Neil Gaiman: Shadows over Baker Street

Thick leaves and fronds brushed the flanks of our elephants as they stepped out of the cool of the jungle and into more dappled shade. The ground cover cracked under their feet as we emerged from the sal trees into a small meadow. From there, we could catch a glimpse of the grasslands sweeping down a great, horseshoe-shaped valley to the banks of the Banjar River.

“This heat is beastly, Mr. Larssen!” the count complained.

I glanced across the red-and-gold knotted carpets spanning the broad back of the elephant we shared with Miss Adler. I sweated even in my shaded perch, and I did not envy the mahouts perched astride the beasts’ necks in the brutal light of the sun, but I presumed they must be more accustomed by blood and habituation to this barbarous calescence. “It is India, Count,” I replied—perhaps more dryly than necessary.

“And the insects are intolerable.” Kolinzcki’s humor did not seem to extend to irony. I raised an eyebrow and returned my attention to the trail, keeping my pot gun to hand and an eye out for edible game, as the beaters took a large portion of their pay in meat.

My mind drifted as I sought any spoor or scat of our quarry. A strange, oppressive silence hung on the air, and there was no trace of moisture upon the breeze. I felt a chill of unease upon my neck—or perhaps it was only the shade of the trees as our mounts carried us back down the jungle trail.

I felt the need to break the uncanny quietude. “The tiger,” I said to Miss Adler and her companion, “is the true king of the jungle. No mere lion can compare to him for ferocity, intelligence, or courage. He fears nothing and will easily turn the tables on a hunter.”

“That is why we ride elephants?” The Lithuanian’s accent could have been better, but his speech was comprehensible.

I nodded. “Tigers respect elephants, and the reverse is true as well. One will not trouble the oth—”

A great outcry among the monkeys and the birds in the jungle on our left ended my lecture. I heard an intermittent crashing in the bamboo as an antelope sprinted away. Our tiger was on the move.

Our beaters fanned toward the jungle, several of them disappearing from sight among the trees. One or two glanced back at us before vanishing into the brush, understandably apprehensive: there was at least one tiger in that cover who had learned the taste of man.

I directed the mahouts back to the clearing, where we could intercept the line of beaters. The good doctor and von Hammerstein were mounted on the second beast, and Mr. Waterhouse with his two sons rode the final one. Rodney walked alongside with a cargo of rifles. Count Kolinzcki fumbled with his gun, and I made a note to myself to keep an eye on the Lithuanian, in case he should require assistance. Miss Adler quietly and efficiently broke her under/over Winchester and made it ready on her own.

We reached the clearing in good order and took a moment to array ourselves. The cries of the beaters rang out— “bAgha! bAgha!” —“Tiger! Tiger!”

She was within their net and moving toward us. Miss Adler drew a deep breath to steady herself, and I restrained myself from laying a hand on her shoulder to calm her. A glance at her lovely face, however, showed only quiet resolve.

Von Hammerstein also readied his gun, as did the Waterhouses and the doctor. Not intending to shoot, I foolishly failed to exchange the bolt-action .303 Martini-Lee for my double rifle.

The moment stretched into silence. I found myself counting my breaths, gaze fixed on the wall of brush. “Mir Shikar,” von Hammerstein began—luckily, for as I turned toward my stout and stalwart old friend, I saw the tigress lunge.

The tricky old killer had somehow doubled back and come up upon our flank. She was too close, perhaps a stride away. She made one gigantic bound out of the brush and was airborne even as I whipped my rifle around.

In that instant, my eye photographed her—the twisted forefoot, the sad traces of mange and hunger, the frantic golden eye—and my finger tightened on the trigger.

To no avail. With a hollow click, the rifle failed to discharge. It seemed an eon as I worked the bolt—jammed—and tossed it aside, extending my hand down to Rodney for the .534 Egyptian. In the instant before my fingers closed on the warm Turkish walnut of the stock, I heard two weapons roar and sudden plumes of acrid white smoke tattered in the hot breeze. The shots caught the tigress in side and breast, tumbling her over and backward.

She dragged herself upright, and Mr. Waterhouse fired as well, squinting along the barrel like a professional as he put a third and final bullet into the defiant cat. She made a little coughing sound and expired, her body going fluid in each joint.

I glanced around before sliding off my elephant. Miss Adler had broken her Winchester and was calmly replacing the cartridge she had expended into the creature’s breast. Von Hammerstein was also dismounting his beast, keeping his weapon at the ready in case he was forced to fire again.

I bent over to examine the kill, and found myself straightening abruptly, scanning the jungle for any sign of movement. I saw only our returning beaters.

Von Hammerstein saw it and laid a questioning eye on me.

“Her teeth,” I said thickly. “There must be a second cat. This one might bring down a man, but she could never manage a bullock. Not with that crippled foot, and the ruined teeth.”

It was then that I heard a sound like a throbbing drumbeat, distant but distinct. I did not know what made it, and my curiosity was piqued.

I would give anything to have remained so ignorant.

Three of the beaters did not come out of the woods, nor were their bodies found.

A search until nightfall failed to turn up the men—or, in fact, any trace of a second tiger. Reluctantly, we reunited and turned for the camp, our beaters muttering in dissatisfaction. We resolved to resume the hunt in the morning, and hopefully find traces of the victims and whatever cat had taken them. Dr. Montleroy did get a lucky shot at a leopard, and brought it down, so we had two trophies: the elderly tigress, and a beautiful spotted cat perhaps seven feet in length.

Dinner that night was a somber affair, despite the excellent food: bread of a flat sort stuffed with potato, vegetables curried with tomato and onion, mutton spiced and baked in a clay pot. It was a great relief when the Lithuanian Count pressed Miss Adler to entertain us by singing, and she obliged. Even without accompaniment, her contralto was superb and much relieved our heavy hearts.

My sleep, when it came, was troubled by the sounds of a quiet argument nearby—the voice of Miss Adler demanding, “But you must give it back to me!” And a male rumble—stubborn, I thought—replying. A lovers’ quarrel, perhaps.

I am not sure what brought me from my cot, other than the sort of prurience that a man does not like to admit. I wondered what he had of hers, of course, and a gentleman does not leave a lady alone in a tight spot, even when that lady is an adventuress.

It was Kolinzcki whom she argued with, for I recognized his voice as I moved closer to the wall of my tent, feeling my way barefoot in the unrelieved darkness. He switched languages, and she followed. I was surprised to be able to understand them somewhat, for I speak no Lithuanian. But the disagreement they conducted in low tones was in Russian, and that language I have a fair command of.

“It was not yours to take,” Miss Adler whispered, urgency resonating in her trained voice. “Do you know what you’ll be unleashing?”

“It is unleashed already,” Kolinzcki replied. “I merely bring our noble friends the means to control it.”

She sighed, the harsh Russian tongue taking on a certain fluidity when she spoke it. “It is not so simple as that, and you know it. It will be a great embarrassment for my friends in Prague if I cannot return their property. If it seems they are cooperating with the Tsar, it will go hard for them.”