Supping With Panthers

by Tom Holland

  ‘Moorfield,’ he was saying in a low, desperate voice, ‘get up, they’ve gone!’

  ‘Who?’ I asked, rising at once to my feet. ‘Not the woman?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Eliot, giving me a queer look. ‘Have you been dreaming of her?’

  I stared at him, astonished. ‘How the devil did you know?’

  ‘Because I did too. And that’s not the worst,’ he added. ‘Compton is gone as well.’

  ‘Compton?’ I repeated. I stared at Eliot in disbelief and then, I’m afraid, such was my shock at the tidings he had brought that I rather bawled the good Doctor out. But he merely studied me, his eyes keen and his head angled so that he had even more the look of a hawk.

  ‘Are you still determined to press further on?’ he asked, when my anger had at length blown its course.

  I didn’t answer immediately, but looked up at the mountain peaks and the road that led towards them through the Himalayan night. ‘There is a British soldier missing,’ I said slowly. I clenched my fists. One of my soldiers, Eliot.’ I shook my head. ‘Damn it, but it would be a pretty poor show if we were to draw stumps now.’

  Eliot stared at me, and for a long time he made no reply. ‘You realise,’ he said at last, ‘that if you continue to take the road you are on, they will wipe you out?’

  ‘Do we have any other choice?’

  Again Eliot stared at me wordlessly; then he turned and began to walk towards the cliff. I followed him; he had the air of a man who was wrestling with his conscience, and I wasn’t altogether too upset to see it. At length he turned to face me again. ‘I shouldn’t tell you this, Captain,’ he said.

  ‘But you are going to?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. Because otherwise you will certainly die.’

  ‘I am not afraid of death.’

  Eliot smiled faintly. ‘Don’t worry – I am only reducing the certainty of it to the level of high probability.’ Then his smile faded, and he looked at the mountain wall which lay beyond the pass. Now that we were more directly below it, I could scarcely see to its summit, so high it rose. Eliot pointed. ‘There is a way up,’ he said, ‘to the top.’ The route, it seemed, was a pilgrims’ path. ‘It is called Durga,’ Eliot told me, ‘which is another name for the goddess Kali, and means in English “difficult of approach”. And so it is – which is why the brahmins give it such supreme value, for they say that the man who can scale it is worthy of glimpsing Kali herself. Only the greatest of ascetics have ever attempted it – only those who have purged themselves through decades of penance and meditation. When they have attained the state of readiness, they ascend the cliff. Many do not succeed; they return, and it is from them that I have heard of the difficulty of the way. But a few – just a few – manage it. And when they reach the summit – he paused – ‘when they have succeeded, then they are shown the Truth.’

  ‘The Truth? And what the devil would that be?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘Well, if these brahmins attain it, why ever not?’

  Eliot smiled faintly. ‘Because, Captain, they never come back.’

  ‘What, never}’

  ‘Never.’ Eliot’s smile faded as he stared up at the mountain front again. ‘So then,’ he murmured softly, ‘do you still want to go?’

  A wasted question indeed! Naturally I prepared to set off at once. I chose my fittest man, Private Haggard, and my strongest, Sergeant-Major Cuff; the rest I left behind to make sure of the Pass and await old Pumper, who I hoped would be approaching with his troops fairly soon. But in the meantime, with dawn still several hours off, I and my small band were already on our way. We clambered towards the far side of the Pass, over rocks at first and then, when the cliff started to rise sheer and featureless, up steps which had been carved out from the naked rock. ‘According to the brahmin,’ Eliot said, ‘these will lead to a plateau perhaps a quarter of the way up. We must cross that and then continue our ascent up the remainder of the mountain face.’

  Painfully, we began our ascent. The steps had been crudely carved and were often little more than toe-holds in the rock, sometimes vanishing altogether, so that it was pretty hard going and toughish on the legs. It was cold as well, and my legs began to cramp; after a couple of hours I started to think what fine soldiers the brahmins would have made, for they must all have been fitter men than we! I paused to draw my breath and Eliot, who was behind me, pointed to an outcrop of rock. The steps, I could see, twisted up across its face. ‘Once we’re over that,’ he shouted, ‘we’re past the worst. The plateau will be only a gentle climb away.’

