A dull cry escaped its lips then it fell still and slowly began to sink into the pond.
“So much for that ugly beast!” said Yanez.
“They’re more dangerous than tigers,” said Sandokan, his eyes still fixed on the rhinoceros. “He barrelled through the wall like it was made of cardboard. If one of our Tigers hadn’t severed its tendons, I doubt we’d still be alive.”
“A well-executed blow,” said Tremal-Naik. “I didn’t know the technique was also practiced in Malaysia.”
“Yes,” replied Sandokan. “Mostly to kill elephants. It’s fairly safe and it never fails.”
“It’s a shame we have to leave that horn behind.”
“It is magnificent. Do you want it?”
“It would be a superb trophy.”
“Well, the beast appears to have stopped sinking. I’ll have my men retrieve it. We’ll set up camp here for a few hours and have breakfast. I think we could all do with a short rest.”
They selected a spot in a grove of tamarind trees near the ruins of the old pagoda and began to prepare their morning meal.
The Malays had already unpacked their supplies: biscuits, tinned meat and several bananas they had picked along the riverbank close to the tower.
The area was quite picturesque and despite the strong sun, the air was less stifling than in the jungle. A deep silence reigned over the nearby trees. Even the birds had fallen silent, as if lulled to sleep by the heat.
A giant arghila with large red eyes and a funnel-shaped beak moved about the pond, flapping its black and white wings as it strolled along the shore.
After breakfast Yanez, Sandokan and Tremal-Naik went to explore the pagoda. The walls were covered with numerous Sanskrit inscriptions and carvings of elephants, tortoises and mythical beasts.
“An old Thug temple?” asked Yanez who had spotted a figure similar to the goddess Kali carved into a column.
“No,” replied Tremal-Naik. “This pagoda was dedicated to Vishnu; see there’s a dwarf on every column.”
“Vishnu was a dwarf?”
“He became one in his fifth incarnation, to quell the pride of Bali, the giant who had cast the gods out of paradise.”
“I know little about him, but I’ve heard he is highly revered.”
“The most venerated God after Brahma.”
“How did this dwarf defeat a giant?” asked Sandokan.
“With cunning. Vishnu had sworn to purge the world of the evil beings tormenting humanity. After many victories, he decided to challenge Bali, a giant demon king who ruled over heaven and earth, and took the form of Vamana, a poor Brahmin dwarf.
“He arrived just as the giant was performing a sacrifice. Vishnu greeted him and asked for three strides of land, so that he could build himself a hut.
“Bali laughed at the dwarf’s stupidity and replied that his requests should not be so simple.
“Vishnu, however, insisted, demanding that for such a small being, three strides of land were more than enough.
“The giant granted his request and poured water into the dwarf’s hands to seal the agreement. Then Vishnu began to grow larger and larger until his body filled the entire universe. He measured the Earth with his first stride and the heavens with his second. Bali, realizing it was Vishnu standing before him, offered his head in lue of the third step.
“Satisfied with the giant’s submission, Vishnu sent him to govern in Patala, the netherworld, and allowed him to return once a year, the day of the November full moon.”
“That Vishnu was a clever one,” said Yanez. “You said that was his fifth incarnation, what were the others?”
“Well,” said Tremal-Naik. “In his first incarnation he took the form of a fish to save King Satyavrata and his wife from the Great Flood.”
“Ah! Your ancestors also remember the Great Flood?”
“Our sacred texts speak of it. In the second, he was a tortoise that helped the gods retrieve the treasures lost in the Great Flood. They placed a mountain on his back and churned the seas until they’d found amrita, the nectar of immortality. In the third, he took the form of a wild boar to battle a demon that was ravaging the Earth; in the fourth he fought a giant as Narasimha, a half-man half-lion, in the sixth, seventh, eighth and ninth he was a man.”
“Nine times,” said Sandokan.
“There’s a tenth. He’ll come as Kalki the Destroyer, riding a white horse, a sword in one hand a shield in the other.”
“Why?” asked Yanez.
