“Well, it’s a male,” he announced at last. “And old, I’d say very old.”
“How do you know all that?”
“Well, the forepaws of a male cat are larger and squarer than the average female; also, the feet splay out as he gets older, you see the large gaps between his toes? The pads seem very scarred too. Remember that long diagonal scar on his left forepaw, it’ll be easy to spot again.”
“What about these smaller tracks here?” asked Bob, pointing. “The penghulu at Kampong Panjang reckons there’s two tigers, male and female.”
Harry chuckled.
“Standard Malay mistake,” he replied. “A tiger’s back feet are smaller than his front ones, that’s all. No, there’s only one cat here and a big devil too, judging by his pugs.” He stood up again and followed the prints across the soft ground. “Hmm, that caps it,” he murmured. “He’s wounded in some way, in the right foreleg.”
“How the hell can you tell that?”
“He’s dragging the foot to the side at each step, see there? That must be quite a pronounced limp. Either somebody took a pot-shot at him or he’s had an accident of some kind. Porcupine quills, I shouldn’t wonder. They tend to fall for that a great deal, though I’ve seen it more in India than here.”
Bob scratched his head.
“Strewth, you do know a thing or two, don’t you? Here, I reckon with this kind of information behind me, we’ll soon have him bagged.”
“Well, yes, perhaps it’s not such a bad thing after all. He’s badly wounded and most probably in pain. Be best to put the poor devil out of his misery.”
Bob stared at Harry, surprised by his about-face on the subject.
“Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Beresford,” warned Harry. “It’s not the sport I’m condoning. This would simply be a mercy killing. Besides, there is always the distinct possibility that a cat as badly handicapped as this one could turn man-eater.”
“You think so?”
Harry nodded. Then he continued along the trail, watching for more signs as he went. They travelled on in silence for nearly a mile, the trail leading across the most difficult terrain imaginable. The men had to clamber over fallen tree trunks, push their way through thickets of bamboo and wade through shallow, leech-infested streams. Bob noticed with grudging admiration that Harry scrambled about with an energetic wiriness that belied his years.
At last they reached the place where Bob’s machan still hung in the branches of the Kapok tree. Bob was about to point it out to the old man, but Harry had already spotted it.
“No wonder the tiger didn’t get taken in!” he exclaimed. “You can see that damned contraption a mile away.” He turned back to Bob. “You mustn’t assume that because he’s just an animal, he’s stupid, you know! A tiger’s eyesight is much more developed than yours or mine. If he sees the slightest thing out of the ordinary, he’ll be alerted to the fact that something’s wrong. Next time, you must disguise the machan with a covering of foliage … but also make sure you cut the extra branches from another place some distance away. A tiger will notice cut down shrubbery in the area of a kill. Believe me, the least thing can serve to warn him off; and when that happens, the normal reaction is to leave the kill alone and never go back to it.”
“Well, this fellow didn’t react like that. As I told you, he came and stole the pegged meat when I was asleep.”
“Yes … curious that. He must be a wily old devil. I imagine he could hear you snoring or something; oh, that’s the other rule about sitting up on a machan. Keep the noise down. Don’t even fidget. Anyway, let’s have a look around.…”
Harry strolled around the area of the kill in a wide circle, casting left and right, until he came across some pugmarks, emerging from the jungle to the left of the machan.
“Here’s where he came from,” announced Harry.
“That close! Strewth, it’s a wonder I didn’t spot him.”
“I’ve a feeling he’s going to get a lot closer than this before he’s finished. You see the way he circled around here? He probably saw you up in the tree and decided to check out all the possibilities.” They followed the tracks around and then they came to the place where Haji had moved to within a few yards of the carcass.
“Bloody hell!” snapped Bob. “I was watching all the time. How could he have got this close without me seeing him?”
Harry said nothing. He saw that the tiger had doubled back again and he retraced his own steps, back in a wide detour until he came around behind the Kapok tree.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured. He indicated a longish depression in the soft ground. “He must have been lying here for some time.”
