Supping With Panthers (2 page)

I frowned. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it, sir.’

‘Not surprised, Moorfield, few have. Just look’ – he tapped at the map again – ‘see how remote it is. High up as hell, and with only a single road that leads to it – here. No other traversable way in – or out. We’ve always been content to leave it well alone – no strategic value, you see.’ He paused, then frowned. ‘Or so,’ he murmured, ‘we had always thought.’ His frown deepened. He stared at the map for a moment more; then he returned to his seat and leaned across to me. ‘We’re getting strange rumours, Moorfield. There’s something brooding there. A month ago, one of our agents came staggering in. He was pale as death and carved with scars, but he also brought us our first hard news. “I have seen them,” he whispered, as a look of the utmost horror crossed his face. “Kali.” Then he shut his eyes, as though too weak to utter what he wanted to say. “Kali,” he repeated. We left him alone, to get a good night’s sleep. The next morning…’ Colonel Rawlinson paused. His lean, bronzed face seemed suddenly pale. ‘The next morning’ – he cleared his throat – ‘we found him dead.’ He paused again. ‘Poor fellow had shot himself.’

‘Shot himself?’ I repeated in disbelief.

‘Straight through the heart. Damnedest mess you ever saw.’

‘Good God.’ I breathed in deeply. ‘What made him do it?’

‘That, Captain, is what we need you to find out.’

Suddenly, the room seemed very still. I felt those damned Hindoo gods gloating down at me. That we had a true mystery on our hands, I didn’t doubt. I knew full well how dangerous intelligence work could be, and how brave the fellows were who took it on. Such men were not in the habit of shooting themselves in a blind state of funk. Something must have got to the man.
Something.
But what? I looked up again at Rawlinson.

The Russians are involved in this business, then, you think, sir?’

Colonel Rawlinson nodded. ‘We know they are.’ He paused, then lowered his voice. ‘Two weeks ago, a second agent came in.’

‘Reliable?’

‘Oh, the best.’ Colonel Rawlinson nodded. ‘We call him Sri Sinh – the lion. Quite the best.’

‘He’d seen Ivans,’ said Pumper, leaning over to me. ‘Scores of the beggars, done up as natives, marching up the road to Kalikshutra.’

I frowned. Something had just occurred to me. ‘Kalikshutra,’ I repeated, turning back to Rawlinson. Tour first agent, sir – the one who died – if I remember correctly, he only referred to a “Kali”. Might it not be possible that he was talking of a quite different place?’

‘No,’ said the Babu, whose presence in the room had gone dean from my mind.

‘I beg your pardon?’ I said coldly, for I was not used to being spoken to thus by anyone, let alone a Bengali office-man. But the Babu seemed quite unperturbed by my glance of disdain; he stared back at me rudely, then scratched at his rump. ‘Kali is a Hindoo goddess,’ he said, for all the world like a schoolmaster addressing some boy who has been slow with his prep. ‘It is not a place.’

I must have looked hot at this, for Rawlinson cut me off pretty sharpish. ‘Huree is Professor of Sanskrit at Calcutta University,’ he said hurriedly, as though that served to justify anything. I stared at the man and he met my look, watching me with his insolent, fish-cold eyes.

‘I am only a simple Englishman,’ I said – and I flatter myself I made this sarcasm bite. ‘I make no pretence of learning, for the Army camp has been my teaching-ground. Clearly then, I must let you explain to me this link between Kali, the goddess, and Kalikshutra, the place, for I readily admit I don’t see it myself.’

The Babu bobbed his head. ‘It will be a pleasure, Captain.’

He shifted in his seat and, bending down, picked up a statue, a great black thing which he then placed on the table in front of me. This, Captain,’ he said, ‘is the goddess Kali.’

Well, thank Heaven I’m a Christian, was all I could think, for the goddess Kali was the most frightful-looking thing, and no mistake. Pitch-black body, as I’ve mentioned, with swords in her six hands and a tongue dyed like blood. She seemed to be dancing on the body of a man. And that was by no means the worst of it, for only when I looked closer did I see her belt and the garland round her neck. ‘Good Lord,’ I murmured involuntarily. Human hands hung bleeding from her waist, and the garland was made of freshly severed heads!

‘She has many names, Captain,’ said the Babu in my ear, ‘but always, she is Kali the Terrible.’

‘Well, I’m not surprised!’ I answered. ‘Just look at her!’

‘You misunderstand what such a title may mean.’ The Babu smiled slyly. ‘You must try to comprehend, please, Captain, that terror in our Hindoo philosophy is but an opening on to the absolute. What appals, inspires what destroys, can create. When we experience terror, Captain, we are made aware of what the sages call
shakti
eternal power – the feminine energy which underlies the universe.’

