The Mark Of The Beast

 

YOUR Gods and my Gods — do you or I know which are the stronger?

Native proverb.

East of Suez, some hold, the direct control of Providence ceases; Man being there
handed over to the power of the Gods and Devils of Asia, and the Church of England
Providence only exercising an occasional and modified supervision in the case of
Englishmen.
This theory accounts for some of the more unnecessary horrors of life in India: it
may be stretched to explain my story.
My friend Strickland of the Police, who knows as much of natives of India as is
good for any man, can bear witness to the facts of the case. Dumoise, our doctor, also
saw what Strickland and I saw. The inference which he drew from the evidence was
entirely incorrect. He is dead now; he died, in a rather curious manner, which has
been elsewhere described.
When Fleete came to India he owned a little money and some land in the
Himalayas, near a place called Dharmsala. Both properties had been left him by an
uncle, and he came out to finance them. He was a big, heavy, genial, and inoffensive
man. His knowledge of natives was, of course, limited, and he complained of the
difficulties of the language.
He rode in from his place in the hills to spend New Year in the station, and he
stayed with Strickland. On New Year’s Eve there was a big dinner at the club, and the
night was excusably wet. When men foregather from the uttermost ends of the
Empire, they have a right to be riotous. The Frontier had sent down a contingent o’
Catch-’em-Alive-O’s who had not seen twenty white faces for a year, and were used
to ride fifteen miles to dinner at the next Fort at the risk of a Khyberee bullet where
their drinks should lie. They profited by their new security, for they tried to play pool
with a curled-up hedgehog found in the garden, and one of them carried the marker
round the room in his teeth. Half a dozen planters had come in from the south and
were talking ‘horse’ to the Biggest Liar in Asia, who was trying to cap all their stories
at once. Everybody was there, and there was a general closing up of ranks and taking
stock of our losses in dead or disabled that had fallen during the past year. It was a
very wet night, and I remember that we sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’ with our feet in the
Polo Championship Cup, and our heads among the stars, and swore that we were all
dear friends. Then some of us went away and annexed Burma, and some tried to open
up the Soudan and were opened up by Fuzzies in that cruel scrub outside Suakim, and
some found stars and medals, and some were married, which was bad, and some did
other things which were worse, and the others of us stayed in our chains and strove
to make money on insufficient experiences.
Fleete began the night with sherry and bitters, drank champagne steadily up to
dessert, then raw, rasping Capri with all the strength of whisky, took Benedictine with
his coffee, four or five whiskies and sodas to improve his pool strokes, beer and bones
at half-past two, winding up with old brandy. Consequently, when he came out, at
half-past three in the morning, into fourteen degrees of frost, he was very angry with
his horse for coughing, and tried to leapfrog into the saddle. The horse broke away
and went to his stables; so Strickland and I formed a Guard of Dishonour to take
Fleete home.
Our road lay through the bazaar, close to a little temple of Hanuman, the
Monkey-god, who is a leading divinity worthy of respect. All gods have good points,
just as have all priests. Personally, I attach much importance to Hanuman, and am
kind to his people — the great gray apes of the hills. One never knows when one may
want a friend.
There was a light in the temple, and as we passed, we could hear voices of men
chanting hymns. In a native temple, the priests rise at all hours of the night to do
honour to their god. Before we could stop him, Fleete dashed up the steps, patted two
priests on the back, and was gravely grinding the ashes of his cigar-butt into the
forehead of the red stone image of Hanuman. Strickland tried to drag him out, but he
sat down and said solemnly:
“Shee that? Mark of the B-beasht! I made it. Ishn’t it fine?”
In half a minute the temple was alive and noisy, and Strickland, who knew what
came of polluting gods, said that things might occur. He, by virtue of his official
position, long residence in the country, and weakness for going among the natives,
was known to the priests and he felt unhappy. Fleete sat on the ground and refused to
move. He said that ‘good old Hanuman’ made a very soft pillow.
