“This heat is beastly, Mr. Larssen!” the count complained.
I glanced across the red-and-gold knotted carpets spanning the broad back of the elephant we shared with Miss Adler. I sweated even in my shaded perch, and I did not envy the mahouts perched astride the beasts’ necks in the brutal light of the sun, but I presumed they must be more accustomed by blood and habituation to this barbarous calescence. “It is India, Count,” I replied—perhaps more dryly than necessary.
“And the insects are intolerable.” Kolinzcki’s humor did not seem to extend to irony. I raised an eyebrow and returned my attention to the trail, keeping my pot gun to hand and an eye out for edible game, as the beaters took a large portion of their pay in meat.
My mind drifted as I sought any spoor or scat of our quarry. A strange, oppressive silence hung on the air, and there was no trace of moisture upon the breeze. I felt a chill of unease upon my neck—or perhaps it was only the shade of the trees as our mounts carried us back down the jungle trail.
I felt the need to break the uncanny quietude. “The tiger,” I said to Miss Adler and her companion, “is the true king of the jungle. No mere lion can compare to him for ferocity, intelligence, or courage. He fears nothing and will easily turn the tables on a hunter.”
“That is why we ride elephants?” The Lithuanian’s accent could have been better, but his speech was comprehensible.
I nodded. “Tigers respect elephants, and the reverse is true as well. One will not trouble the oth—”
A great outcry among the monkeys and the birds in the jungle on our left ended my lecture. I heard an intermittent crashing in the bamboo as an antelope sprinted away. Our tiger was on the move.
Our beaters fanned toward the jungle, several of them disappearing from sight among the trees. One or two glanced back at us before vanishing into the brush, understandably apprehensive: there was at least one tiger in that cover who had learned the taste of man.
I directed the mahouts back to the clearing, where we could intercept the line of beaters. The good doctor and von Hammerstein were mounted on the second beast, and Mr. Waterhouse with his two sons rode the final one. Rodney walked alongside with a cargo of rifles. Count Kolinzcki fumbled with his gun, and I made a note to myself to keep an eye on the Lithuanian, in case he should require assistance. Miss Adler quietly and efficiently broke her under/over Winchester and made it ready on her own.
We reached the clearing in good order and took a moment to array ourselves. The cries of the beaters rang out—“bAgha! bAgha!”—“Tiger! Tiger!”
She was within their net and moving toward us. Miss Adler drew a deep breath to steady herself, and I restrained myself from laying a hand on her shoulder to calm her. A glance at her lovely face, however, showed only quiet resolve.
Von Hammerstein also readied his gun, as did the Waterhouses and the doctor. Not intending to shoot, I foolishly failed to exchange the bolt-action .303 Martini-Lee for my double rifle.
The moment stretched into silence. I found myself counting my breaths, gaze fixed on the wall of brush. “Mir Shikar,” von Hammerstein began—luckily, for as I turned toward my stout and stalwart old friend, I saw the tigress lunge.
The tricky old killer had somehow doubled back and come up upon our flank. She was too close, perhaps a stride away. She made one gigantic bound out of the brush and was airborne even as I whipped my rifle around.
In that instant, my eye photographed her—the twisted forefoot, the sad traces of mange and hunger, the frantic golden eye—and my finger tightened on the trigger.
To no avail. With a hollow click, the rifle failed to discharge. It seemed an eon as I worked the bolt—jammed—and tossed it aside, extending my hand down to Rodney for the .534 Egyptian. In the instant before my fingers closed on the warm Turkish walnut of the stock, I heard two weapons roar and sudden plumes of acrid white smoke tattered in the hot breeze. The shots caught the tigress in side and breast, tumbling her over and backward.
She dragged herself upright, and Mr. Waterhouse fired as well, squinting along the barrel like a professional as he put a third and final bullet into the defiant cat. She made a little coughing sound and expired, her body going fluid in each joint.
I glanced around before sliding off my elephant. Miss Adler had broken her Winchester and was calmly replacing the cartridge she had expended into the creature’s breast. Von Hammerstein was also dismounting his beast, keeping his weapon at the ready in case he was forced to fire again.
