by Ruskin Bond
There I was breathing deeply when to my horror I felt my arms grasped by two cold and clammy invisible hands, coming apparently from straight in front of me. I let out an appalling yell. Inglis and Paddy jumped out of bed.
"For God's sake come," I shouted, "Something has got hold of me."
Inglis was the first to reach me. He caught hold of my arms and said "Hold on old man, I'll help you." His fingers crept up my extended arms. "Paddy, he is right, I can feel a hand."
My hair stood on end for nothing could be seen. "Catch hold of him," said Paddy who by this time had joined us, "and we'll pull together."
Their united effort was successful, the cold hands gradually slipped and then let go. I was once more free, unhurt but mighty scared. Paddy fetched some brandy and then examined the walls, but without success for it was a physical impossibility for any human being or even a monkey to hang on to that smooth surface. Having sufficiently recovered Paddy suggested looking up Alaistairs. We entered his room but to our surprise found it empty. Inglis was the first to make the discovery. Poor Alaistairs lay face downwards on the top of the cube, dead; his throat, showing the distinct markings of two hands. Dawn soon came. We organised a very complete search but it revealed nothing, not so much even as footprints in the dust on the top of the cube.
That is my story."
There was a short silence among us. Then someone asked: "What about the Sumerian cube, did you report it to anyone?"
Peter Kane gave a short laugh, "My dear fellow no one believed us; even Paddy's sketches were declared fakes. As for poor Alaistairs, we reported him as having died from fever contracted on the way out. You see, supernatural deaths are not popular with the powers that be."
Had the Sumerian cube anything to do with his death? Was it by chance an ancient sacrificial altar? How came the bungalow at that spot?—are questions yet to be answered.
From Indian State Railway Magazine (December 1928)
'There are more things—'
A Tale of the Malabar Jungles
by H.W. Dennys
T WAS DORA TORRINGTON WHO STARTED THE SUBJECT AS WE lay in deck chairs near the tennis court enjoying that pleasant hour in late summer between sunset and the dressing gong. She was of the restless, wealthy type who are never happy unless mixed up in the very latest craze. It had started with Women Suffrage, and now consisted of a mania for a religion which, from her conversation, we gathered was a cross between Spiritualism and Christian Science. Her position as hostess gave her privileges, and her audience tried not to appear bored as she dwelt on a lecture she had recently attended.
"He was such a dear little man," she rambled, "all bald-head and forehead, and he gave us such an interesting talk on the subject of 'Faith.' Do you know he said that the Bible was quite correct,— literally I mean—when it says that faith can remove mountains, and he gave us all kinds of weird stories to prove what he said. Then he went on to say that he saw no reason why, if we had sufficient faith, we shouldn't be able to do even more than that, and actually create things! Wouldn't it be too thrilling if we could think of wanting a new car so hard that it suddenly arrived."
Her audience stirred. The idea had possibilities.
"Think too," said Vera, whom I would have you know is my wife, "of being able to concentrate so hard on Tim that half his face suddenly disappeared behind a beard. It might make him look quite distinguished, though I'm afraid," she added sadly, "it could never make him good-looking."
I stiffened. Humour of this type struck me as being crude and certainly unjust. I was about to launch a snappy counter-attack, when a grunt from the chair on my left diverted my attention.
Peter Mainwaring, who occupied it, was apparently the only one present who hadn't treated the idea as a joke, and as I glanced at him was mumbling to himself with a far away look in his, eyes.
I postponed my snappy reply, and gave him a dig with my elbow to bring him back to earth.
"What's biting you, Peter?" I enquired. "Bring it out and let the public enjoy it."
"It's not so foolish or impossible as you all think, because I've seen it," was the unexpected reply.
Ten pairs of eyes focussed themselves on Peter curiously, who finding himself the centre of attention, grew flurried and evidently regretted his remark.
"I scent a story," quoth pretty Yvonne Elder, removing her graceful young self from the edge of a table to the comfort of a deck chair. "Let's have it Peter before we go in to dress."