Then, without any warning, a Silver Man came out of a recess behind the image of
the god. He was perfectly naked in that bitter, bitter cold, and his body shone like
frosted silver, for he was what the Bible calls ‘a leper as white as snow.’ Also he had no
face, because he was a leper of some years’ standing and his disease was heavy upon
him. We two stooped to haul Fleete up, and the temple was filling and filling with folk
who seemed to spring from the earth, when the Silver Man ran in under our arms,
making a noise exactly like the mewing of an otter, caught Fleete round the body and
dropped his head on Fleete’s breast before we could wrench him away. Then he
retired to a corner and sat mewing while the crowd blocked all the doors.
The priests were very angry until the Silver Man touched Fleete. That nuzzling
seemed to sober them.
At the end of a few minutes’ silence one of the priests came to Strickland and said,
in perfect English, “Take your friend away. He has done with Hanuman, but Hanurnan
has not done with him.” The crowd gave room and we carried Fleete into the road.
Strickland was very angry. He said that we might all three have been knifed, and
that Fleete should thank his stars that he had escaped without injury.
Fleete thanked no one. He said that he wanted to go to bed. He was gorgeously
drunk.
We moved on, Strickland silent and wrathful, until Fleete was taken with violent
shivering fits and sweating. He said that the smells of the bazaar were overpowering,
and he wondered why slaughter-houses were permitted so near English residences.
“Can’t you smell the blood?”said Fleete.
We put him to bed at last, just as the dawn was breaking, and Strickland invited
me to have another whisky and soda. While we were drinking he talked of the trouble
in the temple, and admitted that it baffled him completely. Strickland hates being
mystified by natives, because his business in life is to overmatch them with their own
weapons. He has not yet succeeded in doing this, but in fifteen or twenty years he will
have made some small progress.
“They should have mauled us,” he said, “instead of mewing at us. I wonder what
they meant. I don’t like it one little bit.”
I said that the Managing Committee of the temple would in all probability bring a
criminal action against us for insulting their religion. There was a section of the
Indian Penal Code which exactly met Fleete’s offence. Strickland said he only hoped
and prayed that they would do this. Before I left I looked into Fleete’s room, and saw
him lying on his right side, scratching his left breast. Then. I went to bed cold,
depressed, and unhappy, at seven o’clock in the morning.
At one o’clock I rode over to Strickland’s house to inquire after Fleete’s head. I
imagined that it would be a sore one. Fleete was breakfasting and seemed unwell. His
temper was gone, for he was abusing the cook for not supplying him with an
underdone chop. A man who can eat raw meat after a wet night is a curiosity. I told
Fleete this and he laughed.
“You breed queer mosquitoes in these parts,” he said. “I’ve been bitten to pieces,
but only in one place.”
“Let’s have a look at the bite,” said Strickland. “It may have gone down since this
morning.”
While the chops were being cooked, Fleete opened his shirt and showed us, just
over his left breast, a mark, the perfect double of the black rosettes — the five or six
irregular blotches arranged in a circle — on a leopard’s hide. Strickland looked and
said, “It was only pink this morning. It’s grown black now.”
Fleete ran to a glass.
“By Jove!” he said, “this is nasty. What is it?”
We could not answer. Here the chops came in, all red and juicy, and Fleete bolted
three in a most offensive manner. He ate on his right grinders only, and threw his
head over his right shoulder as he snapped the meat. When he had finished, it struck
him that he had been behaving strangely, for he said apologetically, “I don’t think I
ever felt so hungry in my life. I’ve bolted like an ostrich.”
After breakfast Strickland said to me, “Don’t go. Stay here, and stay for the night.”
Seeing that my house was not three miles from Strickland’s, this request was
absurd. But Strickland insisted, and was going to say something when Fleete
interrupted by declaring in a shamefaced way that he felt hungry again. Strickland
sent a man to my house to fetch over my bedding and a horse, and we three went
down to Strickland’s stables to pass the hours until it was time to go out for a ride.
