by Ruskin Bond
‘Why don’t you remove your hat?’ asked Rusty.
‘The hat won’t like it,’ said its wearer. ‘It feels safe upon my head and I feel safe beneath it. Rain or snow, outdoors or in bed, this hat remains upon my head!’
The boys clapped. They had to admire their host’s loyalty to his hat. And they had to admit, it seemed to suit him, adding distinction to his scar and one eye.
‘Tell us your name,’ asked Popat.
‘Kalee Topee is my name. I need no further claim to fame.’
‘We’ll call you Topee for short,’ said Rusty. ‘But tell us—how long have been wearing it?’
‘Only thirty years. About half my life.’
‘It has lasted well,’ observed Pitamber.
‘Made in London. It was worn by an Angrezi magistrate when I was a young forest guard. He was killed by a tiger. The tiger ate him but left the hat.’
‘Were you there when it happened?’
‘Yes, it happened very quickly. The magistrate, his assistant and two forest guards—I was one of them—were on foot, on the trail down to Hanol, when this tiger came out of the bushes, very fast, very silent, and pounced upon the sahib and carried him off.’
‘And what about you?’
‘Oh, I was up a tree in no time, but not before the tiger had clawed out one of my eyes! That was when I was trying to rescue the sahib. None of us had guns, you see. You don’t chase an angry tiger with a walking stick. So we waited until we thought it was safe, and then we went for help. Found the magistrate sahib next day. Not much was left of him. It was a man-eater, all right, and the first in these parts. And there were cubs—and they, too, grew up to be man-eaters.’
‘And the hat?’ asked Rusty. ‘Was the magistrate still wearing it?’
‘No, it was lying near the bushes where he had been attacked. Look, there’s still a big scratch on it, made by one of the tiger’s claws.’
The boys came closer to look at the hat. Its wearer had no intention of removing it, so they had to stand around him to examine it. There was a big dent on one side. It could have been made by any sharp object. It sounded like a very tall story but the boys decided to believe it. You could believe anything about Black Hat!
*
The dinner was a success. It had been paid for by Popat, who was in funds after having made rounds of his father’s clients. He also gave Rusty’s arm a fresh dressing and bandage.
While they ate, various hungry animals gathered around them in the dark but kept to the shadows. The beasts were afraid of the fire, afraid of the humans, afraid of Black Hat. The caretaker kept the boys awake with tales of treasure, witchcraft and strange happenings on Witch Mountain.
‘There is a magic stone hidden up there,’ he said. ‘A rare jade, an emerald brought from Tibetan China by an early traveller. Find it and you will be made for life!’
Rusty and his friends hadn’t come on a treasure hunt, but if there was treasure to be found, why not look for it?
Dogs barked and jackals howled. A hyena broke into hideous laughter. An owl, disturbed in a treetop, screeched at all of them.
Every now and then Black Hat would throw a chapati or a bone into the dark and the dogs would fight over it. The jackals waited their turn. The hyena was favoured with a meaty bone of mutton. It appeared to have a special relationship with Black Hat; it waited patiently, laughing now and then, confident that some tidbit would come its way. The jackals would come for the leftovers once the feast was over. If there were any cats around, they stayed out of sight.
It was past midnight when the boys went to bed. Too tired to dream, too tired to hear someone or something scratching at the window. But there was something at the window again that night—possibly human, possibly subhuman, possibly beyond human—and it gazed for some time upon the sleeping boys, leaving the imprint of an ageless face upon the windowpane.
A Tiger at the Door
The next morning the boys decided to continue their journey to the Witch Mountain and were on their way before sunrise. There was still dew on the grass and it sparkled on the leaves of the plum and apricot trees and rested in the folds of the wild poppies and bluebells. And then the sun came up, shouting over the hilltop, and the dewdrops vanished.
They were singing as they marched down the little trail that led to the Mandali rest house, halfway between Chakrata and the little Hanol river in the valley. Steep, craggy hills gave way to densely forested slopes and then to the rolling meadows where sheep and cattle grazed.