“Here?” Bob looked horrified. He glanced up at the machan, a few yards above his head. “But…”
“Exactly, Mr. Beresford. He’s obviously not too shy of people. If he’d taken it into his head to reach up and grab hold of one of your legs, you wouldn’t be talking to me now. In future, I should build your machans a little higher … also, I’d curb your need for cigarettes if you possibly can.” He indicated a couple of cigarette ends scattered at the base of the tree.
Bob frowned.
“Did I do anything right?” he mumbled sourly.
“Just one thing. You consulted me. Next time, I’m sure you’ll be much better.” Harry glanced at his wristwatch. “Well, that’s about all I can tell you,” he concluded. “There’s nothing much you can do now except wait. Sooner or later, when he gets hungry enough, he’ll kill again. Then you’ll have another chance.”
“Alright, thanks, Mr. Sullivan. Now, I’ve just got to get the machan unroped so I can put it back in the Land Rover.…” He glanced at Harry hopefully, but the old man sat himself down on a tree stump and brought out a pack of cigars.
“You carry on,” he suggested. “I’m in no great hurry.” And he sat smoking thoughtfully, watching with some interest as the Australian clambered into the tree alone.
CHAPTER 12
IN THE early hours of morning, before the dawn had crept into the eastern sky, a thick, low-lying mist wreathed the surface of the road to the north of Kampong Panjang. Haji moved swiftly as he moved down into a monsoon ditch, along it for some distance and then up, to haunt the perimeter of an isolated stretch of padi. There was considerable urgency about his movements for he knew that to go without killing for a few hours more would prove fatal. He had summoned his last reserves of strength for this quest, a quest that had taken him out of his familiar jungle haunts into places where he believed he might find the slower game he had been seeking. But the padi was deserted and he slunk into a straggle of secondary jungle, moving across this for some time and then emerging into an area of land that was unfamiliar to him. This was a large rubber plantation and the countless numbers of evenly spaced, regimented trees, rearing up out of the mist, looked somehow threatening. Haji paused uncertainly on the edge of the land, made nervous by the strangeness of its appearance; but then his attention was caught by a moving, bobbing light out in the very midst of the trees and he began to creep cautiously forward, hugging what cover was available, even though it was unnecessary in such a mist.
The light proved to be a strange helmet with a lantern fixed into it; and the helmet was worn by a solitary Upright. Anxious to earn extra money for his family, he had come early to the plantation in order to collect the little cups of rubber that had been left out overnight. He had a large container slung over one shoulder and he was moving slowly along a line of trees, removing the small cups, tipping their contents into the larger vessel and then replacing the tin cup in a new position on the tree trunk. He spent several minutes at each tree, his back turned away as he fiddled over the task of transferring the fluid. Haji watched the Upright for some time, plagued by memories of old fears … but his instinct for survival asserted itself and he moved forward again until he was hidden behind the line of trees that moved parallel to the one at which the Upright busied himself. Now Haji trailed him from trunk to trunk. He
could see that the Upright was moving gradually nearer to the perimeter of the field. Haji would wait until he reached the very last tree. From there, it would be a fairly simple task to drag the kill away into the cover of secondary jungle.
The Upright was four trees away from the end of the line. He was humming thoughtfully to himself as he worked. His hands went about their simple tasks quickly, almost mechanically. Haji watched with calm silent intent.
The Upright moved to the next tree. There was a terrible silence in the plantation for at this early hour no birds sang, no insects stirred. The Upright seemed to become suddenly nervous. He stopped humming, glanced up from his work and stared this way and that into the mist; but he did not see Haji, crouched some fifteen feet away from him. He frowned, shrugged, then smiled at his own foolishness. He thought of the extra money he was making and this served to cheer him up. He moved to the next tree.
