Man-eaters of Kumaon

Chapter 6

Remus and Rakesh are walking to the bungalow after dinner. Remus knows that Rakesh has many questions, so he walks slowly, hands in pockets, waiting patiently to be asked. It has rained during his absence and the village is muddy and damp; the men tell Remus the monsoon is coming.

"The wise man," Rakesh begins, stopping outside the bungalow, "what did he tell you?"

The kali vastu took two young male buffalo while Remus was in Haridwar. One belonged to a young man whose father had died of malaria the year before; he sold all of his father's belongings to pay old debts, and a single gaunt buffalo was all he had left. The people of Pakhari are still afraid to go out after dark, although their anxiety lessens with each night the creature remains unheard. Even with two bloody feet as proof, the villagers ask Remus if he is certain he did not kill it, whether it is possible that it bled to death after all, can he find its corpse in the jungle and bring it for them to see. Remus is stern when he warns the people to stay away from the jungle in the dark, worried that their hope will outweigh his warnings.

He takes in a long, careful breath before answering Rakesh. "There may be a way to kill it," he says. "There may be a...a weapon I can use."

Rakesh does not press him for details. His dark eyes are solemn when he says, "That will be a good thing. The people," he sweeps his hand out to indicate the village, hushed and fragrant with the smoke from cooking fires, "we are brave, but there is fear. If the kali vastu lives, so does our fear." He bids Remus good night and walks slowly away, peering into the darkening jungle.

Standing in the doorway of the bungalow, Remus watches the shadows thoughtfully. He will not go to the pump tonight; he can still feel his early morning bath in the Ganges, a cool breath that has caressed his skin all day, intensifying the tingle in his new scars and reviving faded embers, almost forgotten, in the werewolf bite on his shoulder. These sensations are stronger now, so close to the heartwood, and Remus is afraid of doing anything that will diminish the lingering fire.

Remus shakes his head and pushes away from the doorframe. Darkness has fallen, and the jungle's nightly symphony breaks through his reverie. He pushes the curtain aside and steps into the room, muttering, "Lumos," and automatically glancing upward to see if the geckos are in their usual spot on the ceiling. There is only one tonight, and though Remus looks over the walls and floor, the other is nowhere to be found. Even though it is still early, Remus lies down on the bed and stares at the ceiling for a few minutes. Then he sits up and retrieves the Corbett paperback from his case and begins turning the pages idly, more for something to do than for any interest in the words.

The length of road immediately in front of me was brilliantly lit by the moon, but to the right and left the overhanging trees cast dark shadows, and when the night wind agitated the branches and the shadows moved, I saw a dozen tigers advancing on me, and bitterly regretted the impulse that had induced me to place myself at the man-eater's mercy.

Remus lowers the book to his chest and turns his head to look at the curtain swaying in the gentle breeze. The air is alive tonight, rich with motion and scent. A storm is blowing up from the plains and the trees quake in anticipation.

I was too frightened to carry out my self-imposed task, and with teeth chattering, as much from fear as from cold, I sat out the long night.

Derision had coloured Matsyamohandra's voice when he called Remus a sensible man. Remus gives a sigh that sounds, even to his own ears, ridiculously melodramatic. Scanning the chapter, he searches for the passages he underlined upon first reading.

I was young and inexperienced in those far-off Champawat days, but, even so, the conviction I came to after a brief sojourn in that stricken land, that there is no more terrible thing than to live and have one's being under the shadow of a man-eater....

Eventually he extinguishes the light. The second gecko does not appear, and Remus feels the absurd urge to ask the first where his companion has gone for the night. He thinks of snakes, buffalo hooves, laughing young boys, and considers the various fates that might befall a gecko.

Someday, he tells himself, someday he will look back on his far-off Pakhari days with fondness and nostalgia. He will remember the way the villagers crowd him with wide smiles and easy greetings, will remember sipping chai in Rakesh's house and washing at the pump. The recollection of bitter fear will be no more than a curious sequence of actions and reactions that he observes as if in a Muggle film, cinematic sleights of hand to conjure a formulaic terror. In years to come, he tells himself, the memories will fade, the emotions will pale, the details will blur, and there will be a time when he pages through his remembrance and cannot fix the date

midnight, 20 October 1975

cannot recall the words

I don't know, I can't explain, I don't know what I was thinking, I don't know

cannot feel the bile that wells up in his throat, the rattle of his own harsh breaths, hot, dry eyes, a dull ache in his ribs, a murmur of low voices trying not to wake him, agonising weeks of feeling the desperate storm-grey gaze on his back every time he turns away. There will be a time when he forgets his final weary pronouncement: It is the worst possible thing you could have done. I am not your weapon.

