The White Tiger and Other Stories

by Ruskin Bond

‘The striped one is surely an evil spirit, and no beast at all!’ said Mar Singh, who never uttered the word tiger if he could help it, for fear of ill-luck.

  He had come in weary and crestfallen from a long day’s search, having actually caught a glimpse of the White Tiger, and followed the tracks of the huge, square pugs to the edge of a thorny thicket, without the chance of a shot that could have taken effect; and he was pouring out his irritation and disgust to Kowta, his half-brother, who sat at the door of the family hovel contentedly smoking a hookah.

  ‘Without doubt,’ agreed Kowta, ‘and therefore would it not be wiser to let the sahib slay the Evil One if he be able?’

  ‘What sahib?’ asked Mar Singh sharply, pausing in the act of cleaning the precious match-lock gun, which was the envy and admiration of the village.

  ‘Then thou hast not heard the news?’ said Kowta innocently. ‘A sahib has pitched his camp within one day’s march of the village, and they say he has come to hunt the White Devil.’

  The dreaded blow had fallen, and Mar Singh danced with rage.

  ‘I will give him no news of the tiger. I will tell him nothing, and see, too, that thou remainest silent, Kowta, when he sends for information, else will it be the worse for thee!’

  Kowta twiddled his big toe in the dust, always a sign of hesitation with a native, and Mar Singh scented trouble. He knew that Kowta was heavily in debt to the village usurer, and that sahibs often paid well for news of a tiger’s movements. He was also aware that Kowta was jealous of his standing and reputation in the village, which would be increased ten-fold could he but destroy the tiger and earn the magnificent reward.

  He changed his tone.

  ‘See, brother,’ he began insinuatingly, ‘the utmost that the sahib would give thee might, perchance, be ten rupees, and thy share of the Government reward would scarcely be more than two. What are twelve rupees compared with forty, added to half the whiskers and claws of the Evil One, and perhaps the lucky bone as well? All this will I give thee when I slay the beast, as I most assuredly must do if the sahib doth not interfere.’

  Kowta puffed stolidly at his hookah and was maddeningly silent.

  ‘Also,’ continued Mar Singh, eagerly, ‘consider the trouble that a sahib’s camp brings upon a village. His servants, being rascals, will order supplies in the name of the sahib, and pay us nothing for them, and the police will annoy us if we complain. We shall be forced to beat the jungle, and many will be hurt and some killed, if not by the tiger then by other wild beasts, also—’

  ‘But how am I to tell that thou wilt give me the forty rupees and half the claws and whiskers? Whereas, a sahib holds to his promises, as we all know.’

  ‘I swear it!’ cried Mar Singh with fervour, ‘By the skin of the White Devil I swear to deal well by thee!’

  So, after some further argument, Kowta reluctantly agreed to take his brother’s side, and Mar Singh unfolded a scheme by which Kowta was to proceed to the tents of the unwelcome Englishman, and pose as the shikaree of the district, possessing an intimate knowledge of the tiger’s habits. Mar Singh would keep Kowta well informed as to the movements of the tiger through the medium of the postman who ran from village to village with news and letters, and the sahib, at all hazards, was to be led in the wrong directions, until he grew weary of the fruitless chase, and withdrew from the district with his camp and elephants.

  Kowta, therefore, proceeded to don the khaki costume, which he had long coveted, and the next morning he started on his diplomatic errand, while Mar Singh betook himself to the jungle to watch the movements of the White Tiger, that he might warn Kowta by the evening runner as to which locality must be avoided the following day.

  Kowta enjoyed himself immensely at the camp. He arrived at sundown, and was interviewed by the sahib himself, to whom he gave voluble, but entirely false, information concerning the tiger, and promised to lead him direct to the animal’s lair in the morning. The sahib, being young and new to the country, retired to bed in happy anticipation, and Kowta repaired to the kitchen tent, where, surrounded by the servants, he sat smoking his hookah and relating blood-curdling tales of the doings of the White Tiger.