The man who has a weakness for horses never wearies of inspecting them; and when
two men are killing time in this way they gather knowledge and lies the one from the
other.
There were five horses in the stables, and I shall never forget the scene as we
tried to look them over. They seemed to have gone mad. They reared and screamed
and nearly tore up their pickets; they sweated and shivered and lathered and were
distraught with fear. Strickland’s horses used to know him as well as his dogs; which
made the matter more curious. We left the stable for fear of the brutes throwing
themselves in their panic. Then Strickland turned back and called me. The horses
were still frightened, but they let us ‘gentle’ and make much of them, and put their
heads in our bosoms.
“They aren’t afraid of US,” said Strickland. “D”you know, I”d give three months”
pay if OUTRAGE here could talk.”
But Outrage was dumb, and could only cuddle up to his master and blow out his
nostrils, as is the custom of horses when they wish to explain things but can’t. Fleete
came up when we were in the stalls, and as soon as the horses saw him, their fright
broke out afresh. It was all that we could do to escape from the place unkicked.
Strickland said, “They don’t seem to love you, Fleete.”
“Nonsense,” said Fleete; “my mare will follow me like a dog.” He went to her; she
was in a loose-box; but as he slipped the bars she plunged, knocked him down, and
broke away into the garden. I laughed, but Strickland was not amused. He took his
moustache in both fists and pulled at it till it nearly came out. Fleete, instead of going
off to chase his property, yawned, saying that he felt sleepy. He went to the house to
lie down, which was a foolish way of spending New Year’s Day.
Strickland sat with me in the stables and asked if I had noticed anything peculiar
in Fleete’s manner. I said that he ate his food like a beast; but that this might have
been the result of living alone in the hills out of the reach of society as refined and
elevating as ours for instance. Strickland was not amused. I do not think that he
listened to me, for his next sentence referred to the mark on Fleete’s breast, and I
said that it might have been caused by blister-flies, or that it was possibly a birth-
mark newly born and now visible for the first time. We both agreed that it was
unpleasant to look at, and Strickland found occasion to say that I was a fool.
“I can’t tell you what I think now,” said he, “because you would call me a madman;
but you must stay with me for the next few days, if you can. I want you to watch
Fleete, but don’t tell me what you think till I have made up my mind.”
“But I am dining out to-night,” I said. “So am I,” said Strickland, “and so is Fleete.
At least if he doesn’t change his mind.”
We walked about the garden smoking, but saying nothing — because we were
friends, and talking spoils good tobacco — till our pipes were out. Then we went to
wake up Fleete. He was wide awake and fidgeting about his room.
“I say, I want some more chops,” he said. “Can I get them?”
We laughed and said, “Go and change. The ponies will be round in a minute.”
“All right,” said Fleete. “I’ll go when I get the chops — underdone ones, mind.”
He seemed to be quite in earnest. It was four o’clock, and we had had breakfast at
one; still, for a long time, he demanded those underdone chops. Then he changed into
riding clothes and went out into the verandah. His pony — the mare had not been
caught — would not let him come near. All three horses were unmanageable — mad
with fear — and finally Fleete said that he would stay at home and get something to
eat. Strickland and I rode out wondering. As we passed the temple of Hanuman, the
Silver Man came out and mewed at us.
“He is not one of the regular priests of the temple,” said Strickland. “I think I
should peculiarly like to lay my hands on him.”
There was no spring in our gallop on the racecourse that evening. The horses
were stale, and moved as though they had been ridden out.
“The fright after breakfast has been too much for them,” said Strickland.
That was the only remark he made through the remainder of the ride. Once or
twice I think he swore to himself; but that did not count.
We came back in the dark at seven o’clock, and saw that there were no lights in
the bungalow. “Careless ruffians my servants are!” said Strickland.
My horse reared at something on the carriage drive, and Fleete stood up under its
nose.
“What are you doing, grovelling about the garden?” said Strickland.
But both horses bolted and nearly threw us. We dismounted by the stables and
returned to Fleete, who was on his hands and knees under the orange-bushes.