Swallowing hard, Remus concentrates on slow, steady breathing.

He says, quietly, "This is different."

He was wrong, after all. There is always something worse.

He closes his eyes.

For the first time since the night he arrived in India, he dreams about hands.

* * *

Remus moves through the next few days in a stupor. He knows, despite the eager questions from the villagers and Rakesh's solemn looks, that his conviction, never solid to begin with, is wavering. Walking aimlessly through the jungle, along the border of the heartwood north of the spring, he thinks, I am a sensible man. Sensible men always have options.

Creeping into Remus' mind in quiet moments, Matsyamohandra's eyes glow from his Buddha face, the same colour as the skin of deities printed on cheap icons that disintegrate when splashed with river water. The Gandhi poise, the Buddha smile and the tired certainty of an old, old man remind Remus of what he suspected from his first confused minutes at the Ministry in Delhi: India is no place for logic. Sensible men remain so only as long as they shut their eyes against the sting of incense and close their ears to the wailing of a grieving mother. Cast a simple Mendicus repellere and a sensible man can move easily about the squalid streets and choked fields, pausing only to wipe the mud from his shoes. Fangworthy, Remus thinks wryly, was a sensible man.

He finds the now-familiar log by the spring and sits, resting his elbows on his knees and listening to the cheerful gurgle of water. The reasonable part of his mind knows that the full moon is still three days away, but he feels her pull nonetheless, the tightening of muscles and itch of ungrown hair. He finds it hard to sit still for more than a few minutes and soon he is walking again, aiming this time toward the old man with the ginger-root field up the valley. Though he skirts the heartwood, the sun is low in the sky, slanting long shadows across the valley by the time he reaches the old man's house.

The man greets him cheerfully. Like a small boy turning to his grandfather for a favourite tale, Remus accepts the offer of tea and settles into the dim little room as the old man once again relates the story of the time he helped Jim Corbett track a man-eater through the hills near his boyhood home. He tells Remus how Corbett carried one gun and only a handful of bullets, how he always insisted upon hunting alone because he could not bear to be responsible for the lives of the scared, hopeful, desperate villagers who called upon him. The old man's wife comes into the house and stokes the fire, speaking to her husband in soft Hindi and smiling brightly when Remus accepts her invitation for dinner. She mixes flour and water in a terracotta bowl, chops an onion with a jagged blade and bids her husband ask Remus if he likes eggs.

Leaning back against the mud-brick wall, Remus extends his legs casually over the pallet that serves as a makeshift bed. As the woman cooks, the tiny house fills with fragrant smoke, rendering the old man and his wife vague, muted forms in the scant light. Her battered pots clank as she shifts them around over the fire, but the sound is heavy and low, as if they are all underwater and the only one who can speak Mermish is the old man, his voice constant and clear through the haze. The smoke swirls and the cool night-time air enters the room through the open door, but Remus barely notices when the old woman steps outside to bring in more wood for the fire.

Lifting the teapot, the old man motions for Remus to hold his chipped glass for a refill. He begins to pour.

Remus registers the scream and the scald of water on his hand at the same time.

For one moment, both he and the old man are frozen. With the second scream, the old man drops the teapot, splashing tea and sodden leaves across the floor. Remus scrambles to his feet and shoves the old man aside, shouting a desperate, "Stay inside!" before hurtling through the door and drawing his wand.

In the light of the early-risen moon, Remus sees that the kali vastu has dragged the old woman to the edge of the jungle and is crouching over her at the base of a leafy mango tree. The sickly sweet smell of crushed fruit mingles with earth and blood.

The creature raises its golden eyes, sees Remus, and screams.

"Asperix!"

The scream cuts off and the creature rolls backward, melding into the shadows. It pauses, seemingly uncertain; Remus aims his wand and shouts again, "Asperix!" This time the darkness surges forward and close over the creature, wisps and tendrils dragging at its teeth and claws, narrowing the golden eyes as the kali vastu strains forward. Remus takes a few running steps forward, and the creature wheels around. A swirl of moonlight spun in its wake, it vanishes into the jungle.

Falling to his knees beside the woman, Remus turns her onto her back and curses violently. The kali vastu's great claws have slashed her face and chest, leaving gaping wounds that extend from mid-torso to the line of her scalp.

"Oh, Merlin, oh, damn it, no, come on," Remus whispers, leaning closer to her mouth. She is still breathing, although the inspiration is shallow and strangled by liquid. Her eyes are rolled back, startling and white against the brown and red of her bloody face.

A cry rings behind him and the old man falls to his knees beside Remus, saying his wife's name, "Surya, Surya, Surya," over and over again.

