The White Tiger and Other Stories

by Ruskin Bond

  ‘A wolf—and yet not a wolf!’ another put in shudderingly.

  ‘No use trying for him without the sacred bullet,’ a third remarked in a more ordinary manner.

  ‘Serve us right for coming out on this night! Truly we have earned our thousand marks!’ were the ejaculations of a fourth.

  ‘There was blood on the broken marble,’ another said after a pause, ‘the lightning never brought that there. And for him—is he safe? Look at his throat! See comrades, the wolf has been lying on him and keeping his blood warm.’

  The officer looked at my throat and replied, ‘He is all right, the skin is not pierced. What does it all mean? We should never have found him but for the yelping of the wolf.’

  ‘What became of it?’ asked the man who was holding up my head and who seemed the least panic-stricken of the party, for his hands were steady and without tremor. On his sleeve was the chevron of a petty officer.

  ‘It went home,’ answered the man, whose long face was pallid and who actually shook with terror as he glanced around him fearfully. ‘There are graves enough there in which it may lie. Come, comrades—come quickly! Let us leave this cursed spot.’

  The officer raised me to a sitting posture, as he uttered a word of command; then several men placed me upon a horse. He sprang to the saddle behind me, took me in his arms, gave the word to advance; and, turning our faces away from the cypresses, we rode away in swift military order.

  As yet my tongue refused its office, and I was perforce silent. I must have fallen asleep; for the next thing I remembered was finding myself standing up, supported by a soldier on each side of me. It was almost broad daylight, and to the north a red streak of sunlight was reflected like a path of blood over the waste of snow. The officer was telling the men to say nothing of what they had seen, except that they found an English stranger, guarded by a large dog.

  ‘Dog! That was no dog,’ cut in the man who had exhibited such fear. ‘I think I know a wolf when I see one.’

  The young officer answered calmly, ‘I said a dog.’

  ‘Dog!’ reiterated the other ironically. It was evident that his courage was rising with the sun; and, pointing to me, he said, ‘Look at his throat. Is that the work of a dog, master?’

  Instinctively I raised my hand to my throat, and as I touched it I cried out in pain. The men crowded round to look, some stooping down from their saddles; and again there came the calm voice of the young officer, ‘A dog, as I said. If aught else were said we should only be laughed at.’

  I was then mounted behind a trooper, and we rode on into the suburbs of Munich. Here we came across a stray carriage into which I was lifted, and it was driven off to the Quatre Saisons—the young officer accompanying me, whilst a trooper followed with his horse, and the others rode off to their barracks.

  When we arrived, Herr Delbruck rushed so quickly down the steps to meet me, that it was apparent he had been watching within. Taking me by both hands he solicitously led me in. The officer saluted me and was turning to withdraw, when I recognized his purpose and insisted that he should come to my rooms. Over a glass of wine I warmly thanked him and his brave comrades for saving me. He replied simply that he was more than glad, and that Herr Delbruck had at the first taken steps to make all the searching party pleased; at which ambiguous utterance the maitre d’hotel smiled, while the officer pleaded duty and withdrew.

  ‘But Herr Delbruck,’ I inquired, ‘how and why was it that the soldiers searched for me?’

  He shrugged his shoulders, as if in depreciation of his own deed, as he replied, ‘I was so fortunate as to obtain leave from the commander of the regiment in which I serve, to ask for volunteers.’

  ‘But how did you know I was lost?’ I asked.

  ‘The driver came hither with the remains of his carriage, which had been upset when the horses ran away.’

  ‘But surely you would not send a search party of soldiers merely on this account?’

  ‘Oh, no!’ he answered, ‘but even before the coachman arrived, I had this telegram from the Boyar whose guest you are,’ and he took from his pocket a telegram which he handed to me, and I read:

  Bistritz.

  Be careful of my guest—his safety is most precious to me. Should aught happen to him, or if he be missed, spare nothing to find him and ensure his safety. He is English and therefore adventurous. There are often dangers from snow and wolves and night. Lose not a moment if you suspect harm to him. I answer your zeal with my fortune.

  —Dracula.

