The Strangler Vine (20 page)

‘What was Mrs Parkes like when you first knew her in Calcutta?’ I said.

‘She was prim, but she never shrank from the country, she liked it. Always off to the bazaar, or to see some
puja
festival, even then. I remember nothing about the husband. He was said to go mad in the winter, and she would go travelling. Over the years she has done a number of people I know a few discreet good turns.’

The thought of going on a Raja’s
shikar
– and a tiger hunt at that – overthrew all thoughts of Jubbulpore and even of Mountstuart. I re-read his description of stalking the beasts in
Lays of the Rajputna Hills
, and cleaned my sword and rifle again, putting from me the thought that I might not be up to firing it. Sameer was quite as excited as me. For my Hindoostanee lesson that afternoon Mir Aziz made me translate his boasts: ‘We shall stalk the tiger and bring it down! We shall outdo the Rao’s heavy-footed hunters!’ Tigers, Mir Aziz said, were more common in Doora than anywhere else in India, and they were hunted as much as pests as royal game. But in the lush greenery after the monsoon they would be hard to catch sight of. Blake, however, had lost some of the almost-cheerfulness I had detected in him at his reintroduction to Mrs Parkes. Mir Aziz thought he might be disappointed about the
shikar
. ‘You may be seeing the tigers, Avery Sahib, but more than likely, no Rao.’

We rode the six miles to the Rao’s lakeside residence at Vishnagarh that night so as to be ready for the early start the next morning. The lake shone and undulated like silk. Next to it a city of embroidered tents had risen up – or rather three distinct communities of tents: one for native courtiers, one for European visitors, and the smallest for tradesmen and hangers-on. A little to the left of the tents and separated by an avenue of trees, the Rao’s palace was a rambling complex of white domes and pediments and curving balustrades. Beyond it was thick jangal.

Mir Aziz repaired to speak to the chief huntsman. He reported that a part of the jangal had been separated from the rest with stakes and fences, and within it there were said to be several tigers, perhaps up to five, including a parent and cub which had been preying on local livestock. His other news confirmed what he had
predicted. While the Rao and his chosen few would be hunting on elephants, we Europeans would be watching and shooting from
machans
– platforms constructed in the trees. The tigers would be lured to the machans by buffalo carcasses that had been left nearby the day before, and driven towards them by a line of beaters. Sameer and I were disheartened. We had imagined ourselves stalking the creatures on foot or on horseback, not trapped on some platform.

Before the sun rose, a large crowd of villagers had gathered outside the Rao’s palace. Some held torches, some carried drums, and several bore elderly firearms that looked as if they had not been fired in a century. The Rao arrived on horseback with a party of sardars. On the far side of the multitude there was a large canvas screen kept aloft by long bamboo posts tied to it at intervals, behind which I guessed some of the Rao’s zenana sheltered. A
shikari
led us to a spot just next to the Resident’s party of himself, the Major General and four other gentlemen. There was no disguising our mutual antipathy. Mr Crouch-Symington just about stirred himself to acknowledge us, but his guests ostentatiously looked in any direction but ours. Blake ignored them, but I found their rudeness awkward, the more so when it became clear that we would all be placed either on the same machan or on two close together.

The beaters, armed with their drums and torches, were split into smaller groups and sent in single file to create a vast circle which would drive the tigers towards the Rao and the machans. The Rao’s party disappeared into the jangal on several elephants, then mounted
shikaris
led us through the jangal into a great meadow at the far end of which there was a ravine and a waterhole, by which were the carcasses of two water buffalo. The machans were balanced in the trees nearby, hidden in the leaves. The Major General, two gentlemen and a fleet of bearers carrying water bottles, drinks, metal trays of refreshments, and ammunition, climbed awkwardly into one. There was nothing for the Resident to do but to bring his spare guest to join us – along with a slightly smaller, but still lavish, contingent of servants with trays
of food and sherberts. Mr Crouch-Symington’s tight yellow face was a picture of vexation. He nodded slightly at us then positioned himself and his friend as far from us as possible. Hidden in the trees behind us were two
shikaris
on horseback, each brandishing a long spear. Despite myself, I began to feel excited. Blake looked out across the meadow.

‘What?’ I said.

‘I never thought there was much sport in rounding up creatures and driving them into an ambush.’