“What the devil’s wrong with you?” said Strickland.
“Nothing, nothing in the world,” said Fleete, speaking very quickly and thickly.
“I’ve been gardening-botanising you know. The smell of the earth is delightful. I think
I’m going for a walk-a long walk-all night.”
Then I saw that there was something excessively out of order somewhere, and I
said to Strickland, “I am not dining out.”
“Bless you!” said Strickland. “Here, Fleete, get up. You’ll catch fever there. Come in
to dinner and let’s have the lamps lit. We’ll all dine at home.”
Fleete stood up unwillingly, and said, “No lamps-no lamps. It’s much nicer here.
Let’s dine outside and have some more chops-lots of ‘em and underdone — bloody
ones with gristle.”
Now a December evening in Northern India is bitterly cold, and Fleete’s
suggestion was that of a maniac.
“Come in,” said Strickland sternly. “Come in at once.”
Fleete came, and when the lamps were brought, we saw that he was literally
plastered with dirt from head to foot. He must have been rolling in the garden. He
shrank from the light and went to his room. His eyes were horrible to look at. There
was a green light behind them, not in them, if you understand, and the man’s lower lip
hung down.
Strickland said, “There is going to be trouble-big trouble-to-night. Don’t you
change your riding-things.”
We waited and waited for Fleete’s reappearance, and ordered dinner in the
meantime. We could hear him moving about his own room, but there was no light
there. Presently from the room came the long-drawn howl of a wolf.
People write and talk lightly of blood running cold and hair standing up and things
of that kind. Both sensations are too horrible to be trifled with. My heart stopped as
though a knife had been driven through it, and Strickland turned as white as the
tablecloth.
The howl was repeated, and was answered by another howl far across the fields.
That set the gilded roof on the horror. Strickland dashed into Fleete’s room. I
followed, and we saw Fleete getting out of the window. He made beast-noises in the
back of his throat. He could not answer us when we shouted at him. He spat.
I don’t quite remember what followed, but I think that Strickland must have
stunned him with the long boot-jack or else I should never have been able to sit on
his chest. Fleete could not speak, he could only snarl, and his snarls were those of a
wolf, not of a man. The human spirit must have been giving way all day and have died
out with the twilight. We were dealing with a beast that had once been Fleete.
The affair was beyond any human and rational experience. I tried to say
“Hydrophobia,” but the word wouldn’t come, because I knew that I was lying.
We bound this beast with leather thongs of the punkah-rope, and tied its thumbs
and big toes together, and gagged it with a shoe-horn, which makes a very efficient
gag if you know how to arrange it. Then we carried it into the dining-room, and sent a
man to Dumoise, the doctor, telling him to come over at once. After we had
despatched the messenger and were drawing breath, Strickland said, “It’s no good.
This isn’t any doctor’s work.” I, also, knew that he spoke the truth.
The beast’s head was free, and it threw it about from side to side. Any one
entering the room would have believed that we were curing a wolf’s pelt. That was the
most loathsome accessory of all.
Strickland sat with his chin in the heel of his fist, watching the beast as it wriggled
on the ground, but saying nothing. The shirt had been torn open in the scuffle and
showed the black rosette mark on the left breast. It stood out like a blister.
In the silence of the watching we heard something without mewing like a she-
otter. We both rose to our feet, and, I answer for myself, not Strickland, felt sick —
actually and physically sick. We told each other, as did the men in Pinafore, that it was
the cat.
Dumoise arrived, and I never saw a little man so unprofessionally shocked. He
said that it was a heart-rending case of hydrophobia, and that nothing could be done.
At least any palliative measures would only prolong the agony. The beast was foaming
at the mouth. Fleete, as we told Dumoise, had been bitten by dogs once or twice. Any
man who keeps half a dozen terriers must expect a nip now and again. Dumoise could
offer no help. He could only certify that Fleete was dying of hydrophobia. The beast
was then howling, for it had managed to spit out the shoe-horn. Dumoise said that he
would be ready to certify to the cause of death, and that the end was certain. He was
a good little man, and he offered to remain with us; but Strickland refused the
kindness. He did not wish to poison Dumoise’s New Year. He would only ask him not
to give the real cause of Fleete’s death to the public.