Remus pushes him back and slips one arm under the woman's shoulders, the other beneath her knees, lifting her childlike frame easily. Just before turning, he glances into the jungle. The kali vastu's great unblinking eyes glow in the shadows, far enough into the gloom to be little more than golden spots, but nonetheless unmistakable. Remus tears his gaze away and runs into the house, the old man close on his heels.

He sets the old woman on the bed and tears at the shredded remains of her dress. The wounds are ugly, but as he probes he realises that they have barely punctured her chest cavity; the blood in her throat is from her face, not her lungs. Remus looks up at the old man for the briefest second, then adjusts his slippery, bloody grip on his wand and points it determinedly at the woman's wounds. Please, please, let there be just one of the millions of gods watching. Please.

"Sanitorus," he says firmly. A shiver of cool air washes through the room, and some of the spilled blood and caked dirt vanishes from the woman's face and chest. Remus mutters the spell again, and again, then focuses on her flowing head wound and says, "Coagulatus." The bleeding slows, but not enough, so he tries again, quashing his growing frustration at the weak spells, until the bleeding from her scalp is slowed to a seep. He does the same with her chest but is unable to stop the bleeding completely, so he takes in a deep breath and says, "Suturus," tracing his wand along the deepest of the cuts. The flesh pulls together slightly but does not seal; cursing, Remus regrips his wand and winces at the sharp pain in his scalded hand. He casts the charm again, drawing his spell across the gash in her scalp. Again the tissue strains together but the spell is too weak to close the wounds entirely. Remus casts the charm again and again, finally pulling back with a vehement, "Goddamnit, why won't you work?"

A hand on his shoulder startles him. It is the old man, holding a pile of mostly-clean rags. His eyes are wide and bright in the firelight, his mouth open in a mute, awed 'O'. Remus looks at the woman's angry red wounds, still leaking blood, and accepts the bandages silently. As he is wrapping the woman's head, she makes a small, startled noise and her eyes flutter, snapping to focus and resting on his face. She tries to say something but her voice is barely a whisper of a breath, so her husband hushes her and takes her hand while Remus dresses her injuries.

When he is done, he moves away to let the old man sit next to his wife. The man does not take his eyes off Remus' face for a long moment. Then he glances at the wand in Remus' hand, both wand and fingers sticky with drying blood, and lifts his eyes to Remus' again. His voice a hoarse whisper, the man says, "Abhichaara." He raises a single finger to his lips and adds an earnest, "Shhhh."

Remus doesn't reply. He hunches his shoulders and looks down at his hands, slowly releasing the breath he didn't know he was holding. His right hand begins to throb where it was splashed with near-boiling water, but he makes no move to heal the burn.

A group of villagers hurry up the valley to the old man's house, drawn by the screams, huddled together and terrified in the insufficient light of their torches. The old man tells them what happened while Remus watches over the woman; she drifts in and out of consciousness, but her breathing is steady and she seems alert when she is awake. Remus stays with her until dawn, then leaves her in the care of the village women. He washes at the pump while the villagers crowd around, asking him about the attack. He answers their questions wearily and pushes through the crowd to his bungalow, too tired to acknowledge their renewed thanks, worries and fears. Rakesh's mother insists upon taking Remus' blood-stained shirt, smiling and nodding her silent promise to clean it, and Rakesh tells the villagers sternly to let Mr. Lupin sleep for a few hours before pestering him with more questions. Gratefully, Remus thanks the young man and steps into his bungalow. He can hear the villagers muttering outside, but he ignores them and falls onto the bed.

He dozes but does not sleep. The bungalow is uncomfortably hot during the day, and Remus tosses and turns restlessly, finally settling on his back with his legs drawn up and his arm flung over his eyes to block the light. The three long scars on his left arm are afire with a strange, crawling sensation, and though he has scrubbed himself raw, he can still smell blood on the skin of the arm pressed against his face.

Remus knows he can rationalise no more. In the moment his eyes met the kali vastu's through the shadowed tangle of moonlit jungle, they both understood. The villagers, stray dogs and wandering buffalo are, in the kali vastu's hot golden eyes, nothing more than prey. But Remus is different; Remus stole the creature's prize while it cowered in the shadows. He is the rival encroaching upon its territory, a challenge that the creature cannot ignore.

* * *

Two days later, Remus speaks earnestly to Rakesh at the edge of the village.

"No matter what happens, no matter what you hear, the villagers absolutely cannot leave their homes tonight. You must bar your doors and stay inside until sunrise. Do not go outside after the sun sets and do not come outside before the sun is up. Do you understand?"

Rakesh nods silently, edging away slightly, and Remus realises he is leaning toward the young man. He steps back automatically and inhales once, twice, running a hand over his face and closing his eyes.