  Natives seldom sleep till far on in the night, and therefore the gathering was at its height when the jingle of bells told of the postman’s approach, and Kowta, explaining to the company that he was expecting news of his dying grandmother, went out into the moonlight to meet him. The chink-chink of the bunch of bells grew louder, and mingled with the regular grunts of the runner, and Kowta, stepping forward into the sandy path, checked the man’s rapid trot.

  ‘Oh, brother!’ he saluted. ‘What word from Mar Singh, shikaree?’

  ‘Kowta, there is no word from the mouth of Mar Singh, thy brother, seeing that but an hour after thy departure he was slain by the White Tiger on the outskirts of the grazing plain, and Merijhan, the cowherd, saw it happen. I bring the evil news to thee fresh from thy village.’

  For a moment Kowta was paralysed by the horror of the dreadful and unexpected news. Then he asked questions, and learned that his brother’s body had been recovered by a party of villagers who had sallied forth with drums and fireworks and had driven the beast from its prey. The mangled remains now lay in the family hut, and Kowta’s presence was required to make arrangements for the funeral.

  Kowta slipped some coppers into the postman’s willing hand, and charged him to keep silence as to the catastrophe when delivering letters in the camp. Then he collected his belongings, and left a plausible message for the sahib to say he had been summoned to his grandmother’s deathbed, but would return with all haste the following day. He set out in the moonlight along the narrow jungle path, bordered by tall grass higher than his head, and walked rapidly, though the heat was overpowering, until, just as the dawn broke, he came within sight of the village. He strode through the fields of tobacco and young wheat, and saw the bright green parrots flashing to and fro in the vivid yellow light; partridges ran from beneath his feet, calling shrilly as they disappeared behind the clumps of dry grass; and he could hear the jungle fowl in the distance crowing to the rising sun. Everything was awake and glowing with life, and the dark interior of the hut, where the women were wailing and the atmosphere seemed charged with death, formed a sharp contrast to the outside world.

  The mangled body of the dead man, torn and chewed by the tiger, lay on the string bedstead, surrounded by a noisy group of mourning relatives. There was nothing for Kowta to do but arrange for the remains to be taken to the burning-ground in the evening and to attempt to pacify the wailing throng, until, as the fierce, hot noon came on, they gradually dispersed, and even the widow of the dead man sought a siesta in a neighbour’s hut, while Kowta sat down on the threshold of his home to think.

  An idea had been slowly forming in his brain which brought with it a wave of exultation. Why should not he compass the destruction of the White Tiger, and so earn the whole reward? He was in debt to the moneylender, and he also greatly desired a plot of land that was for sale just outside the village, and the hundred rupees would not only free him from debt, but would also purchase the coveted little piece of ground. It was true that Mar Singh himself had never succeeded in shooting the White Tiger, but then his difficulty had always been the want of suitable bait, whereas now—Kowta glanced back into the shadow of the hut and shivered, remembering the native belief that the soul of the tiger’s victim becomes the servant of the slayer, and is bound to warn the master when danger threatens.

  Mar Singh’s spirit might or might not be in bondage to the White Tiger, but, in any case, the hundred rupees was worth some risk, and with proper precautions,there should be little or no danger, seeing that the match-lock gun had been recovered uninjured. Kowta rose and looked up and down the little village street. Not a breeze stirred the giant leaves of the plaintain trees, not a bird uttered a note, not a voice broke the breathless calm, every creature except himself was wrapped in slumber.

  He made up his mind. He would attem
pt the plan, and afterwards, whether he succeeded or failed, he could deny all knowledge of the disappearance of his brother’s body, and encourage the suggestion which would naturally arise, that the sorcery of the White Tiger had spirited the corpse away. So he gathered the wreck of Mar Singh into a bundle, wrapping it in his own white cotton waistcloth, and with the loaded matchlock over his shoulder, went swiftly through the sleeping village and out into the fields, invoking on his errand the blessing of Durga, the goddess who rides the tiger. Thence he took a narrow jungle path with tangled shrubs closing over his head, and as he emerged from this on to the bushy, broken ground leading to the river, he gathered a leaf from the nearest tree and muttered, ‘As thy life has departed, so may the striped one die.’

