Sherlock Holmes and the Giant Rat of Sumatra

by Paul D. Gilbert

  Holmes turned suddenly towards me, staring intently as if my words had instigated a further chain of thought within him.

  ‘Very likely not, although, of course, it would be a grave error for us to jump to any conclusions before we hear the remainder of Sir Michael Collier’s journals. However, the conclusion of the second letter presents me with the perfect opportunity to stretch my troubled legs and also for you, Mr Collier, to rest your aching eyes.’ Holmes still appeared to have been gravely distracted and he added quietly, in fact almost to himself: ‘Of course there is still the problem of the third letter. I shall be out for an hour or so and I suggest that you make good use of my room.’ Holmes made this seem more of a directive than a suggestion and one that Collier had begun to act upon even before Holmes had left the room.

  So I was to be left to my own devices. Remaining heedful of Holmes’s earlier and most alarming warning, I resolved not to allow our young client out of my sight for even the briefest moment. I turned my chair around so that it then faced the door to Holmes’s room and I took down my copy of Journeys Through the Lands of the Bible by Sir Michael Collier.

  I decided that to speculate as to which direction Holmes’s thoughts had now taken him would prove to be a pointless exercise. Far better, I reasoned, to reacquaint myself with Sir Michael’s earlier writings, and perhaps I might learn something by comparing the style and contents with those of the letters.

  Unfortunately my mind was by now saturated with the travels and tribulations of the great explorer and, despite my greatest efforts at preventing it happening, within a few moments I had drifted off into a subconscious world of caped phantoms and Eastern holy men.

  I was only aroused from my slumber when Collier’s praiseworthy tome slipped from my loosened grasp and thumped to the floor at my feet. I was in a state of blind panic when I glanced at the clock and realized that a full two hours had elapsed since Holmes’s abrupt departure. Upon opening the door to his room, which I did with great care, I was much relieved to find Daniel Collier spread out upon the bed cover, fully clothed and clearly in a state of great exhaustion.

  The potential consequences of his having slipped passed me while I had been asleep were too dire even to contemplate and my hand was shaking as I lit my cigarette. I moved over to the window as the ever darkening twilight was gradually seeping beneath the edges of our blinds. All the while I was wondering at Holmes’s whereabouts and why he did not come home.

  When Holmes did at last return I soon realized that I had no need to enquire as to the success of his mission; I merely had to observe. He was barely able to suppress a smile of intense satisfaction and the sparks of triumph flashed from his eyes as they darted from me to Collier and back to me once more.

  ‘I apologize for my protracted absence, gentlemen, but I can assure you that it was absolutely necessary. Oh, Watson, our journey surely now begins! However, you should both be glad to know that I have arranged with Mrs Hudson for our evening meal, after which, Mr Collier, I would prevail upon you to conclude your father’s most remarkable tale.’

  ‘I should be glad to,’ Collier replied. ‘Although I should point out that the conclusion is somewhat more disjointed than that which has gone before. Indeed, the third and last letter does not even take up the tale from the moment that the second breaks off.’ He explained this almost apologetically.

  Holmes dismissed this with a wave of his hand. ‘I assume that the final letter bore the postmark from Aceh?’ he asked.

  ‘It did! However did you know?’ Collier asked incredulously.

  ‘Ah, so I can see now that my little excursion was not entirely fruitless.’ Holmes laughed.

  At this juncture a timely knock on the door announced the arrival of our food and a moment later we were all tucking into a most succulent rack of lamb. Once the meal had been concluded and we had enjoyed a satisfying smoke and a glass of port, Daniel Collier unfolded his crumpled package for the last time.

  I should emphasize here that at this stage of his narrative, no doubt due to the gradual deterioration in both his circumstances and his physical condition, Sir Michael Collier’s writing was becoming increasingly patchy and erratic. In spite of these impediments his son toiled away gamely enough; however, Holmes seemed impatient with his efforts and I sensed that he was gradually becoming somewhat frustrated. This was undoubtedly due to fact that the next phase of his investigations was now uppermost in his thoughts.

