Caracal

by Guy N Smith

  He finished just after five o'clock, standing back and surveying his handiwork proudly.

  ‘Well, I've seen some sights in my time,’ Mary Reece Came out of the back door to look, ‘but that really takes the biscuit!’

  ‘No need for a bleedin' palace,’ Fred sniffed, ‘just something to keep the rain off him. That'll do the job.’

  But Bertie was not impressed with his new surroundings and soon discovered that by using his horns on the sides he could rock the whole shelter. The noise and vibration gave him an acute sense of satisfaction, spurring him to even greater efforts, and his fury mounted with every blow.

  ‘Just listen to him!’ Mary Reece stood by the kitchen window looking across to the rough paddock, seeing the flimsy shelter beginning to totter like a pile of books on an uneven surface. ‘The devil will have the lot down before dark, Fred!’

  ‘Never!’ Reece called out from the adjoining brick lean-to which he proudly referred to as ‘the milking parlour’. He never paused in his rhythm, squeezing Florrie's teats so that the white fluid squirted and foamed in the plastic bucket. ‘That shelter will be up long after Bertie's gone to serve the nannies in the promised land!’

  Loud metallic bangs filled the air, echoing in the still atmosphere of the mild October evening.

  Bang … bang … clatter … bang! There were barely seconds between each vicious, determined assault.

  ‘It's leaning over,’ Mary Reece continued her commentary. ‘One of the stakes has snapped off. I told you they weren't strong enough …’

  The crash of falling tin sheets and splintering timber drowned her shout that was more jubilant than dismayed. The entire structure caved in as sheets flew in all directions. Then, rearing out from the pile of debris, Bertie's horns angrily tossed aside the smashed materials which had temporarily buried him. He stood there, proud and angry, a victorious general surveying the scene of his victory.

  Fred Reece muttered ‘Bloody hell!’ and hoped that Mary hadn't heard him. Florrie was forgotten for the moment as he approached the scene of destruction with extreme caution, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw that the rope tethering the billy to an iron stake in the ground still held firm.

  ‘You stupid bugger!’ he grunted. ‘You can bloody well stop there for the night and I hope it pisses down with rain. That'll cool you off! And don't expect me to come running out to see if you're all right.’

  The goat regarded him with a malevolent stare, eyes glinting redly and horns dipping as though issuing a warning. The house had not been built that could hold Bertie.

  Fred went back to finish milking Florrie, followed by Mary who leaned against a doorpost, plump arms folded, an ‘I-told-you-so’ expression plain on her face.

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he told her. ‘Bertie's big and strong, that's all. I'll get some more timber and fix it back in the morning. The old devil won't be able to knock it down again.’

  ‘You can't leave him out there all night!’

  ‘I can and I will. Do him good, especially if it rains. Can't see what you've got to worry about, you don't like him, anyway.’

  ‘That doesn't enter into it. Animals are animals, and if the RSPCA got to know about it …’

  ‘Well, they won't, will they? And if they do, then the shed fell down in the night, see?’

  She turned and went back into the kitchen. When Fred said that Bertie was stopping out all night, he meant just that. And the billy hadn't been fed either. Well, that was Fred's problem. She certainly wasn't going near the animal.

  Bertie had finished clearing a space for himself in the centre of the pile of wreckage by the time darkness fell. The pupils of his small red eyes contracted into horizontal slits as the daylight waned, and he stood watching the kitchen door in anticipation. But it did not open and there was no sign of the tall stooping man who brought his evening feed and cursed him while he ate it.

  The billy tugged at his rope again. It tautened but did not give, and he was too experienced to waste time and effort trying to break it. He was quite used to being tethered, but had not yet worked out how to free himself this time. His ultimate ambition was to drive his horns into Fred's stomach before his beard could be grabbed. That trick of Fred Reece's was humiliating, but it wasn't going to happen again.

  At the moment hunger predominated. The goat attempted to satisfy his craving by nibbling at the grass around his feet, but it was sour from his foulings and he soon stopped. As he saw the downstairs house lights go out and the upper ones go on, he knew for certain that neither of the occupants were coming out again.

