The 11th Golden Age of Weird Fiction

by E. Hoffmann Price

  “Sahib,” said Pratap Singh, “the laborers are wondering how you could spend the night in the jungle and return unharmed. It will not be well if this wondering continues.”

  Harley cursed wrathfully, and strode from the compound.

  The clearing in front of the temple was a play of gloom and sultry afterglow. He paused a moment, then he saw Sita Deva emerging from an archway. Her scarlet sari was a living flame, undulant and rippling with the slow, feline grace of her advance.

  When they met at the edge of the ruin, her eyes were strangely luminous, and her voice had become a soft throaty murmur that oddly suggested a contented purring…

  “Beloved,” she whispered, “there is ecstasy without end if you only dare follow me.

  “I am the demon tigress. There is no creature more perfect than the feline. What other living thing has the beauty of the tiger, and its perfection? We are the only race that man truly fears, the only creatures whom your kind envy.

  “I will lead you into the moonlight, into a life the like of which you have never dreamed…ecstasies uncounted…the savor of blood such as you have never tasted.”

  As he listened, strange thrills raced down his spine. He sensed that a tigress crouched beside him, yet in the gloom, he saw the creamy whiteness of her skin, and wondered again at the strange blending of illusion in that long ruined temple.

  As from a great distance he heard a vaguely familiar voice raised in terror, but it no longer concerned him…

  “My people,” he heard himself protest. “They serve me. That is why I hunted the demon tigress.”

  “Love me, and I will spare your people,” she whispered. “I could have slain you that first evening, but I was lonely, and the human part of me craved one of my kind.”

  As Harley listened, strange power surged through his veins. Strength beyond humanity had been infused into his body. He knew that no living creature could equal his swiftness and strength, that none could any longer look him in the eye, that his presence was something exalted and awful. He could look far into the night, and his nostrils noted a thousand new and strange odors.

  But Sita Deva’s fascination kept Harley from roaming into the jungle to test his powers. Between kisses, they mocked the sculptured gods and the night…

  * * * *

  Daylight found him alone. He no longer noted the feline odor of the temple’s crypt; and he exultantly strode through the jungle.

  The dogs again fled. The villagers regarded him with awe. There was muttering, but it was not sullen. Pratap Singh was smiling and unafraid.

  “You need not ride your rounds today, sahib,” he said, “The chief was spying on you in the Jungle, and he saw you sitting beside the demon tigress. He fled, but he knew that there would be no more slayings. For love of you, she would spare your people, and all is now well.”

  That was utterly insane; yet Harley could not rebuke his servant for his superstition.

  That night, and the nights that followed, he went back to the jungle and found her…

  With the waning of the moon, their last meeting was brief. She was wan and listless. He left Sita Deva, promising to meet her at the next full moon.

  The slaying tigress no longer preyed on the plantation workers. Regardless of the reason, the fact was sufficient.

  Though Harley again rode his rounds of the plantation, the bungalow reminded him of a tomb. He realized how much of his self was imprisoned in that Khmer ruin in the jungle.

  And then, one afternoon, he heard the chanting of porters and the creaking axles of a bullock cart. Someone was arriving from civilization—from Moulmain, or Penang. Harley hastened to the gate of the compound.

  A blue-eyed girl with hair the color of burnished bronze waved a slim white hand in greeting: Helène Forest, whose father had before his death owned a plantation some thirty miles north of Harley’s.

  “Things got so bad, finally,” Helène explained, “that I decided to take charge myself. I was raised in this country, you know.”

  “What seems to be the trouble?” wondered Harley after ordering Pratap Singh to take charge of Helena’s luggage and servants.

  “It’s an outbreak of native superstition. That is why I stopped here. You understand such things. The laborers are demoralized. A monstrous man-eating tiger is preying on them. None of the native hunters will face it.”

  Harley’s blood froze, and his lips tightened.

  “What’s the matter?” she wondered, catching his arm.