  But goodness, did we have to earn that gentle climb first! It was virtually dawn by now, but in that bleak, exposed place the wind seemed more vicious than it had ever done, and it buffeted our bodies in screaming gusts as though trying to sweep us out into the sky which waited, blank and dark, below our swinging feet. It was a pretty grim experience; and then, just when I thought it could hardly grow more grim, I heard a scream. It was very faint, and then was lost on the shriek of the wind. I tensed, and Eliot too seemed to freeze against the rock. The wind fell and we heard a second scream, borne to us on a gust blowing up from the ravine. But beyond the ravine we couldn’t see; the outcrop we were crossing had intervened. My blood felt like ice now; to continue on my way, thinking only of where to place my fingers and my toes, to worry about myself and not my men, was the worst kind of ordeal, yet it had to be done; indeed, I did it faster perhaps than if I had never heard the screams. Once I had reached safety, I followed the path as it wound back across the rock-face; I looked down and saw the ravine yawning distantly below, yet not so far that I couldn’t see our tents. Remember too that it was almost dawn, growing lighter by the minute, and you will understand my consternation when I found that I couldn’t see any of my men. Not a hint of movement. Not a sign of them.

  I continued to gaze as well as my eyesight would allow, but it was as though every last one had just vanished into air. I remembered the screams I had heard, and I freely admit that I dreaded the worst. So too, it was clear, did Private Haggard. My three companions had all joined me by now and, despite my best efforts to chivvy them along, they observed the camp and its emptiness. ‘Probably gone for an early-morning stroll, sir,’ said the Sergeant-Major imperturbably; then he gestured at Haggard. ‘Best keep an eye on him, sir,’ he whispered. And he told me what I had not before realised, that Haggard had been a part of the expedition which had lost Lady Westcote – he had been in the area before and seen some pretty queer things. He was a brave enough chap, but rattled, for your average soldier will cheerfully take on a Zulu impi by himself, but give him a whiff of voodoo and he’ll show you a stomach dyed a deepish shade of yellow. By this time we were crossing level ground; I began to wish we were still mountaineering, for Haggard, I thought, needed his mind kept busy.

  The plateau we were crossing was about a mile deep. We made our way carefully, and soon joined a path that wound up through the rocks and had traces of recent footprints in the dust. We took to the heights, shadowing the path, and it wasn’t long before we were approaching the base of another mountain front, rising sheer and seemingly even more insurmountable than the cliff we had just climbed. Eliot paused to scan the rocks ahead. ‘There,’ he said suddenly, pointing. ‘That’s where the path continues up the diff.’ I looked and saw a gaudily painted shrine carved out from the rock. I inched forward, searching for a way that wouldn’t take us along the path, for I was on my guard despite the seeming calm, but as I lifted my head I felt Eliot’s hand restraining me. ‘Just wait,’ he whispered. ‘The sufferers from the disease are sensitive to light.’ He pointed again, this time to the east. I looked. The mountain peaks were touched with pink. Eliot was right; the sunrise couldn’t be far away.

  ‘Sir,’ whispered Haggard, ‘what are we waiting for?’

  I motioned him to be quiet, but Haggard shook his head. ‘It was like this when they took the Westcotes,’ he muttered, ‘that poor lady and her lovely daughter -snatched a
way, them and their guard, just like now, gone into the night, just gone into the air.’ He rose to his feet and looked about him wildly. ‘And now they’re hunting us!’

  Desperately I pulled him back down, and as I did so I heard Eliot breathe in and hiss at us to lie still. I stared at the path before us; there was movement coming from the undergrowth beyond, and I saw a group of men walk out. They were dressed in Russian uniforms, but I could not see their faces, for they stood with their backs to us. Then one of the men turned and seemed to sniff the air. He looked towards the rock where we all lay hidden, and I heard Private Haggard mutter and groan. I too, staring at him, felt a sickness in my heart, for I was looking at the man I had shot in the skull the night before! I could recognise his wound, just a mess of blood and bone, and how the blighter was still alive I couldn’t tell. Yet he was! His eyes were gleaming and shone very pale.