  For the sake of my readers I have endeavoured to smooth over Daniel Collier’s hesitant, stuttering reading style and to link together these passages as coherently as possible.

  It was with a heavy heart that I finally released Pritesh and Santi from their obligations to me. I insisted that they should return, by way of Singapore, to my benefactor on the Andaman Islands, Lieutenant John Sterling. Even at the last, both Pritesh and Santi proved to be as good as their word. Santi’s investigations on my behalf had revealed that a band of Indian liberationists were rumoured to have taken refuge amongst the ruined remains of a large Hindu temple that was to be found upon the banks of Lake Toba.

  For his part Pritesh helped me garner whatever meagre supplies that my depleted funds would allow, although I ensured that these would run to a healthy supply of ammunition for my revolver. As I packed my bags aboard the boat, I was reassured by the sight of these rounds, for the tales of man-eating tigers and small isolated tribes that still practised forms of cannibalism, convinced me that before my journey’s end they could prove to be more valuable to me than any food and drink.

  Finally, Pritesh informed me that the temple that I was seeking was undoubtedly the famed temple called Portibi or, as it was known from its Bartak translation, In This World. It was thought to have been built by workers from the Hindu kingdom of Panai in approximately 10 AD, and its style certainly hailed from southern India.

  I shook his shoulders violently in the excitement of my realization that the circle of my voyage of discovery was all but complete. Of course there would still be much danger and many hazards to endure before I would be able to reach my goal, but something told me that the temple of Portibi would prove to be the culmination of my journey.

  After supplying me with a rough map and much heartfelt advice, Pritesh and Santi departed for the quay of Begawan harbour. As I watched them walk reluctantly away from me I realized that, for the first time since I had set off from Nirvana so many months ago, I was now to be totally alone.

  This feeling of isolation was no more noticeable than when I eventually clambered aboard my sorry boat and stowed away my gear. My heart was full of trepidation, for I had no knowledge of what truly lay ahead, nor had I yet formulated a plan as to my course of action should I be successful in my search for the temple of Portibi, the supposed refuge of the Ghadar movement.

  Perhaps no plan existed in my head because, in my heart of hearts, I did not really expect ever to reach Portibi, let alone retrieve the fabled beladau, my means of saving an empire! Should I fail in my attempt then surely this would indeed be my final journey and conceivably my quest would culminate in the way that I had always intended. Not withstanding these dark and portentous thoughts, I did push off from the bank and began rowing slowly upstream along one of a myriad of tiny tributaries that fed the Deli River delta.

  Perusing Pritesh’s map, I realized that if I maintained my compass at a point of north by northwest, each tributary would lead me into another and then another until I should eventually cascade into Lake Toba through the series of waterfalls that were fed by the waters of the Barisan mountains and the Alas river.

  As I moved slowly along my course I was left constantly amazed by the complexity and rich diversity of the terrain that I was travelling through. Mercifully the climate in northern Sumatra proved to be surprisingly temperate, so therefore the lush and impenetrable forests did not have the humid, debilitating effect of so many that I had encountered in other parts of the world. Indeed, as I passed through one of the many limestone gorge
s that ripped a tear through this carpet of green the temperature became uncomfortably chilly, to the extent that it left me longing for a swift return to the cover that the forest afforded me.

  That is not to say that my labours at the oar were rendered any less arduous by the absence of humidity and before too long it became obvious to me that the forty or so miles that made the distance from Medan to Lake Toba, would seem considerably longer than that by the time that I had completed them. Furthermore, the lake itself was fully fifty miles in length and I had no means of knowing how many of those miles I would have to cover before I came upon the temple of Portibi somewhere along its shores.