  Bertie snorted angrily and managed to reach a leaning stake with his horns. There was a loud crack of splintering half-rotten wood, and the poultry in the hen house twenty yards away squawked and fluttered in alarm on their roosts. But nobody even looked out of the upstairs windows - Fred Reece had meant what he had said, and Bertie was going to spend the night out in the open without any supper.

  After a time the goat lay down, his anger unabated. The remnants of the ramshackle shed had been tossed beyond his reach and there was nothing on which he could vent his fury. From the other outbuildings he could hear the sound of suspended hayracks being banged against the walls as the nannies fed before lying down to sleep, and that made him even angrier. By morning his rage would have reached a terrible pitch.

  Owls hooted, and one flapped almost noiselessly over his head in its hunt for mice and voles. A vixen screeched in a nearby copse, answered a few seconds later by a dog fox's bark from up in the hills. These were natural sounds, part of the night, but suddenly a loud sharp report escalated as it echoed, dying away slowly across the mountains. Bertie quivered for a few seconds, but gunfire was relatively common in these parts and he soon subsided.

  The silence filtered back, but somehow the earlier tranquillity did not return. A vehicle started up after a few minutes, and even when that had moved out of earshot there seemed an atmosphere of unease in the night air. Bertie flicked his ears restlessly, and stood up. The grass beneath him was wet and cold with a heavy dew, and he was not accustomed to such discomforts. As anger seethed through him again, he suddenly caught a whiff of rancid odour that drifted across and was gone. He stiffened, staring about him. This was not a scent he knew: too strong for fox or badger, it had an air of unfriendliness about it - the stink of an enemy.

  He saw the eyes first, two saucers of yellowish-green light which seemed to appear out of the shadows around the heap of wreckage. They watched him intently, and as he stared back he made out the outline of a large cat. It was big, very big, which frightened him, and was perched on top of a pile of corrugated sheets and broken timber. As it crouched, a low snarl began deep in its throat, and the billy goat knew that it was about to spring at him. His reactions were tuned to split-second perfection, head going down at the very moment the cat's back legs catapulted it into the air. Horns went down and then up, and Bertie felt a satisfying crunch as a horn ripped through fur and skin to grate on bone. A heavy weight on his head, then the sharp pain of a claw raking his neck. He straightened up, a quick movement transmitting his entire strength into his neck. With a jerk and a twist, the pressure on his head was immediately eased, and the cat screeched and spat as it was flung high into the air, somersaulting and falling. It struck the heap of iron and timber with a loud thud, slithered and somehow managed to hold on. Blood poured, dark and thick, from a gaping wound in its shoulder. The eyes reflected pain, and a momentary fear that vanished almost immediately. Fangs glinted in the increasing light of the rising full moon.

  The caracal was hurt, surprised and shocked. For once he had underestimated his prey, a lesson he would remember, but he was far from finished. The only way in which his fury could be abated was by destroying this huge white animal with horns which had dared to challenge him; a challenge which was already being taken up.

  Bertie charged, blinded by fury, oblivious of his tether until the rope pulled him up short. His neck was jerked with sufficien
t force to slew him round and at that moment the caracal launched its second attack. It leaped high into the air, its spring carrying it a foot or so above the deadly horns, twisting to land squarely on the back of its adversary and sink its teeth into the goat's neck at the moment of impact.

  Blood gushed and streamed down the white coat as Bertie began his grim battle for survival, squealing loudly, rearing and bucking. Somehow the cat hung on, fangs and claws buried deep in the flesh.

  The goat ran in circles, limited by the extent of the rope; round and round, throwing itself from side to side. Suddenly, with a flash of natural cunning, it stopped, bucked and rolled like a rodeo horse dislodging an unwanted rider.

  The caracal screamed as it felt the full crushing weight of the billy goat, the breath expelled from its body, every bone threatening to crack. Instinctively it relaxed its hold, and remained motionless. The goat was already rolling back again and this time the battle would surely have been won, but a split second was all that the hunter of the wild needed to escape. It jumped, using every ounce of its waning strength, in a desperate effort that carried it beyond the radius of the goat's restricting tether.

