe in the cool clear water, and to lie on the bank under the great wild fig-trees in the heat of the day. If he had not given himself up, he might have been there by now, watching the elephant sluicing water over its grey sides or the herd of deer coming down the opposite bank to drink. The thought came to him even now to slip into the jungle and disappear; the fool of a police sergeant would never catch him, would go on for a mile or two probably without knowing that his prisoner had escaped. But he still followed the police sergeant and had not the will or the energy for so decisive a step, for breaking away from the circumstances to which he had always yielded, for taking his life in his hands and moulding it for himself. He had tried once to fight against life when he killed the Arachchi and the Mudalali; he was now caught again in the stream; evil might come, but he could struggle no more.
He had forgotten Punchi Menika until he was a mile or two from the village, and he saw her waiting for him by the side of the track. The rumour had reached the village that Silindu was being brought back by the police in chains. Some said that he was going to be hanged there and then in the village. Punchi Menika had started off to meet him. Her first terror when she had been told of what her father had done had given place to bewilderment, but when she saw him in charge of the police sergeant she ran to him with a cry:
'Is it true, Appochchi; is it true, what they say?'
'What do they say? That I killed those two? It is true I killed them. Then I went to Kamburupitiya and told it all to the Dissamahatmaya and the magistrate Hamadoru.'
'Aiyo, and will they hang you now?'
'What? Do they say that?'
'They say that in the village. It isn't true, is it, Appochchi?'
'I don't know; perhaps it is true, perhaps it isn't. But the magistrate Hamadoru said I would be tried by the great judge.'
'Aiyo! you were mad, Appochchi. It would have been better to have given me to the Mudalali.'
'Hold your tongue, hold your tongue!' burst out Silindu angrily, but his anger died down as rapidly as it had sprung up. 'Don't say that, child, don't say that. No, that is not true, is it, daughter? It is not true. It was for you I did it; and now—after all that—surely in a little while all will be well for you.'
'Well? What is to become of me? What am I to do? They will take you away again and hang you, or keep you in the great house over there. And my man, aiyo, is there too. I shall be alone here. What am I to do, Appochchi?'
'Hush! All will be well with you, I tell you. There is no one here to trouble you now. There will be quiet for you again—and for me, perhaps, why not? The killing was for that. Surely, surely, it must be, child. And Babun? Why, in a little while Babun will come back—in a month or two; you will wait in the village, you will sit in the house, in the compound, under the little mustard-tree—so quietly, and the quiet of the great trees, child, round about—nothing to trouble you now. And in a month or two he will come back; he is a good man, Babun, and there will be no evil then—now that the Arachchi is dead and the Mudalali. There will be quiet for you then, and rest.'
'How can I live here alone? There is no food in the house even now.'
'Are not there others in the village? They will help you for a month or two, and they know Babun. He will work hard in the chena and repay them.'
'And you? What will they do to you? Aiyo, aiyo!'
'What does it matter? What have I ever done for you? It was true when they said that I was a useless man in the village. To creep through the leaves like a jackal; yes, I can do that; but what else? Isn't the bad crop in the chena rightly called Silindu's crop. There was never food in my house. The horoscope was true—nothing but trouble and evil and wandering in the jungle. It is a good thing for you that I leave the compound; when I go, good fortune may come.'
'Do not say that, Appochchi; do not say that! To whom did we run in the compound, Hinnihami and I? What father was like you in the village? Must I forget all that now, and sit alone in another's compound begging a little kunji and a handful of kurakkan? No, no! I cannot stay here. Won't they take me away with you to the jail? I cannot live here alone—without you!'
The sergeant looked back and angrily told Punchi Menika to stop making such a noise. They were nearing the village.
'Hush, child,' said Silindu. 'You must stay here. They will not take you, and what could you do in the big town there? You must wait here for Babun.'
The inquiry began as soon as they reached the village. Silindu went with the magistrate, the Ratemahatmaya, the Korala (who had been sent for), and most of the men of the village to the place where the Arachchi had been shot. The body lay where it had fallen; a rough canopy of boughs and leaves had been raised over it to shade it from the sun. A watcher sat near to keep off the pigs and jackals. When the canopy was removed for the magistrate to inspect the body, a swarm of flies rose and hung buzzing in the air above the corpse. The body had not been moved; it lay on its face, the legs half drawn up under the stomach. The blood had dried in great black clots over the wounds on the back. The magistrate looked at it, and then the Korala turned it over. A glaze of grey film was over the eyes. The hot air in the jungle track was heavy with the smell of putrefaction. The crowd of villagers, interested but unmoved, stood watching in the background, while the magistrate, sitting on the stump of a tree, began to write, noting down the position and condition in which he had found the body. Then the doctor arrived and began to cut up the body, where it lay, for post-mortem examination.
The magistrate walked back slowly to the village, followed by Silindu and the headman and such of the spectators as were more interested in the inquiry than in the post-mortem. The same procedure of inspection was gone through with Fernando's body, which lay under another little canopy, where he had died by the stile of the Arachchi's compound. After the inspection came the inquiry: a table and chair had been placed under a large tamarind-tree for the magistrate to write at. The witnesses were brought up, examined, an............