The Jungle Books by Rudyard Kipling, Alev Lytle Croutier Page A

forsooth I, Buldeo, must be told not to singe his whiskers. Mowgli, I will not give thee one anna of the reward, but only a very big beating. Leave the carcass!”
    “By the bull that bought me,” said Mowgli, who was trying to get at the shoulder, “must I stay babbling to an old ape all noon? Here, Akela, this man plagues me.”
    Buldeo, who was still stooping over Shere Khan’s head, found himself sprawling on the grass, with a grey wolf standing over him, while Mowgli went on skinning as though he were alone in all India.
    “Ye-es,” he said, between his teeth. “Thou art altogether right, Buldeo. Thou wilt never give me one anna of the reward. There is an old war between this lame tiger and myself—a very old war—and I have won.”
    To do Buldeo justice, if he had been ten years younger he would have taken his chance with Akela had he met the wolf in the woods, but a wolf who obeyed the orders of this boy who had private wars with man-eating tigers was not a common animal. It was sorcery, magic of the worst kind, thought Buldeo, and he wondered whetherthe amulet round his neck would protect him. He lay as still as still, expecting every minute to see Mowgli turn into a tiger, too.
    “Maharaj! Great King,” he said at last, in a husky whisper.
    “Yes,” said Mowgli, without turning his head, chuckling a little.
    “I am an old man. I did not know that thou wast anything more than a herdsboy. May I rise up and go away, or will thy servant tear me to pieces?”
    “Go, and peace go with thee. Only, another time do not meddle with my game. Let him go, Akela.”
    Buldeo hobbled away to the village as fast as he could, looking back over his shoulder in case Mowgli should change into something terrible. When he got to the village he told a tale of magic and enchantment and sorcery that made the priest look very grave.
    Mowgli went on with his work, but it was nearly twilight before he and the wolves had drawn the great gay skin clear of the body.
    “Now we must hide this and take the buffaloes home! Help me to herd them, Akela.”
    The herd rounded up in the misty twilight, and when they got near the village Mowgli saw lights, and heard the conches and bells in the temple blowing and banging. Half the village seemed to be waiting for him by the gate. “That is because I have killed Shere Khan,” he said to himself. But a shower of stones whistled about his ears, and the villagers shouted: “Sorcerer! Wolf’s brat! Jungle-demon! Go away! Get hence quickly, or the priest will turn thee into a wolf again. Shoot, Buldeo, shoot!”
    The old Tower musket went off with a bang, and a young buffalo bellowed in pain.
    “More sorcery!” shouted the villagers. “He can turn bullets. Buldeo, that was
thy
buffalo.”
    “Now what is this?” said Mowgli, bewildered, as the stones flew thicker.
    “They are not unlike the pack, these brothers ofthine,” said Akela, sitting down composedly. “It is in my head that, if bullets mean anything, they would cast thee out.”
    “Wolf! Wolf’s cub! Go away!” shouted the priest, waving a sprig of the sacred
tulsi
plant.
    “Again? Last time it was because I was a man. This time it is because I am a wolf. Let us go, Akela.”
    A woman—it was Messua—ran across to the herd, and cried: “Oh, my son, my son! They say thou art a sorcerer who can turn himself into a beast at will. I do not believe, but go away or they will kill thee. Buldeo says thou art a wizard, but I know thou hast avenged Nathoo’s death.”
    “Come back, Messua!” shouted the crowd. “Come back, or we will stone thee.”
    Mowgli laughed a little short ugly laugh, for a stone had hit him in the mouth. “Run back, Messua. This is one of the foolish tales they tell under the big tree at dusk. I have at least paid for thy son’s life. Farewell, and run quickly, for I shall send the herd in more swiftly than their brickbats. I am no wizard, Messua. Farewell!”
    “Now, once more, Akela,” he cried.