  Bertie snorted, pawing at the ground like an enraged bull, looking anxiously about him in the moonlit paddock, fearing another assault from the rear.

  The two creatures stared balefully at each other, both weakened and with blood flowing from their gashes. The caracal stiffened, then relaxed as it sensed its weakness and the foolhardiness of continuing the struggle. Bertie lowered his head, but it was merely a defensive stance, his rope remaining slack on the ground.

  The big cat hesitated, like a punch-drunk boxer who knows that only a lucky knockout blow will win him the fight.

  Seconds turned into minutes, and the goat could only wait, horns poised. Finally the caracal stood up, and without another glance limped off into the shadows cast by the tall hedges. Bertie stared, saw it cross an open patch of moonlight, and then it was gone.

  The billy goat voiced his pain and rage until the noise dwindled to a feeble snicker. He looked expectantly in the direction of the silent house but no light showed from the darkened windows. Finally he lay down again but made no attempt to sleep; there was always the possibility that the caracal might return. The blood was congealing in the gashes on back and neck, and the pain had subsided to a dull throbbing. Only the terror was as vivid as ever, and the goat waited anxiously for dawn to break.

  Editorial in the Sporting Gazette dated 17 October 19—.

  As reported in the national press the hunt for the man-eating caracal continues. Two massive daylight drives having failed, a night assault was organised by the Forestry Commission in conjunction with local landowners, farmers, gamekeepers and police. As before, it was a three-pronged attack concentrating on the area known as Panpunton Hill where the animal in question is thought to be hiding. Land-Rovers fitted with powerful spotlights especially for the purpose were used.

  True to form, the big cat proved itself a habitual night-time hunter, and at about ten o'clock was spotted in the moonlight on one of the sheepfields. It appeared to be leaving the area of thick woodland but paused on hearing the approaching vehicle. Mr Melvyn Hughes, the Panpunton keeper, shot at it from the tailboard of the Land-Rover at a distance of approximately seventy-five yards, using a .226 rifle. It is still not known whether the caracal was hit, but at the sound of the shot it leapt high into the air before bounding off across the field, then jumped a five-foot fence and was lost to sight.

  Attempts were made to follow it but the steep terrain favoured the fugitive, and eventually the hunt was called off. The following morning it was discovered that a billy goat belonging to a local smallholder had been savaged. The fact that the goat was still alive bears out the theory that it managed to drive off the attacking caracal.

  At the time of going to press an open meeting of all farmers in the area is being called by the NFU. Their local secretary, Mr David Boston, is concerned by the recent failures to kill the caracal and is inviting suggestions from the men whose livestock is endangered. In the meantime your correspondent will remain in the area to report developments. ‘TG.’

  It was late afternoon when Jon returned and discovered that Trix was missing. At first he was not unduly concerned - she had been in one of her moods when he left her; she had frequently got depressed when they were living at Pentre and used to wander off into the hills for hours. But she always came back. In another couple of hours it would be dark and she could not stop out in the woods overnight. He did not believe her threat to return to the commune - she'd never find the way amongst paths that twisted and turned back on themselves.

  He went inside and lowered his haversack to the floor. It was heavy with several pounds of juicy blackberries, some of them already overripe. He had found them growing in clusters on the south slopes of the hill and in half an hour had picked the lot.

  There was no need for Trix to worry about the food running out. Tomorrow he could go back and pick more blackberries, and there were lots of other berries growing on trees and bushes. Maybe some of them were edible - he didn't know much about the countryside, but Trix might know.

  Jon recalled his childhood days when he had played with the other children in the park behind the housing estate. They had dug for pignuts in the uncut grass on the banks, delving down into the earth with penknives and scraping away at the base of the tall white flowers. More of a root than a nut, tasting earthy, making you want to spit it out but you didn't because you pretended to everybody that you enjoyed it; even kidded yourself.

  He wondered idly if pignuts were to be found up here in the hills. He would search for them tomorrow, and if he found some that would be an added bonus. They'd be healthier than people whose diet consisted of conventional foods. After all, that was what self-sufficiency was all about.