Peter, who had just returned from a shooting trip in India, and had been more than usually silent of late, glanced round enquiringly. We were unanimous in assent. Peter's stories, few and far between, were invariably good. As he is a far better story-teller than I shall ever be, I will give it in his own words.
"It was three months before I left for home," he commenced, "and whole yarn sounds so utterly incredible, that I'll pardon you all if you think I was mad or suffering from D.T.'s at the time. Sometimes I begin to think so myself."
For three months I had been wandering all over India slaughtering away to my heart's content, and had been more than usually successful. It was in Madras on my way down to Colombo and Home, that I met a man by name of Frobisher. We were in the bar of the Madras Club at the time, and hearing that I had been out big game shooting, he asked me if I had visited the West Coast in the course of my travels. As a matter of fact, it was about the only part that I hadn't visited, and told him so.
"Why Heaven's man," he said, "you've missed the best part of India for game. You can get elephant, tiger, bison, bear, panther, crocodile—any blinking thing you like down there."
It was off the beaten track for me, but his enthusiasm fired me. After all, I thought, I might as well do the thing properly while I was about it.
"I have a great friend down there," he continued, the light of the chase in his eye. "I'll give you an introduction to him if you like, though I haven't seen him for years now. He is as keen a sportsman as you and I'm sure would show you all the best places."
I hesitated and was lost.
"Thanks very much," I replied. "I think I'll try it. Can you tell me where your friend lives?"
"He's at a place called Munaloor, about sixty miles inland and all on his own. He plays at growing rubber, but has ample private means, and spends a large portion of his time out shooting. He's a bachelor and middle aged, but I warn you he's a bit of a crank in many ways. I expect you'll hit it off all right though."
The following day there came a note round to my hotel from Frobisher, containing the letter of introduction and a brief note wishing me luck and deploring his inability to come with me. As a post-script was another warning about his friend's eccentricies. God! if I'd only known then what those eccentricies were!
I won't bore you with my journey across the Coast. I went over by car, taking it easily and thoroughly enjoying the four hundred mile trip. At the small Club on the coast where I stayed the night before starting off inland, I made enquiries about my perspective host, whose name, I had learnt, was Anderson. Information was very vague—an unusual thing in a part where Europeans are few and far between. Anderson was not a member of the Club, and very rarely, it appeared, ever visited the town. I gathered he was a bit of a hermit, who spent his entire time on the Estate and was rarely seen by anyone. He was twenty miles from his nearest neighbours, and discouraged any attempt at social intercourse. My informants were rather tickled at the idea of my paying him a visit, but wished me luck.
All this didn't sound too encouraging, but the next day I set out hoping for the best. The first thirty miles of road proved excellent, but after leaving the main road, which carried straight on to the Nilgiris towering above me, and taking a branch road, the surface got steadily worse and worse. For the first few miles there were paddy fields and cocoanut groves, but as I went further, these gradually disappeared until eventually I was driving over what was little more than a footpath, with dense jungle on either side. Twice I skirted fairly large rubber es
tates, but after leaving them I saw no sign of cultivation or human residence at all with the exception of a few odd clusters of wretched grass huts, occupied by a local jungle tribe.
I had not left the coast until fairly late, and on account of the condition of the road, it was dusk by the time I reached Munaloor Estate. To my surprise it was beautifully kept and evidently run on scientific and up-to-date lines. The coolies quarters were filled with contented looking natives, who regarded me and my car with evident surprise. Everywhere were signs of prosperity. The misgivings which I had felt before began to melt. The man who ran a show like this couldn't be the bear that rumour described.
A turn in the road and a steepish climb brought me to his Bungalow, and as I twisted my way up the drive, amidst masses of tropical flowers. I experienced an odd feeling of elation and apprehension at its appearance. That doesn't sound possible, but it's the only way I can describe it.