Haji watched for a moment, then slunk forward, placing his wounded leg with great care. The Upright’s humming sounds were serving to unnerve him for he had never heard the like before. The concept of a “song” was alien to him. He knew only of sounds that articulated moods or desires. The Upright took down the little tin cup. Raw rubber sloshed into the large container. Mirrored in Haji’s yellow orb eyes, two tiny Uprights stood, replaced the cup, moved on to the last tree. Haji tensed himself. He crept out to his own last tree. Now, it would require only one short rush.…
A shout from out amongst the trees! Haji snapped his head around to stare. A second yellow light, bobbing like a spectre amidst the forest of upright trunks. The Upright stood up, called something to his approaching friend, then broke off as a brief snarl at his rear alerted him to the fact that he was not alone. He saw a long striped phantom emerging from a sea of mist and he opened his mouth to scream.…
Haji struck the Upright with terrible force, flinging him back against the base of the tree by which he had been standing. The man’s spine snapped with a dry crack and the large container of rubber clattered to the ground. The breath was driven out of his body in an instant and his scream died to a brief whimper of pain and surprise. His arms dropped marionettelike to his sides and then Haji’s great jaws were clamped like a bloody vice around his throat. His eyes bulged grotesquely, but he put up no struggle whatsoever. Haji was momentarily surprised by the ease with which he had taken his prey. He gave the Upright’s skinny neck a couple of mighty wrenches to left and right, as though afraid that he might be bluffing. More vertebrae splintered, the head lolled at an impossible angle. Haji began to pull the dead meat away from the scene, aware that the second Upright was now dangerously close.
A few moments later, the second man reached the trees. His smile of greeting faded as he realized that his friend was no longer there. The man frowned, glanced about. Then a smile came to his lips as he heard a brief rustle in the undergrowth ahead of him. He surmised that the other man was probably having a joke at his expense and that, at any moment, he would come crashing out of the fog, howling like a demon.
“Come on out!” he called in Malay. “I’ve no time for fooling about this morning. Some of us need to earn…”
He broke off in surprise as he saw the overturned container, its precious contents spilled onto the ground. Moving closer, he noticed a small splash of crimson on the smooth bark of the tree. A feeling of dread overtook him. He ran a little distance to the edge of the secondary jungle and there he found his friend’s bloody sarong, which had snagged on a root, and two narrow lines in the dust where the dead man’s heels had dragged as his killer bore him away into the jungle.
The man let out a scream of pure terror and turning on his heels, he fled back toward the buildings at the far end of the plantation, the light of his lantern bobbing and leaping weirdly through the mist.
* * *
BOB WAS DREAMING about his mother. In a strange kind of way, he knew it was just a dream and yet this assurance offered him no solace. She was sitting in her living room back in Oz. Every detail was correct, the patterned furniture, the lace-curtained windows, right down to the slow relentless ticking of that damned grandfather clock she was so proud of. For some reason, it was oppressively hot. Bob could feel thick sluggish layers of sweat oozing down his back as he slept and the cotton sheets stuck to him like tissue paper.… This was outside the dream, which continued, and yet somehow he was still a part of it. His mother was sitting at the dining table and in front of her was a sheet of the pale blue writing paper she always used. She had a pen in her hand, but for the moment she was not writing. She just gazed abstractly ahead, an expression of glumness on her face. She seemed to be waiting for inspiration. At last, she leaned over the paper and wrote in her slow, laborious hand, “Dear Son.” She sat back in her chair and gazed at this for a moment. Then she leaned forward to continue the letter, but again she simply wrote, “Dear Son.”
She continued to write the same two words, over and over, in neat ordered lines until she had filled the entire page. Then she signed it with the single word, “Mother,” folded the paper carefully and slipped it into a matching envelope. Now her head jerked up, as though she had heard a familiar sound, though the room was silent save for the ticking of that infernal clock. She got to her feet, walked over to the window and pulled aside the yellowed lace curtains, to stare out at the street beyond. Now it was as though Bob could see through her eyes. A post-office van came cruising along the silent street, and Bob knew that his mother had been waiting for this, hoping that the driver carried a letter from her son in far-off Malaya. But as the van got nearer an inexplicable thing happened. Suddenly, it was no longer a post-van, but a sleek black hearse, bedecked with wreaths of white flowers. The vehicle came to a slow gliding halt outside his mother’s garden gate. The driver emerged from the car, a small wiry man in a grim black uniform. His face was thin and expressionless, his skin horribly white. He came striding purposefully up the garden path.