  By the time that I decided to stop for the night I estimated that I had covered no more than four or five miles. I soon realized that at my current rate of progress, both my strength and supplies would be exhausted long before I had completed my journey. It was a sobering thought and one that made me grateful for the full bottle of whisky that was nestling safely underneath the rest of my supplies.

  Before I tied up my boat for the night, I ensured that there was a comfortable distance between myself and any of the numerous tiny Bartak villages that seemed to pepper the course of the river. I hurriedly assembled a small shelter from a collection of light timber and tarpaulin that I had brought along for that purpose and before long a small fire was illuminating my humble campsite.

  Once I had consumed a light supper of corned beef and bread it occurred to me that the lack of company would not be the only disadvantage to my being alone. The jungle in which I was encamped was positively teeming with a variety of potentially hostile wild life. It was, therefore, imperative that the size and intensity of my fire was maintained throughout the night, to ward off any threats. Yet who was there to stoke it while I took a few hours sleep? Who was there to keep my revolver cocked and ready to fire at a moment’s notice? The answer to both of these questions was the same. Each night I was destined to maintain a long and sleepless vigil.

  My slow progress was also causing me some concern. I decided to abandon one of my oars the following morning and to continue my journey by paddling with only one, in a canoe-like fashion. These continuing thoughts, a substantial swig from my bottle of whisky and the glow from my essential fire eventually lulled me into an most reluctant and dangerous slumber.

  I awoke with a start and a severe crick in my neck, as I had slept in an upright position, and I realized how perilous my lack of consciousness might well have proved to be. I looked about me as the earliest traces of dawn were encroaching upon the domain of the dark and treacherous night. I decided that the centre of the stream might prove to be the safest place for me to obtain some rest.

  I fashioned an anchor from a piece of cord and a medium-sized boulder, then let it drop once I was certain that my boat was equidistant from the river’s banks. There I was to sleep until the noon sun awoke me with its intense glare, which was only relieved by the shadows of the overhanging trees. Now fully refreshed I immediately put my paddling theory into practice and soon realized that it was to be borne out. Assisted by a bubbling downstream current, I doubled my rate of progress of the previous day and continued my journey with a renewed optimism.

  As I progressed further, the width of the stream appeared to be gradually lessening. This surprised me somewhat, as I had actually been expecting the stream to broaden as I drew closer to Lake Toba. Was I on the intended tributary? Was I even moving in the right direction? I could not be sure. My only certainty was that the thickening jungle was gradually closing in upon the diminishing water, way in front of me. It was as if I was being sucked inexorably into the very womb of Mother Nature herself!

  That evening, as I lay on the bottom of my little boat, exhausted by my day’s efforts, it occurred to me that there was a lesson for all of us to be learned from the vast, primeval forest that now surrounded me. When viewed individually the lotus flower is undoubtedly a creation of extraordinary beauty, whereas the humble weed or nettle is surely something to be avoided and shunned. However, when seen as tiny components of this vast green tapestry, neither the lotus flower nor the weed are distinguishable from the whole and each appears to be as beautiful as the other.

  I could not help but wonder how much hatred could have been avoided and how many lives would have been saved had mankind ever seen itself in this manner. Sadly, there are too many of us who see themselves as lotus flowers and therefore perceive everyone else as nettles. That is mankind’s greatest folly and the cause of all of its miseries.

  ‘Mr Collier!’ Holmes exclaimed suddenly. ‘Your father is undoubtedly a wise man and a great visionary!’

  Clearly moved by Holmes’s compliments and what he knew was about to follow, Daniel Collier put down his father’s parchment once again. He began to pace back and forth, in front of the fireplace while smoking what proved to be the last of his hitherto seemingly inexhaustible supply of panatellas. Holmes eyed him quizzically and with some concern.

  ‘Mr Collier, the hour grows late. Would you prefer to continue in the cold light of day?’ Holmes offered.

  Collier appeared to be alarmed at this suggestion, perhaps not wishing to impose himself upon us further.