So Dumoise left, deeply agitated; and as soon as the noise of the cart-wheels had
died away, Strickland told me, in a whisper, his suspicions. They were so wildly
improbable that he dared not say them out aloud; and I, who entertained all
Strickland’s beliefs, was so ashamed of owning to them that I pretended to disbelieve.
“Even if the Silver Man had bewtiched Fleete for polluting the image of Hanuman,
the punishment could not have fallen so quickly.”
As I was whispering this the cry outside the house rose again, and the beast fell
into a fresh paroxysm of struggling till we were afraid that the thongs that held it
would give way.
“Watch!” said Strickland. “If this happens six times I shall take the law into my own
hands. I order you to help me.”
He went into his room and came out in a few minutes with the barrels of an old
shot-gun, a piece of fishing-line, some thick cord, and his heavy wooden bedstead. I
reported that the convulsions had followed the cry by two seconds in each case, and
the beast seemed perceptibly weaker.
Strickland muttered, “But he can’t take away the life! He can’t take away the life!”
I said, though I knew that I was arguing against myself, “It may be a cat. It must be
a cat. If the Silver Man is responsible, why does he dare to come here?”
Strickland arranged the wood on the hearth, put the gun-barrels into the glow of
the fire, spread the twine on the table and broke a walking stick in two. There was
one yard of fishing line, gut, lapped with wire, such as is used for mahseer-fishing,
and he tied the two ends together in a loop.
Then he said, “How can we catch him? He must be taken alive and unhurt.”
I said that we must trust in Providence, and go out softly with polo-sticks into the
shrubbery at the front of the house. The man or animal that made the cry was
evidently moving round the house as regularly as a night-watchman. We could wait in
the bushes till he came by and knock him over.
Strickland accepted this suggestion, and we slipped out from a bath-room
window into the front verandah and then across the carriage drive into the bushes.
In the moonlight we could see the leper coming round the corner of the house.
He was perfectly naked, and from time to time he mewed and stopped to dance with
his shadow. It was an unattractive sight, and thinking of poor Fleete, brought to such
degradation by so foul a creature, I put away all my doubts and resolved to help
Strickland from the heated gun-barrels to the loop of twine-from the loins to the
head and back again — with all tortures that might be needful.
The leper halted in the front porch for a moment and we jumped out on him with
the sticks. He was wonderfully strong, and we were afraid that he might escape or be
fatally injured before we caught him. We had an idea that lepers were frail creatures,
but this proved to be incorrect. Strickland knocked his legs from under him and I put
my foot on his neck. He mewed hideously, and even through my riding-boots I could
feel that his flesh was not the flesh of a clean man.
He struck at us with his hand and feet-stumps. We looped the lash of a dog-whip
round him, under the armpits, and dragged him backwards into the hall and so into
the dining-room where the beast lay. There we tied him with trunk-straps. He made
no attempt to escape, but mewed.
When we confronted him with the beast the scene was beyond description. The
beast doubled backwards into a bow as though he had been poisoned with strychnine,
and moaned in the most pitiable fashion. Several other things happened also, but they
cannot be put down here.
“I think I was right,” said Strickland. “Now we will ask him to cure this case.”
But the leper only mewed. Strickland wrapped a towel round his hand and took
the gun-barrels out of the fire. I put the half of the broken walking stick through the
loop of fishing-line and buckled the leper comfortably to Strickland’s bedstead. I
understood then how men and women and little children can endure to see a witch
burnt alive; for the beast was moaning on the floor, and though the Silver Man had no
face, you could see horrible feelings passing through the slab that took its place,
exactly as waves of heat play across red-hot iron — gun-barrels for instance.