  As I held the telegram in my hand, the room seemed to whirl around me, and if the attentive maitre d’hotel had not caught me, I think I should have fallen. There was something so strange in all this, something so weird and impossible to imagine, that there grew on me a sense of my being in some way the sport of opposite forces—the mere vague idea of which seemed in a way to paralyse me. I was certainly under some form of mysterious protection. From a distant country had come, in the very nick of time, a message that took me out of the danger of the snow sleep and the jaws of the wolf.

  The Werewolf

  C.A. Kincaid

  It was a terribly hot afternoon in July some fifty years ago in Upper Sind. In the Deccan cooling showers had turned the hard earth, baked by the summer winds, into a perfect paradise. The soil there was bright with long green grass. The hills rose emerald to the sky, although their summits were often veiled by the monsoon mists; and delightful breezes swept over the glad earth to the great joy of foreign sojourners in the Indian plateau. Even in the Punjab and the Gangetic valley heavy rain had fallen and if the air seemed stuffy to the traveller from southern India, his eyes rejoiced in the rich foliage and endless maize fields, while his ears listened joyfully to the murmuring sound of newborn streams, as they tinkled and splashed on their way to join the brimming rivers.

  In Upper Sind the landscape was quite different. Rain hardly ever falls there except in the cold weather and while more favoured parts of India revel in the monsoon, none of it reaches that strange land. Irrigated by canals from the Indus, the fields are in winter gay with young wheat and he who visits Upper Sind in January may well think that he has reached some heavenly spot. But let him go there in July or August and he will soon change his opinion. All day long the hot wind roars driving the mercury up to 120o in the shade; nor is there much relief at night. The hot wind drops, but the thermometer still marks over a hundred; the sandflies and mosquitoes buzz all night and moonbeams like the rays of a powerful electric headlight pour down on the would-be sleeper’s face making slumbering exceedingly difficult.

  In the middle of this sun-splashed region is Sehwan, formerly an important town, but now greatly sunk in importance. One thing it still claims with justice that it is one of the hottest places on earth. A Persian poet once in the bitterness of his heart asked the Almighty why, after making Sehwan and Sibi, he thought it worthwhile to make Hell. The afternoon on which this story opens was well worthy of Sehwan’s ancient reputation. The train steamed slowly into Sehwan station from Sukkur. The railway on the left bank of the Indus had not then been built, so the railtrack passed through Sehwan on its way to Karachi and the seacoast. The last carriage on the train was the saloon of the Traffic Superintendent. It was far roomier than the ordinary first-class carriages, as befitted the quarters of a senior railway official; but nothing could keep out the heat or make the interior cool. The shutters were closed. A railway coolie pulled a diminutive punka fixed on the roof, but he merely stirred into motion the heavy, hot air. There were two occupants of the saloon; one was the Traffic Superintendent, Frank Bollinger; the other was a Major Sinclair, whom he had known for some years. He had invited his friend to share the saloon instead of sweltering in the first-class compartment and sharing it with two missionaries, their wives and baby.

  I shall be devoutly thankful,’ said Bollinger, ‘when we get out of this Hell into the monsoon area.’

  When will that be?’

  ‘Once we pass the Lakhi gorg
e it will be better. They say the monsoon dies there and so they call the gorge the gate of Hell. It is true that once past that frightful mass of heated limestone, one does begin to feel a breath of cooler air. It gradually grows in strength; so we ought to get a Goodnight on our way to Karachi.’

  ‘I am very glad to hear that. I could not sleep a wink in this part of the world, could you?’

  ‘Oh! I have had such a long experience of hot nights that I might; but thank God there will be no need to make the experiment.’

  Just then, the train drew up in Sehwan station. The stationmaster, Isarmal, who had known Bollinger in earlier days, came running up to pay his respects. His face beamed all over with the pleasure that an Indian almost always feels at meeting a former English friend. Bollinger remembered well the little stationmaster and was also very glad to see him and have a chat over old times.

  To let the two old acquaintances have their talk out, Major Sinclair got out of the carriage and strolled about on the platform. After Bollinger and Isarmal had been gossiping together for about a quarter of an hour, the former said suddenly:

  ‘I say, Mr Isarmal, why are we staying here so long? I never remember waiting more than five minutes at Sehwan before.’