"This is very important," he says, for perhaps the fourth time.

"Yes."

"Nobody can be outside. They will not be safe."

"The kali vastu is hunting tonight?"

Remus looks at the young man steadily, then turns his gaze to the jungle, a peaceful, variegated green in the midday sun. They have already spread warning to the nearest villages, though they are not in as much danger. The rich scent of the kali vastu dances in his mind, just beyond reason or logic, entwined with instincts he has spent years ignoring.

"No," he says quietly. "I am hunting tonight."

Yesterday he turned Salil away when the car came to take him to Nainital. Salil argued, but as they were standing in full view of the villagers there was little he could say. He finally gave in, shaking his head and worrying, "Mr. Chandrasekhar will not like this. He will not like this." Remus suspects, however, that Chandrasekhar will understand when Salil returns without Remus. He writes a letter for Chandrasekhar, with an attached note for Professor Kettleburn, and leaves them with the map in the bungalow. Rakesh's mother was unable to completely remove the bloodstains, so he dons the ruined shirt and the patched trousers that have been fighting a losing battle against thorns since he arrived in Pakhari.

The old man and his wife have moved to their son's house in the village. She will probably never recover fully; she is too old and too frail. But she is alive, and the couple is tearful with thanks when Remus sits awkwardly in the stuffy room, sipping tea and promising that tonight he will do all he can to find the kali vastu. Their son and Rakesh share a whispered conversation just outside the house while Remus talks to the couple. When he emerges, blinking, into the sunlight, they tell him that they have decided to stay in the house by the ginger-root field.

Remus protests, "No. There is nothing you can do. It is too dangerous."

"Last time you came from the jungle bleeding," Rakesh points out.

"We stay in house, before sun rises," the other young man says, his English rougher but his meaning just as clear.

"No. You can't. I won't allow it."

Both men regard him with dark, serious eyes, their staunch expressions nearly identical. Rakesh says, evenly, "You may need help in the morning."

Remus doesn't know how much Rakesh has guessed. The young man's sober demeanour hides a great deal. He looks from one man to the other; they are tall and lanky, strong from years of toil in the fields and jungles, and resolutely immovable. In a white-hot flash of memory he sees another pair of black-haired boys, standing before him with unyielding determination, awaiting his reply even though they have clearly decided to do as they please regardless of what he says.

His voice shakes when he turns away and gives in. "Okay. Yes. Okay. But you cannot go outside until after sunrise, not for anything. Is that clear?"

"Yes."

"Ji ha, Mister Lupin."

The afternoon is interminable. Remus has nothing to do except avoid the villagers and try, unsuccessfully, to steer his thoughts away from the night ahead. As the shadows grow long, Remus decides it is time to go up the valley. He refuses an offer of food from Rakesh's mother; he is hungry, but he wants to stay that way. He walks slowly along the road, the two young men trailing behind. Leaving his wand in the old man's house, he repeats his desperate instruction that they barricade themselves inside until morning.

Remus walks into the jungle as the sun sets.

The heartwood does not protest. Every one of his scars, even those he gave himself, burns with a strange, tantalising, enthralling fire. Remus undresses and folds his clothes, setting them on his shoes at the base of a tree. Then he looks down at the neat pile and laughs ruefully: A tidy werewolf walks into a heartwood....

"Ten points to Gryffindor for whomever guesses the punch line," he murmurs.

He continues deeper into the heartwood, flinching at the feel of the rough ground on his bare feet. The insects sing all around. He feels the tickle of a mosquito on his arm and looks down at it; he brushes it away, wondering if his blood tastes different to a mosquito, and whether the taste is sweeter than a buffalo, more bitter than a man.

Since his first terrifying night in the cage behind his childhood home, Remus has always known exactly when the full moon will rise. As the moment nears, he stops and stands in the centre of a small clearing, absently running the fingers of his right hand along his left forearm, still feeling the brief touch of the mosquito though the insect is long gone.

Every muscle screams simultaneously. Remus hisses and closes his eyes.

The transformation seizes him like a full-body bind; his muscles go rigid in the moment before they begin to tear and reform, his back arches in agony as his bones snap and splinter. His skin rips in every place at once, and the hair grows like a thousand agitated snakes. He falls forward, pressing his face into the damp earth, desperately focusing on a single broken branch just inches from his eyes, drawing in one ragged breath before the jungle is washed with silver light.

* * *

The wolf lifts his head and struggles to his feet, shaking off the residual soreness and inhaling deeply. At first he is bewildered; there is no cage, no stench of humans, no chains, no boards beneath his paws or walls blocking the moonlight. He sniffs around cautiously, relishing the fertile, complex layering of scents, studying the patterns of light and dark, noting the gentle caress of a breeze through his fur. He takes a few hesitant steps, searching for the barrier he knows must be there. But nothing impedes his motion. There is only the forest, the wolf and the night.