Strickland shaded his eyes with his hands for a moment and we got to work. This
part is not to be printed.
The dawn was beginning to break when the leper spoke. His mewings had not
been satisfactory up to that point. The beast had fainted from exhaustion and the
house was very still. We unstrapped the leper and told him to take away the evil spirit.
He crawled to the beast and laid his hand upon the left breast. That was all. Then he
fell face down and whined, drawing in his breath as he did so.
We watched the face of the beast, and saw the soul of Fleete coming back into the
eyes. Then a sweat broke out on the forehead and the eyes-they were human eyes —
closed. We waited for an hour but Fleete still slept. We carried him to his room and
bade the leper go, giving him the bedstead, and the sheet on the bedstead to cover his
nakedness, the gloves and the towels with which we had touched him, and the whip
that had been hooked round his body. He put the sheet about him and went out into
the early morning without speaking or mewing.
Strickland wiped his face and sat down. A night-gong, far away in the city, made
seven o’clock.
“Exactly four-and-twenty hours!” said Strickland. “And I’ve done enough to ensure
my dismissal from the service, besides permanent quarters in a lunatic asylum. Do
you believe that we are awake?”
The red-hot gun-barrel had fallen on the floor and was singeing the carpet. The
smell was entirely real.
That morning at eleven we two together went to wake up Fleete. We looked and
saw that the black leopard-rosette on his chest had disappeared. He was very drowsy
and tired, but as soon as he saw us, he said, “Oh! Confound you fellows. Happy New
Year to you. Never mix your liquors. I’m nearly dead.”
“Thanks for your kindness, but you’re over time,” said Strickland. “Today is the
morning of the second. You’ve slept the clock round with a vengeance.”
The door opened, and little Dumoise put his head in. He had come on foot, and
fancied that we were laving out Fleete.
“I’ve brought a nurse,” said Dumoise. “I suppose that she can come in for... what is
necessary.”
“By all means,” said Fleete cheerily, sitting up in bed. “Bring on your nurses.”
Dumoise was dumb. Strickland led him out and explained that there must have
been a mistake in the diagnosis. Dumoise remained dumb and left the house hastily.
He considered that his professional reputation had been injured, and was inclined to
make a personal matter of the recovery. Strickland went out too. When he came back,
he said that he had been to call on the Temple of Hanuman to offer redress for the
pollution of the god, and had been solemnly assured that no white man had ever
touched the idol and that he was an incarnation of all the virtues labouring under a
delusion.
“What do you think?” said Strickland.
I said, “There are more things . . .”
But Strickland hates that quotation. He says that I have worn it threadbare.
One other curious thing happened which frightened me as much as anything in all
the night’s work. When Fleete was dressed he came into the dining-room and sniffed.
He had a quaint trick of moving his nose when he sniffed. “Horrid doggy smell, here,”
said he. “You should really keep those terriers of yours in better order. Try sulphur,
Strick.”
But Strickland did not answer. He caught hold of the back of a chair, and, without
warning, went into an amazing fit of hysterics. It is terrible to see a strong man
overtaken with hysteria. Then it struck me that we had fought for Fleete’s soul with
the Silver Man in that room, and had disgraced ourselves as Englishmen for ever, and
I laughed and gasped and gurgled just as shamefully as Strickland, while Fleete
thought that we had both gone mad. We never told him what we had done.
Some years later, when Strickland had married and was a church-going member
of society for his wife’s sake, we reviewed the incident dispassionately, and Strickland
suggested that I should put it before the public.
I cannot myself see that this step is likely to clear up the mystery; because, in the
first place, no one will believe a rather unpleasant story, and, in the second, it is well
known to every right-minded man that the gods of the heathen are stone and brass,
and any attempt to deal with them otherwise is justly condemned.

Rudyard Kipling, The Mark Of The Beast.  1890. 

Art by the immortal Johnny Craig. Creepy #19, 1968:

http://thehorrorsofitall.blogspot.com/2010/06/mark-of-beast-johnny-craig.html