9

Alvarez thought it unwise to linger so close to the volcano. Leaving the vicinity of Oldoinyo Lengai’s smoking peak, they began to move further west. The fire had not so much as touched the dense forest in that direction; the monsoon rains had made it all the more impenetrable, a thick tangle of small trees, plants, and vines. Countless streams and mountain rivers, large and small, flowed through this land, not one of which was familiar to Alvarez.

They now came to a place where they were surrounded by hills of limestone and granite, both great and small, and the face of every hill was pocked with caves of various sizes. The natural landscape here was rather different from the typical scenery of the Richtersveld. The woods were not as thick, but immense trees grew all around, with hills and caves scattered here and there.

They pitched their tent atop a high, mound-like granite hill. Ever since arriving, Shankar had felt that there was something not right about the place. A vague disquiet, a premonition of some imminent danger that he could neither properly grasp himself nor convey to Alvarez.

One day, Alvarez said, “It’s no use, Shankar. We’re just going in circles in this forest. I saw that tree again today—the one with ‘D.A.’ carved on it. And yet, you’ll remember, we’ve been pushing as far west as we can for the last fifteen days. How could we possibly be back at that same tree?”

“What do we do now, then?” Shankar asked.

“There is a way. Tonight I’ll climb a tall tree and determine our direction from the stars. You stay in the tent.”

There was one thing Shankar could not understand. If they had been walking in circles, how had they come to this region of low hills and caves? He felt certain they had never been here before. In response, Alvarez said that after seeing the name carved on the tree, he had not tried to explore any further to the east. Had they come just two miles in that direction, they would have reached this very spot.

That night, Shankar sat alone in the tent, reading Bankimchandra’s Rajsingha. It was the only Bengali book he had brought with him from home, and though he had read it many times, he would read it again whenever he had the chance.

How far away was India, and within it, Chittor, Mewar, the conflict between the Mughals and the Rajputs! Sitting here in the heart of this unknown continent’s vast, unknown jungle, it all felt so unreal.

Suddenly, he heard what sounded like footsteps outside the tent. At first, Shankar thought it might be Alvarez, returning from the tree—but in the next instant, he knew this was not the normal sound of human footfalls. It was the kind of sound one might make if they had sacks tied to their feet and were dragging them along the ground with a lame, shuffling gait. Alvarez’s Winchester repeater was close at hand; he picked it up and aimed it towards the tent’s entrance. Outside, the footsteps stopped for a moment—then reappeared, moving from the right side of the tent to the left. He could hear the heavy, laboured breathing of some large animal—just as had happened that one night when they were crossing the mountains, exactly the same sound. A little frightened, Shankar lost his composure and fired the rifle. Once… twice.

In reply, two minutes later, came two revolver shots from the top of a distant tree. Alvarez must have thought Shankar was in danger—why else would he fire his gun for no reason in the night? He was probably climbing down in a hurry.

Meanwhile, the creature, likely scared off by the gunshots from all sides, had gone silent and fled. Shankar, lighting his torch, stepped outside the tent, thinking he would signal to Alvarez not to come down from the tree. At that very moment, from some distance away in the woods, he suddenly heard two more pistol shots, and with them, an indistinct cry.

Shankar ran towards the sound of the pistol. Not far in, he saw Alvarez lying at the foot of a large tree. The sight of him in the torchlight made Shankar recoil in terror and astonishment—his entire body was drenched in blood, his head was bent at an unnatural angle to the rest of his body, and his coat was torn to shreds.

Shankar rushed to his side, sat down, and took his head in his lap. He called out, “Alvarez! Alvarez!”

There was no response from Alvarez. His lips seemed to quiver once, as if to say something; his eyes were fixed on Shankar, yet they seemed vacant, or perhaps indifferent, detached.

