by Ruskin Bond
Resolutely, he set about making his puny arrangements. He checked his pockets and Judy’s to see if there was any scrap of food that had been overlooked. An odd biscuit in the breast-pocket of his wind-breaker was a major find. He put it away carefully for future use, but meantime he meticulously divided the small piece of chocolate in two and ate his share, putting Judy’s by with the biscuit. There was little enough else he could do, except to try and conserve what strength and warmth they still had in their bodies as long as possible, and to save the torch for emergency use by putting it out in the meantime. He slid his arm under Judy and drew her into a bear-like hug, hoping thus to warm them both. And then, after only a slight hesitation, he put out the torch.
At first, after the torch went out, it was very bad there alone in the thick darkness. Then he turned his head and looked upwards, and after a time he saw again the patch of lighter darkness that might be the sky, and the tiny prick of light that was a star. On this he fixed his eyes—and his mind. Time passed. Trev did not know whether it was hours or minutes. Perhaps he sank into sleep or unconsciousness and was roused again by some sound. Then suddenly it seemed to him that where there had been only one star there was now more than one. Then all the stars seemed to be moving, and very faintly, ricocheting down the immense rock walls, came the echo of a human voice.
With a supreme effort Trev dragged himself back from the cold mist into which he was drifting. He sat up, fumbled in his pocket for the torch, and switched it on and signalled over and over again—SOS SOS SOS. He gathered his breath and gave one of the penetrating tremolo eagle-hawk cries that an Australian friend had taught him. It seemed to leave his lips as no more than a croak, but somehow the rocks took it up, magnifying it and hurling it up, up to the searchers on the heights above. Over and over again Trev croaked out the call. Then, his effort made, he sank back into the grip of cold exhaustion, from which he was only half-roused as he was hoisted on to the back of a rescuer and perilously conveyed up the swaying steel ladders to safety.
Several days later a very subdued Marc sat talking to Trev in the meadows above La Terrasse. The ‘Cataracte du Diable’, having been in full spate for more than three days, had once more fallen to a trickle, but the devastation where it had run still showed on the hillside, not far from where they sat. Trev was still looking a bit pale, and Judy had only that day been declared out of danger. It had been a near thing, and she was still not allowed to see anyone.
‘My father is very angry with me. He blames me absolutely,’ admitted Marc. ‘He says I should not have neglected to warn you how the Cataract can rise in an instant after rain.’
‘I believe you did say something about it, you know, but I didn’t take it in properly,’ Trev excused him. ‘But what beats me is how you knew where to come and look for us.’
‘Oh, that! But it is known that the Cave of the Cataract connects with the “Grand Trou”,’ explained Marc.
‘Yes, but how did you know we’d gone to the Cave of the Cataract in the first place,’ Trev persisted.
At that moment Le Chevrier passed them driving his goats home from pasture. He pointed at Trev and then up the hill at the Cave of the Cataract, and gabbled something incomprehensible before slouching off after his flock. Marc jerked his head in the direction of the uncouth figure. ‘You have him to thank for your lives,’ he said soberly.
‘Gosh! He saw us go in!’ remembered Trev. ‘In fact—wait a minute—yes, of course, he tried to stop us.’
‘Yes, and then when the Cataract burst out after the storm, he rushed about looking for me—you were my friends he knew. We didn’t lose a minute. But it takes time, you understand, to assemble the men and the equipment.’ Trev nodded.
‘What we didn’t expect was to find you in the “Grand Trou”. We thought we’d have to work through to the Painted Cave and get you out from there.’
‘I see,’ said Trev. ‘By the way, I thought you said there weren’t any paintings there in the “Grand Trou”? I saw a perfectly good painting there of a sort of spread—eagled cartwheels and oxen and…’ But before he could get any further Marc grabbed his arm.
‘What did you say? Wheels! A cart! Come to my father and tell him at once. This is what he has dreamed of for years—that he will find a rock-painting of a cart like the ones in Spain!’
Later, when an expedition to the bottom of the ‘Grand Trou’ had verified Trev’s find, the Professor was in high feather at the proof of his favourite theory that prehistoric Frenchmen knew just as much as their prehistoric Spanish neighbours across the border. Moreover, with a Gallic flourish, he announced that the recess where the painting had been found would be named the Hamilton Recess, in honour of Judy and Trev.