Mir Aziz had told us the beaters would start on the signal of a single gun-shot and then move forward in an orderly line without a break. But the shouts, drums and flashes suddenly came with no warning, from a ridge some way north of us. Falteringly, confusedly, the other beaters followed.

Order was lost almost at once. From our platform we could just see some sections advancing quickly in one direction to volleys of shots, and others holding back or moving in the opposite direction. There was no line. We waited.

‘You are gloominess itself, Blake,’ I said after a while.

‘I don’t like it,’ he said. ‘These hunts are usually organized with great care. This is not. With the line broken and all in disarray the creatures may turn back on the beaters.’

We waited for what seemed like a long while. Then from the east came a wild beating of drums and great shouting. It sounded as if something ill had occurred, but we could see nothing. We waited. The Resident and his guest helped themselves to their refreshments and murmured quietly to each other.

Then, out of the trees, a tiger came padding swiftly but calmly as you please, heading for the waterhole. I raised my gun, but as I did so, there was a cracking below us, and to my horror the machan listed and began to slide downwards. I could see the Major General’s party in their machan across the ravine, standing in consternation. The machan gave a shudder and jerked off its branch on to the ground. Blake, Mir Aziz, Sameer and I – all leaning against the paling that ran about each side of the machan so as to prevent one misstepping and falling out – grasped on to it and protected ourselves from
the worst of the fall, but I swear I felt its impact through every bone in my body.

The bearers – trays and broken glass about them – lay sprawled and dazed. But in a worse state were the Resident and his friend who had sat themselves away from us. They had both been flung through the air, out beyond the shelter of the tree, clear on to the ground, where they had fallen into crumpled heaps. Blake and I were stuck between a mass of broken branches and the paling of the machan, otherwise we would have run out to help them, but instead it was a mounted
shikari
who galloped out from the trees to their aid.

The collapse of the machan did not frighten the tiger one whit. It walked straight past the waterhole and the buffaloes, and on towards the Resident and his friend. Seeing this, the
shikari
swerved to distract or drive off the beast, but his horse was startled and the
shikari
was thrown down, his mount galloping terrified to the other end of the ravine. The two gentlemen had barely moved, while some of the bearers scrambled up but seemed uncertain where to run. Ahead of us the Major General’s party shrieked and called and someone loosed a bullet, to no effect. Mir Aziz and Sameer had by now managed to extricate us from the branches, and, somewhat stunned, I tried to stand up. Another shot went off.

The unhorsed
shikari
began to haul the Resident’s friend to his feet while shouting at the tiger and waving his sword, and the Resident slowly brought himself to his knees. The beast would not be distracted. It leapt towards the tumbled figures, grabbing the Resident by the neck. I thought I heard the man moan. The
shikari
rushed at it, thrusting with his sword, but the beast simply batted him out of its way, a claw ripping him from cheek to breast. Mir Aziz and Sameer shouted and ran past me. I could not take my eyes from the tiger. With Mr Crouch-Symington between its jaws, it turned and ran back into the forest.

The hair on my neck and arms rose, and I could hear my heart pumping in my ears. ‘I am going after it!’ I shouted to Blake, and I ran to where the creature had disappeared into the shadow.

‘Avery, you fucking half-wit!’ he shouted. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing! Damn you, Avery, stop!’ I heard him shouting in Hindoostanee at Mir Aziz and Sameer. I felt light-headed, and a bubble of laughter rose up through my chest.

‘Don’t worry,’ I shouted, ‘I’m an excellent shot! It’s all I’m good for!’ And I ran. It was not hard to see where the creature had gone. Its passage had left the grasses and twigs quite crushed, the victim’s body left wavy patterns in the mud and there was a light but regular spotting of blood. One part of me acknowledged how foolish I was being, yet another part felt absurdly confident, as if my sight and hearing had been miraculously enhanced, and some sixth sense allowed me to apprehend the whole jangal. I was sure the creature was some way ahead, but I slowed down. After some minutes I heard someone coming up behind me – the breathing and rhythm of the steps clearly human. Blake was holding his musket. ‘You bloody fool! Come back.’ I shook my head and smiled, pointing down.

‘You came after me,’ I said, and took a drink from my water bottle.