I bent over to examine the kill, and found myself straightening abruptly, scanning the jungle for any sign of movement. I saw only our returning beaters.
Von Hammerstein saw it and laid a questioning eye on me.
“Her teeth,” I said thickly. “There must be a second cat. This one might bring down a man, but she could never manage a bullock. Not with that crippled foot, and the ruined teeth.”
It was then that I heard a sound like a throbbing drumbeat, distant but distinct. I did not know what made it, and my curiosity was piqued.
I would give anything to have remained so ignorant.
Three of the beaters did not come out of the woods, nor were their bodies found.
A search until nightfall failed to turn up the men—or, in fact, any trace of a second tiger. Reluctantly, we reunited and turned for the camp, our beaters muttering in dissatisfaction. We resolved to resume the hunt in the morning, and hopefully find traces of the victims and whatever cat had taken them. Dr. Montleroy did get a lucky shot at a leopard, and brought it down, so we had two trophies: the elderly tigress, and a beautiful spotted cat perhaps seven feet in length.
Dinner that night was a somber affair, despite the excellent food: bread of a flat sort stuffed with potato, vegetables curried with tomato and onion, mutton spiced and baked in a clay pot. It was a great relief when the Lithuanian Count pressed Miss Adler to entertain us by singing, and she obliged. Even without accompaniment, her contralto was superb and much relieved our heavy hearts.
My sleep, when it came, was troubled by the sounds of a quiet argument nearby—the voice of Miss Adler demanding, “But you must give it back to me!” And a male rumble—stubborn, I thought—replying. A lovers’ quarrel, perhaps.
I am not sure what brought me from my cot, other than the sort of prurience that a man does not like to admit. I wondered what he had of hers, of course, and a gentleman does not leave a lady alone in a tight spot, even when that lady is an adventuress.
It was Kolinzcki whom she argued with, for I recognized his voice as I moved closer to the wall of my tent, feeling my way barefoot in the unrelieved darkness. He switched languages, and she followed. I was surprised to be able to understand them somewhat, for I speak no Lithuanian. But the disagreement they conducted in low tones was in Russian, and that language I have a fair command of.
“It was not yours to take,” Miss Adler whispered, urgency resonating in her trained voice. “Do you know what you’ll be unleashing?”
“It is unleashed already,” Kolinzcki replied. “I merely bring our noble friends the means to control it.”
She sighed, the harsh Russian tongue taking on a certain fluidity when she spoke it. “It is not so simple as that, and you know it. It will be a great embarrassment for my friends in Prague if I cannot return their property. If it seems they are cooperating with the Tsar, it will go hard for them.”
He was silent, and she continued in a voice I barely heard under the sawing of insects. “Have I not done everything you asked?”
It was obvious to me that the Count was blackmailing the lovely singer, and I made up my mind to intervene. But as my hand was on the tent flap, I heard again the low, resonant throbbing that had so startled us in the afternoon. Outside, Miss Adler gave a little cry of surprise, and as I came around the corner to confront them, I heard him say in English, “And that is the reason why I cannot oblige you, my dear, as well you know. Perhaps when we are back in civilized lands, we can discuss this again.”
She stepped close to him and laid her hand on his arm. “Of course, darling.”
Then perhaps a lovers’ quarrel after all, and already made up for. Silent in bare feet, I returned to my sleepless bed, unaccountably disappointed, and harboring suspicions I did not care to address. Who was I, a Norwegian, to care what alliances and wars the Tsar and the British Queen make against and upon each other? They seemed determined to tear Afghanistan in two between them, in their so-called Great Game: an endless series of imperialist intrigues and battles. A game, to my eye, whose chiefest victims were simple folk like my Rodney. The best the rest of us—I thought then—could manage was a sort of detached distaste for the whole proceedings.
The morning found us all awake early and unsettled. It was bold young James Waterhouse who sought me out before we mounted our elephants. “Shikari,” he said—they had picked up the usage from von Hammerstein and thought it delightfully quaint. “Did you hear that noise again last night?”
I hesitated. “The drumming? I did indeed.” I said no more, but he must have noted my frown.