  “Nothing.” He forced a wry laugh, swallowed, then shouted for a pair of gin pahits.

  He could not tell her how close he was to the demon tiger…

  Pratap Singh prepared the curry with his own hands; and that evening, Harley and Helène sat in the living room, under the murky yellow glow of a kerosene lamp.

  “I’m dreadfully frightened,” she confessed, in a low, troubled voice. “This country has been getting next to me. Somehow, it seems different from what it used to be. Do you know, I believe that a white person finally absorbs an overdose of native superstition.”

  That hit Harley between the eyes. He was certain that the shadow which clung over Helène had not been there when she arrived that afternoon. The sudden cessation of the demon tiger’s depredations on his own plantation now alarmed rather than reassured him.

  “Think nothing of it!” He forced a laugh. “Your laborers just got the wind up. They’ll calm down.”

  “You can’t imagine how good it is to find you here,” she sighed, snuggling closer to him. “And maybe you can help me restore things to some kind of order. You have your own plantation in such good shape.”

  He could not tell her that his natives were untroubled because he was the lover of the demon tigress.

  And then that weird thought faded.

  Helène was very lovely under the yellow glow that brought flickering high lights out of her bronze gold hair, and an amber sheen from the sheer silk that clung to her long, tapering legs. Her lounge robe was not quite drawn together to mask the soft breasted loveliness that peeped from its camouflage of frothy lace.

  She was an armful of reality. That they were the only two white people for many miles was enough to draw them together.

  But when Harley bent over and fiercely kissed her, she sensed that more than desire moved him. Her eyes widened, and for a moment she regarded him in amazement. Then she returned the caress, and clung tighter.

  “I didn’t know you cared that much,” she finally whispered, “or is it just—” She paused, but he knew what she meant: weariness, perhaps revolt against the fascinations of some native woman.

  Harley kissed all further questions from her lips, and as he thrilled to the supple yielding white flesh that was throbbing in his embrace, he forgot for a while that somewhere out in the jungle there was a creature that was neither tigress nor woman…

  * * * *

  But later, as Pratap Singh appeared with brandy and soda, Harley heard a distant cry in the darkness, and shuddered. A tiger was on the prowl…

  The following morning he heard that a belated villager had been struck down by a beast of prey. His throat was torn open: wanton savagery, slaying for sport. Harley poured himself a stiff drink.

  “I think your troubles will be ending, Helène,” he said in a dry, strange voice.

  The haggard look in his eyes frightened her.

  Helène’s departure was delayed, on Harley’s reasonable contention that he would need a few more days to check up on his muttering natives.

  That night there was another slaying. Harley, hearing the outcries of the villagers, seized his rifle and dashed toward the disturbance. He caught a glimpse of a tawny monster bounding clear of the village stockade. He halted, firing at the swiftly moving beast. But Harley’s hands trembled, and he knew that his bullets were going wild.

  The Daught
er of Kali left another victim, throat mangled as before.

  “Sahib,” said Pratap Singh, as his master returned to the bungalow, “have I served you faithfully?”

  “What is on your mind?” countered Harley. “Speak, and it will be well.”

  “Sahib, it is known that you love Helène, and news of it has come to the Daughter of Kali. She is jealous. We will all be slain if the memsahib does not leave.”

  Harley’s wrathful exclamation accompanied the swing of his rifle butt; but Pratap Singh did not flinch.

  “Strike, master. But your servant has seen and heard.”

  Harley’s rifle thudded to the ground. He stalked into the compound. Pratap Singh was right; but if he took Helène from the neighborhood, his prestige as a sahib was finished.

  That night he sat up with a loaded rifle leaning against the arm of his chair. The laborers were chanting, and making magic against the demon. Mutiny would follow.

  “It’s my fault,” said Helène, seeing him prepare for a night’s watch. “I’m leaving in the morning.”

  “But you can’t believe that rot,” he snapped.

  “I understood some of the things I overheard,” she dully answered. “The beast has swung back from my plantation to yours.”

