inquiry, I discovered what the ancient chief really intended. His suggestion was
that the blood-money should take the form of seven human beings, who were to
be duly delivered to the relations of the murdered man as slaves. These seven
creatures were not to be members of his or Ku-îsh's tribe, but were to be
captured by them from among the really wild people of the hills, who had had no
share in the ill-doing which it was my object to punish. The Porcupine and his
brethren, he explained, would run some risk, and be put to a considerable
amount of trouble, before the seven wild men could be caught, and this was to be
the measure of their punishment. The old Chief went on to tell me that the wild
Sâkai only pursued a raiding party until they came to a spot where a spear had
been left sticking upright in the ground. This custom, he said, was well known to
the marauders, who took care to avail themselves of it, so soon as their captives
had been secured. My informant said that the wild men would never venture past
a spear left in this manner, but he was unable to explain the reason, and did not
profess to understand the superstition with which this spear is probably
connected in the minds of the jungle dwellers.
Blood-money in past times, I was assured both by Malays and Sâkai, had always
been paid in this manner by the semi-wild tribes of the interior. It was the
custom, and Kria's relatives were eager in their prayers to me to accept the
proposal. Instead, I exacted a heavy fine of jungle produce from the tribe to
which Ku-îsh, the Porcupine, belonged, and thus I gave complete dissatisfaction
to all parties concerned. The Sâkai disliked the decision because they found the
fine more difficult to pay, while the Malays thought the blood-money paid
hopelessly inadequate, when compared with the value of seven slaves. But, as
the Indian Proverb says, 'an order is an order until one is strong enough to
disobey it.' Therefore the fine was paid by the Sâkai and accepted by the Malays
with grumblings, of which I only heard the echoes.
So ends the story of the Flight of Chêp, the Bird, and of the deed whereby Ku-
îsh, the Porcupine, cleansed his honour from the shame that had been put upon
him. The murder was a brutal act, savagely done, and the ruthless manner in
which the Porcupine killed the little defenceless child, who had done no evil to
him or his, makes one's blood boil. None the less, when one remembers the
heavy debt of vengeance, for long years of grinding cruelty and wicked wrong,
which the Sâkai owes to the Malay, one can find it in one's heart to forgive much
that he may do when the savage lust of blood is upon him, and when, for a space,
his enemies of the hated race are delivered into his hand.