“To slay all that is evil. Then in one final battle, he’ll destroy the Earth and create it anew, ushering in a golden age.”
“Let’s hope we’re not around for that,” said Yanez.
“Do you believe in that terrible prophecy?” Sandokan asked the Bengali as a smile spread across his lips.
Tremal-Naik smiled without replying and went off towards the pond, where the Malays were hacking away at the rhinoceros’ nose with their parangs, attempting to salvage the horn.
After several blows it finally came free. It was slightly more than a metre long; years of battling through the jungle and ploughing the ground in search of food had honed the tip to a hard sharp point.
Almost as strong as ivory, rhinoceros horns are not made of bone like the antlers of an elk or deer. They are made of keratin, a hair-like fibre, the same as human finger nails.
At four that afternoon, when the heat had abated, the squad headed back into the jungle and resumed their battle against the vines, creepers and bamboo. A few hours later they reached the path that led from Khari to the Ganges.
The way now clear before them, they advanced quickly and arrived at Tremal-Naik’s bungalow shortly after sundown.
Chapter 13
The Man-Eater
KHARI IS ONE of the few remaining villages in the Sundarbans, its inhabitants tenaciously surviving against the ever-present dangers of cholera, fever, tigers and panthers thanks to the abundant harvests from its fertile rice fields. It is little more than a group of huts with walls of dried mud and roofs of thatched coconut leaves.
Tremal-Naik’s bungalow was an old one-storey building with a verandah and a high-sloping roof, built by Captain Corishant during his deadly campaign against Suyodhana’s Thugs.
Two enormous elephants, attended by their mahouts, stood in the paddock, eating their evening meal, pausing from time to time to trumpet their approval.
They were of different species, there being two types in India. Koomareahs, the more princely of the two, are deep bodied, strong and compact with a very large trunk and short thick legs. They are renowned above all for their incredible strength and endurance. Merghees are taller, slimmer, with a shorter more slender trunk and slightly thinner legs. Though they are not as strong, they have greater speed and are often preferred by hunters.
“What superb animals!” exclaimed Sandokan and Yanez in unison, having stopped to admire them as the two pachyderms, at a cry from their mahouts, greeted the newcomers by raising their trunks in the air.
“Yes, strong and beautiful,” said Tremal-Naik, appraising them with the eye of an expert. “They’ll be invaluable on the hunt.”
“A nice way to travel! When are we leaving?” asked Yanez.
“Once all the preparations have been made, we can set off whenever you like,” replied the Bengali.
“Can we all fit in the howdah?”
“There’s more than enough room for Surama and the three of us; your men will take the other. Darma and Punthy will follow on foot.”
“Darma!” exclaimed Sandokan. “Is your tiger here about?”
Instead of replying, Tremal-Naik put his fingers to his lips and whistled three times.
Seconds later, a beautiful Bengal tiger jumped from the verandah and landed in the courtyard with the agility of a cat, then walked toward the hunter and rubbed her face against his leg.
Though they had heard several tales of the Bengali’s pet tiger and knew she would not harm them, Sandokan and Yanez insti
nctively took a couple of steps back, while their men retreated behind the elephants and drew their parangs and kampilans.
At the same instant a black dog, as tall as a hyena, wearing a large collar bristling with metal thorns, ran out from one of the nearby huts and began jumping about his master, barking happily.
“There’s no need to worry. They’re my friends,” said Tremal-Naik, petting them both, “Darma, say hello to the brave pirates of Mompracem, the Tigers of the seas of Malaysia.”
The great cat looked up at her master then walked towards the two pirates, slowly wagging her long tail. She circled them three times, sniffing them repeatedly, then drew closer and let herself be petted as she purred in approval.
“She’s superb,” said Sandokan. “I’ve never seen her equal; so strong, so beautiful.”
“And very affectionate,” replied Tremal-Naik. “She obeys me like Punthy.”
“They should help keep the Thugs at bay.”
“Yes, they have quite a reputation. They’ve both slain a large number of those wretches.”
“Do they get along?” asked Yanez.