And something else.

Its scent, more alive than the rot of wood and crumble of earth, drifts across his snout, and the wolf snaps his head around. Not human, not stag or dog or rat. Not far and not friendly. The scent is soaked with blood, almost human but thicker and stronger.

The wolf raises his head to the moon and howls.

The other answers immediately. Its long, drawn-out reply is unmistakable: The forest is mine.

A low growl builds in the wolf's throat.

The forest is free of chains and walls; the forest is empty of humans; it is alight with a brilliant silver glow; it smells like life and stretches forever on every side; there are logs and trees, thickets and hollows; there is a memory on the air and the challenge of a hunt.

The wolf howls again, head thrown back, even as the other screams its challenge, closer now. The wolf growls and crouches, waiting. The scent of the other intensifies and grows, becoming a palpable darkness. The wolf is restless with hunger and eager to hunt. He leaves the clearing, ducking into the shadows, tracing the scent, silently stalking the tendril of breeze.

Sniffing the ground, pausing every few steps to listen in the shadows, the wolf moves in the direction of the other, but the other remains silent and the wolf cannot see it. The scent is everywhere at once, but the breeze dies and there is no longer direction, no longer distance. The wolf pauses, fur bristling, and waits.

The forest is silent. There is no motion in the moonlight.

The other howls.

The wolf whirls around to face the sound. He darts forward, then stops. The scent of the other is strong, yet the cry was so similar to his own he is momentarily uncertain, pacing from side to side, giving a few half-hearted whines of confusion before finally bracing himself and howling in reply.

The other howls again, strong and near, but as the voice surges through the night air and lingers, something in the sound shifts. The wolf's bay collapses into an angry rumbling growl that trembles on the moonlight. Imposter. The smell is wrong; the call is wrong. The wolf lowers his head and creeps forward, wary of the shadows and thick bushes, focused solely on scent: blood and earth, the whiff of a small torn creature limp on the ground, of places long-abandoned by humans, of sweet tastes and hot blood and a thrilling crunch the wolf can barely remember.

But the scent, in its potency, is confusing. It follows a wisp of breeze this way, a breath of air that, growing neither stronger nor richer. The wolf stops, abruptly peering into the darkness where the darkness just shifted. He watches until it moves again, a slow gentle rolling, like the body of a thick black snake curling around the base of a tree. But the motion fades and then there is nothing but the tree and the shadows. The wolf paces anxiously, nosing toward the tree and doubling back, seeing no more movement but careful of the darkness that hides the great snake.

Minutes pass. There is nothing in the shadows and the wolf is growing impatient. He becomes more reckless, rounding trees without hesitation and trotting quickly through the forest. When the scent begins to slacken, he turns around and traces it again; he barks once or twice but receives no reply. The moon is high and the shadows short.

Then, through the trees to the side, he glimpses a flicker of movement.

The wolf stops, as does the shadow.

Cautiously, the wolf trots forward a few steps. The darkness mirrors his motion, staying alongside him, just far enough away to be hidden by the tree trunks and tangled bushes. The wolf moves again, luring the shadow into a patch of moonlight. The shadow pauses at the edge then darts across the light, a smear of black against the mottled forest, but its shape and loping steps are defined for the briefest second. The wolf bounds forward, forgetting his hunt, forgetting the blood-soaked scent and ravenous hunger and the other. He barks excitedly in greeting. He remembers the tumble and chase through trees and hollows; this is familiar; this he knows. Dog.

The wolf skids into the clearing and stops, panting, ears perked as he looks about expectantly. His eyes scan the surrounding shadows but see no movement. Slowly his caution returns and he slinks closer to the edge of the clearing, no longer certain of the game.

Before he reaches the safety of darkness, a shadow before him moves, and the scent of the other fills his senses in a sudden angry surge. The silver moonlight outlines a hunch of massive canine shoulders and a great shaggy head, but even as the wolf whines and backs away uneasily the shape shifts and deforms, elongating slowly. Limbs that might have been paws grow and reach into the low branches of the nearest tree. Now they are thin, spindly, and brushed with wiry hair. The other wavers briefly on indistinguishably fluid limbs, and the wolf's mind hungrily snarls man before the shadow changes again, familiar form fading, and the other begins to climb, flowing up the side of the tree, leaving a rustling, bewildering shiver of leaves in its wake.

