Rendezvous with Horror & Nightmare Tales (2 in 1)

by Ruskin Bond

  Down the far side of the tree a bark rope descended till its weighted end just rested on the ground. Down the rope a man, naked save for a bark-made loin-cloth, descended till he too reached the earth. Then, pressed flatly to the great tree's trunk, he waited.

  Across the glade the sentry turned about. With listless, heavy steps he was returning. Nearer and nearer he approached. At the foot of the billian tree he halted, turned and leaned against its trunk. The tension of his limbs relaxed. The rifle slipped from his grasp, but hung suspended by the strap that had become entangled over his arm. A light unconsciousness, hardly to be designated sleep, stole over him. From the camp there was no sign of wakefulness.

  Slowly, a figure crept noiselessly round the tree and stood gazing at the policeman. Naked indeed, he was save for the chawat of bark; his thick black hair hung over his neck and reached beyond his shoulders, framing a face out of which gleamed two fanatical shining eyes. His body to the waist was covered with tattoo. From each of his breasts the designs started, spreading to waist-line and round to the back. The nipple of each breast gleamed a fiery, burnished gold, while from their fringe spread outward, like a full-blown flower, five oval petals of wondrous purple hue. From the golden centre of each flower ten long pistils spread, curving downward and round his body. At their source they too were of a purple hue, but as they reached the petals their colour turned to gleaming gold, which slowly changed to glistening silver as their ridged ends were reached. These ridged ends were circular, and their silver rims framed brilliant scarlet mouths shaped like the sucking orifice with which the huge and slimy horse-leech gluts its loathsome thirst for blood.

  The man's arms were unusually long; his finger-nails had never been clipped; the splay of his toes, especially between the big and the next one, uncommonly wide.

  One hand still clutched the bark rope; the other hung loosely at his side. Though he was tall, standing five feet ten inches, and heavily built, he moved as lightly as a cat.

  Lightly he let go the rope and extended his two long arms toward his unconscious prey. The cry of a nightjar sounded close at hand. The somnolent sentry stirred as the sound just reached his brain. With a spring the man was upon him. One hand upon his mouth, one arm around his chest pinioning his arms to his side. With a swiftness incredible he reached the far side of the tree, let go his grasp upon the sentry's mouth, and using the rope as a rail, commenced to climb step over step with an amazing agility.

  "Tolong!" The cry, laden with overwhelming fear, rent the stillness of the night. "Tol——"

  All further sound ended in a gurgle as the relentless pressure round the sentry's chest squeezed out all breath from his body. The camp at that sudden cry of human agony and fear awoke to life. Instinctively the police seized their rifles; the corporal blew fiercely on his whistle; Dennis hurriedly pulled on his mosquito boots and picked up his revolver from under his pillow.

  "Corporal!"

  "Tuan!"

  "Siapa itu?"

  The cries rent the air simultaneously. Then came silence for the fraction of a second, as everyone stared hopelessly at one another as they realised the glade was empty of the sentry.

  "Si Tuah! Tuah!" Dennis's voice rose in a long cry, breaking the sudden silence that followed the camp's awakening. "Tu-ah," he called again.

  Somewhere from among the trees came a sound—a kind of muffled sob—a choking, gurgling cry of fear. To the edge of the jungle close to the billian tree Dennis and the corporal darted.

  "Look, Tuan, a rope!" the latter gasped.

  "My God!" Dennis whispered. "What does it mean?"

  "It's made of bark and——" began the corporal; but the rest of his words were drowned by a loud report.

  "Jaga! Tuan, Jaga!" he cried, as a jumbled shape came hurtling down from the branches of the tree and the frayed ends of the rope came writhing about them. The snapping of a twig overhead, and a smoking rifle fell at their feet.

  As the shape reached the ground with a sickening bump, two figures fell apart and then lay still.

  "Seize that man and bind him!" Dennis cried, pointing to the naked form, as he bent over the prostrate figure of Si Tuah. "Gently, men, gently," he added, as four police picked him up and carried him over to their kajang shelter.

  His left arm hung loosely by his side, two ribs were also broken, but his heart still faintly beat. Dennis poured a little brandy down his throat. Slowly Ti Tuah came to. He tried to rise to sitting posture, but fell back with a groan of pain.