‘Are we, by George? You don’t say.’ Well, I’d never heard such rot in all my born days, of course, and I’m afraid I let it show, but the Babu did not seem offended in the slightest. He only gave me another oily smile. ‘You must try to see things as we poor heathens do, Captain,’ he murmured.

‘Why the devil should I?’

The Babu sighed. ‘Fear of the goddess, terror of her power – to you it is just bloody bunk, I know, but to others it is not. Therefore, Captain – know your enemy get into his mind. That – after all – is where Kali waits as well.’

Slowly, he bowed his head. He muttered some prayer under his breath. And then, as I watched, the Babu seemed to change before my eyes. It was the deucedest thing, but he seemed suddenly a soldier, possessed and cool, and when he spoke again he might have been lecturing the Chiefs of Staff. ‘I have asked you, Captain Moorfield, to appreciate the nature of the devotion that Kali can inspire, for it is likely to be your most potent foe. Do not scorn it, just because you find it abhorrent and strange. Piety can be as dangerous as your soldiers’ guns. Remember – only fifty years ago, Kali’s priests in Assam were offering up the goddess human sacrifice. Had you British not annexed their kingdom, they would doubtless be offering it up still. And the British, of course, have never conquered Kalikshutra. We cannot know what customs are still practised there.’

‘Good Lord,’ I exclaimed, scarcely able to believe my ears. ‘You surely don’t mean to say … not human sacrifice?’

The Babu shook his head. ‘I say nothing,’ he replied. ‘No agent of the Government has ever penetrated far enough. However…’ His voice trailed away. He paused to glance at the statue, at its necklace of skulls and the red on its tongue. ‘You asked about the link between the goddess and Kalikshutra,’ he murmured.

I nodded. I liked the fellow more now, and I could sense he was ready with something pretty hot. ‘Go on,’ I said.

‘Kalikshutra, Captain Moorfield, means – literally translated – “the land of Kali”.
^*
And yet’ – he paused – ‘it is an insult to my religion to say that Kalikshutra is Hindoo – for elsewhere in India the goddess is worshipped as a beneficent deity, the friend of man, the Mother of all the Universe…’

‘Whereas in Kalikshutra?’ I asked.

‘Whereas in Kalikshutra…’ Again the Babu paused, and stared at the statue’s grinning face. ‘In Kalikshutra, she is worshipped as Queen of the Demons.
Shmashana Kali!’
He spoke these words in a low whisper, and as he uttered them so the room seemed to darken and grow suddenly cold. ‘Kali of the Cremation Grounds, from whose mouth blood flows in a never-ending stream, and who dwells amongst the fiery places of the dead.’ And here the Babu swallowed, and spoke in a language I did not understand.
‘Vetala-pancha-Vinshati,’
I heard, repeated twice, and then the Babu swallowed again and his voice trailed away.

‘Sorry?’ said old Pumper after a decent pause.

‘Demons,’ replied the Babu shortly. ‘It is the phrase the villagers from the foothills use. An ancient Sanskrit term.’ He turned again to look at me. ‘And such is their fear of these demons, Captain, that the villagers who live below the heights of Kalikshutra refuse to take the road that would lead them there. And this is how we can be sure that the men our agent saw climbing up the road were not natives of the region, but foreigners.’ He paused, then wagged his finger in emphasis. ‘You understand me, Captain?
No natives would ever have taken that road.’

There was a silence and Rawlinson turned to study me. ‘You see the danger?’ he asked, a frown on his face. ‘We can’t have the Russians in Kalikshutra. Once they establish themselves in a place like that, they are near as damnation impregnable. And if they do set up a base -well, it will be on the very border of British India. Perilous, Moorfield – deadly perilous. I don’t think I need to emphasise that.’

‘No indeed, sir.’

‘We want you to recce those Ivans out’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You’ll leave tomorrow. Colonel Paxton will follow you the day after that with his regiment’

‘Yes, sir. And how many men will I have with me?’

‘Ten.’ I must have looked surprised, for Rawlinson smiled. ‘They’ll be good, Moorfield, you needn’t worry about that Remember – you are only going to spy out the lie of the land. If you can take on the Russians yourself, then well and good. If not’ – Rawlinson nodded at Pumper – ‘send for Colonel Paxton. He will be waiting at the base of the road; he’ll have men enough with him to sort the Russians out.’

‘With respect, sir…’

‘Yes?’

‘Why don’t we march in with the regiment at once?’