  But before Harley could find words, a dark, yellow-robed man ascended the steps of the veranda, entered, and bowed ceremoniously. His bare shoulder and shaven head and beggar’s bowl indicated that he was a Buddhist monk, who wandered from town to town.

  “You chose an evil night, father,” said Harley. “The demon tiger is prowling and hungry.”

  “We are all bound to the wheel,” answered the monk. “The slayer and the slain are one.”

  A month ago, Harley would have dismissed it as Buddhist rubbish; but evil Asia had bitten deeply into him.

  “Tell me,” he demanded, “can a woman become a tigress? How can the bones of a woman become those of a beast?”

  The holy man for a long time regarded Harley and Helène. He sat cross-legged on the floor, fingering his rosary of a hundred and eight beads.

  Finally he answered, “My son, all things are illusion. You see a tiger only because you think you see one. The mind is a great betrayer.”

  “Rot!” snapped Harley.

  The monk smiled serenely. Harley, regretting his ill-tempered retort, fumbled in his pocket and found a Straits dollar, which he put in the beggar’s bowl. The monk arose, and strode to the door.

  “Better remain here,” protested Harley.

  The monk thanked him, and said, “There is nothing but illusion. Which is the slayer, and which the slain? If it is my karma to be eaten, let them eat.”

  So saying, he descended the steps, and crossed the compound.

  “Dammit,” muttered Harley. “If he had only stayed to tell the laborers that it’s only illusion, that there was nothing slaying them!”

  Helène, catching the hopelessness of his voice, went to her room.

  Harley remained in his chair, kicked off his boots, and finally slept as he sat; but he was awakened long before sunrise.

  There was a muttering and a stirring in the compound. Bare feet were pattering across the veranda, and the room was packed with natives. Pratap Singh was among them. Harley was surrounded. A dozen hands gripped him as others of the crowd burst into Helène’s room.

  Their brown faces were grim, but they offered no violence. Though they dragged Helène into the room, they were almost apologetic.

  Harley did not resist. His inevitable failure would cost him whatever face he retained. He saw that neither he nor Helène were in personal danger.

  “Tûan,” began the village headman, “it is an evil thing to lay hands on you and your guest. But unless we take you from the plantation, the demon tiger will slay us all. There is a deserted hut some distance from here. There we will leave food, and by this action we will please the demon tigress who hates us for the sake of the white woman.”

  As they were being led to a bullock cart, Pratap Singh approached Harley, and said, “Sahib, out of your bounty, give me two silver dollars.”

  Scarcely thinking to wonder at such a request at such a time, Harley reached into his pocket and gave the Gurkha the desired coins.

  Before they reached the edge of the clearing, the sun was rising, and the danger from the Daughter of Kali was over for the day.

  “Where’s my rifle?” demanded Harley, as he was released.

  The headman explained, “Tûan, there is sufficient food. You need not hunt. The demon tigress loves you. You need no weapon against her.”

  Harley was barefooted, and so was Helène. Thorns and the blood-sucking leeches, and the ever present danger of serpents would as effectively prevent their escape as an armed guard. And he knew that despite the respectful demeanor of the natives, he would be speared or shot down if he were seen anywhere near the plantation, seeking a horse or arms.

  The demon tigress would slay Helène. Once her wrath was appeased, the village would be safe.

  “I’ve been a hell of a help to you,” Harley somberly muttered as their captors left them.

  “You didn’t have a chance,” answered Helène.

  He resented her sympathy and for a long time said nothing. He was groping for some way of making a break and getting to civilization.

  “If that Buddhist monk can make it, so can we,” he finally observed.

  “Maybe we could,” answered Helène. “I wonder if there is anything in that gibberish he was reciting to us?”

  All day long they watched the implacable motion of the sun. As it began dipping to the horizon, Harley declared, “I’m going back and dare them to spear me.”

  “Don’t!” protested Helène. “Wait till they calm down. Wait until the tigress strikes again, and they’ll see that their device isn’t working. They’ll be glad to have you back.”