He pressed me. “That wasn’t an animal noise, was it? I heard it when we killed the tiger.”
It had absorbed my thoughts through the night, when I wasn’t distracted by the implications of the argument between the Lithuanian—or perhaps not Lithuanian—Count and the fair Miss Adler. It wasn’t quite exactly a drumming: it was more a . . . heartbeat. It was true; it didn’t sound like an animal noise. But it didn’t sound precisely like a human noise either.
“I don’t know,” I answered uncomfortably. “I haven’t heard it before.” I turned to aid Miss Adler in climbing the rope ladder to our elephant. Truthfully, the count required more assistance, and as I helped him up, his waistcoat gaped and I noticed the golden hilt of a dagger secreted within it. Great-grandfather’s hunting knife, no doubt: too showy, but not a bad precaution. He rose a bare notch in my estimation.
There were some clouds on the horizon, and I thought the wind might carry a taint of moisture. I was eager to find the second cat and travel deeper into the jungle, perhaps to seek a third. We were past due for weather, and monsoon would mean the end of our hunt.
My party were on edge, made nervy no doubt both by the loss of the beaters the day before and by the close call with the tiger. Still no sign had been found of the missing men—even of a scuffle—and I found myself tending toward the explanation that they had deserted. Conrad seemed spooked, and I permitted the brothers to ride my elephant while Miss Adler and her escort traveled with Mr. Waterhouse.
Instead of skirting the forest, we resolved to plunge into it, and search among the bamboo and the sal trees for the second man-eater. I found myself eager as a young man, and by the time we broke for luncheon we had covered some miles into the thicker part of the forest. We found a little clearing in which to enjoy our cold curry and venison with the native bread. I sat beside von Hammerstein, while noting that Miss Adler had taken a place some distance from her Count. I wondered.
I kept the Egyptian close to hand, in case our man-eater should be drawn out by the scent of food or prey, but lunch passed uneventfully. We resolved to take a short siesta on the grass in the appalling heat of the afternoon with some of the beaters standing guard.
I again caught a glimpse of clouds massed on the horizon, but they seemed no closer than they had been in the morning, so I determined that we should press on after resting, but I must have dozed. I was awakened with a start by the sound of crashing in the brush—something sprinting straight for us. I scrambled to my feet, clutching my rifle. I noticed that the rest had dozed as well—except Miss Adler, who was on her feet, straightening from adjusting the Count’s jacket, and loyal Rodney, who was chatting with one of the beaters in their native Hindi.
I brought my weapon to bear on the sound. The beaters moved rapidly out of the line of fire, and I did not spare a glance for the others.
It was no tiger that broke the screen of trees, but a man, ragged and hungry looking, on the verge of exhaustion, bare feet bloodied as if from some long journey. He did not look Indian but rather Arab—Afghan, perhaps? I cautiously lowered my rifle, and he collapsed at my feet with a cry.
He babbled a few words in a tongue I did not understand. I again shifted my estimation of Count Kolinzcki, as I noticed it was he who first came to the man’s side, bending over him. I watched warily for a moment. The Arab seemed no threat, however, and I gestured Rodney to bring water as I crouched beside him as well. My bearer had just begun to cross the clearing, leaving his post at my shoulder, when the eldest elephant threw up her trunk and trumpeted in alarm.
A stray breeze brought a whiff of scent to my nostrils: char and hot metal. I cast about for any sign of smoke and noticed the elephants rocking nervously. It seemed obvious to me at that time that they had scented fire, for I knew then of no beast that could so disturb them.
I was both right and wrong.
“Mount!” I cried. The Waterhouses began immediately to move toward the elephants while Dr. Montleroy and von Hammerstein helped the beaters grab up our possessions. I reached down with some thought of assisting the prostrate Arab, but Kolinzcki was already dragging him to his feet.
The Arab grabbed Kolinzcki by the collar, and the fat Count knocked his grubby hand aside. And then, looking startled and sick, the Count pressed his right hand to his breast, with the expression of a man who realizes that his watch has gone missing from his waistcoat.
I remembered the argument of the night before, and Miss Adler bent over his supine form as he slept, but the rush of events did not permit me to inquire.