They were walking through an area of mixed forest—oak, pine and groves of bamboo—when Rusty felt that they were being followed.
There was no one to be seen, but every now and then a twig crackled, or there was a soft thud like the footfall of some heavy animal. And there was a strange smell in the air—the smell of a feline predator, the same smell that you get in a zoo when you stand outside the cage of one of the big cats.
‘I think we are being stalked by a tiger or a leopard,’ whispered Rusty. ‘Let’s stay together as far as possible.’
‘Let’s go back,’ said Popat nervously.
‘It’s behind us, not in front of us.’
‘Should we run?’ asked Pitamber.
‘No, don’t run,’ said Rusty. ‘Then it will know we are scared and it will come after us. Just walk normally, as though we are not bothered.’
‘Easier said than done,’ replied Popat, doing his best not to break into a run.
They rounded a bend and saw the rest house in a clearing below.
‘We’re nearly there,’ said Rusty.
‘My legs are giving way,’ said Popat, unused to long walks.
‘I’ll carry you,’ offered Pitamber and, without much effort, picked up Popat and carried him piggyback the rest of the way.
The rest house was deserted. There was no sign of a caretaker or any occupant. All the doors were locked. There was no one in the outhouse either.
‘Is anyone there?’ shouted Pitamber, and Rusty and Popat took up the call. But there was no reply. Only a band of monkeys chattered excitedly in the surrounding trees.
‘We can’t just wait out here in the open,’ said Rusty. ‘And we’re too tired to walk further today. We have no choice—we’ll have to break in.’
This wasn’t difficult. There was a lock on the front door but they went around to the back and got in by breaking a pane of glass and unbolting the bathroom door. The rest house was full of doors and windows, not fastened very securely, but then, there was really nothing to secure, except for some basic furniture.
They had been in the building for just ten or fifteen minutes when Popat, standing at one of the windows, exclaimed, ‘Look, Rusty—it’s there . . . near the boundary wall—and it’s looking this way!’
True enough, a massive tiger was standing in the clearing, looking fixedly in the direction of the bungalow.
‘It’s seen us, I think!’ said Pitamber anxiously.
‘It’s been following us,’ said Rusty, trying not to panic. ‘Make sure the doors and windows are bolted!’
The window’s bolt was a bit loose but they secured it as well as they could and hoped for the best. The front door was, of course, locked from outside. They ran to the other window and looked out. The tiger was still there, a little closer now.
‘We left the back door open!’ screamed Popat.
They ran to the bathroom door and shut it.
‘Now the kitchen,’ said Rusty.
The kitchen window was wide open. And outside, barely a hundred feet away, stood the tiger. Or was it another tiger? It certainly looked bigger, more ferocious. When it saw Popat’s frightened face at the window, it bared its teeth in a snarl, then let out a roar that made the doors and windows rattle.
They shut the window with a bang, bolted it and ran to the bedroom. The window there was closed but now they could hear the tiger growling and making all sorts of dinner-time noises outside. Then it was silent. A few minutes later there was a thud-t
hud-thud on the front door as the beast did its best to force its way in.
Popat crawled under a bed. Pitamber and Rusty rushed to the front room to find the door shaking every time it received a blow from the tiger’s heavy paw.
They went to the window and peered through the glass, but all they could see was the tiger’s tail swishing as it pounded on the door.
Just then they heard a loud bang—the report of a heavy gun—and the tiger left the door and sped away across the clearing, even as a man emerged from the trees, firing a second shot at the retreating animal.
The tiger disappeared into the forest, and the boys cheered as the man approached. It was the local forest guard, returning after a visit to the nearest village.
The boys were about to rush out to welcome the guard but, fortunately for them, the lock on the front door still held. They went to the window and were just in time to see a huge tiger pounce upon the man from behind and bring him to the ground. It was another tiger!