Bob’s mother moved back from the window, an expression of concern on her face. Now her eyes strayed fearfully to the frosted glass of the front door, through which she could faintly perceive the driver’s silhouette. There was a long terrible silence, through which the ticking of the grandfather clock seemed to cut like a knife.…
Bob woke up sobbing. Somebody was shaking him roughly.
“Bob! Bob, you must wake up! Somebody comes to see you.…”
He blinked up at Lim’s excited face. Then he shifted his attention to the bedside clock. It was past ten o’clock, he had slept late.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded roughly. He dashed the moisture from his eyes with the back of his arm, not wanting her to see that he had been crying in his sleep. But it was too late, she had already noticed.
“Bob Tuan is upset?” she enquired with obvious concern. “In sleep, you cried out for your moth—”
“Why did you wake me?” demanded Bob sourly.
“The penghulu from Kampong Panjang is here. He asks to speak with you.”
“Right. Tell him I’ll be out in a moment.”
Lim frowned, shrugged, went out of the room. Bob sat where he was for a moment, cradling his face in his hands. The dream had shaken him, though he couldn’t exactly say why. He had thought himself beyond caring for his mother, but now he was not so sure. He swore dismally beneath his breath, then clambered out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown. The penghulu could be here for only one reason. Another damned cow. Christ, but he hadn’t wasted any time getting here! Bob strode out of the bedroom, calling to Lim to make some coffee. He went out onto the porch, where he found the penghulu standing with another man that Bob did not recognize.
“Good morning, Tuan,” said the penghulu. He indicated his companion. “This my brother from Kampong Machis. Si-Pudong strike again near there, early this morning. Brother come down on bicycle special to tell me; I pass word to all my family and friends.… He take you to place—rubber plantation just outside the kampong.”
“A rubber plantation?”
Bob scratched his head, thinking that in his sleepiness he had misheard the man. “Since when do they keep cows on a rubber plantation?”
The penghulu shook his head emphatically.
“No, no, Tuan. This time he not kill cow. This time he kill man, a rubber tapper. Come up behind him and drag him ’way.…”
Bob’s face drained abruptly of colour. It occurred to him that only three nights ago that same bloody tiger had lain under a tree gazing up at him for some time, waiting for him to go to sleep. Supposing it had taken the notion into its head to turn man-eater then? He thought of the sheer horror of being dragged from the tree by a pair of great striped paws and he shuddered involuntarily.
“The Tuan is ill?” enquired the penghulu, stepping forward.
“No … no, I’m fine. Wait here, while I get dressed.”
Bob hurried back into the house, sorted out some clothes and fetched his rifle. He sipped hastily at the coffee that Lim brought him. Luckily, he had no lessons to give that day. Ten minutes later, he, the penghulu, and his brother were bouncing along the road to Kampong Panjang in the Land Rover and the penghulu was richer by twenty dollars. Once there, he alighted and he lifted the other man’s bicycle into the back.
“My brother now guide you to Kampong Machis,” he announced cheerfully. “He not speak any English, so you follow his hand signals!” The two men continued on their way, kicking up great clouds of dirt from the surface of the road. Bob drove even more recklessly than usual, for he was anxious to get to the scene of the kill as quickly as possible. The penghulu had been quite right about his brother. The man evidently couldn’t speak a word of English and his directions consisted of a series of points, nudges, and gesticulations while he just sat in the passenger seat, grinning and nodding. Bob was quite relieved when they passed Kampong Machis and came to a halt by the entrance to the rubber plantation. The two of them alighted and the penghulu’s brother led Bob inside. A lot of worried natives were standing around chattering to each other and Bob was quickly seized upon by all and sundry and bundled in the direction of the foreman, a grim-faced Chinaman in a white short-sleeved shirt. He was standing on the edge of the crowd, his hands on his rather plump hips, and he looked very unhappy.
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