  ‘No!’ Haggard suddenly screamed. ‘No, not me, not me!’ He aimed his rifle, and with a single shot blew away a second Russian’s face. He broke from the Sergeant-Major’s attempt to restrain him and started to scramble over the rocks towards the shrine.

  Eliot swore. ‘Quick!’ he shouted. ‘We must run as well.’

  ‘Run? From an enemy? Never!’ I cried.

  ‘But they are infected!’ Eliot screamed. ‘Just look!’

  He gestured, and as I stared I saw, to my horror, that the Russian felled by Haggard was slowly rising to his feet. His jaw had been shot away and hung from the skull by a single thread of sinew; I could see his throat, frothy with blood, as it contracted and opened, for all the world as though hungry to be fed. He took a step towards us; his comrades, who had gathered behind him, now began to inch forward in a single pack.

  ‘Please,’ Eliot begged again. ‘For God’s sake, run!’ He reached for me suddenly and pulled me by the arm; I tumbled, picked myself up and, as I did so, one of the Russians broke from the pack and came stalking towards me like some hungry wild beast. I raised my gun to fire, but my arm seemed turned to lead. I stared into the Russian’s eyes; they were burning with a look of the most terrible greed, yet somehow they were still as cold as before, so that the effect was one of the utmost ghastliness. Despite myself I took a step backwards, and at once heard from my adversaries a queer rustling, whittering sound, so that had it not sounded so damnable I would have called it laughter. Suddenly the Russian bared his teeth, then literally leaped up as though to tear out my throat I put up my hands to push him away and then, from behind my shoulder, I heard a pistol shot, and the Russian fell bade dead with a bullet drilled neatly between his eyes. I looked round to see Eliot standing there, the revolver still in his hands.

  ‘I thought you weren’t prepared to use a gun?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘Cometh the hour,’ he muttered. He looked down at the Russian, who was starting to twitch as the other had done. ‘Now, Captain,’ Eliot whispered politely, ‘now, Sergeant-Major – will you please, for God’s sake, come with me and run}

  We did so, of course. Writing that down now, in the comfort of my Wiltshire study, I know it sounds bad, but it was not the men we were fleeing – rather their hellish disease. By George, though, infected as they were, they could still not half move. For as Eliot, the Sergeant-Major and myself, having found the steps by the side of the shrine, began to scramble our way up the mountainside, so also did the Russians start to follow us. The going on these steps was easier than it had been on the previous rock-face, and we all made pretty fair speed; but remorselessly our enemy followed us. I suppose they were bred to it, for your average Ivan is a hardy brute -and yet our pursuers had little true agility, for even as they scaled the rocks they seemed clumsy and doltish, and one would almost have said that their energy came exclusively from their desire to capture us. Certainly, glancing down at them, they seemed scarcely human at all, so hungry and eager their faces gleamed, like a pack of dhole – the Deccan wild dog – smelling our blood.

  Inexorably they started to catch up with us; at length the nearest was scarcely an arm’s reach away. By now I had had enough of showing him my back; I paused, to tum and face things out.

  ‘No,’ Eliot shouted desperately; again, he pointed east towards the mountain peaks. ‘It’s almost dawn!’ he cried.

  But the Russian was too dose to flee from now. Again cold, burning eyes were staring into mine; the Russian almost hissed with venom, and he tensed and crouched as though ready to leap. At that same moment, however, the first ray of sun spilled up into the sky and the peak of the mountain was lost in a blaze of red. The Russian paused; he fell back; and all the others slowed down as well and then stopped.

  At the same moment I felt a bullet whistle past me an inch from my nose. It bit into the rock, and splinters showered out between our pursuers and myself. I looked up to see Haggard standing on the edge of an outcrop, his rifle aimed, ready to have a second shot.

  ‘What the hell are you doing, man?’ I bellowed. ‘Just get on up the path!’

  But Haggard, so frayed his nerves had become, ignored me – the only time a soldier has ever disobeyed my command. ‘No, sir!’ he screamed. ‘They’re vampires! Vampires, sir! We must destroy them all!’

  ‘Vampires?’ I glanced at Eliot and shook my head, a gesture which Haggard observed and, I’m afraid, didn’t take too well.