But Judy was not impressed:
‘Ugh, horrible place! I don’t want anything to do with it ever again,’ she declared. And then with the irritableness permitted to a convalescent, she added crossly, ‘You know I loathe crawling about in caves, Trev, so why did you let him go and call his old cave after us!’
The Beast Tamer
Nikolai S. Leskov
My father was a well-known investigator for the law courts. He handled many important cases and often his work took him away from home; on these occasions my mother and I stayed behind with the servants. In those days mother was still young and I was only a small boy. In fact I was barely five years old when I had the experience which I am going to tell you about.
It was during the winter, when the frost was so heavy that the sheep froze in the stables during the nights. The sparrows and the pigeons fell from the trees to the hard earth, frozen to death. At that particular time my father’s business commitments kept him in Jelec, and as he was unable to return home for Christmas, mother, anxious not to spend the festive season alone, decided to join him. Because of the bitter cold and the long journey involved, mother did not take me with her, and instead I stayed with my aunt, her sister, who was married to a notorious land owner.
He was a rich old man, but a man without mercy. His character was ruled by hardness and cruelty; and, far from being ashamed, he would boast of these qualities. In his opinion, such characteristics were the proof of manly strength and unbending courage. He raised his children with unrelenting firmness and strict discipline. I was the same age as one of his sons.
Many people feared my uncle, but no one more than I, for he used his merciless strictness to force me to be brave. I remember well, how once, when I was only three years old and very frightened of a fierce thunderstorm, my uncle pushed me on to the balcony and locked me out, to cure me of my fear.
So you can imagine how reluctant and afraid I was to return to this household, to stay, but being so young I was not consulted, and, in fact, had no say in the matter.
On my uncle’s estate stood a huge building, that looked like a castle. It was an imposing, but unattractive, one-storied house, with a dome and a tower about which many gruesome, and terrifying tales were told. Once it had been occupied by the demented father of the present owner, who had made drugs and medicines. For some reason even this was considered horrific. The greatest source of fear however was caused by what went on in the very top of the tower, where, across a high, paneless window, harp strings were tightly sprung. This was called Aeol’s harp. When the wind played upon the strings of this capricious instrument, it made the weirdest noise, changing from a quiet, haunting whisper into an uneasy, plaintive wail, and then turning into a shrill, deafening roar. It sounded as if a whole crowd of persecuted spirits, maddened with terror, were caught in the harp’s strings.
No one in the whole household could bear to hear the eerie sounds of the harp. But they all thought that this instrument gave orders to its hard-hearted master, and that this accounted for his merciless cruelty. Everyone was well aware that when thunder raged in the night and the harp screeched so piercingly that it was heard all over the village, its lord and master would be unable to sleep and would rise in the morning, ill-tempered and frowning. He would
issue impossible orders to his servants, who would be dreadfully nervous and frightened all day.
It was the custom of this household that no crime or misdeed ever went unpunished, and there were no exceptions to this rule. It applied to one and all—human beings, animals, even insects. My uncle showed no mercy, hating the very word, as to him it was a mark of weakness. He preferred to be ruthless and unforgiving, and would not tolerate any form of leniency. It was therefore not surprising that his household and all the villages which belonged to his large, wealthy estate, were overshadowed by gloom and sadness, which even spread to the animals.
Uncle’s greatest love was to go on a hunt with his dogs. He hunted wolves, hares and foxes with his greyhounds, and he raised a special breed of dogs for bear hunting. These were called leecher-dogs, probably because once their sharp teeth fastened themselves into the bear’s flesh, they would cling to the beast like leeches, refusing to let go. Sometimes the bear crushed them with one blow of his massive paw, or tore the hound in half, but the leecher-dog would never let go while it was still living and breathing.
Nowadays different methods are used for baiting the bears, and this particular breed of dogs no longer exists in Russia, but at the time of which I am talking, leecher-dogs were always present in a good hunting party. Many bears used to roam this part of the country, and the bear hunt always provided excitement and amusement.