  He walked up the pebbly bed of the dwindling stream till he reached a pool of clear water, in the wet margin of which were printed countless tracks of animals that had drunk there during the night. Wild pig, jackal, fox, hyena, all had slaked their thirst, but the White Tiger had not been of the company. A hundred yards off lay another pool, and around it Kowta found a solitary track—the big, square pugs of the beast who, by common consent of the other jungle inhabitants, had been given a wide berth, and allowed to drink alone.

  The marks were not more than a few hours old, and Kowta followed them cautiously, grasping the gun and dragging his other burden behind him along the gravelly sand. The footprints led him to some rocky boulders, on the summit of which a family of monkeys sat peacefully hunting for fleas, a sign that the tiger was not on the move, else would they have been crashing and chattering in the nearest trees, and pouring forth torrents of abuse. The pugs led on round the rocks to a shady thicket of thorn bushes in a deep ravine, and Kowta felt that he had tracked the White Tiger to his lair.

  He laid his brother’s body close to the edge of the thorny thicket, and then cast about for a safe retreat within easy shot, but no climbable trees were at hand, the cover consisting of low, scrubby bushes. The only suitable place of concealment seemed to be the nearest rock, behind which it would be easy to hide and yet command a good view of the bait.

  The odour of the dead body tainted the air as the sun blazed full upon it, which suited Kowta’s purpose well, for tigers prefer their food as carrion, and hunger would soon bring the beast forth. Kowta lay down behind the rock and waited. A hot, high wind was blowing, and the sand from the riverbed, getting into his eyes, made them smart, but he paid no heed to the discomfort, and only watched the thicket intently for the least movement.

  He held his breath when, presently, something rustled and crept out—merely a mangy little jackal with loosely-hanging brush, who sprang four feet into the air as he came suddenly on Mar Singh’s body. Then the animal uttered the long, miserable wail known as the ‘pheeaow cry’, and ran back into the thicket, causing Kowta’s heart to beat high with hope, for he knew the jackal was a ‘provider’, one that gives notice to the tiger when food is to be found.

  Now, without doubt the Evil One would steal forth, and nothing could then prevent a shot at such close quarters taking effect. A peafowl screeched wildly, and Kowta could hear the agitated flapping of its wings, that also was a token that the tiger moved. The monkeys set up a clatter and scuttled from the rocks. He was coming—the White Devil, the evil striped one!

  Kowta waited breathless, his pulses throbbing in his ears, thinking of the hundred rupees and the plot of ground that were now almost his own, and gazing fixedly over the sickening, twisted limbs of the mutilated body only a few yards from him.

  The tension was terrible, and the cracking of a dry twig behind him sounded almost like the report of a gun, he felt a surging in his brain, and, as another stick snapped, some irresistible power compelled him to turn his head.

  There, five yards behind him, crouched the White Tiger, that with silent steps and awful cunning had stalked him from the village. The ears were flattened to the broad head, the long white whiskers bristled and quivered, the wicked yellow eyes glared, and held the man helpless, spellbound with horror, waiting for the spring that came with a hissing, growling roar, as the White Tiger claimed yet another victim.

  The Monkey’s Paw

  W.W. Jacobs

  Without the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlour of Laburnam Villa the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. Father and son were at chess, the former, who possessed ideas about the game involving radical changes, putting his king into such sharp and unnecessary perils that it even provoked comment from the white-haired old lady knitting placidly by the fire.

  ‘Hark at the wind,’ said Mr White, who, having seen a fatal mistake after it was too late, was amiably desirous of preventing his son from seeing it.

  ‘I’m listening,’ said the latter, grimly surveying the board as he stretched out his hand. ‘Check.’

  ‘I should hardly think that he’d come tonight,’ said his father, with his hand poised over the board.

  ‘Mate,’ replied the son.

  ‘That’s the worst of living so far out,’ bawled Mr White, with sudden and unlooked-for violence; ‘of all the beastly, slushy, out-of-the-way places to live in, this is the worst. Pathway’s a bog, and the road’s a torrent. I don’t know what people are thinking about. I suppose because only two houses on the road are let, they think it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Never mind, dear,’ said his wife soothingly; ‘perhaps you’ll win the next one.’