“Perfectly, they sleep side by side,” replied Tremal-Naik. “Now, let’s go have dinner. My servants have already set the table.”
The Bengali led them into the drawing room on the ground floor. The furnishings were modest, bamboo chairs and a few shelves made of acaju. A punka hung over the dining table, a large fan made of palm fronds covered with strips of cloth. At mealtimes, a servant would pull a rope and swing it back and forth to cool the diners and keep away the insects.
Tremal-Naik, long accustomed to combining Indian and British fare, had had his servants prepare a dinner of meat, vegetables, fruit and beer.
They ate quickly then retired to their rooms after having instructed the mahouts to be ready to set off at four the next morning.
Punthy woke them all the next day with his deafening bark. Sandokan and Yanez quickly drained several cups of tea, slung their carbines over their shoulders and went down to the courtyard where they were met by Tremal-Naik, Surama and the six Malays.
The two elephants had already been barded and were patiently awaiting the signal to depart.
“Let the hunt begin,” Sandokan said happily, as he climbed up the rope ladder and into the howdah. “I plan to have skinned my first cat by nightfall.”
“Maybe even before that,” said Tremal-Naik, as he took his seat along with Yanez and Surama. “A man from the village has offered to take us to a place where an admikanevalla has been hiding for the last three weeks.”
“A what?”
“A man-eater. It’s already attacked and devoured two women. The other day it tried to attack a farmer, who, fortunately, managed to escape with only a few scratches. He’ll be our guide.”
“Sounds like we’re dealing with a cunning tiger,” said Yanez.
“It’ll be a challenge,” replied Tremal-Naik. “Admikanevallas are usually old tigers, no longer fast enough to catch a nilgo[15] or strong enough to battle the great beasts of the jungle. So they prey on women and children. It’ll recognize a hunting party and try to hide to avoid a fight, but Punthy will track it down.”
“How does Darma behave towards her kind?”
“She just looks at them; I’ve never seen her fight one. She doesn’t care for the company of wild tigers, almost as if she’s no longer one of them. Our guide has arrived.”
A poor dark-skinned Molanghi armed with a pike and dressed in a simple languti[16], stood next to the gate.
“Climb up,” shouted Tremal-Naik.
The Indian, as agile as a monkey, climbed up the ladder and sat down on the elephant’s enormous back.
The mahouts sat astraddle their elephants’ necks, clutching their ankuses[17], legs tucked behind the pachyderms’ enormous ears. At a signal from their conductors, the two giants trumpeted deafeningly and set off, Punthy leading the expedition and Darma following a few paces behind, the great cat appearing not to enjoy the company of those two beasts.
They quickly crossed the deserted village and a quarter of an hour later reached the outskirts of the jungle and went in among the reeds and tall grass.
The elephants moved at a good pace, never hesitating, the mahouts steering them forward with a hiss and a gentle tap of their feet. They advanced cautiously, however, clearing the tall reeds with their trunks and testing the muddy ground to avoid falling into quicksand, some of those pits large enough to swallow them whole.
The jungle stretched before them for as far as the eye could see, the sad monotony of reeds broken at times by a few tara palms, the odd latania, or small groves of coconut trees with long bright green leaves. From time to time they would spot a banyan tree, its numerous roots spread like a small forest about its parent trunk.
A profound silence reigned over that sea of vegetation, the birds still slumbering at that early hour.
The only sound came from the soft rustling of the giant bamboo reeds and the dull heavy breath of the two giant beasts.
It was still a few hours before dawn and a thick sallow fog rippled over the vast lowland, a dangerous mist laden with fever and cholera. It would vanish later in the sun and heat then reappear shortly after nightfall.
“There’s a fog that’ll dampen the spirits,” said Yanez, as he took a sip of cognac from his flask. “I wonder if it affects the tigers as well.”
“It’s possible,” replied Tremal-Naik, “The tigers in the Sundarbans are the most bloodthirsty in India.”
“Do they prey on the Molanghis?”