The guard was unconscious, knocked senseless by a blow from the enraged beast. The tiger now picked him up by one arm and dragged him into the bushes. It let out a mighty roar.
The roar was taken up by its mate, the first tiger, and the forest reverberated with their calls of triumph and defiance.
Pitamber Goes Fishing
The sound of gunshots had reached the village in the valley and presently a party of men set out for the rest house. The boys came out to meet them and described what had taken place. The gun was recovered, but there was no sign of the forest guard except for a trail of blood leading into the forest. The tiger had dragged its victim to its lair to dispose of the body at leisure. An occasional aa-oonh! from the forest indicated that the other tiger was still in the vicinity.
‘And now how do we get back?’ asked Popat, who had fervently decided that tigers were not his favourite animals.
‘We’ll go forward,’ said Rusty. ‘The villagers will show us the way.’
‘I’m ready for anything,’ said Pitamber. ‘Big cats, small cats . . . but I’m hungry.’
The villagers of Hanol proved to be very helpful. They escorted the boys down to the village, giving them food and shelter. And unlike the caretaker, they did not ask for money.
The boys spent two days in the village. Popat was anxious to get in touch with his home, but there were no phones in the village and no electricity either. In the far distance they could see the lights of Chakrata, but in the village, only kerosene lanterns lit up the darkness.
A small river ran past the village, and Rusty and Pitamber were happy to join the village boys who were romping about in the cold glacier-fed water. They even learnt how to catch fish with their bare hands—an art that required skill and patience. Pitamber, with his big hands, was good at this. Standing still in knee-deep water, he would keep his hands cupped just under the surface until a small fish glided into them. Then, with a sudden flick of the wrists, he would toss the trapped fish on to the bank.
Popat did not get into the water. He was sulking a bit, wanting to go home. Rusty put his arms around him and said, ‘Don’t worry, Popat, we’ll cross the mountain and go home a safer way. They say there are no tigers higher up.’
‘Only leopards,’ said Popat glumly. ‘And bears. Oh, I also saw a huge snake this morning.’
‘Just a rat-catcher. They aren’t venomous.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘There aren’t any venomous snakes in these cold regions. They like hot places—like your father’s sugar cane field.’
Popat started missing his father’s sugar cane field, so Rusty changed the subject and presented him with a pretty coloured pebble he’d found on the bed of the stream. Popat was pleased with it and said he’d keep it for his mother.
‘It will look nice in a ring,’ said Rusty. ‘Who knows, it may even be valuable . . .’
*
From the villagers they learnt that the Witch Mountain wasn’t entirely uninhabited. It had once been part of a princely state and halfway up the mountain was a ruined palace inhabited by a crazy old rani who lived alone, her only companions being hundreds of jungle crows. She was especially fond of crows and was convinced that they were more intelligent than humans.
The path to the palace was seldom used, Rusty was told, but further on it joined the pilgrim trail to a famous shrine and from there they could return to Dehra.
Melaram, who gave them this information, was a muleteer who sometimes took supplies up to the palace and was paid by the rani in old silver coins—for she had no bank account. The coins dated back to the early days of the British Raj and were made of pure silver. The village women wore them as necklaces or bracelets, and Melaram’s wife wore a string of silver rupees about her neck, some of them adorned with the visage of Queen Victoria. Melaram and his mule train were always in demand, usually for carrying supplies to and from Chakrata. But once a month he visited the rani of Witch Mountain, bringing her quantities of fruit and other necessities. He was a good-humoured man, used to being on his own. And he was familiar with all the mountain trails.
Silver ornaments were greatly in favour in the village. Silver was prettier than gold and went well with the agates and semi-precious stones that were sometimes found in the riverbeds; also, it was affordable. Gold was for the rich women of the plains.
At one time, according to Melaram, there had been silver mines up on the Witch Mountain, but the great earthquake of the previous century had resulted in their being buried in a massive landslide. The rich veins of silver now lay buried deep in the mountain. There was no way of getting to them. But on his journeys up the mountain, delivering supplies to the old palace, Melaram had sometimes come across traces of silver. Perhaps, one day, he would discover an entire lode. Or so he hoped.
