Ruskin Bond Children's Omnibus Volume 2 Page 5

  They had started singing their favourite song again.

  Five more miles to go!

  We climb through rain and snow.

  A river to cross…

  A mountain to pass…

  Now we’ve four more miles to go!

  The leopard waited until they had passed, before returning to the trail of the barking deer.

  HOO, WHOO, whoo, cried the wind as it swept down from the Himalayan snows. It hurried over the hills and passed and hummed and moaned through the tall pines and deodars. There was little on Haunted Hill to stop the wind—only a few stunted trees and bushes and the ruins of a small settlement.

  On the slopes of the next hill was a village. People kept large stones on their tin roofs to prevent them from being blown off. There was nearly always a strong wind in these parts. Three children were spreading clothes out to dry on a low stone wall, putting a stone on each piece.

  Eleven-year-old Usha, dark-haired and rose-cheeked, struggled with her grandfather’s long, loose shirt. Her younger brother, Suresh, was doing his best to hold down a bedsheet, while Usha’s friend, Binya, a slightly older girl, helped.

  Once everything was firmly held down by stones, they climbed up on the flat rocks and sat there sunbathing and staring across the fields at the ruins on Haunted Hill.

  ‘I must go to the bazaar today,’ said Usha.

  ‘I wish I could come too,’ said Binya. ‘But I have to help with the cows.’

  ‘I can come!’ said eight-year-old Suresh. He was always ready to visit the bazaar, which was three miles away, on the other side of the hill.

  ‘No, you can’t,’ said Usha. ‘You must help Grandfather chop wood.’

  ‘Won’t you feel scared returning alone?’ he asked. ‘There are ghosts on Haunted Hill!’

  ‘I’ll be back before dark. Ghosts don’t appear during the day.’

  ‘Are there lots of ghosts in the ruins?’ asked Binya.

  ‘Grandfather says so. He says that over a hundred years ago, some Britishers lived on the hill. But the settlement was always being struck by lightning, so they moved away.’

  ‘But if they left, why is the place visited by ghosts?’

  ‘Because, Grandfather says, during a terrible storm, one of the houses was hit by lightning, and everyone in it was killed. Even the children.’

  ‘How many children?’

  ‘Two. A boy and his sister. Grandfather saw them playing there in the moonlight.’

  ‘Wasn’t he frightened?’

  ‘No. Old people don’t mind ghosts.’

  Usha set out for the bazaar at two in the afternoon. It was about an hour’s walk. The path went through yellow fields of flowering mustard, then along the saddle of the hill, and up, straight through the ruins. Usha had often gone that way to shop at the bazaar or to see her aunt, who lived in the town nearby.

  Wild flowers bloomed on the crumbling walls of the ruins, and a wild plum tree grew straight out of the floor of what had once been a hall. It was covered with soft, white blossoms. Lizards scuttled over the stones, while a whistling thrush, its deep purple plumage glistening in the sunshine, sat on a windowsill and sang its heart out.

  Usha sang, too, as she skipped lightly along the path, which dipped steeply down to the valley and led to the little town with its quaint bazaar.

  Moving leisurely, Usha bought spices, sugar and matches. With the two rupees she had saved from her pocket money, she chose a necklace of amber-coloured beads for herself and some marbles for Suresh. Then she had her mother’s slippers repaired at a cobbler’s shop.

  Finally, Usha went to visit Aunt Lakshmi at her flat above the shops. They were talking and drinking cups of hot, sweet tea when Usha realized that dark clouds had gathered over the mountains. She quickly picked up her things, said goodbye to her aunt, and set out for the village.

  Strangely, the wind had dropped. The trees were still, the crickets silent. The crows flew round in circles, then settled on an oak tree.

  ‘I must get home before dark,’ thought Usha, hurrying along the path.

  But the sky had darkened and a deep rumble echoed over the hills. Usha felt the first heavy drop of rain hit her cheek. Holding the shopping bag close to her body, she quickened her pace until she was almost running. The raindrops were coming down faster now—cold, stinging pellets of rain. A flash of lightning sharply outlined the ruins on the hill, and then all was dark again. Night had fallen.