Whenever the hunters found a bear’s lair with cubs, they would take them alive and bring them back home. Usually they kept the cubs in a large, stone outhouse, where the tiny windows were built high under the roof. Thick, heavy bars spanned the windows and the only way the bear cubs could reach them, was by standing one on top of the other and by clinging to the bars with their claws. This was the only way they could get a glimpse at the world outside their prison. Before lunch, we always went for a walk, and we liked to go past the outhouse to see the claws of the comical cubs protruding from the windows. Our German tutor, Kolberg, sometimes gave them pieces of bread saved from breakfast, on the end of a stick.
The bears were placed in the charge of young Ferapont, who also took care of the kennels. I remember him well; he was a young man of medium height, and about twenty-five years old. He was muscular, strong and daring. Everyone thought him to be very handsome with his white complexion, red cheeks, thick locks of black, curly hair and enormous, deep eyes. Quite apart from his good looks, he was very brave.
Ferapont had a sister called Anna, who used to come to help our nurse, and she told us many interesting stories about her brother’s bravery and his unusual friendship with the bears. Summer and winter alike, Ferapont slept with the beasts inside their outhouse. They would lie all around him, and often would use his head or a shoulder as a cushion. Colourful flower gardens stretched in front of uncle’s house, surrounded by ornamental fencing that had wide gates in the centre. A tall, smooth pole stood on a green lawn, beyond these gates, and we called this the Perch of the Privileged. At the very top of the pole a small shelter had been firmly fixed.
It was the custom to choose the most intelligent and dependable bear from the captured cubs, and allow it to move quite freely in the gardens and parks. But the privileged beast was assigned a special duty—namely to be on guard by the pole in front of the gates. So it would spend most of its time there, either relaxing on the lawn under the pole or else, having climbed up the pole into the shelter, dozing or sleeping undisturbed by people or hounds.
Only the exceptionally tame and the exceptionally wise bears were allowed to live such a free existence, and their liberty ended abruptly as soon as they showed their natural animal instincts. As long as they took no notice of chickens, geese, calves and of people, they were safe. But the bear who disturbed the peace of the inhabitants, or showed his true animal nature by turning into a hunter, was immediately sentenced to death and nothing could save him.
Such an unfortunate bear would be thrown into a deep pit in a field between the village and the forest. After a few days, a long wooden plank would be pushed into the hollow and he would be forced to climb out. As soon as the bear appeared, my uncle’s leecher-dogs would pounce upon him. If these hounds proved no match for the bear, failing to kill him, and there was a danger that he might escape into the forest, two expert huntsmen would take up the hunt; they would set a pair of the most experienced and vicious hounds on to the beast to finish him.
If by some freak of nature however, even these skilful dogs could not kill the bear or prevent him from breaking through to the small area of woodland connected to the thick forests, then an experienced marksman would come forward with his long, heavy, Kuchenreiter rifle, to fire the deadly shot into the bear’s heart.
It seemed impossible for a bear to escape all these dangers, but if, by some chance he did get away, the consequences for those involved with the hunt would have been terrible. Their punishment would have been death. The selection of the most trustworthy cub was left to Ferapont, because he spent so much time among them and because he was considered something of an expert. He was warned he would be held responsible if he made a bad choice, but he did not hesitate and chose a bear cub who was amazingly clever and wise. Nearly all the bears in Russia are called Myshka, but this bear was called Sganarel, which is a most unusual Spanish name. Sganarel grew from a cub into a big, healthy bear of tremendous strength. He was also quite handsome and quite an acrobat. With his short round nose and a graceful, slight figure, he was more like a giant poodle or a bloodhound than a bear. His hind quarters were rather skinny, with short, shiny fur, but he had the most magnificent, broad chest and back, which was covered with thick, long fur. He was quick-witted and learnt many tricks, which was unusual for an animal of his breed. For example, he could walk forward and backwards on his hind legs quite easily, he could play the drum, and march with a stick carved in the shape of a gun under his arm. Sganarel was also always happy and willing to help the peasants carry their heavy sacks to the mill. For such trips, he would cheekily put a widerimmed straw hat with a peacock’s feather on his head.
But the fateful day came when the strong natural animal instincts overpowered even the good-natured, friendly Sganarel. Shortly before my arrival at uncle’s house, the no longer dependable Sganarel was found guilty of several lapses, which got progressively worse.