  ‘I saw it before,’ he screamed, ‘when they came and took Lady Westcote away. Lady Westcote and her lovely daughter; they must have fed on them, and now they’re going to feed on us as well!’

  Of course I tried to explain. I shouted up to him that there was a terrible disease, and I appealed to Eliot to confirm my words, but Haggard, waiting, began to laugh. ‘They’re vampires’ he repeated, ‘I tell you, they are!’ He fired once more, but he was shaking badly now and again he missed. He took a step forward to get a better aim, and as he lowered his rifle his foot somehow slipped. I shouted out to warn him – but he was already gone. He fired and the bullet went harmlessly up into the sky; at the same time Haggard was waving his arms despairingly as pebbles gave way beneath his feet, and then he began to drop down the cliff-face until he landed with a sickening thud amongst the bushes by the shrine. These served to break his fall and must have saved his life, for I could see him struggling to lift himself; but his limbs were all shattered and he couldn’t move.

  Our pursuers meanwhile had been huddled together watching us with their cold, burning eyes. They had been quite motionless from the moment when the sun had first risen in the east; but now, watching poor Haggard’s fall down the cliff, they seemed to tense and quiver as though with a new sense of life. They were all watching him as he struggled to pull himself free from the bushes; then they began to cluster together even closer and from all of them I heard the strange twittering sound which I had eariler taken to be their laughter. They began to retreat from us, back down the cliff; they went even more slowly and clumsily than before, as though the sunlight were water to be struggled against – but still they went. I watched helplessly as they reached the shrine and fanned out in a circle around Haggard who lay, his limbs twitching, amongst the bushes where he had fallen. He screamed and again tried to lift himself, but it was hopeless. The Russians, who had been watching the poor fellow rather as a cat might a mouse, now began to move in towards him -and then one ran forward, and then a second, until all of them were clustered round him with their heads bent over his bleeding wounds.

  ‘My God,’ I whispered, ‘what are they doing?’

  Eliot glanced at me, but he made no answer, for we both knew the legends of Kalikshutra and could see now that they had not been legends at all. They were drinking his blood! Those fiends – I could hardly think of them as men any more – they were drinking Haggard’s blood! One of them paused in his meal and sat back on his haunches; his mouth and chin were streaked with red, and I realised he had torn Haggard’s throat apart. I fired at them, but my arm was shaking and I didn’t get a hit. Even so, the Russians backed away. Haggard’s body was left lying by
the shrine; it was covered in deep red gashes and his flesh was white, quite drained of blood. The Russians looked up at me; slowly, they began to return to their meal; I left them to it, for there was nothing I could do.

  I turned and began to continue up the path. For a long time – a long time – I did not look back down.

  On our ascent of the mountain face that terrible day, I do not intend to dwell. Suffice to say that it very nearly did for us. The climb was hellish, the altitude high; and we were drained, of course, by the horrors we had seen. By the late afternoon, when the rock-face was finally starting to level out, we were all pretty much at the limits of our endurance. I found a sheltered ledge, which would protect us equally from the blast of the winds and the prying of hostile eyes; I ordered that we pause there a while and take some rest. I settled down, and almost before I knew it was sound asleep. I woke up suddenly, without opening my eyes. I felt as though I had been out for only ten minutes, yet my sleep had been so dreamless and profound that I knew myself to be quite refreshed. I would not wake the others yet, I thought. It was still only the afternoon, after all. Then I opened my eyes to find that I was staring into the pale, full gleam of the moon.

  It was chillingly beautiful, and for a moment the scene fairly took my breath away. The great Himalayan peaks ahead of me, and the valleys far below, mantled in shadows and shades of rich blue; the faint wisps of cloud below us, like the breath of some mountain deity; and over all, flooding it, the silver light of that burning moon. I felt myself to be in a world which had no place for man, which had endured and would endure for all time – cold, and beautiful, and terrible. I felt what an Englishman in India must so often feel – how far from home I was, how remote from everything I understood. I looked about me. I thought of the mortal danger we were in, and wondered if this strange place was to be my grave, whether my bones would lie here lost and unknown, far from Wiltshire and my dear, dear wife, crumbling gradually to dust beneath the roof of the world.