  Harley’s move was interrupted by a rustling in the thicket beyond the great tree that overshadowed the hut. Pratap Singh emerged, rifle in hand.

  “Sahib, I took those silver dollars and moulded them into bullets. It is said that silver will kill the tiger-woman.”

  Harley could not scoff at Pratap Singh’s devotion. After all, bullets were bullets.

  “That’s great! Now dash back and get our shoes. Sneak out with some ponies, so we can take the memsahib to the coast.”

  The stocky Gurkha bowed, and said in a loud, deliberate voice, “Sahib, I go at once. But it will be after dark before I can approach with horses. Perhaps I should stay with you.”

  “No! Go right away!”

  As the sun set, the jungle seemed to reach out to envelop them. The feeble glow of the kerosene lamp scarcely filled the hut.

  And the moon would be rising that night. Its first full glow over the jungle would release the lurking terror.

  “I feel better now, since you have a rifle,” said Helène.

  “Better take a nap,” he snapped. “I’ll watch until Pratap Singh returns—if he ever does!”

  She sensed his tension, and lay down on the straw pallet in the corner, leaving Harley to squat in the doorway, anxiously scanning the gloom.

  The night became a whirlpool of satanic glamour as the moon rose. Damn that Buddhist monk, saying that a woman could become a tiger.

  And what was delaying Pratap Singh?

  If Sita Deva did appear, could he drive her away with rifle fire?

  In sheer misery, he turned back to cursing Pratap Singh.

  His skin began creeping. Every breathing and stirring of the jungle was a warning. She was lurking, gaining strength for the final attack… Worst of all, she might spare him, striking only Helène…

  Helène’s outcry startled him. He leaped to his feet, whirled about. The demon tigress was in the further corner of the hut. Harley was too shocked to wonder how she could have
entered through the thatch without even a warning rustle. Her eyes gleamed red in the lantern light, and her long fangs were ivory white. The low, grumbling snarl seemed to be a triumphant laugh. He had never realized the beast’s prodigious size.

  Helen, moved by blind frenzy, hurled the lamp as the tigress wavered between the two who faced her.

  The hut became a dizzying whirl of motion. The kerosene from the shattered bowl flared up. The great beast wheeled to avoid the leaping flames. She moved as Harley’s rifle crackled. Her leap carried her past him, her shoulder knocking him against the door jamb.

  Once in the open, she whipped about, and crouched for the attack. The thatch of the rear wall was blazing, forcing Helène toward Harley.

  Recovering from the glancing blow, Harley snapped the rifle to his shoulder.

  If this was Sita Deva, so be it. His finger contracted. The concussion blinded Harley. A hammer blow struck his shoulder. His rifle had burst, sending fragments of the breech screaming into the darkness. Scorched and blinded, he flung himself between the tigress and her victim.

  Pratap Singh’s silver bullet, rammed home too tightly against smokeless powder, had developed a pressure that no barrel could withstand!

  “Run!” croaked Harley. “Through the fire—”

  But as the tigress’ muscles contracted, there was a deep voiced shout, and a dazzling arc of steel dropped from the overhanging tree.

  It was Pratap Singh, flailing his heavy Gurkha knife. There was a savage snarling, the impact of steel against bone, a hoarse yell, and a blinding whirl of reddened blade.

  The Gurkha, ripping and slashing, ignored the deadly fangs and claws.

  It happened in the instant as Harley recovered from the blast. Then he stood staring until Helène, driven out by the flames, joined him.

  Pratap Singh was struggling to his knees, his heavy blade still in hand, but they were looking at the body of the tigress.

  It was becoming nebulous as wind driven mists, and through it, another form became visible. It was what remained of a lovely woman: Sita Deva, teeth reddened and nails dripping, slashed and hacked across the back and sides, head dangling by a tendon. Her body still quivered, horribly blending amber loveliness with the gore of slaughter. One stroke of the terrible blade had ripped her from hip to breast.