‘I go up the mountain tomorrow,’ he told the boys. ‘Would you like to come with me?’
‘If that’s the way home, I’m coming,’ said Popat.
‘I’m happy to stay here and catch fish,’ said Pitamber, who had made many friends among the village boys, teaching them wrestling holds and fitness exercises. And there was always something to eat—fresh beans, cucumbers, bananas, potatoes, all grown locally, apart from curried fish with plenty of fragrant rice! But Pitamber wasn’t going to abandon his companions.
‘I want to climb that mountain,’ said Rusty. ‘I want to see what’s there.’
‘Well, I have three mules,’ said Melaram. ‘I will ride the lead mule. The little boy can sit on the second one. And you and the pahelwan can take turns on the third. It won’t be very comfortable because you will be sharing space with sacks of potatoes and bananas.’
‘Does the old queen like bananas?’ asked Rusty.
‘The crows like them,’ said Melaram. ‘Bananas and beetles and even little lizards. Those crows will eat anything!’ And he looked meaningfully, but with a wink, at poor little Popat.
Climbing Witch Mountain
On a misty morning, the little mule train set off for the palace on the magic mountain.
Mules are strong, patient animals that can carry heavy loads up steep and narrow mountain tracks. They do, however, prefer baggage to riders and they will soon know a regular rider from an occasional one. While crossing the stream, Popat was thrown off his mount and received an early morning dip; he then decided to walk. Rusty had ridden ponies in Simla, but mules were different—pliable when in the right mood, stubborn when vexed. Rusty’s mule had just digested several marijuana leaves and as a result was half asleep, inclined to leave the trail and wander off on its own. Rusty could do nothing about this, and Melaram would have to ride after the errant mule, giving it a few whacks with a stick and following this up with various endearments which seemed to be more effective.
Rusty tried the latter form of persuasion. ‘Come along, you beautiful lily, you mountain rose, offspring of a he-ass, child of a heavenly mare, get moving, you obstinate creature!’ Neither blandishments nor curses had much effect though. But sudd
enly, without warning, one of the mules would break into a run and the others would follow suit and they’d go cantering along the narrow, precipitous path, with Pitamber puffing along far behind.
The sun came up, the mist dissolved. Primroses sparkled on the hillside. They were climbing higher all the time and soon they were thirsty and hungry.
They stopped near a small spring. It was in a shady cleft of the mountain. Ferns and wild ginger flourished beside it. Melaram and the boys sank down and rested on the soft grass, while the mules browsed among the surrounding vegetation. The water from the spring was sweet and refreshing. They drank freely and filled their water bottles. Then Pitamber announced that he was hungry.
‘I’m hungry too,’ said Popat.
‘What did we bring?’ asked Rusty. ‘Only chapatis and onions. Will we get anything at the palace?’
‘Crows,’ said Melaram.
‘Can’t eat crows,’ said Pitamber. ‘What else can we eat?’
‘Bananas,’ offered Melaram. ‘And I have a month’s supply with me. Help yourselves, boys.’
So they sat on the hillside and ate bananas. Then Rusty remembered that before leaving home he had slipped a tin of sardines into his haversack. He got it out and displayed it proudly. ‘We can have fish with our bananas,’ he announced.
‘Ugh!’ went Popat, who disliked sardines.
‘Good idea,’ said Pitamber, who liked all kinds of fish.
‘There’s just one problem,’ said Rusty, scratching his head. ‘How do we open the tin?’
The little key or opener that usually accompanies these tins was missing. And they did not have a can opener.
Pitamber produced a small knife but it was ineffective. Rusty tried a sharp stone, which created several dents, but that was all. Melaram wasn’t any help; he hadn’t seen a sardine tin before. And Popat thought it was all very funny.
‘How do you open a sardine tin without an opener?’ he giggled. ‘You’ll need Einstein to solve this problem.’