The Bungalow itself was a big one, but of the most bizarre and fantastic construction imaginable. Eastern and Western architecture seemed to have blended, and the result, though undoubtedly attractive, was so unusual as to give one a curious sense of discomfort. It was a two-storeyed building; long, rambling and highly decorated. Minarets and domes formed the roof, and were painted gold. A large low verandah composed the front, but was rendered gloomy by numerous large and over-decorated pillars. The whole building was painted cream instead of the usual white, and, coupled with the golden minarets, proved, as I have said before, a trifle overwhelming. I hadn't time to take in more details however, before I pulled up in front of the verandah and met my host.
Here I received another shock. I don't know quite what I had expected him to be like, but I certainly wasn't prepared for what I saw.
He was a giant of a man in every sense of the word. Six foot three at least, and almost too broad for his height. A shaggy mass of black hair covered his enormous head, while a vast black beard concealed half his face. But it was his eyes that really fascinated me. Glaring at me from under bushy black eyebrows they made me feel rather like a rabbit fascinated by a snake. There was a compelling power in them that was almost frightening, and they weren't looking any too sociable then.
It was he who broke a rather awkward pause.
"Who are you, and what do you want? I don't like visitors here."
His voice was as large and deep as his frame would indicate, and the opening wasn't exactly promising. I removed my fascinated stare and delved in my pocket.
"I have a letter of introduction here from Frobisher, whom I understand is a friend of yours. I am on a shooting trip, and wondered if you could be so kind as to put me on to some good spots."
At the mention of his friend, the giant's whole manner changed at once. His beard, which had literally seemed to bristle before, relaxed, and a singularly pleasant smile creased round his eyes, which were about all that were visible of his face.
"Friend of Frobisher's, are you? I'm afraid I must have seemed rather rude but I'm shy of strangers. Come along in and have some tea; my Boys will bring in the luggage and see to the car."
He took the letter and led the way inside. Here yet another surprise awaited me. I should have been prepared for it, but somehow I wasn't. Eastern voluptiousness and Western comfort were the dominating features. Thick Persian rugs covered the floors; low divans took the place of the customary "long chairs," and were buried under masses of multi-coloured cushions; rich and highly coloured hangings and tapestries, obviously collected from all portions of the East, covered the few spaces on the walls that were not: occupied by sporting trophies, and draped the numerous doors. Even the lighting—and he had electric light out there in the jungle,—was unusual. Cunningly concealed, and softly coloured bulbs, threw a diffused light over the place, and I could have sworn that there was a kind of incense burning somewhere. The centre room, into which he brought me, extended the whole height of the building, and had as ceiling one of the golden domes,— painted gold inside also,—and a balcony formed by the second storey which ran all round it. I felt rather as if I had stepped straight into a Drury Lane production of the "Arabian Nights," and half expected to see scantily clad dancing girls enter. And the extraordinary part was that he seemed to fit into the picture in spite of his European clothes.
He must have seen my look of astonishment, for he smiled again.
"I'm afraid you must think this a bit out of the ordinary"— I rather liked that. 'A bit out of the ordinary,'—I should damn well think so, "but think you will find it fairly comfortable."
I have to confess that it was. After tea, a grave and bearded servant,—no South Indian he, but a Pathan from the North,—led me to my room, where I found my dinner jacket, which by luck I had brought, laid out, and a hot bath in a sunken marble bathroom awaiting.
Dinner that night I rather dreaded. I had visions of us reclining on divans and eating our food off golden platters, but I found that I had no need for alarm, as my host was apparently perfectly normal in that respect, and after a preliminary cocktail, we sat down at a gleaming ebony table with glittering glassware and spotless linen.
Anderson, looking really magnificent in his dinner jacket, with which he wore a scarlet "cumberbund," chatted agreeably of his views on life.
