The Leopard

The song of the Devil Bird pierced the night, sibilant and urgent in its tone. It rose and fell in pitch, and ended on a strange, quavering note.

The leopard paused to listen to it. She was a creature of the night, she was; but never in her young life had she seen the bird whose throat had the power to utter such a chilling cry. It had aroused in her a sense of kittenish curiosity that still lingered back from the days of her cub-hood. What was the Devil Bird trying to say, she wondered. Was it a proclamation that hunting was good? Or that hunting was bad? Or was the Bird merely calling to its mate?

She raised her head and drew in a deep breath, just as her mother had taught her. Ah! There seemed to be a herd of sambhur upwind. She could smell milk, and the scent of young fawns. It would be an easy hunt that night.

But then, the breeze veered away. And on the breeze, there rode an unmistakable scent; a message that no leopard could have possibly missed, and it rooted her to the spot.

A slight crackling of leaves betrayed his appearance. There he was – the star-shine glimmering upon his dappled pelt, and his beautiful sunset eyes glowing with wild anticipation.

“I am sorry,” she began to apologize for intruding upon his territory – but he would not let her continue.

“Hush, little one. The sambhur are out tonight. Will you hunt with me?”

***

Many moons passed.

***

Contrary to what many said, the young leopard felt that the hunt was easiest in the dry season, with the sambhur, the spotted deer and the wild boars gathering around the shrinking waterholes, all weak and unresisting, even in the face of the hunter. But after the rains, all the good meat would scatter deep into the forest, and the hunter would have to search hard if a kill was to be made.

For the leopard, the rains had come upon her along with two little mouths to feed. He who had wooed her that faraway night had accompanied her in the hunt for many moons; but one day, he set out alone, and never returned.

So she hunted by herself. She was weary, and she stumbled as she trekked through the forest. Thorns tore at her foot-pads, and the springing, leafy undergrowth cut off the scent of prey. Every step she took brought upon her a gnawing fear for her two cubs. What if a bear smelt them out? Or a snake? Or, worst of all – another leopard? Such was life, she knew; a leopard would stop at nothing to ensure that cubs of his blood would hunt in the forest for evermore – and any cub not fathered by him would be doomed to die by his teeth and claws. All she wanted was to sprint back to the den and see her cubs safe; feel their soft furry bodies touching hers; hear their soft cries of affection.

But she could not return on an empty stomach. Her milk would run dry, and her cubs would starve. No. She would never let it happen.

She came across an old trail left by a herd of spotted-deer. She followed it desperately, hoping that there would be a fawn or two to take a chance upon. She had little time. Soon the night would wane, and all the concealment it afforded to a hunter would disappear with the dawn.

How long had she walked? She did not know. How far? She was sure that she was no longer in her territory, but in some strange part of the forest.

The Devil Bird’s cry ripped through the tranquil night. It stopped her in her tracks, although she had ceased to wonder about its meaning, since the day she became a mother. She now knew it was merely an owl, whose song had intrigued her so long ago.

She set off again, at a steady pace. But she did not go far. Something twisted itself around her body and dragged her to a halt.

What was it? It looked like a fine tendril of a vine, but it was tougher than it seemed. It was cold to the touch, unlike any plant. She casually tried to pull herself free, but the more she strained away from it, the more it tightened its grip around her belly.

She cried out in pain and fear. What was happening? She could barely breathe – every breath she took strained her body, and every time she moved, she felt as if she was being wrenched apart.

Only the thought of her cubs, lying defenceless in their den, kept her fighting, trying to set herself free. But the cold vine simply constricted itself upon her.

Defiant to the last, she unwillingly lay down, and tried to keep still; tried to gnaw the cold vine to pieces. The vine tasted cold and bitter upon her tongue and would not yield. She was racked with terror and agony.

The song of the Devil Bird rang out once again. It ran long and loud, and ended in a tremulous sob. It was the last sound she heard as she wearily closed her eyes, hoping that the dawning day would somehow set her free.

***

They came and looked at the sleek, beautiful golden body, flecked with black rosettes all over. It was a young female that had chosen to lend them her skin. Of course it would have been better if the snare had caught a male, for the males were always bigger in size and brighter in colour – but something was better than nothing, after all.

They undid the snare, carefully lifted the limp body out of it, and deposited it in a large gunny-bag, which they stowed away in the boot of the Land-Rover.

Then they drove off in a cloud of dust.