BUBBLING WELL ROAD
[Footnote: Copyright, 1891, by MACMILLAN & Co.]
Look out on a large scale map the place where the Chenab river fallsinto the Indus fifteen miles or so above the hamlet of Chachuran. Fivemiles west of Chachuran lies Bubbling Well Road, and the house of thegosain or priest of Arti-goth. It was the priest who showed me the road,but it is no thanks to him that I am able to tell this story.
Five miles west of Chachuran is a patch of the plumed jungle-grass, thatturns over in silver when the wind blows, from ten to twenty feet highand from three to four miles square. In the heart of the patch hides thegosain of Bubbling Well Road. The villagers stone him when he peersinto the daylight, although he is a priest, and he runs back again asa strayed wolf turns into tall crops. He is a one-eyed man and carries,burnt between his brows, the impress of two copper coins. Some say thathe was tortured by a native prince in the old days; for he is so oldthat he must have been capable of mischief in the days of Runjit Singh.His most pressing need at present is a halter, and the care of theBritish Government.
These things happened when the jungle-grass was tall; and the villagersof Chachuran told me that a sounder of pig had gone into the Arti-gothpatch. To enter jungle-grass is always an unwise proceeding, but I went,partly because I knew nothing of pig-hunting, and partly because thevillagers said that the big boar of the sounder owned foot long tushes.Therefore I wished to shoot him, in order to produce the tushes in afteryears, and say that I had ridden him down in fair chase. I took a gunand went into the hot, close patch, believing that it would be an easything to unearth one pig in ten square miles of jungle. Mr. Wardle,the terrier, went with me because he believed that I was incapable ofexisting for an hour without his advice and countenance. He managed toslip in and out between the grass clumps, but I had to force my way,and in twenty minutes was as completely lost as though I had been in theheart of Central Africa. I did not notice this at first till I had grownwearied of stumbling and pushing through the grass, and Mr. Wardle wasbeginning to sit down very often and hang out his tongue very far. Therewas nothing but grass everywhere, and it was impossible to see two yardsin any direction. The grass-stems held the heat exactly as boiler-tubesdo.
In half-an-hour, when I was devoutly wishing that I had left the bigboar alone, I came to a narrow path which seemed to be a compromisebetween a native foot-path and a pig-run. It was barely six inches wide,but I could sidle along it in comfort. The grass was extremely thickhere, and where the path was ill defined it was necessary to crush intothe tussocks either with both hands before the face, or to back intoit, leaving both hands free to manage the rifle. None the less it was apath, and valuable because it might lead to a place.
At the end of nearly fifty yards of fair way, just when I was preparingto back into an unusually stiff tussock, I missed Mr. Wardle, who forhis girth is an unusually frivolous dog and never keeps to heel. Icalled him three times and said aloud, 'Where has the little beast goneto?' Then I stepped backwards several paces, for almost under my feet adeep voice repeated, 'Where has the little beast gone?' To appreciate anunseen voice thoroughly you should hear it when you are lost in stiflingjungle-grass. I called Mr. Wardle again and the underground echoassisted me. At that I ceased calling and listened very attentively,because I thought I heard a man laughing in a peculiarly offensivemanner. The heat made me sweat, but the laughter made me shake. There isno earthly need for laughter in high grass. It is indecent, as well asimpolite. The chuckling stopped, and I took courage and continued tocall till I thought that I had located the echo somewhere behind andbelow the tussock into which I was preparing to back just before I lostMr. Wardle. I drove my rifle up to the triggers, between the grass-stemsin a downward and forward direction. Then I waggled it to and fro, butit did not seem to touch ground on the far side of the tussock as itshould have done. Every time that I grunted with the exertion of drivinga heavy rifle through thick grass, the grunt was faithfully repeatedfrom below, and when I stopped to wipe my face the sound of low laughterwas distinct beyond doubting.
I went into the tussock, face first, an inch at a time, my mouthopen and my eyes fine, full, and prominent. When I had overcome theresistance of the grass I found that I was looking straight across ablack gap in the ground--that I was actually lying on my chest leaningover the mouth of a well so deep I could scarcely see the water in it.
There were things in the water,--black things,--and the water was asblack as pitch with blue scum atop. The laughing sound came from thenoise of a little spring, spouting half-way down one side of the well.Sometimes as the black things circled round, the trickle from the springfell upon their tightly-stretched skins, and then the laughter changedinto a sputter of mirth. One thing turned over on its back, as Iwatched, and drifted round and round the circle of the mossy brickworkwith a hand and half an arm held clear of the water in a stiff andhorrible flourish, as though it were a very wearied guide paid toexhibit the beauties of the place.
I did not spend more than half-an-hour in creeping round that welland finding the path on the other side. The remainder of the journeyI accomplished by feeling every foot of ground in front of me, andcrawling like a snail through every tussock. I carried Mr. Wardle in myarms and he licked my nose. He was not frightened in the least, nor wasI, but we wished to reach open ground in order to enjoy the view. Myknees were loose, and the apple in my throat refused to slide up anddown. The path on the far side of the well was a very good one, thoughboxed in on all sides by grass, and it led me in time to a priest's hutin the centre of a little clearing. When that priest saw my very whiteface coming through the grass he howled with terror and embraced myboots; but when I reached the bedstead set outside his door I sat downquickly and Mr. Wardle mounted guard over me. I was not in a conditionto take care of myself.
When I awoke I told the priest to lead me into the open, out of theArti-goth patch, and to walk slowly in front of me. Mr. Wardle hatesnatives, and the priest was more afraid of Mr. Wardle than of me, thoughwe were both angry. He walked very slowly down a narrow little path fromhis hut. That path crossed three paths, such as the one I had come byin the first instance, and every one of the three headed towards theBubbling Well. Once when we stopped to draw breath, I heard the Welllaughing to itself alone in the thick grass, and only my need for hisservices prevented my firing both barrels into the priest's back.
When we came to the open the priest crashed back into cover, and I wentto the village of Arti-goth for a drink. It was pleasant to be able tosee the horizon all round, as well as the ground underfoot.
The villagers told me that the patch of grass was full of devils andghosts, all in the service of the priest, and that men and women andchildren had entered it and had never returned. They said the priestused their livers for purposes of witchcraft. When I asked why they hadnot told me of this at the outset, they said that they were afraid theywould lose their reward for bringing news of the pig.
Before I left I did my best to set the patch alight, but the grass wastoo green. Some fine summer day, however, if the wind is favourable, afile of old newspapers and a box of matches will make clear the mysteryof Bubbling Well Road.