Shankar carried him back to the tent. He gave him water, and then, as he went to unbutton his coat, he saw that a great patch of flesh had been ripped from his shoulder, just below his throat. His entire back was in the same state. Some creature of extraordinary power had torn it to ribbons with its sharp claws or teeth.

In the soft earth nearby was the footprint of an animal.

It had only three toes.

The whole night passed in this way; Alvarez remained unconscious, unresponsive. With the first light of morning, he suddenly seemed to regain consciousness. He looked at Shankar with a gaze of surprise and unfamiliarity, as if he had never seen him before. Then he closed his eyes again. After midday, he began to babble in what was most likely his native tongue; Shankar could not understand a single word. Towards evening, he suddenly looked at Shankar. The moment their eyes met, Shankar felt that he had been recognized. This time he spoke in English. “Shankar! You’re still sitting here? Strike the tent—let’s go.” Then, like a madman, he raised his hand in a vague gesture and said, “The king’s treasure is hidden in the caves of that mountain—you can’t see it—but I can. Come, let us go—take down the tent—don’t delay.”

Those were Alvarez’s last words.

For a long time afterwards, Shankar sat there, stunned into silence. Evening fell, and little by little, the entire forest was swallowed by a deep darkness.

It was then that Shankar was jolted back to his senses. He quickly got up, first built a fire, then loaded both rifles and, aiming their barrels towards the tent entrance, sat down on a cotton rug beside Alvarez’s lifeless body.

Then, that night, the same terrible rains returned. Water seeped through the tent’s fabric, soaking everything inside. But by now Shankar was in such a state that he paid no mind to any of it. In these few months, he had grown to truly love Alvarez; his fearlessness, his unwavering resolve, his extraordinary capacity for hard work, his courage—all of it had captivated Shankar. He had loved Alvarez as he would his own father. And Alvarez had regarded him with the same affectionate eye.

But what weighed on Shankar’s mind more than all this was the fact that Alvarez had, in the end, died at the hands of that same unknown creature. Just like Jim Carter.

As the night deepened, his mind grew frantic with fear. Before him was a terrible, unknown messenger of death—its very existence a profound mystery. No one could say when it would come, or when it might go. Forcing himself not to nod off, Shankar sat awake all night through sheer force of will.

Oh, what a dreadful night it was! As long as he lived, he would never forget it. The sound of rain falling in a thousand streams from every tree and every branch, combined with the incessant roar of the storm, drowned out all other nocturnal sounds of the forest. On the mountain, great trees were crashing down with a splintering roar. And in this terrifying night, he was alone in this frightful wilderness! The black tree trunks looked like phantoms; even in that torrential rain, swarms of fireflies were aglow. Before him lay his friend’s dead body. He could not afford to be afraid. He had to summon his courage, or he would die of fear alone. In a desperate effort to find that courage, he fixed his attention on the two rifles. One was a Winchester, the other a Mannlicher—both magazines were full of cartridges. No creature of flesh and blood could breach the tent tonight and remain unscathed in the face of these two powerful, terrible weapons of death.

Fear and danger make a man brave. Shankar kept a vigilant watch all night. The next morning, he buried Alvarez’s body under a large tree. He fashioned a cross from two branches, tied them together with a strong vine, and planted it over the grave. Among Alvarez’s papers was a diploma from the Oporto School of Mines in his name. Alvarez had passed his final examinations with honours. From his conversations, Shankar had often suspected that he was no mere ignorant, fortune-seeking wanderer.

Far from any human settlement, in this deserted, deep forest, the weary Alvarez’s quest for treasure had come to an end. Men like him do not hunger for riches; the thrill of danger, of wandering from place to place, is the supreme joy of their lives. Not even the treasury of Kubera could have held him in one place forever.

It was an apt grave for a dauntless wanderer. The forest giants would cast their shadows over it. Lions, gorillas, and hyenas would keep their vigil through the night. And above them all, dwarfing everything, the vast Richterveld mountains would stand not far away, their peaks raised to the clouds, keeping eternal watch.