The things he did wrong were typical of his breed. First he tore a wing off a goose; then he placed his paw upon the spine of a young foal and broke its back; and finally, he took a dislike to a blind beggar and his guide, and rolled them over and over in the snow, hurting their hands and legs so badly they had to be taken to hospital. At this point Ferapont was ordered to lead Sganarel into the pit; the pit which had only one way out, and that was the way to the execution.
That evening, when Anna was putting my cousin and me to bed, she told us how sad and touching it was when her brother took Sganarel to the pit to await the killing. Ferapont did not even have to put rings through his mouth, nor use iron chains; it had not been necessary to take the bear by force. As soon as Ferapont said, ‘Come with me, bear,’ the trusting beast got up and followed him. Funnily enough he even placed his old straw hat upon his head, and put his arm around Ferapont’s waist as they walked towards the concealed pit, so they looked just like a pair of good friends.
And that is exactly what they were. Ferapont felt dreadfully sorry for his furry friend, but there was no way in which he could help him. I must remind you, that in the district where this happened, it was unknown for anyone to be forgiven for any wrongdoing, so now the degraded Sganarel had to pay for his misdemeanours with his life.
It was decided the killing should take place during the afternoon, to amuse the numerous visitors who had gathered as usual at uncle’s house to spend Christmas with him. The order for the preparation of the bear-baiting had gone out the minute Ferapont had left to put the guilty Sganarel into the pit.
It was easy to make the bears walk into the pits, which were usually camouflaged by brushwood t
hrown on top of thin branches strewn across the opening. Then this roof was covered with snow. The trap was so well disguised, the bears were unaware of danger. They were taken to the edge of the pit and then—one or two more paces—and the unsuspecting animals fell into the deep hollow, from which it was impossible to escape. They had no other choice but to await their terrible fate.
When the time came for the chase and the killing, a narrow plank, five metres long, was placed in the pit for the bear to climb out. If by any chance the beast was clever enough to sense the danger and refused to come up, he was prodded with long, spiked rods, handfuls of burning straw were thrown upon him, or blank cartridges were fired into the pit, to force him out.
When Ferapont had left Sganarel inside his deep, cold prison, he was feeling terribly unhappy and sad. Unfortunately he confided in his sister, telling her how friendly the bear’s behaviour had been towards him, how willingly he accompanied him to the trap and that, when he finally fell through the brushwood to the bottom of the pit, he squatted upon his hind quarters, put his front paws together as if he was pleading, and whimpered pitifully.
Ferapont also told Anna how he had run away from the pit, because his heart could not bear to hear Sganarel’s heartrending cries.
‘Thank God it is not my task to shoot him, if he starts to run towards the woods,’ he sighed. ‘I could not carry out such an order, I would rather undergo the greatest torture, than shoot Sganarel,’
Anna told us all this, and we in turn told our tutor, Kolberg. In an effort to amuse uncle, Kolberg passed the whole story on to him. Uncle said, ‘We shall test that fellow Ferapont,’ and clapped his hands three times. This was the signal to summon his valet—Ustin Petrovich—an old Frenchman, who had been in uncle’s service since his capture many years before. Ustin Petrovich, or Justin, as he was called for short, entered the room, wearing his purple valet’s cloak with the gold buttons. Uncle ordered him to inform the celebrated Flegont, the famous marksman who never missed his target, and Ferapont, that they would be the selected pair of riflemen. It would be their duty to hide in the woods and kill the doomed bear if he tried to escape during the chase. Uncle probably hoped to be further entertained by watching the terrible struggle by the unfortunate man between his loyalty to his master and his love for the beast. If Ferapont refused to fire upon Sganarel, or if he purposely missed when firing, he would be punished ruthlessly and the bear would be slain with the second shot from Flegont, who was not only acurate, but perfectly reliable. As soon as this order had been given and Justin had left the room, we children realized what a terrible thing we had done. If only we had not repeated what we had heard! Only God knew how this nightmare would end. We were so upset, that though we had not eaten for the whole day, we failed to enjoy the delicious Christmas Eve feast, which began the moment the first star lit up the sky. We did not even take an interest in the other children among the guests, and continually worried about Sganarel and Ferapont; unable to make up our minds which one of them we pitied the most.