  "He came upon me from behind the tree—I must have dozed," he muttered. "He picked me up—the pressure of his grasp was awful—and then commenced to climb the tree, holding the rope as a rail and walking up step by step. I struggled—just as we neared the branches his grip slackened—I could not cry—I had no breath—I only groaned; I struggled once again—my foot kicked the butt of my rifle—my toe found the trigger and I pressed and pressed—there came a report—we fell—and——"

  Si Tuah had fainted again. Dennis's eyes met those of the corporal. "The shot must have severed the rope," he whispered.

  "Tuan, his nasib was good," the corporal answered, and they crossed to where the human vulture lay, one leg twisted under him, his chawat all awry. As the policemen rolled him over on his face to knot the ropes—they showed but little pity for his unconscious state—the chawat came undone and slipped from his waist.

  "Look, Tuan, look!" the corporal gasped, and pointed with shaking finger. "Look, he has a tail—it's not a man—it has a tail!" And, feverishly he fingered the charms that hung around his neck.

  Dennis looked, following the pointing finger, then bending down, looked long and closely. It was as the corporal said. The man possessed a tail—a long, hard protuberance that projected from his spine for about four inches.

  "Bring him to the camp," he ordered. "Place two sentries; one over him, one on the camp. He is only stunned; there are no bones broken. In the morning when Tuah's better we'll learn some more."

  Dennis walked across to his bed. The Fear was gone, but the mystery was still unexplained. The campfire burnt brightly, giving out a smell of pungent wood-smoke. The soothing aromatic scent of an hour ago was no more. From the police came intermittent whisperings; from the man with the tail naught but heavy breathing. On his bed Dennis tossed and wondered.

  As the early dawn first faintly flooded the sky, shriek upon shriek rent the air. Si Tuah had become delirious. The man with the tail awoke and listened. From a group of police squatting over a fire their voices reached him. His eyes blinked in perplexity. Quietly as he lay, he dug with his nails a small round hole in the earth about five inches deep. Then gingerly he moved, and in spite of his bonds sat up. From his bed Dennis watched him. Into the hole he fitted his tail, then looked at his bonds and the group of police. He opened his mouth, but no sound came forth. His tied hands he stretched out to them. His face expressed a yearning. It was as if their voices brought a comfort or recalled a past. Then, tear after tear rolled down his cheeks.

  Calling the corporal, Dennis crossed to the weeping man. At Dennis's approach he looked up, then with a cry buried his face in his bound hands and rocked his body to and fro. He was afraid—afraid of a white man, the like of which he had never seen before.

  "Peace, fool," the corporal said roughly, speaking unconsciously in Murut; "stop your wailing, the Tuan is no ghost but a man, albeit all-powerful."

  Slowly, the tailed being ceased his weeping and looked up. "A man!" he muttered. "A man and the colour of the gods!" He spoke a bastard Murut and Malay that caused Dennis to start and the corporal to frown in perplexity, for his meaning was clear, though many of the words, akin to either language, were yet unlike either. But they understood him.

  "And, your name?" Dennis asked in Malay; but the being only shook his head in fear, extending his hands in supplication.

  "Loosen his bonds," Dennis commanded. "Ask him his name and tribe and village."

  The corporal obeyed, and then translated.


  The man's name was Si Urag. He came of a Murut race that years ago had captured some Malay traders. All had been killed except the women. These had been made to marry the headmen. Then came a plague, and nearly all died. The remnants, according to custom, moved their village. For days and days they walked in the trackless jungle. Then, from the trees they were attacked by a race of dwarfs who lived in houses in the branches. All save him were killed. He lay stunned; when he recovered consciousness he saw that the dwarfs had tails and that they were disembowelling the dead and dying and hanging their entrails round their necks. Fear seized him. He tried to rise and run away. He staggered to his feet, tottered a yard or two and then collapsed. Terrified, face downward, he waited for his foes. With a rush of feet they came. He waited for the blow. It never fell. Suddenly, he felt a gentle pull upon his tail—the tail over which all his life he had been ridiculed; then came a muttering of voices. From the face of the moon a cloud passed by. He was in a glade and lying near a pool. Over the air a heavy scent was hanging. Suddenly, the waters stirred. Out of their depths a flaming gold-and-purple flower arose. Ten tentacles spread out with gaping, wide open, blood-red mouths. Shriek upon shriek of utter agony rent the air. Into the flaming golden centre of each tentacle, curving inward, dropped a dwarf. Into the depths of the pool the flower sank down. All was still. Si Urag was alone.