I barely caught a glimpse of it before it was among us: it came silent as a wisp of smoke, disturbing the vines and brush not at all. It glowed, even in the incandescence of the afternoon, with a light like a coal, and across the back it bore stripes like char. It possessed the rough form of a tiger, but it stank like a forest fire and its maw was a lick of flame.
It sprang to the back of the smallest elephant with an easy leap, transfixing Conrad Waterhouse with its burning gaze. Even as the elephant panicked, he froze like a bird charmed by a snake. The Creature’s blazing claws scorched down her sides, leaving rents in her thick hide that I wouldn’t have credited to an ax. She screamed and reared up, ponderously reaching over her shoulder in an attempt to dislodge the predator. Her panic knocked Conrad from his feet, and I did not see him move again. His brother lunged across the path of the Creature to shield the fallen boy with his body: a brave and futile gesture.
The Creature avoided the elephant’s wild blows contemptuously, plunging to the soft earth like a cannonball as all three of our mounts stampeded and the injured elephant’s foot struck James.
The beaters and mahouts scattered. The Creature casually disemboweled the closest man: it never even turned its head, already gathering itself for another pounce. Even as I leveled my weapon I knew it was hopeless. I squeezed the trigger and the rifle hammered my shoulder once, and again. Rodney sprinted back to me, my Purdey clutched in his hand. He had two cartridges between his fingers, drawn from the loops on his vest, and he had the rifle broken, loading both barrels simultaneously as he ran.
The good doctor stood rooted in shock. I heard the report of von Hammerstein’s gun and, a second later, that of Miss Adler’s. I released my empty weapon as Rodney, spitting fragments of words in his excitement, smoothly handed me the replacement. Mr. Waterhouse was turning to cover the beast with shaking hands, unable to fire as long as we stood behind it, craning his neck in an attempt to see both the quarry and his two sons.
The animal stalked forward, opening its flame-rimmed maw, and I heard again the sound I had compared to the pounding of drums or the throb of a mighty heart. The roar went on and on, and my heart quailed and my hands shook as it slunk one pad-footed step forward.
I readied my useless weapon, determined to die fighting, and Miss Adler loosed her second shot. The bullet ruptured the hide of the beast and a ripple shuddered across
its surface as if she had tossed a rock into water. A few spattering droplets of fire shot up, falling to the grass, where they smoked and vanished.
Count Kolinzcki staggered back, down on one knee in fright and despair, his hand dropping from his breast to fumble with his weapon. Von Hammerstein held his fire. I knew he would be waiting for a shot at the eye—a forlorn hope, but the one I clung to as well.
The thunder of hooves spoiled my aim. I raised my gaze from my gun sight to witness the arrival of the proverbial cavalry. A lathered bay gelding—of Arab stock, to guess by its small stature and luxurious mane—charged out of the bamboo in full flight. Its flanks heaved and blood-flecked foam flew from its bit. On its back was a mustachioed officer, who hauled up short on the reins and virtually lifted his mount into the air.
It was a prodigious leap: the little horse’s hindquarters bunched and released, and it sailed up and over the back of the Creature. The tigerlike thing twisted in a fruitless attempt to score the horse with its claws, and then recoiled as the rider hurled some sort of pouch at its face. Whatever it was, it hurt! The Creature throbbed again, searing the depths of my ears, and turned and bounded away.
The officer hauled his horse to a stop and whirled it about on its haunches—an unequaled display of horsemanship. The little bay half reared in protest of the hard handling, and then settled down, pawing and snorting.
The officer gentling it with a hand on its neck was a man of middle years, his hair iron gray as was his copious mustache. He had a high forehead and a sensual twist to his mouth, and his eyes glittered still with the excitement of the hunt.
At the appearance of the officer, the Arab turned as if to flee, and almost ran directly into me. He still wove on his feet, and I detained him easily enough.
“Sir,” Miss Adler said, first in command of her wits, “we are indebted to you beyond any repayment.”
“Miss,” he replied, “it is my privilege to serve. And now we must be away, before it returns.”
Shadows over Baker Street Page 4