"I don't like visitors," he said, "partly because they would not understand all this," with a gesture towards the ornate surroundings, "but chiefly because I find the average human being is almost entirely devoid of brains,—and I can't stand idiots. I have planned out my own method of living, and have my own particular hobbies and vices. Ordinary people might object to them. For instance, I keep what is termed a harem, and dabble in what would probably be called 'black art.' Well-meaning busy bodies would doubtless attempt to reform me if they knew about it, so for the sake of peace I shut myself off from the outside world."
I felt singularly small. I have no pretence to intellect, and whatever may be my public opinion on "harems" and "black art," I don't somehow agree with them in practice. But this black bearded giant completely overwhelmed me with his personality. One of his hobbies was a study of the natives of South India, and his stories of their different habits and customs kept me enthralled throughout dinner and the coffee and liqueurs which followed. Only once again did he refer to "black art."
"The jungle tribe of this part," he said, "are one of the most primitive races in the world and yet have control over powers of which the rest of the world knows nothing."
I was interested and asked for details, but he shut up at once.
"No, no, not now. We must be up early to-morrow if we are to do any shooting, and I don't want you to go having nightmares. I have a little wooden shack about fifteen miles from here which I use for trips of this kind and make my headquarters. It is quite near a settlement of the jungle tribe I was referring to, and I find them very useful as 'shikaris' and general porters. If you have any breeches and putties. I advise you to wear them to-morrow as the jungle is teeming with leeches at this time of year. In the meantime we had better be getting to be if we are to be up at four-thirty in the morning."
Peter paused awhile here and took a sip of the whisky and soda by his side, while the rest of us settled ourselves more comfortably in our chairs in anticipation of the second half of his story.
"I am sorry to have taken so long over the preliminaries," he resumed, "but it is essential that you should try and grasp the character of this man to follow what happened during that shooting trip."
It was gloriously fine when we set out early next morning after a small breakfast. The rains had just finished and Nature was at her best and brightest. The sun, which rose shortly after we left the Bungalow, seemed to shine on a cleansed and refreshed world and even as it dispelled the morning mists, had not as yet enough power to cause any discomfort. My host, as he strode along beside me, informed me that he kept this shack prepared all the year round, so that we could stay out as long as we wished.
"There are ibex on those hills," he continue
d, pointing to the towering outskirts of the Nilgiris, on whose sides the pearl grey mists were slowly dissolving, "but they are wily creatures, and we will be lucky if we get one."
He chatted away cheerily of the various adventures he had had out shooting and it was evident that he was a great "shikari." Soon after this we left the friendly rubber trees and the narrowness of the jungle path and the density of the under growth, put an end to further conversation.
The West Coast jungle is different to that of the rest of India. An extremely heavy rainfall, and a damp, sticky heat, make for luxuriant growth and as we pushed our way along, with giant trees and exotic creepers and flowers around us, I felt strangely awed by the magnificence of it all. My companion was evidently more wideawake, for as I dreamed, there came the sharp crash of his gun, and a jungle fowl, which had rashly chosen that moment to fly across the path, fell almost at my feet.
"Something for the pot," he smiled, handing it over to one of the coolies who was carrying our kit.
As I have said, it was only fifteen miles, but fifteen miles through the jungle takes some doing, and I was glad enough when we came into the little clearing which contained the natives' grass huts and was told that the shack was only a few hundred yards ahead.
Anderson stopped awhile and chatted with the natives, who to me resembled apes more than men, and I noticed a curious look in their eyes, which later I realized was a mixture of awe and fright. He was apparently something of God to them, and although he seemed to speak kindly enough, I could detect the ring of authority in his voice and read abject submission in their eyes and manner.
The hut proved to be, as he said, only a bamboo and thatch affair, but was furnished inside in the same weird manner as his Bungalow. He evidently believed in doing his shooting in comfort,— in fact he admitted so to me, but somehow I couldn't help wishing, even that first night, that the place wasn't quite so comfortable. It all seemed so unreal: so fantastic, and there was a definite feeling of repulsion about this lonely hut in the depths of the jungle— a feeling akin to that which had struck me when I first saw his Bungalow,—only more pronounced.