  Mr White looked up sharply, just in time to intercept a knowing glance between mother and son. The words died away on his lips, and he hid a guilty grin in his thin grey beard.

  ‘There he is,’ said Herbert White, as the gate banged to loudly and heavy footsteps came toward the door.

  The old man rose with hospitable haste, and opening the door, was heard condoling with the new arrival. The new arrival also condoled with himself, so that Mrs White said, ‘Tut, tut!’ and coughed gently as her husband entered the room, followed by a tall burly man, beady of eye and rubicund of visage.

  ‘Sergeant-Major Morris,’ he said, introducing him.

  The sergeant-major shook hands, and taking the proffered seat by the fire, watched contentedly while his host got out whisky and tumblers and stood a small copper kettle on the fire.

  At the third glass his eyes got brighter, and he began to talk, the little family circle regarding with eager interest this visitor from distant parts as he squared his broad shoulders in the chair and spoke of strange scenes and doughty deeds; of wars and plagues and strange peoples.

  ‘Twenty-one years of it,’ said Mr White, nodding at his wife and son. ‘When he went away he was a slip of a youth in the warehouse. Now look at him.’

  ‘He don’t look to have taken much harm,’ said Mrs White politely.

  ‘I’d like to go to India myself,’ said the old man, ‘just to look round a bit, you know.’

  ‘Better where you are,’ said the sergeant-major, shaking his head. He put down the empty glass, and sighing softly, shook it again.

  ‘I should like to see those old temples and fakirs and jugglers,’ said the old man. ‘What was that you started telling me the other day about a monkey’s paw or something, Morris?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said the soldier hastily. ‘Leastways, nothing worth hearing.’

  ‘Monkey’s paw?’ said Mrs White curiously.

  ‘Well, it’s just a bit of what you might call magic, perhaps,’ said the sergeant-major offhandedly.

  His three listeners leaned forward eagerly. The visitor absentmindedly put his empty glass to his lips and then set it down again. His host filled it for him.

  ‘To look at,’ said the sergeant-major, fumbling in his pocket, ‘it’s just an ordinary little paw, dried to a mummy.’

  He took something out of his pocket and proffered it. Mrs White drew back with a grimace, but her son, taking it, examined it curiously.

  ‘And what is there special about it?’ inquired Mr White, as he took it from his son and, having examined it, placed it
upon the table.

  ‘It had a spell put on it by an old fakir,’ said the sergeant-major, ‘a very holy man. He wanted to show that fate ruled people’s lives, and that those who interfered with it did so to their sorrow. He put a spell on it so that three separate men could each have three wishes from it.’

  His manner was so impressive that his hearers were conscious that their light laughter jarred somewhat.

  ‘Well, why don’t you have three, sir?’ said Herbert White cleverly.

  The soldier regarded him in the way that middle age is wont to regard presumptuous youth. ‘I have,’ he said quietly, and his blotchy face whitened.

  ‘And did you really have the three wishes granted?’ asked Mrs White.

  ‘I did,’ said the sergeant-major, and his glass tapped against his strong teeth.

  ‘And has anybody else wished?’ inquired the old lady.

  ‘The first man had his three wishes, yes,’ was the reply. ‘I don’t know what the first two were, but the third was for death. That’s how I got the paw.’

  His tones were so grave that a hush fell upon the group.

  ‘If you’ve had your three wishes, it’s no good to you now, then, Morris,’ said the old man at last. ‘What do you keep it for?’

  The soldier shook his head. ‘Fancy, I suppose,’ he said slowly.

  ‘If you could have another three wishes,’ said the old man, eyeing him keenly, ‘would you have them?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the other. ‘I don’t know.’

  He took the paw, and dangling it between his front finger and thumb, suddenly threw it upon the fire. White, with a slight cry, stooped down and snatched it off.

  ‘Better let it burn,’ said the soldier solemnly.

  ‘If you don’t want it, Morris,’ said the old man, ‘give it to me.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said his friend doggedly. ‘I threw it on the fire. If you keep it, don’t blame me for what happens. Pitch it on the fire again, like a sensible man.’

  The other shook his head and examined his new possession closely. ‘How do you do it?’ he inquired.