  That night he slept in a house among the branches of a tree. The surviving dwarfs had fled.

  In the morning he collected the corpses of his friends and placed them near the lake. That night from his tree-house he watched. The moon was one day off the full. When at its highest point in the sky, the waters of the pool became disturbed. Again, the golden-purple flower arose from its depths and the soothing scent spread over the jungle. Again, the red-mouthed tentacles spread over the shore and sucked up the corpses, curved themselves in toward the golden centre, dropped in its bell-shaped mouth the stiffened bodies. Once again, the human-feeding flower sank beneath the waters. Once again, all was still. Gradually, the narcotic smell grew less; slowly the moon sank in the west. All was dark and silent.

  On the next and two following nights the flower appeared. Each night the hungry tentacles sought for food—human or animal. Then, with the waning of the moon the flower rose up no more. Still, in his tree-house Si Urag watched and lived. Where else was he to go? His tribe was killed; the dwarfs had fled, and of them he was afraid. On account of his tail he was shy to intermingle with other humans, even if he knew where to find them. Here, was his house, safe from wild beasts that roamed at night; in the pool were many fish, in the jungle many roots and fruit. Here, was the wondrous flower that fed on men, that spread its wondrous scent, to whom he felt he owed his life. Here, then, he would live and consecrate his life in a kind of priesthood to the flaming gold-and-purple orchid.

  The corporal ceased and his eyes met those of Dennis. There was no need to answer the unspoken question in them. The mystery of those disappearances was explained.

  "And, that?" Dennis pointed to the tattooing on the prisoner's body.

  Si Urag understood the gesture, if not the words.

  "Is the picture of the flower I serve," he answered, looking at the corporal. "Two nights ago I fed it with a man clothed like that"—and he pointed to the police. "A night ago I caught a pig and deer; last night I caught a man"—he pointed to where Si Tuah lay in his delirium—"but a magic spoke from out a tube that flashed fire and the rope was severed and …" He shrugged his shoulders with a world of meaning, then, "I am hungry; give me some rice," he begged.

  For a while he ate his fill. Then, when the sun rose high over the little glade Dennis questioned him further, and from his answers formed a great resolve.

  The glade of the golden-purple flower was but a few miles away. A little cutting of the jungle, and a hidden path—Si Urag's path—would be found. That night the moon would be but two days past its zenith, the wondrous flower would rise for the last time for a month—or rise never to rise again, hoped Dennis.

  Si Urag was complacent. Was it fear or cunning? Who could tell? His face was like a mask as he agreed to lead the little party to the pool where dwelt the sacred flower.

  The hour was after midnight. In the camp three police watched the delirious Si Tuah. Along a narrow track that led from the jungle to a pool, silently stole eight men. In the west a clipped moon was slowly sinking. Out of the jungle crept the men, into a glade silvered by the light of the moon.

  "To the right ten paces ex——" Dennis's whispered orders faded away, giving place to a breathless gasp of surprise. There in the middle of the pool was the great golden-purple flower, its centre flaming gold, its petals deepest purple, its ten pistils curling and waving about—curling and waving toward the little group of men as they emerged from the track, the blood-red, silver-rimmed mouths opening and shutting in hungry expectation. Over the glade lay the heavy aromatic scent.

  Speechless, spellbound, the little party looked at the wondrous, beautiful sight. The deadening spell of that narcotic scent was spreading through their veins. Lower and lower slowly sank the moon.

  Si Urag fell upon his knees, covered his face with his hands and commenced to mumble a prayer. His action jerked the rope with which he was attached to Dennis and the corporal. With a start the former awoke as from a trance. All the waving pistils were pointing and stretching toward the huddled group. The moon was nearly touching the farther edge of the sky. Soon—soon …

  "To the right ten paces extend!" Like pistol shots Dennis's words broke in upon the night. Unconsciously, automatically, the police obeyed. Si Urag remained in prayer. "Load!" The one word cut the stillness like a knife. The waving pistils changed their curves—followed the extending men, stretched and strained their blood-red mouths.