‘I left Mir Aziz to take care of the
shikari
and bearers and get them into the other machan,’ he said. ‘The other
shikari
rode off for help.’ He caught his breath. ‘I didn’t trust Sameer not to go charging off with you on some idiot pursuit. Your hand isn’t fit to shoot with.’

‘It is perfectly fine. We cannot go back. What about that poor fellow, the Resident?’

Blake looked at me.

‘Well, he’s a rather awful fellow,’ he said, ‘but we cannot leave him to the beast.’

He took a drink from his own canteen, and looked about. ‘These creatures are clever and unpredictable. This one has a taste for men and might easily be circling round behind us. It might be sitting behind that rock watching us. If there is more than one, the beaters will have riled them. Something has gone very wrong with this
shikar
. I had a bad feeling from the start. We should get back to the machan.’

I shook my head. ‘I will not leave that man to his fate. I am going on. Leave me to it, if you fear for yourself.’

He frowned and looked about. ‘You’re a fool, Avery.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Don’t point your gun at me. Make as little noise as possible. Don’t speak.’

I grinned. We stepped slowly forward. Some hundred yards up the path we found a pitiful shred of clothing and more blood. The tiger had stopped to rest and had taken a bite of its prey. The tracks – the pug marks – and the blood were clear to see, but on each side the grasses grew so high and the undergrowth was so thick that there could have been a dozen tigers not inches from me and I would never have seen them. Then the trail turned back on itself the way we had come. Blake was right: the creature might be just behind us.

It became peculiarly quiet, as if the jangal were holding its breath. There was just the sound of our feet breaking dead leaves and twigs, and the receding cries of the beaters. The usual chorus of morning birds had fallen silent. We walked on. From time to time there were skitterings and hooves in the undergrowth. Once a heavy black sambar deer leapt across the path ahead of us. From higher up in the trees came the occasional chatter of monkeys and birds sounding warning cries. Among the sal trees the strangler vines were doing their work.

The trees opened out into a small clearing, and I could see the sun through the leaves. A monkey was chattering, a high-pitched nicker. I heard Blake take a breath. I spun and levelled my gun, but there was nothing. Then, behind the curtain of leaves and vines, something padded past me. Without thinking I stepped backward, almost falling over Blake. ‘Look there,’ he said. Beyond us, under a tree, was a small sorry pile of flesh, bone, hair and clothing that had once been Mr Crouch-Symington.

Blake knelt by the remains. ‘You’re a fool and I’m another,’ he whispered. Then he tugged my arm and pointed at the pug marks around the body and raised two fingers. There were two distinct sets: one splayed; the other neater, as if pressing less heavily upon the ground. Two tigers. He pointed at a tree that looked easy
enough to climb and pushed me firmly towards it. One after the other we balanced our muskets on our backs and pulled ourselves up into the branches as high as we could, finding places to sit where we could watch the little clearing. After some time, there came a sound like a heavy cartwheel going over a grate; like gravel poured from a barrel; like a series of tuneless piano strings plucked: a sound I had never heard before, the sound of a tiger snarling. The noise came from a nest of boulders on the right side of the clearing. The beast growled intermittently and we sat silent in our tree. Then, deciding perhaps that we were not dangerous, or of any interest, or had gone, or that it could not wait another moment to feed, the creature walked out from behind its boulder.

It looked right and left as it went. It was a long creature, not in its first youth. Its coat was shaggy – even slightly mangy – and its stripes the colour of flame and charcoal. It padded over to the body, leaving me with a fine shot along its side, and I raised my gun. But just as I meant to pull the trigger, it sensed me and looked up. My barrel rustled through the leaves and I shot. I was sure the bullet had met its target. The creature flinched sideways, but then picked itself up and crashed out of the clearing.

I turned to Blake in apology. He pulled his hand through his hair, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

‘We must try to finish it off.’

I hung my head and slowly climbed down the tree. My arm throbbed dreadfully. I dared not look to see if the wound had reopened, and pulled my shirtsleeve down to cover it. At the bottom Blake told me to reload my gun.

We walked on, following the trail. I lost track of the hour, but the sun seemed high. Eventually, we reached a point where overhanging leaves hid the way forward. Blake put his face up to the leaves, and I did the same. I could see a large meadow that led distantly towards the ravine where our machan had formerly sat. Far off, much further than I would have expected, I could see the other machan high in the trees. It seemed to be empty.