  ‘I’ll have to find shelter in the ruins,’ Usha thought and began to run. Suddenly the wind sprang up again, but she did not have to fight it. It was behind her now, helping her along, up the steep path and on to the brow of the hill. There was another flash of lightning, followed by a peal of thunder. The ruins loomed before her, grim and forbidding.

  Usha remembered part of an old roof that would give some shelter. It would be better than trying to go on. In the dark, with the howling wind, she might stray off the path and fall over the edge of the cliff.

  Whoo, whoo, whoo, howled the wind. Usha saw the wild plum tree swaying, its foliage thrashing against the ground. She found her way into the ruins, helped by the constant flicker of lightning. Usha placed her hands flat against a stone wall and moved sideways, hoping to reach the sheltered corner. Suddenly, her hand touched something soft and furry, and she gave a startled cry. Her cry was answered by another—half snarl, half screech—as something leapt away in the darkness.

  With a sigh of relief Usha realized that it was the cat that lived in the ruins. For a moment she had been frightened, but now she moved quickly along the wall until she heard the rain drumming on a remnant of a tin roof. Crouched in a corner, she found some shelter. But the tin sheet groaned and clattered as if it would sail away any moment.

  Usha remembered that across this empty room stood an old fireplace. Perhaps it would be drier there under the blocked chimney. But she would not attempt to find it just now—she might lose her way altogether.

  Her clothes were soaked and water streamed down from her hair, forming a puddle at her feet. She thought she heard a faint cry—the cat again, or an owl? Then the storm blotted out all other sounds.

  There had been no time to think of ghosts, but now that she was settled in one place, Usha remembered Grandfather’s story about the lightning-blasted ruins. She hoped and prayed that lightning would not strike her.

  Thunder boomed over the hills, and the lightning came quicker now. Then there was a bigger flash, and for a moment the entire ruin was lit up. A streak of blue sizzled along the floor of the building. Usha was staring straight ahead, and, as the opposite wall lit up, she saw, crouching in front of the unused fireplace, two small figures—children!

  The ghostly figures seemed to look up and stare back at Usha. And then everything was dark again.

  Usha’s heart was in her mouth. She had seen without doubt, two ghosts on the other side of the room. She wasn’t going to remain in the ruins one minute longer.

  She ran towards the big gap in the wall through which she had entered. She was halfway across the open space when something—someone—fell against her. Usha stumbled, got up, and again bumped into something. She gave a frightened scream. Someone else screamed. And then there was a shout, a boy’s shout, and Usha instantly recognized the voice.

  ‘Suresh!’

  ‘Usha!’

  ‘Binya!’

  They fell into each other’s arms, so surprised and relieved that all they could do was laugh and giggle and repeat each other’s names.

  Then Usha said, ‘I thought you were ghosts.’

  ‘We thought you were a ghost,’ said Suresh.

  ‘Come back under the roof,’ said Usha.

  They huddled together in the corner, chattering with excitement and relief.

  ‘When it grew dark, we came looking for you,’ said Binya. ‘And then the storm broke.’

  ‘Shall we run back together?’ asked Usha. ‘I don’t want to stay here any longer.’

  ‘We’ll hav
e to wait,’ said Binya. ‘The path has fallen away at one place. It won’t be safe in the dark, in all this rain.’

  ‘We’ll have to wait till morning,’ said Suresh, ‘and I’m so hungry!’

  The storm continued, but they were not afraid now. They gave each other warmth and confidence. Even the ruins did not seem so forbidding.

  After an hour the rain stopped, and the thunder grew more distant.

  Towards dawn the whistling thrush began to sing. Its sweet, broken notes flooded the ruins with music. As the sky grew lighter, they saw that the plum tree stood upright again, though it had lost all its blossoms.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Usha.

  Outside the ruins, walking along the brow of the hill, they watched the sky grow pink. When they were some distance away, Usha looked back and said, ‘Can you see something behind the wall? It’s like a hand waving.’

  ‘It’s just the top of the plum tree,’ said Binya.

  ‘Goodbye, goodbye…’ They heard voices.

  ‘Who said “goodbye”?’ asked Usha.

  ‘Not I,’ said Suresh.