Whining fearfully, the wolf stumbles backward, trying to keep his head raised and his eyes on the trembling branches overhead. He strains his neck and twists in fretful circles, but there is a breeze above and every leaf is fluttering unsteadily between silver and darkness, the night suddenly filled with too much noise and motion. The wolf cannot see the other, cannot distinguish its shape from the silhouettes of swaying, creaking branches.

Then, all at once, the moonlight is gone and the forest is dark.

The wolf hears a shuddering beat of air and sees the shadows spread over him, the sky blocked by great, featureless wings as the other leaps from the trees overhead. The wolf darts for the bushes as the other swoops toward him; one clawed limb lashes out and catches the wolf's hind leg as it lands soundlessly on the forest floor. The wolf yelps and wheels around, snapping viciously, but the other is rolling backward, wings reabsorbed as the shape shifts, rearranges, fades back and settles into the shadows, finally lifting a smooth face to watch the wolf with two bright, unblinking eyes.

Favouring his hind leg, which burns where the other tore the skin, the wolf retreats further into the thicket, whining and growling at the bright eyes ablaze in the darkness. The other is stalking him now, biding its time. It rolls behind the shadows, emerging as a long lone figure before fading again. The wolf slinks into the forest and pauses to lick his wound, glancing up between each stroke of his tongue to keep the eyes in sight. He can taste the other in his own fur, in his blood, the scent tantalising and powerful, the scent of a rival. The scent of prey.

Then he looks up and the eyes are gone.

The darkness no longer ripples; the other has vanished.

The wolf is alert, unmoving, waiting.

Slowly he begins to creep along the edge of the clearing, ungraceful on his hind leg, pausing every few steps to peer into the shadows.

He rounds the clearing to where he last saw the eyes, and there is nothing. The rich odour of the other remains, but there is nothing crouching beneath the bushes, nothing lurking behind the trees. The wolf sniffs around worriedly, then stops again to lick his leg, trying to draw the fierce, steady fire out of the wound.

A huff of breath nearby.

The wolf freezes.

He raises his head, slowly, and lowers his wounded leg to the ground.

Golden eyes meet his through a tangle of trees and shrubs. The wolf tenses and pauses with indecision. The other is near enough for him to spring, but he cannot see the outline of its body. He cannot see its claws or teeth or limbs; he can only see the eyes, wide and unblinking through the leaves. Another breath and he can smell the other, the scent so strong it washes over his mind like the first hint of moonlight, burying all other senses and all other hungers beneath its thick, rich flavour.

Wolf and other are silent. Both are waiting.

The other springs.

The wolf reacts before the other strikes, diving back and to the side, avoiding the long, curving teeth but feeling a claw catch his foreleg. The other lands in a low crouch and surges forward immediately; the wolf feels the air rip over his head as the other wrenches free of the shadows, two long forelimbs lashing and catching only dirt. The wolf snaps his jaws at the other but catches nothing; the other ripples back and the wolf feels only a hot brush of air, a tremble of shadow. The other lashes out again and he frantically rolls to avoid the claw.

For a moment wolf and other circle one another. The wolf cannot find a flank or identify a limb; he lunges and feints, the thrill of the fight overpowering the burn in his legs. He crouches low to the ground and growls ferociously, but the other flows just beyond reach, its wide eyes unblinking, its motion unchecked.

The wolf leaps desperately at the other's head, fixing the eyes as his target, but just before he strikes the other snaps its jaw upward, massive teeth ripping from the shadows below the eyes. The wolf's teeth find no purchase; his paws pass through the rippling shadow as though swimming through murky water. The other throws the wolf aside with one decisive toss of its head, and the wolf slams into the base of a tree. He whimpers, dazed, before struggling to his feet and slinking backward, cowering at the edge of the forest. The other lowers its head, teeth and forelimbs now vivid, shimmering and black against the moonlit clearing, and exhales one long, low breath. Hunched low against the ground, the wolf edges further back, growling and whining.

When the other pounces again, the wolf dodges to the side, tumbling recklessly head over feet and crashing through a thick shrub. The other screams in frustration, its smooth, gleaming face stretched toward the wolf.

In that moment the wolf sees a weakness: neck.

The wolf leaps to his feet and lunges, closing his jaw on the smooth, moonlit throat, and the other's cry chokes off in a high-pitched strangle. The other jerks fiercely, tossing its head to dislodge the wolf, but the wolf holds and digs his paws into the earth, sinking his teeth through thick neck. Massive jaws hold tight even when the other slashes its claws across his back, shredding the wolf's skin. Hot, sweet blood spurts down the wolf's throat, spurring him into a frenzy of shaking and thrashing. His own gurgling growls mingle with the gasping, wheezing whine of the other. A claw catches the wolf again, piercing his side so sharply he releases the neck in shock. Wolf and other stumble away from one another, panting, bleeding, trembling.

