by Ruskin Bond
For a complete week, however, it seemed as if my apprehensions were unfounded. We had excellent sport in every way, and I was lucky enough to bag two fine bison bulls and an ibex. Anderson was the perfect host and kept me amused night after night with his strange philosophy and endless stock of yarns.
It was on the evening before we started back for home that things happened, and I feel quite creepy even now at the thought of them.
We had had a fairly strenuous day and had returned just before nightfall, with a sambhur stag and a huge boar "tusker" by way of trophies. After an excellent dinner we were lazing amongst the cushions of his divans chatting desultorily. I remember that it was I who brought the subject up first. We happened to be talking on religion, and remembering Anderson's references to "black art," I asked him casually if he thought there was anything in the doings of some of the famous Spiritualists.
He eyed me as if weighing me up, and evidently finding the inspection satisfactory, burst forth:
" 'Anything in it.' Of course there's something in it—there's everything in it, but those idiots at home are merely blundering around the edges of the subject. They think, when they make tables knock, and shapes materialize, that they are invoking spirits,— the poor brainless fools. They are toying with the greatest power on earth, and know nothing of it. They don't realize their danger, and never will until someone accidently stumbles on the truth,— and then he probably won't live to tell it."
I was keenly interested and even rather excited.
"I'm afraid I can't quite follow what you are talking about. What is this 'power' to which you refer?"
The light of fanaticism was burning in the man's eye, but his reply was sober enough.
"It is something that took me years to discover, and even then I only found it in the end by accident. I think I have mentioned before that these Tiamurs,"—referring to the jungle tribe near whose settlement we were living—"have powers that no one else on earth possesses. From them I accidently learnt the secret, but given the necessary clue, have raised that power to be something more than it will ever be to them and have gone many stages further than they ever will. You won't understand the full psychological details, so I am going to put it as simply as I can. You may have read in the papers of an experiment conducted which proved that the human eye has a slight power of attraction. In this case I believe, it was demonstrated that the 'rays', or whatever you like to call them, issuing from a man's eye, were powerful enough to move a small object suspended from a hair, and cause it to oscillate slightly. I, at that time, was dabbling in so-called Spiritualism and I recall finding, after reading that article— which seemed to draw no great public attention—that it fitted in with a theory which I had already begun to form. Then suddenly out here, I hit on the truth. I won't trouble you with how it happened, but will tell you of the stage which I have now reached. It's a difficult thing to explain, but I'll do my best."
I shifted to a more comfortable position amongst the cushions and waited for this remarkable man to continue.
"The human brain is a marvellous affair—far more wonderful than even the leading psychologists dream. They do not know, for example that from the moment of birth until death, the cells of our brains are ceaselessly sending out what, for lack of a better word, I will call 'rays'. Neither do they know that these 'rays' have the most extraordinary powers. They succeeded in proving that the eye could move matter, but there they dropped the subject. Little did they realize that the eye was then merely concentrating those brain 'rays' and that given time and practice, the brain is capable of moving far more than a mere scrap of metal dangling from a hair."
He must have seen the doubt in my eyes, for he pointed to an ordinary walking stick leaning against the wall at the other side of the room.
"Watch," he said curtly.
I looked; rubbed my eyes and looked again. It was true and I wasn't dreaming. The walking stick was moving slowly across the room,—upright and of its own accord!
I was too spellbound even to be frightened, and turned my gaze to his face. His eyes were fixed on the stick and the pupils had narrowed down to mere pin-points. Almost could I imagine those "rays" of his issuing from his brilliant eyes.
He took the stick as it reached him and threw it over to me. I examined it with care. It was solid enough in all conscience.
He regarded me with shining eyes.
"Frightened?"
I shook my head dumbly. I was—but I wasn't going to admit it.
"No," he said, continuing his talk as if there had been no interruption, "there is nothing to be frightened of in that, but it's when we reach the next stage that in the hands of amateurs, the danger arises. Shall I go on?"
I nodded, still incapable of speech.
"Even the Tiamurs can do that, and so can our scientific and spiritualistic friends at home,—on a minor scale. They can even go a step further and use those rays to make matter—but they don't realize it. When they see a ghostly face in a darkened room, or feel beastly animals crawling or flapping their wings, they think they have invoked some long dead spirit. What they really see, however, is the creation of their own minds, or rather of their sub-conscious minds. Science has long ago proved that the entire universe, including you and me, is composed of atoms. Constantly they are trying to smash atoms, or some such foolishness, little knowing that from the human brain alone the necessary power can be generated. 'Rays' that are sufficient to attract the atoms which compose an object, are also invested with further powers,—those of disintegrating and reassembling atoms in any form that the brain may desire. The 'ghosts' that spiritualists see are the result of their inadvertent use of this power, and therein lies their danger. I have the advantage that I know what I am playing with—they don't."
He paused a while and I began to wonder whether it was all a ghastly nightmare or not. Before I had time to speak, he had commenced again.