  ‘With your indulgence, gentlemen, I should really prefer to conclude the matter at this sitting,’ Collier quietly requested. Holmes agreed with a solemn nod of his head.

  ‘By all means!’ I concurred, while ignoring my own misgivings regarding the lateness of the hour.

  Collier resumed his seat and gratefully continued reading.

  My dear boy, please forgive the deterioration in both my writing style and coherency. As you might well imagine, my present conditions are far from conducive to good writing and I am certain that by now you are finding the task of deciphering my ramblings somewhat trying. If, indeed, you are still reading them at all!

  In the hope that you are, I have decided to précis each of my day’s events and experiences and set them out in the form of a diary. My surroundings seem to remain unchanged for days on end and as I have no scientific means of calculating the distances that I am covering, it is becoming increasingly difficult for me to distinguish one day from the next. My proposed diary format will help me maintain some cohesion and chronology to my life and to monitor the passing of time since the day of my departure from Medan. I am certain that no more than forty-eight hours have passed since I bade farewell to Pritesh and Santi and as I put my pen down, for the night, I now look forward to my third day upon the river.

  Day Three

  My improved progress of yesterday has slowed considerably today as I battle against a current bound for Medan. I suppose that my reduced stroke rate may also be due to my dwindling supplies that are now barely sufficient to bind body and soul together. I have resorted to plunging a sharpened shaft of wood into the river in the hope that I might extract an edible fish. Worryingly, the fast-running, shallow waters have produced nothing larger than the size of my hand and my only sustenance is provided by the nuts and fruit from the overhanging trees.

  As a last recourse I have thrown my fears and caution to the wind and decided to land at the very next Bartak village that I come to. Whatever my fate might be at their hands, it cannot be worse than the slow withering decline and death that can be the only conclusion to my continuing to remain drifting in midstream.

  Day Four

  What a revelation the charming people of the village have proved to be. The majority of its inhabitants spoke a smattering of English, as a result of their brief contact with European missionaries in the early nineties, before the fighting in Aceh intensified. Despite their forbidding appearance and reputation, I discovered that the people of the Bartak were both friendly and courteous and practised nothing more ferocious than the writing of romantic and sentimental songs, the rendering of which they frequently treated me to during my extended stay there.

  Their chief allowed me to share his hut with his entire family and graciously allowed me a share of every provision that
came their way. The next day they invited me to accompany them upon one of their all-important hunting trips and they promised me a feast of succulent boar meat the following evening.

  Day Five

  The villagers were as good as their word and, at break of dawn on the following morning, all the able-bodied men set off together, brandishing their hunting sticks. As we drew closer to our quarry these were rattled loudly together as a means of harrying the boars into the direction of the ‘throwers’. The march was long and arduous, through the densest part of the forest, yet it afforded me the opportunity to observe a family of the elusive orang-utan apes who ignored us as we marched past them.

  It was astonishing to see how much of their behaviour and how many of their mannerisms are shared with their human cousins and neighbours. It is hardly surprising, therefore, that the Bartak name for them translates to ‘The Man of the Forest’. I also had my first view, though thankfully from some distance, of the feared and unique Sumatran tiger. It was clearly stalking us from a grassy ridge and as soon as it came into view, the Bartak began to beat their sticks together ferociously. Once I had realized that this was not having the desired effect, I fired off two overhead shots from my revolver. The tiger immediately disappeared and I had further ingratiated myself with my hosts, who were most impressed by my ‘weapon of thunder’.

  Day Six

  When we eventually returned to the village the following evening, it was as conquering heroes, with our bag of two magnificent beasts as evidence of our total triumph. The women immediately set to work on building a large roaring fire and preparing the vegetables, while we set the boars up on spits and prepared large jugs of a most potent and pungent brew, fermented from a strange-looking orange root vegetable that grew throughout the jungle in great abundance.