  As dusk fell and Trix did not return, Jon became angry like a child whose mother is late back from a shopping trip. Goddammit you bitch, where the hell have you got to? Hell, he didn't need her, she was just an encumbrance; handy when you needed a fuck, but a pain in the arse the rest of the time, moaning about everything and never satisfied. Good riddance if she had gone back to Pentre. Maybe she'd manage to convince Lester Hoyle that the baby was his. If she was really pregnant. She might just be faking, seeing it as an easy way to get excused all the chores, stopping in bed most of the day. Shit!

  He sat on the ground outside the hut for a time, looking towards the path leading away into the tall pines. That was where she would come from if she was coming. If … if ... if ...

  Suddenly it was dark, and much colder, too. He shivered, stood up, and after a final glance around went inside and forced the door shut behind him.

  Sod it! The fire had gone out. He found some matches and started to relay it, but the wood was damp and although the dry grass spluttered into a few seconds of bright hungry flames, it soon fizzled out and smouldered again. Bastard! He gave the stove an angry kick. The chimney pipe rattled and rust flaked off and fell.

  He wished Trix was here. No, he didn't. She wouldn't be any good. Picking a handful of blackberries out of the bag, he crammed them into his mouth and spat some pips out. They were sour. By the time he had had enough, it was too dark to see what he was eating.

  He realised he was sweating heavily. Jesus, he needed a drag! Hell, why? To go on a trip which he was on already?

  Distant sounds: a vehicle, stopping and starting; a sharp crack that hung on the still night air; Then silence.

  He lay there on the rough wooden boards, scraping at them until splinters lodged beneath his long grimy fingernails, bringing pain. Pain was only in the mind.

  Something was at the door. Or somebody. Trix? Open it, then. It was opening, scraping back a few inches, just enough to admit … an animal! The caracal, of course! Christ, think of something else and it'll go away; think hard … Trix, threshing like a hippo in the muddy shallows, making almost as much noise as she orgasmed. Yelling. ‘You've g
iven me a baby. You can't leave me now. I won't let you.’

  God, the caracal was still there, standing just inside the partly open door in a jagged patch of moonlight that filtered down through the broken roof. No, it wasn't - all in the imagination. Don't be scared of it. I'm not! All that wog's fault, he brought the caracal over; and got his comeuppance. Now you'll get yours.

  The animal was close now, standing right by him. He could smell it, or was it himself? It was bleeding too, had a great gash in its side. Look, now, it wasn't me that did that to you. Understand? I like caracals. Always have done. Don't mean you any harm, mate. You can live here if you like.

  A friendly paw was outstretched. It had to be friendly, couldn't be anything else, wanting to shake hands. Oh, Jesus God!

  A raking slash tore Jon's forearm right down to the wrist, severing an artery, blood jetting out like a garden sprinkler with a stench that reminded him of iron.

  It wasn't happening, it couldn't be. Don't be scared, don't take any notice; think of something else! He jerked upright out of his drug fantasy, clutching a wrist, trying to stem the flow and scrambling back. The caracal struck again, almost casually as though lacking in strength, just enough to ribbon the flesh on a cheek. Jon's fingers flew to his face, leaving his abdomen exposed. A sharp jab with claws going deep, his navel popping out like the core of a baking apple, on downwards to tear out clumps of pubic hair, shredding the cotton jeans.

  Jon writhed like a speared eel, bloody limbs flailing, screaming obscenities, while the cat poked and slashed almost lethargically. Suddenly it relaxed and lay down only a foot away from its victim, watching him and waiting for him to die. The mouth opened, displaying the sharp incisors, then closed. A yawn - boredom.

  His struggles were now no more than a twitching of muscles in the lacerated limbs, the screams dying to a gurgle. The caracal's head rested on its front paws, eyes almost seeming to droop. The red haze before his eyes obscured the maneater. He tasted sour blackberries and belched blood, and for some inexplicable reason thought fleetingly of Trix again. She was dead, that was why she had not returned. He ought to have guessed that she'd been killed by the caracal. A pity, they might have made a go of it. They had never really talked. But words only evaporated.