"So far have I got, my friend, but here temporarily I have to admit defeat. I can create something out of nothing. I can make a stone where there was no stone before, but those creations remain a part of me, and one the relaxation of my will power they depart into the void out of which they came. If I could separate them from myself. I would achieve the ambition of my life, and control a power sufficient to rule the world." And he finished triumphantly. "I am on the verge of obtaining that power."
I stared at him fascinated: horror incredulity and terror on my face. He looked at me in amusement.
"You evidently don't believe me. I will have to give you another demonstration."
I shook my head beseechingly, but he was too engrossed with his subject.
"Think of some definite object, will you," he demanded. "Not too large for convenience's sake. The brain, like a wireless set, has its receiving as well as its transmitting apparatus. If you think hard enough of anything, my brain will receive your thoughts and reproduce the object of them for you. All I ask of you is to remain where you are and not touch either me or it."
My curiosity overcame my terror, but for the life of me I could find nothing suitable to think of. Finally in despair, I started thinking of one of the beautiful champagne glasses that we had used in his Bungalow that first night. It was a lovely thing of purest glass with a long tapering stem and delicately tinted lip, and the memory of it was still strong in my mind. I glanced at Anderson as I thought. He was half sitting, half lying on a divan some eight feet away, and separated from me only by a low lacquer table. His eyes, as on the previous occasion, were wide open, but with the pupils contracted to mere pin points while their gaze was concentrated on the table between us. I shrank back in mortal terror from what I felt was going to happen, but my eyes were fascinated— fixed. It happened! Before my very eyes it happened! In the subdued light of that little room, the fruit of my brain was born out of the very air, and as if prove its reality, Anderson stretched out a huge arm and rapped its edges until it rang. It was too much for my frayed nerves. I put my arms before my face a
s if to ward off a blow and to shut out the sight of that slender glittering "thing".
"Stop, stop," I almost shrieked. "It's—it's blasphemy."
The next thing I can remember distinctly was the fizz of on opening soda water bottle, and looking up from the shelter of my arms, found Anderson standing beside me pouring soda into a good stiff peg of whisky.
"Here drink this my son," he said quite gently. "I was a damned fool to go showing off my parlour tricks. They are things I have never shown anybody,—except the Tiamurs, and even they don't like them."
I grabbed at the whisky gladly enough and Anderson became his usual courteous self, but I was thankful when dawn broke next morning, and after a sleepless night I was able to get away from the scene of those nightmare experiments into what seemed the clear, uncontaminated air of the jungle.
Anderson enquired solicitously after my health, and again expressed regret at having scared me so.
"I'm afraid that I was carried away by my enthusiasm," he said. "I will be grateful if you will keep all that you have seen and heard to yourself,—at any rate unless you hear from me."
I promised him readily enough. I didn't want to be considered more of a liar than I was already.
The morning was clear and fine, but even in the pleasant twilight of the jungle I was still feeling nervous, and hurried on determined to set off for civilization in the car that day rather than spend another night with Anderson. In order to travel quicker, we had left our guns with the luggage coolies and after some three hours brisk tramping, were some way on ahead of them.
As we were crossing a small track of swampy ground. Anderson leant forward and examined some marks in the mud.
"I see that our old friend the 'rogue' elephant has just come along here," he remarked. "He can't be very far ahead either, as the water is only just beginning to filter into his tracks."
"How do you know he is a 'rogue,'" I asked, "Is this another exhibition of your supernatural powers?"
Anderson laughed good naturedly.
"No. I happen to know that he is the 'rogue' from the fact that one of his feet is slightly deformed and smaller than the others. He has been hanging around the countryside for some time, and besides doing a lot of damage to the Estate, is reputed to have killed several coolies. I hope we don't meet him with only walking sticks in our hands. I've half a mind to wait for our rifles."
I succeeded in persuading him to come on, but a few minutes later bitterly regretted my impetuosity.
We had passed into one of those occasional small clearings in the jungle where thick grass was growing shoulder high. We had got nearly three-quarters of the way across it when suddenly from the other side, came the shrill, unmistakable 'trumpet' of an angry elephant, and the next instant the jungle parted and the enormous bulk of a solitary tusker came charging down towards us.
A charging elephant is an unpleasant sight even under the most favourable circumstances but when one is standing defenceless in a clearing with the nearest tree some seventy-five yards away, the unpleasantness becomes acute.
"Run," came Anderson's voice curtly, "For your life."
I needed no bidding; I was already running, but I had only gone a few yards when I somehow sensed that my companion wasn't following. I glanced over my shoulder as I raced along, and the sight which I saw pulled me up dead in my tracks.
Alone out there in the clearing stood Anderson, waiting the charging elephant, and as I watched, I saw him raise a heavy rifle to his shoulder and aim deliberately at the only vulnerable spot of a head-on elephant,—the centre of its forehead. Came the ear splitting crash of a 450 Express and the elephant, staggering forward a few paces, fell head foremost to the ground, almost on top of the prostrate figure of Anderson, who had crumpled up on the report of the rifle. I dashed back horror-stricken, but was too late. They were both dead when I reached them."
Peter paused again and finished his drink.
"But I thought," said Yvonne, "that you had left your rifles behind."
Peter hesitated.
"We had" he said slowly at last. "When I reached his body all that was lying at his side was his walking stick."