The other stumbles forward, its form suddenly delineated, traced by the moonlight across its body. It feints weakly, head low, and when the wolf lunges again the other rolls away before his jaws can close on the back of its neck. They circle each other, staggering and bleeding. The other begins to move backward and the wolf lunges yet again, concentrating his strength on the desperate spring and on closing his jaws on the soft, vulnerable flesh. He holds as the other whirls and flails, dragging him against the ground and lashing with its claws in ever-weakening strikes, hot blood flowing freely over the wolf's fur until the other's limbs collapse and it is still.

Gasping, the wolf falls atop the other, their blood mixing on the jungle floor. He hauls himself up and stumbles away. The other's eyes are still open, gaping blindly. But there is no wheeze of breath from its ravaged throat. Lying down gingerly, the wolf rests his head on his paws and closes his eyes.

* * *

A thousand knives driven into his muscles. Fire. A thousand hammers shattering his bones. A thousand snakes shivering into their burrows. Blood. A sharp rough press against his face. Ignore it. His back is screaming. The transformation is complete, but his back is still screaming.

Remus opens his eyes. He blinks. Tangled, brown, soggy. He is lying on the ground. He is looking at the earth before him, a sodden mess of leaves, of trampled dirt. And blood.

It is before dawn; the jungle is grey, obscured by a cool damp mist. He tries to raise himself from the jungle floor and discovers that will alone is not enough. Wait. He tries again, locating his limbs, leveraging his weight firmly against untrustworthy arms and manages to half-sit. Sudden fire surges through his left arm and he notices the long, red gash on his forearm. He can practically hear the wounds tearing open across his back. He closes his eyes against the waves of pain, his arms shaking with the effort of supporting his body. Remus vomits onto the ground before him; the metallic taste of blood causes him to heave again, shuddering well after his stomach is empty.

If you fall here, you're going to land in that. He pushes himself fully upright and falls to the side almost immediately, the jungle spinning crazily around him. Squeezing his eyes shut again, Remus concentrates on breathing, focusing on each part of his body in turn, cataloguing his wounds and registering the fresh seep of blood through broken scabs and caked dirt. Always thought that was unfair. A warmth on his skin tells him the sun has risen and is slanting through a break in the trees. Gaping wounds, bleeding gashes, broken bones. Awfully hard to kill a werewolf. Gradually his limbs stop shaking, his stomach stops churning. Rip and tear and cut and bite. No matter. We won't die. We'll just...bleed.

He remembers. As the sun climbs in the sky, his mind clears and the post-transformation muddle of wolfish instinct is chased away by sensible, logical, never-without-a-bloody-reasonable-thought Remus. Good morning, Remus. Rough night? He remembers sinking his teeth into the kali vastu's neck, remembers the burn of its claws ripping across his back. Going to have a fucking lovely scar there, mate. He can still taste its blood.

Merlin, I hope it's dead.

He awakes some time later, weak, feverish and shivering despite the oppressive jungle heat. Sitting up is still difficult but he manages without too much cursing. Looking around stupidly, Remus grimaces at the blood-soaked earth. Then his eyes fall on the shadow.

That's all it looks like. A shadow, a soft cloak draped across the jungle floor, as though a woman in mourning carelessly dropped her shawl walking away from the funeral. He crawls closer to it. At awkward angles, like some malevolent pixie graveyard, the razor-sharp claws are dug into the earth in two jagged clusters. The curving fangs, as long as Remus' hand, shine in the sun like discarded jewels. He reaches hesitantly toward the dark swath but stops just before touching it. He does not want to feel it; he does not want to know what it is. He does not want the shadow to shift and crumble and reveal two dull, dead, yellow eyes.

Instead, he picks the claws and teeth from the earth and climbs unsteadily to his feet. His right leg nearly gives way beneath him, but he manages to stay upright. Blinking in the sunlight, he is disoriented for a moment before he thinks to look up at the sun and aim himself south.

* * *

Remus keeps only one claw for himself. The rest he gives to the old man and his wife and to the families of the people who died. Though he heals the vicious cuts on his arm, leg and back quite well, he is still shaky and drained. Rakesh's mother insists that he spend a few days of convalescence in her home, playing host to a steady stream of visitors from Pakhari and nearby villages. People bring food in exchange for his story; he tells them he killed the kali vastu with a machete but lost the blade in the jungle. They offer thanks, congratulations and invitations, and Remus is fairly certain that one man offers his shyly smiling daughter, but he faces every visitor with the same downcast eyes and forced smile.