Rawlinson stroked the curve of his moustache. ‘Politics, Moorfield.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Rawlinson sighed. ‘This is a diplomat’s game as well, I’m afraid. London doesn’t want trouble on the border. In fact – and I shouldn’t be telling you this – we’ve already turned a blind eye to a number of infringements in the region. About three years ago – don’t know if you remember it – Lady Westcote was abducted, together with her daughter and twenty men.’

‘Lady Westcote.’

‘Wife of Lord Westcote, who had commanded in Kabul.’

‘Good Lord,’ I exclaimed, ‘who took her?’

‘We don’t know,’ replied Pumper, sitting up suddenly and looking angry. ‘Our attempts to investigate were cut short. Sat on by the politicos.’

Rawlinson glanced at him, then back at me. ‘The point is this,’ he said, ‘that the Raj can’t be seen marching in to places willy-nilly.’

‘Bit bloody late for that,’ said the Babu. The rest of us ignored him.

Colonel Rawlinson handed me a neatly bound file. ‘These are the best maps we’ve been able to run up. Not much good, I’m afraid. Also Professor Jyoti’s notes on the Kali cult, and the reports from Sri Sinh – our agent in the foothills – I mentioned him before, I think?’

‘Yes, sir, you did – the lion. Will he be there now?’

Colonel Rawlinson frowned. ‘If he is, Captain, then don’t expect to run into him. Intelligence men play to different rules. One chap you may care to look out for, however, is a doctor – an Englishman – goes by the name of John Eliot. He’s been working amongst the tribesmen up there for a couple of years now – setting up a hospital, that sort of thing. Won’t usually have anything to do with the colonial authorities – bit of a maverick, don’t you know? – but in this case he’s aware of your mission, Captain, and he’s game to help you if he can. Might be worth your while picking his brains. Got a lot of local knowledge. Speaks the lingo like a native, I’m told.’

I nodded, and made a jotting on the cover of the file. Then I rose, for I could see that my briefing was at an end. Before I left, though, Colonel Rawlinson shook my hand. ‘Good God, Moorfield,’ he said, ‘but duty is a stem thing.’

I looked him straight in the eye. ‘I shall try to do my best, sir,’ I replied. But even as I said this I was remembering the agent who had shot himself, the unknown terror which had led him to crack, and I wondered if my best would prove to be enough.

Such forebodings only made me the keener to set out, of course, for no one cares to sit around and frowst when there’s a bad business up ahead. Pumper Paxton, as an old hand himself, must have known how I was feeling, for he did me the great kindness of inviting me over to his bungalow that night, where we downed the old
chota peg
and yarned about old times. His wife was with him too, and his boy, young Timothy, a splendid chap who soon had me marching for him up and down the house. He was as promising a drill master as I had ever come across! We had a rare old time of it, for I had always been a favourite of young master Timothy’s, and I was not a little bucked that he still remembered me. When the time came for him to retire to bed, I sat reading him yams from some adventure book and I thought, watching him, how one day Timothy would do his father proud.

‘That’s a fine boy you have,’ I told Pumper afterwards. ‘He reminds me of why I wear this uniform.’

Pumper pressed my arm. ‘Nonsense, old man,’ he said, ‘you have never needed reminding of that’

I retired to bed in good spirits that night When I woke up next morning at the crack of dawn, it was as though my dark imaginings had never been. I was ready for the fray.

We journeyed from Simla along the great mountain road. My soldiers, as Colonel Rawlinson had promised they would be, were good men, and we made rapid speed. For almost a month, as we travelled, I could well believe what has often been claimed – that there is nowhere more lovely in all the world, for the air was fresh, the vegetation glorious, and the Himalayas above us seemed to reach up to the sky. I remembered that these mountains were worshipped by the Hindoos as the home of the gods – passing below the stupendous peaks, I could well see why, for they seemed charged with a sense of great mystery and power.

At length, though, the scenery began to change. As we drew nearer to Kalikshutra it grew harsher and steadily more desolate, yet at the same time it was none the less sublime, so that the bleakness of the landscape served only to fill my thoughts. One evening, quite late, we reached the junction with the Kalikshutra road. A village straggled away from it, mean and poor, but still with the promise of human life, something we had not met with now for almost a week. When we entered the village, however, we found it deserted, and not even a dog was there to welcome us. My men were reluctant to bivouac there – said it gave them a bad feeling – and your soldier’s second-sense is often pretty good. I too was keen to press on to our goal and so that same evening, though the sun had almost set, we began our march up the Kalikshutra road. Around the first steep comer, we passed a statue painted black. The stone had been worn away and had scarcely any features at all, but I could recognise the trace of skulls around the neck and knew whose image the statue represented. Flowers had been laid at the goddess’s feet.