“Every year a good number of those poor souls end up as a meal for Madame bagh, as they are called here. They estimate four thousand Indians fall prey to those carnivores, three-quarters of them right here in the Sundarbans.”
“Every year?”
“Yes, Yanez.”
“And the Molanghis just sit around and let it happen?”
“What else can they do?”
“Destroy them.”
“The Molanghis are farmers and fishermen, they do not hunt.”
“They don’t hunt?”
“They leave their village if the man-eaters become unbearable.”
“Don’t they set traps?”
“Yes, of course. They dig deep pits, fill them with sharp spikes of hardened wood then conceal them beneath a thin layer of bamboo covered with dirt and grass. But tigers are clever, and the traps almost never work. And they’re so agile that even if they do fall into the hole, they climb out eighty percent of the time.
“The Molanghis set snares for the beasts as well; they take a young tree that’s strong and flexible, bend it back in the shape of a bow, then tie the end with a rope to a stake fixed in the ground. They fasten some bait to the rope, usually a young goat or baby pig. The tiger can only get at it by placing its head or foot through a noose. Then, at its slightest movement, the knot tightens, the rope unwinds from the stake, and the tree—”
“Pulls the beast up off the ground! Ingenious, but I still prefer my carbine.”
“The British would agree with you.”
“Do they often come here to hunt?” asked Sandokan.
“They arrange large expeditions from time to time, whenever the tigers become a grave threat. I must admit, British officers are superb hunters, very courageous. A few years back, I took part in one organized by a Captain Lennox. He brought numerous elephants, an army of shikari or guides, and about a hundred dogs. Still, it wasn’t without its dangers, I was almost killed.”
“By a tiger?”
“My bearer’s fault. He ran off with my spare rifle, just as I found myself surrounded by three tigers.”
“That sounds like an interesting tale. What happened?” asked Sandokan.
“The expedition had been assembled to kill a large band of tigers that had been slaughtering the inhabitants of the Sundarbans for several months. Driven by hunger, the beasts had left their homes on the islands at the mouth of the Bay of Bengal, and executed all ki
nds of daring raids on the Molanghi villages, even attacking in broad daylight.
“They devoured more than sixty Molanghis in fifteen days then headed further up the shore, attacking and slaughtering four sepoys and their sergeant on the road to Sonapore. They descended upon Diamond Harbour and attacked the pilots and their wives, tearing them to pieces. They were fearless and advanced as far as the outskirts of Port Canning and Ranagal in their search for prey.”
“They sound insatiable,” said Yanez. “Did you have much success?”
“We were very successful,” replied Tremal-Naik. “We would track the tigers with our elephants by day then at night we’d wait for them by the watering holes and shoot them from our blinds. In just three days we had shot and killed fourteen of them, and the elephants had trampled three more to death.
“One night, just before sunset, two poor Molanghis came to our camp to tell us that a tiger had been spotted lurking about the ruins of an old pagoda. All the officers, including Captain Lennox had already left to inspect the traps that had been set during the day. I had fallen ill with fever and had stayed behind with a few shikaris. Though my hands were still a bit unsteady from the illness, I decided to set off for the pagoda with my bearer, a shikari, who, until then, had repeatedly proven himself to be an able and courageous young man.
“We reached the pagoda an hour after sunset and hid among a grove of mindi bushes, close to a small pond. I’d spotted numerous tracks along the shore and knew the tiger would return sooner or later, for they love to hide near watering holes and attack the wild boars or antelopes that come to drink.
“I’d been there for two hours and was beginning to lose patience, when I spotted a nilgo, a type of deer with long sharp horns more than a foot long, cautiously approaching. At the sight of it, I forgot all about the tiger and fired.
“It fell and I went to retrieve it, but just as I drew within paces of it, the beast shot up and fled into the jungle. It was limping and as I knew the wound was fatal, I immediately set off after it, quickly reloading my carbine as I ran. My bearer followed a few paces behind me, carrying my spare rifle. I had just reached a patch of kalam[18], when I heard a roar among the tall grass. I froze.
Sandokan: The Two Tigers (The Sandokan Series Book 4) Page 10