  ‘I am afraid, Sir—I am very sorry, Sir—the river has breached the line some four miles down and the train cannot go on until tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Do you mean to say that we shall have to stay all night in this inferno? I am afraid, the Major Sahib will not like that at all. He was grumbling at the heat when the train was moving; what he’ll say when he hears that we will have to pass the night in a stationary train, I can’t think. He will swear horribly.’

  ‘Yes indeed, Sir,’ said Mr Isarmal, anxious to agree to everything his English friend said, ‘the Major Sahib will swear horribly.’

  Just then all doubts were settled by the arrival of Sinclair in a frightful temper. After so varied an outburst of blasphemy that it filled Bollinger with respectful awe, he shouted:

  ‘Damn it all, Bollinger, have you heard that we have to spend the night in this hellhole?’

  ‘Yes; I’m awfully sorry, old chap; but it cannot be helped. The Indus is in flood and it is just as capricious as a spoilt harlot. Still, it will only be for one night and you’ll be able to wipe out your arrears of sleep when we near Karachi.’

  ‘My dear chap, I’m not going to sleep in your saloon. I have just been talking to the khansama of the rest house. He says it is up on the top of a hill and all night one gets a cool breeze from the river. He’ll give us dinner and he’ll call us at six a.m. so that we shan’t miss the train. He’ll put our beds out in the open and he swears that we’ll be able to sleep like tops.’

  Just then the khansama himself came up. He was a powerfully built Panjabi Musulman with a long black beard and very strange yellow eyes. His face in repose had a villainous expression. He had a smile that rarely came off, but it was a very unpleasant one; it was rather like the smile of a savage Alsatian fawning on its master. He could speak a little broken English, which in the case of poor linguists like Major Sinclair was a great attraction. On reaching the saloon he stood at the door and addressing Bollinger very deferentially, said:

  ‘The Major Sahib, he coming to rest house. Sahib, please come, too, and have Goodnight in cool breeze. I give good dinner and you get good sleep and I wake you six a.m. Madras time. Down here too dammed hot, you get no sleep at all, Sahib.’

  Bollinger could not help thinking of the old nursery rhyme ‘Won’t you walk into my parlour said the spider to the fly’ and anyway he had no wish to leave his comfortable saloon and a dinner served by his own servants for a hard bed and a doubtful meal at a rest house half a mile away. He politely thanked the khansama.

  ‘No, khansama; I shall be quite all right here. It may be hot, but I doubt whether it will be any cooler on the top of your Himalayan peak. After all, I have been there and it is only about thirty feet high and my dinner will be better than any you can give me.’

  The khansama’s yellow eyes flashed disagreeably, but he continued as before to smile in his canine way and to repeat mechanically:

  ‘Sahib, I give you very good dinner. A cool breeze will blow all night. You get good sleep and tomorrow I call you at six a.m. Madras time.’

  At last, Bollinger said impatiently: ‘It’s no use going on jabbering like that. I’m just not going to your rest house. I’m going to stay here and there’s an end of it.’

  Suddenly, Sinclair broke in: ’Well, I’m not. I’m damned if I’m going to spend the night in your sardine box.’ Turning to his butler, he said: ’Here, boy, get my luggage out of the saloon and put it in a tonga and tell the man to drive to the rest house. You can come with the khansama in another.’

  Bollinger, taken aback, replied with stiff courtesy: ‘My dear Sinclair, you must, of course, please yourself. I shall stay in the old sardine box and you’ll have a good dinner and a capital night. Goodnight!’

  The Major, without troubling to answer, walked off with the khansama and Bollinger resumed his talk with Mr Isarmal the stationmaster.

  When the khansama and Sinclair had passed out of sight Isarmal suddenly said in a low earnest voice: ‘Thank God, you did not go, Sahib, with that terrible man. If you had you would be as good as dead already. The Major Sahib will not be alive tomorrow.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about, Isarmal?’

  ‘It is that khansama, sir. He is not really a man, but a—a—a—I have forgotten the English word; we call it in Sindi a lakhibaghar.’