  "At point-blank—fire!" Six tongues of flame; one loud and slightly jagged report. Four pistils writhed and twisted in an agony of death. In the flaming golden centre, a jagged hole. The heavy aromatic scent came stealing stronger and stronger from the maimed and riddled centre. The moon just touched the far horizon. Slowly, the wondrous flower began to sink, the waters became disturbed, the pistils seemed to shrink.

  Si Urag rose from his knees and prayers; uncovered his ears, over which he had placed his hand at the sound of the report. From Dennis to the corporal he looked in mute and utter supplication. From head to foot he trembled.

  Slowly, the moon and flower were sinking. One pistil, bigger, stronger, fuller-mouthed than the rest, seemed reluctant to retreat, but pointed and waved at the silent three.

  Into his chawat Si Urag dived his hand. Quick as lightning he withdrew it. A slash to the right, another to the left, and he was free. A mighty spring, a piercing cry, and he hurled himself, as a devotee, into the great, ravenous, blood-red mouth. Slowly, the pistil curved inward. Over the golden bell-shaped centre it poised. Then, it bent its head; its silver rim distended and then closed. Si Urag was no more.

  The moon sank down out of sight; the wondrous flower with its maddened, fanatical victim slipped beneath the waters of the pool. The stillness of the jungle remained; the scent of dew-laden earth arose. Darkness—and a memory—surrounded the group of seven.

  The tropic sleepiness of three p.m. hung over Klagan. Suddenly, the chugging of a motor boat was heard coming from afar upstream. Down to the tiny floating wharf the populace descended, headed by the serang. Round the last bend swung the motor-boat, drew alongside the wharf and came to rest. Out of it silently stepped Dennis and the weary police. One of them carried two rifles, which told the wondering people of a death. Two of them supported Si Tuah, which told them a struggle had taken place. Over his features spread a smile as his hands met those of his wife. " 'Twas a near thing, Miang," he murmured, "and it happened at the dead of night. A man with a tail and a golden-purple orchid which he worshipped."

  From the people rose a gasp of wonder and cries of disbelief. Then, Dennis raised his hand.

  "Si Tuah speaks the truth," he said, "but Si
Urag of the Tail no longer lives, and the flower no more can blossom. The Fear is dead."

  Then, unsteadily he walked to his house.

  A Kathi Robin Hood

  By C.A. Kincaid

  In Kathiawar, as indeed in other parts of India, officials love to pass their ten December and January holidays in Christmas camps. Many years ago the District Superintendent of the Kathiawar Agency Police had among others invited my friend B——, the Agency Judge, to join him in a Christmas camp at Than, a small territory belonging to the Lakhtar State. This has always been a favourite spot for Christmas camps. It is near the railway and possesses half a dozen excellent jheels or marshes, abundant partridge and sandgrouse and an unlimited quantity of black-buck. The latter is a valuable consideration when a camp of six or seven persons has to be fed.

  The Police Superintendent had gone to Than on the 23rd December to see that everything was in order. His guests dropped in at various times on the 24th. The first combined shoot was to take place on the day after, namely on Christmas Day. When the guests were half-way through dinner, the Policeman pulled out of his pocket two or three vernacular letters and handed them to my friend B——and said:

  "You can read Gujarati, B——, see what you can make of them."

  B—— took the letters, read and re-read them carefully and then exclaimed: "What damned impudence!"

  The curiosity of the guests had been steadily growing. At last, a Major Willoughby could no longer control his impatience: "What are you two fellows conspiring about? For God's sake tell us what the letters contain."

  "Well," replied B——, "they amount to a series of threats from a certain Lakha Wala. He calls himself an outlaw and he warns us to go home because he and his gang do not mean to let us shoot. I shall translate the first one for you:

  " 'In the service of the Superintendent Sahib of Police; You and your friends should go away. You will get no shooting. I and my Kathis will see to that.