There was a deathly silence as Peter's voice completed the tale.
"We carried him back to the Bungalow, and the Doctor whom I brought back next day after an all night run, declared death due to heart failure. I didn't tell him the full yarn—I didn't want to be ridiculed—so, as the natives weren't saying anything, I let him have his own way. Any rate it would have done no good. Poor Anderson had achieved his ambition and in doing so had saved my life and lost his own."
Peter fished in a pocket and pulled out a small battered lump of lead: obviously the spent bullet of a high velocity rifle. We crowded round to examine it.
"I found that next day in the dead elephant's brain," he said simply.
From The Madras Mail Annual (1930)
The Aryan Smiles
by J. Warton and N. Blenman
T SHALL EVER BE ONE OF MY GREATEST REGRETS THAT I DID not go with Michael Clancey on the evening he met his untimely death. If I had not been able to prevent it, I might, at least, have consoled a pious widow and daughter with the thought that his soul still lingered for the charity of their prayers, and that his end had not been the awful one of suicide. Not that they inclined to the latter view, but they feared it, while, with the mentality of simple Irish Catholics, they naturally acquiesced in the superstitious explanation of a very bizarre incident.
Whereas I might, then, have been able to bring into the light of human reason at least one of these happenings in a community where too ready a credence is placed in the damnable Black Arts of the Orient, it is to a mind, sceptical and materialistic as mine, the more galling to have to relate only the remarkable facts concerning the loss of a very dear friend.
"Mike," I had said, "I can't go with you to-night, much as I would love to have a drive"—and much as I liked his company; for we used to spend many an evening chatting of our military days, and Mike, bluff and quick-tempered, had been the most popular man in the Battery.
We had come to India together, and like so many soldiers in the old days, we had been glad to take up quieter occupations and to remain in the country. The growing railway systems offered a good field for employment, and my friend had joined the Southern Punjab and Delhi Railway; on this comparatively small section of railroad, he had had a somewhat meteoric career. As Station Master of Delhi, and a man not yet forty-five, he had reason to exult in his change of professions, for he might otherwise have been plain Farrier-Sergeant Clancey.
I had been lucky to get in with a firm of piecegoods merchants.
One of our more important men was up from Calcutta, and as I had a semi-business dinner to attend that evening, I did not feel quite up to the conviviality which Michael Clancey would be sure to lead me into: although there was time for a little outing before dinner, I had preferred to entertain him at my bungalow. After an half-hour's tete-a-tete and a couple of mild whiskies on the verandah, he had climbed into his dog-cart alone, cracked his whip and turned sharply out my gate. It was a sultry July evening. Before going in to dress, I stood outside for a few minutes listening to the fine even patter of his Waler's hoofs get fainter and fainter down the long quiet road. I had seen and heard the last of Mike Clancey for ever, but did not know it then.
It must have been 7-30 when he left me; an hour later I was at the hotel at which I was to dine. Four of us sat down to dinner.
We were well into our cigars when I received the following note. On top of the small envelope was written "Urgent, Please deliver at once." Excusing myself, I read:—
"Dear Mr. Warton,—Mr. Clancey's syce, who is the bearer of this, will tell you more than I can. Being a friend of Mr. Clancey's, I am sure you will question the man at once. I am nervous about it myself, and shall tell you the reasons for my anxiety if you would call over now.—Yours sincerely,—Marie Smythe."
Mrs. Smythe was one of the Railway c
olony. I think her husband was the Plate-Layer. My friend was boarding with the Smythes at the time while his wife and daughter were in the Hills.
Somewhat disconcerted at receiving this vague note, I crumpled it into my pocket, and, leaving the company as nicely as I could, went downstairs to hear what the groom had to say. He had come down in his master's dog-cart; the horse was champing and sneezing over his head while he gave me a story, which, coupled with Mrs. Smythe's note, was sufficiently alarming, although the whole affair bore a very queer aspect indeed.
For a time I wondered whether it warranted my leaving the dinner party. I told the syce to wait, however, and went back to my fellow-diners for a few minutes and even had another drink. Being uneasy all the time, and as it was nearly ten o'clock, I decided at last to go. Saying boldly that a friend had been suddenly taken ill, and receiving from each one a laconic "I'm sorry!" as he rose to shake hands, I bid my companions "Good-night."
Sitting by the syce, while he drove me to Mrs. Smythe's, I got him to recount his brief story.
"The Sahib went out first at seven o'clock," he said.
"Yes, yes," I put in, "he came to see me."
"Well, he returned home, called for the whisky, sat a while on the 'chabutra', and then we drove off towards the Roshanara Gardens. Sahib often went there before dinner 'to take the air'. He would walk round the Gardens, leaving me to hold the horse. This evening, I thought it rather late for the master's usual drive. However, it was still lightsome when he pulled up in the Gardens. He alighted and went off in the direction of the Tank. Holding the reins, I sat down on the gravel walk. But the Sahib being longer than I thought he would, I eventually took the horse and buggy a few paces off on to the lawn, where I secured the reins to a small tree, gave the animal his fodder from the cart, and began to smoke myself.