The Phantom 'Rickshaw, and Other Ghost StoriesKipling, Rudyard
General
The Phantom 'Rickshaw, and Other Ghost Stories
Kipling, Rudyard
Ghost stories, English
overpowered the rest of the flock, and almost before Gunga Dass and I
had time to withdraw to the tussock, two more captives were struggling
in the upturned claws of the decoys. So the chase--if I can give it so
dignified a name--continued until Gunga Dass had captured seven crows.
Five of them he throttled at once, reserving two for further operations
another day. I was a good deal impressed by this, to me, novel method of
securing food, and complimented Gunga Dass on his skill.
“It is nothing to do,” said he. “Tomorrow you must do it for me. You are
stronger than I am.”
This calm assumption of superiority upset me not a little, and I
answered peremptorily: “Indeed, you old ruffian! What do you think I
have given you money for?”
“Very well,” was the unmoved reply. “Perhaps not to-morrow, nor the day
after, nor subsequently; but in the end, and for many years, you will
catch crows and eat crows, and you will thank your European God that you
have crows to catch and eat.”
I could have cheerfully strangled him for this; but judged it best under
the circumstances to smother my resentment. An hour later I was eating
one of the crows; and, as Gunga Dass had said, thanking my God that I
had a crow to eat. Never as long as I live shall I forget that evening
meal. The whole population were squatting on the hard sand platform
opposite their dens, huddled over tiny fires of refuse and dried rushes.
Death, having once laid his hand upon these men and forborne to strike,
seemed to stand aloof from them now; for most of our company were
old men, bent and worn and twisted with years, and women aged to all
appearance as the Fates themselves. They sat together in knots and
talked--God only knows what they found to discuss--in low equable tones,
curiously in contrast to the strident babble with which natives are
accustomed to make day hideous. Now and then an access of that sudden
fury which had possessed me in the morning would lay hold on a man or
woman; and with yells and imprecations the sufferer would attack the
steep slope until, baffled and bleeding, he fell back on the platform
incapable of moving a limb. The others would never even raise their
eyes when this happened, as men too well aware of the futility of their
fellows’ attempts and wearied with their useless repetition. I saw four
such outbursts in the course of the evening.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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