  ‘Nor I,’ said Binya.

  ‘I heard someone calling,’ said Usha.

  ‘It’s only the wind,’ assured Binya.

  Usha looked back at the ruins. The sun had come up and was touching the top of the wall.

  ‘Come on,’ said Suresh. ‘I’m hungry.’

  They hurried along the path to the village.

  ‘Goodbye, goodbye…’ Usha heard them calling. Or was it just the wind?

  T MAY give you some idea of rural humour if I begin this tale with an anecdote that concerns me. I was walking alone through a village at night when I met an old man carrying a lantern. I found, to my surprise, that the man was blind. ‘Old man,’ I asked, ‘if you cannot see, why do you carry a lamp?’

  ‘I carry this,’ he replied, ‘so that fools do not stumble against me in the dark.’

  This incident has only a slight connection with the story that follows, but I think it provides the right sort of tone and setting. Mr Oliver, an Anglo-Indian teacher, was returning to his school late one night, on the outskirts of the hill station of Shimla. The school was conducted on English public school lines and the boys, most of them from well-to-do Indian families, wore blazers, caps and ties. Life magazine, in a feature on India, had once called this school the ‘Eton of the East’.

  Individuality was not encouraged; they were all destined to become ‘leaders of men’.

  Mr Oliver had been teaching in the school for several years. Sometimes it seemed like an eternity, for one day followed another with the same monotonous routine. The Shimla bazaar, with its cinemas and restaurants, was about two miles from the school; and Mr Oliver, a bachelor, usually strolled into the town in the evening, returning after dark, when he would take a short cut through a pine forest.

  When there was a strong wind, the pine trees made sad, eerie sounds that kept most people to the main road. But Mr Oliver was not a nervous or imaginative man. He carried a torch and, on the night I write of, its pale gleam—the batteries were running down—moved fitfully over the narrow forest path. When its flickering light fell on the figure of a boy, who was sitting alone on a rock, Mr Oliver stopped. Boys were not supposed to be out of school after 7 p.m., and it was now well past nine.

  ‘What are you doing out here, boy?’ asked Mr Oliver sharply, moving closer so that he could recognize the miscreant. But even as he approached the boy, Mr Oliver sensed that something was wrong. The boy appeared to be crying. His head hung down, he held his face in his hands, and his body shook convulsively. It was a strange, soundless weeping, and Mr Oliver felt distinctly uneasy.

  ‘Well, what’s the matter?’ he asked, his anger giving way to concern. ‘What are you crying for?’ The boy would not answer or look up. His body continued to be racked with silent sobbing.

  ‘Come on, boy, you shouldn’t be out here at this hour. Tell me the trouble. Look up!’

  The boy looked up. He took his hands from his face and looked up at his teacher. The light from Mr Oliver’s torch fell on the boy’s face—if you could call it a face.

  He had no eyes, ears, nose or mouth. It was just a round smooth head—with a school cap on top of it. And that’s where the story should end—as indeed it has for several people who have had similar experiences and dropped dead of inexplicable heart attacks. But for Mr Oliver it did not end there.

  The torch fell from his trembling hand. He turned and scrambled down the path, running blindly through the trees and calling for help. He was still running towards the school buildings when he saw a lantern swinging in the middle of the path. Mr Oliver had never before been so pleased to see the night watchman. He stumbled up to the watchman, gasping for breath and speaking incoherently.

  ‘What is it, sir?’ asked the watchman. ‘Has there been an accident? Why are you running?’

  ‘I saw something—something horrible—a boy weeping in the forest—and he had no face!’

  ‘No face, sir?’

  ‘No eyes, nose, mouth—nothing.’

  ‘Do you mean it was like this, sir?’ asked the watchman, and raised the lamp to his own face. The watchman had no eyes, no ears, no features at all—not even an eyebrow!

  The wind blew the lamp out, and Mr Oliver had his heart attack.

  If mice could roar,

  And elephants soar,

  And trees grow up in the sky;

  If tigers could dine,

  On biscuits and wine,

  And the fattest of men could fly!

