All the Mowgli Stories (Macmillan Collector's Library)

‘I will look,’ said he, ‘as I did in the old days, and I will see how far the Man-Pack has changed.’

Forgetting that he was no longer in his own Jungle, where he could do what he pleased, he trod carelessly through the dew-loaded grasses till he came to the hut where the light stood. Three or four yelping dogs gave tongue, for he was on the outskirts of a village.

‘Ho!’ said Mowgli, sitting down noiselessly, after sending back a deep wolf-growl that silenced the curs. ‘What comes will come. Mowgli, what hast thou to do any more with the lairs of the Man-Pack?’ He rubbed his mouth, remembering where a stone had struck it years ago when the other Man-Pack had cast him out.

The door of the hut opened, and a woman stood peering out into the darkness. A child cried, and the woman said over her shoulder, ‘Sleep. It was but a jackal that waked the dogs. In a little time morning comes.’

Mowgli in the grass began to shake as though he had fever. He knew that voice well, but to make sure he cried softly, surprised to find how man’s talk came back, ‘Messua! O Messua!’

‘Who calls?’ said the woman, a quiver in her voice.

‘Hast thou forgotten?’ said Mowgli. His throat was dry as he spoke.

‘If it be thou, what name did I give thee? Say!’ She had half shut the door, and her hand was clutching at her breast.

‘Nathoo! Ohé Nathoo!’ said Mowgli, for, as you remember, that was the name Messua gave him when he first came to the Man-Pack.

‘Come, my son,’ she called, and Mowgli stepped into the light, and looked full at Messua, the woman who had been good to him, and whose life he had saved from the Man-Pack so long before. She was older, and her hair was gray, but her eyes and her voice had not changed. Woman-like, she expected to find Mowgli where she had left him, and her eyes travelled upward in a puzzled way from his chest to his head, that touched the top of the door.

‘My son,’ she stammered; and then, sinking to his feet: ‘But it is no longer my son. It is a Godling of the Woods! Ahai!’

As he stood in the red light of the oil-lamp, strong, tall, and beautiful, his long black hair sweeping over his shoulders, the knife swinging at his neck, and his head crowned with a wreath of white jasmine, he might easily have been mistaken for some wild god of a Jungle legend. The child half asleep on a cot sprang up and shrieked aloud with terror. Messua turned to soothe him, while Mowgli stood still, looking in at the water-jars and the cooking-pots, the grain-bin, and all the other human belongings that he found himself remembering so well.

‘What wilt thou eat or drink?’ Messua murmured. ‘This is all thine. We owe our lives to thee. But art thou him I called Nathoo, or a Godling, indeed?’

‘I am Nathoo,’ said Mowgli. ‘I am very far from my own place. I saw this light, and came hither. I did not know thou wast here.’

‘After we came to Khanhiwara,’ Messua said timidly, ‘the English would have helped us against those villagers that sought to burn us. Rememberest thou?’

‘Indeed, I have not forgotten.’

‘But when the English Law was made ready, we went to the village of those evil people, and it was no more to be found.’

‘That also I remember,’ said Mowgli, with a quiver of his nostril.

‘My man, therefore, took service in the fields, and at last—for, indeed, he was a strong man,—we held a little land here. It is not so rich as the old village, but we do not need much—we two.’

‘Where is he—the man that dug in the dirt when he was afraid on that night?

‘He is dead—a year.’

‘And he?’ Mowgli pointed to the child.

‘My son that was born two Rains ago. If thou art a Godling, give him the Favour of the Jungle, that he may be safe among thy—thy people, as we were safe on that night.’

She lifted up the child, who, forgetting his fright, reached out to play with the knife that hung on Mowgli’s chest, and Mowgli put the little fingers aside very carefully.

‘And if thou art Nathoo whom the tiger carried away,’ Messua went on, choking, ‘he is then thy younger brother. Give him an elder brother’s blessing.’

‘Hai-mai! What do I know of the thing called a blessing? I am neither a Godling nor his brother, and—O mother, mother, my heart is heavy in me.’ He shivered as he set down the child.

‘Like enough,’ said Messua, bustling among the cooking-pots. ‘This comes of running about the marshes by night. Beyond question, the fever had soaked thee to the marrow.’ Mowgli smiled a little at the idea of anything in the Jungle hurting him. ‘I will make a fire, and thou shalt drink warm milk. Put away the jasmine wreath: the smell is heavy in so small a place.’