  ‘A hyena, you mean,’ said Bollinger, who knew some Sindi.

  ‘Yes, Sahib, he turns himself every night into a hyena and eats anyone whom he finds sleeping alone on a cot in the open. We say that he is the reincarnation of a horrible man called Ann Kasai.’

  ‘Oh, you mean that fellow who ate up Bodlo Bahar?’

  ‘Yes, I see the Sahib knows the story. Bodlo Bahar was the disciple of our great Sehwan saint Lal Shabaz. One day he disappeared. The following morning one of the saint’s disciples saw that the bits of mutton that he was cooking for his dinner were jumping about strangely in his pot. Other disciples had the same tale to tell. So, Lal Shahbaz said: “It must be our Bodlo Bahar,” and went to the Governor of Sehwan. He asked from whom they had bought the mutton. They all said, “From the butcher Anu Kasai.” Now, this wicked man had once been very prosperous, but he had fallen on evil days; and having no money to buy sheep he used to murder strangers and sell their flesh as mutton. The Governor arrested Anu Kasai and searched his shop and house. They were full of human bones. He had for months escaped punishment, but he was caught when he killed a saint like Bodlo Bahar.’

  How did the Governor punish him?’

  ‘He walled him up in the battlements of Sehwan fort, that is the hill on which the rest house now stands. As you pass it you can see a sort of hollow in the side of it. That is where they walled up Anu the butcher.’

  ‘But what is this talk of the khansama being his reincarnation?’

  ‘Well, Sahib, he has only been here three or four months and yet several people in the town have disappeared. Whenever they have done so, a large hyena has been seen galloping through Sehwan. Not only that, but two Chota Sahibs (subordinate Europeans) who went to the rest house also have disappeared. The khansama said the same in both cases. They dined and slept outside the rest house, but when he brought the tea next morning they had vanished. We say the khansama turns himself into a hyena and eats them during the night. You will never see the Major Sahib again, I am afraid; but thank God you are here! Still, at night close the doors and windows of your saloon, otherwise that khansama may attack you even here. We always shut ourselves in at night, although it is so hot.’

  Bollinger was far too wise to laugh at the stationmaster’s story. He did not believe that the khansama and the hyena were the same; but remembering his villainous expression he did think it possible that he was a murderer; and after Isarmal had left he be
gan to wonder what he should do.

  At last, he determined to go to the rest house and share the danger, if any, with Sinclair. He had no gun, but he had a long heavy hunting knife that, had it been a bit sharper, would have been a very efficient weapon. He did not bother to take his servant as he did not wish to have him on his hands, too. In the glare of the setting sun he walked alone along the dusty limestone road and then up the steep side of the old fort, now the rest house. He noticed as he walked a depression in the fort wall and said to himself that that must be the place where they walled up Anu Kasai. At last, he reached the top of the old fort. It formed a plateau and in the centre was the rest house. He arrived just as Sinclair was sitting down to dinner outside the building. It certainly was far cooler than in the station siding, for a cool breeze blew from the river.

  ‘Come along, Bollinger, I am so glad you have come,’ said Sinclair cordially. ‘You must dine with me. We can get a Goodnight here in the breeze. I say, I’m awfully sorry for having been so grumpy just now. I cannot make out what came over me.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right!’ said Bollinger cheerily, wondering secretly what Sinclair would think of Isarmal’s tale. The khansama also welcomed Bollinger and made ready a place for him. He then served an excellent dinner and after dinner began to put the two officers’ cots outside.

  ‘Oh, don’t do that, we shall sleep inside.’

  ‘It will be damned hot, almost as hot as in your saloon below.’

  ‘Oh no, we shall leave the windows open and so get a through draught. The stationmaster tells me that the place is alive with scorpions and that one may well get stung if one sleeps outside.’

  Sinclair looked towards the khansama, but he made no objection, so Sinclair said, ‘Very well; but it will be so hot that we shall not get a wink of sleep.’

  ‘Oh well, no matter, we’ll play picquet until midnight. After that it will cool down sufficiently for us to sleep indoors.’

  ‘Right-o!’ said Sinclair gloomily, wishing Bollinger in the infernal regions.