  If pebbles could sing,

  And bells never ring,

  And teachers get lost in the post;

  If a tortoise could run,

  And losses be won,

  And bullies be buttered on toast;

  If a song brought a shower,

  And a gun grew a flower,

  This world would be nicer than most!

  RANDFATHER BOUGHT Tutu from a street entertainer for the sum of ten rupees. The man had three monkeys. Tutu was the smallest, but the most mischievous. She was tied up most of the time. The little monkey looked so miserable with a collar and chain that Grandfather decided it would be much happier in our home. Grandfather had a weakness for keeping unusual pets. It was a habit that I, at the age of eight or nine, used to encourage.

  Grandmother at first objected to having a monkey in the house. ‘You have enough pets as it is,’ she said, referring to Grandfather’s goat, several white mice, and a small tortoise.

  ‘But I don’t have any,’ I said.

  ‘You’re wicked enough for two monkeys. One boy in the house is all I can take.’

  ‘Ah, but Tutu isn’t a boy,’ said Grandfather triumphantly. ‘This is a little girl monkey!’

  Grandmother gave in. She had always wanted a little girl in the house. She believed girls were less troublesome than boys. Tutu was to prove her wrong.

  She was a pretty little monkey. Her bright eyes sparkled with mischief beneath deep-set eyebrows. And her teeth, which were a pearly white, were often revealed in a grin that frightened the wits out of Aunt Ruby, whose nerves had already suffered from the presence of Grandfather’s pet python. But this was my grandparents’ house, and aunts and uncles had to put up with our pets.

  Tutu’s hands had a dried-up look, as though they had been pickled in the sun for many years. One of the first things I taught her was to shake hands, and this she insisted on doing with all who visited the house. Peppery Major Malik would have to stoop and shake hands with Tutu before he could enter the drawing room, otherwise Tutu would climb onto his shoulder and stay there, roughing up his hair and playing with his moustache.

  Uncle Benji couldn’t stand any of our pets and took a particular dislike to Tutu, who was always making faces at him. But as Uncle Benji was never in a job for long, and depended on Grandfather’s good-natured generosity, he had to shake hands with Tutu, like everyone else.

  Tutu’s fingers were quick and wicked
. And her tail, while adding to her good looks (Grandfather believed a tail would add to anyone’s good looks!), also served as a third hand. She could use it to hang from a branch, and it was capable of scooping up any delicacy that might be out of reach of her hands.

  On one of Aunt Ruby’s visits, loud shrieks from her bedroom brought us running to see what was wrong. It was only Tutu trying on Aunt Ruby’s petticoats! They were much too large, of course, and when Aunt Ruby entered the room, all she saw was a faceless white blob jumping up and down on the bed.

  We disentangled Tutu and soothed Aunt Ruby. I gave Tutu a bunch of sweet peas to make her happy. Granny didn’t like anyone plucking her sweet peas, so I took some from Major Malik’s garden while he was having his afternoon siesta.

  Then Uncle Benji complained that his hairbrush was missing. We found Tutu sunning herself on the back veranda, using the hairbrush to scratch her armpits.

  I took it from her and handed it back to Uncle Benji with an apology; but he flung the brush away with an oath.

  ‘Such a fuss about nothing,’ I said. ‘Tutu doesn’t have fleas!’

  ‘No, and she bathes more often than Benji,’ said Grandfather, who had borrowed Aunt Ruby’s shampoo to give Tutu a bath.

  All the same, Grandmother objected to Tutu being given the run of the house. Tutu had to spend her nights in the outhouse, in the company of the goat. They got on quite well, and it was not long before Tutu was seen sitting comfortably on the back of the goat, while the goat roamed the back garden in search of its favourite grass.

  The day Grandfather had to visit Meerut to collect his railway pension, he decided to take Tutu and me along to keep us both out of mischief, he said. To prevent Tutu from wandering about on the train, causing inconvenience to passengers, she was provided with a large black travelling bag. This, with some straw at the bottom, became her compartment. Grandfather and I paid for our seats, and we took Tutu along as hand baggage.

  There was enough space for Tutu to look out of the bag occasionally, and to be fed with bananas and biscuits, but she could not get her hands through the opening and the canvas was too strong for her to bite her way through.