He does not sleep. At night, when the village is quiet, Remus leaves the stifling house and limps along the road in the light of the waning moon. The night he spent in the heartwood was just that, a single night; no days were stolen, no hours lost. Remus considers a few explanations but soon gives up, unable to concentrate, and instead spends his night-time hours thinking as little as possible.

Chandrasekhar comes from Nainital. He says very little and does not ask Remus for any explanation. After a lavish meal attended by most of the village, the two wizards walk quietly away from village.

"It truly is an impressive map," Chandrasekhar says, after a long silence.

Remus looks at him, surprised. "It's rather rough."

"You will go home to England?"

Taking in a long breath, Remus rubs a hand over his face. Home to England. He thinks of familiar faces in England, of lives that have been quietly returning to normal for eight peaceful months. "Yes," he answers slowly. "I suppose."

Shrugging, the older man smiles but says nothing more. Later, Chandrasekhar pays Remus almost apologetically and says that he is leaving for Bangladesh in the morning on important business, but he will send Salil back to Pakhari to drive Remus to the train station in Kathgodam when he feels well enough to leave.

That night Remus returns to his bungalow, thankful for the solitude and for the sudden exhaustion that has overtaken him. Before extinguishing the light, however, he spends a few minutes examining the map, tracing the gently creeping borders of the heartwood with his fingers. His back still hurts, but the sharp pain he feels when he moves too suddenly is almost welcome compared to the low, dull ache of tension his head and neck. Rolling his shoulders and yawning, Remus notes that there is still only one gecko standing watch on the wall above his bed, but there are two beetles on the opposite wall, the size of his thumb and iridescent blue.

Remus starts to roll the map up, then pauses, his gaze falling on the crisp symbol for the mountainside spring. He frowns, imagining how the map would look if he had designated a primary location within the heartwood rather than outside its borders, then wonders why he didn't think of that before. But he pushes the thought aside and tucks the map into his case alongside Corbett and Fangworthy. A corner of tattered beige paper jammed beneath the books catches his eye.

Among the papers Undersecretary Singh forced into his hands at the Ministry offices in New Delhi is a pamphlet entitled "Leaving Procedure". He pulls it from his case and looks over the numbered regulations; there are seventy-two in all, suggesting that the Indian Ministry of Magic suffers from some bizarre bureaucratic form of separation anxiety. Remus dedicates a full thirty seconds to contemplating whether transforming into a ravenous werewolf and ripping the throat out of a amorphous man-eating predator constitutes "actions inappropriate and disrespectful to the Natural Environment of India", or perhaps "extended contact with Unhealthful Agricultural conditions in rural regions". Crumpling the paper and tossing it aside, he startles a cockroach that has been inching along the floor.

"I'm terribly sorry," Remus apologises, but the insect has vanished underneath the bed.

Closing his case and setting it on the floor, Remus says, "Nox," and lies back on the bed, shifting restlessly for a few minutes to find the position that least aggravates his healing back. Then he closes his eyes and exhaustion washes over him like a warm bath, weighing each limb down into the bed, slowing his breathing to a deep, steady rhythm until, finally, he falls asleep.

* * *

Saying goodbye to an entire Indian village is a lengthy task, so Remus begins early in the morning. Salil is waiting patiently in the car as Remus accepts endless well-wishes and makes vague promises to return someday. The old man and his wife, she barely strong enough to stand but smiling widely nonetheless, have come up the valley to bid him farewell. Rakesh's mother gives a silent, tearful smile and touches Remus' cheek gently. Rakesh shakes Remus' hand solemnly, and Remus bites back a dozen desperate questions--What will you do now? Will you live in this village forever? Don't you have plans, dreams, ideas?--questions that he should have asked weeks ago but are hollow and meaningless now.

"Thank you," Remus says, sincerely.

Rakesh looks slightly amused. "You will have a safe journey," is all he replies.

The young boys of the village chase the car and shout as Remus and Salil drive away. Remus turns around and waves obligingly, then settles against the seat as the village is hidden behind a turn in the road.

Salil turns to him and grins. "Many people say goodbye to you."

"Yes." Remus pauses. "Yes, they do."

When they arrive in Kathgodam several hours later, Salil offers to wait with Remus until the train leaves for Delhi, but Remus thanks him and says it is not necessary. He shakes Salil's hand and says one more goodbye, then watches as the black car dodges into traffic. Remus steps into the dirty, crowded train station and notes that there is a train for New Delhi leaving at 20:15 and arriving early in the morning. He starts toward the ticket window then stops, shifting his case from one hand to the other and scanning the other destinations on the sign. It is difficult to read past the missing letters and messy corrections.

A man in a brown suit jostles him, but Remus doesn't move, staring at the sign until it fades from view and he sees only a pale white blur. Part of him wonders what he must look like, a scruffy white man standing dumbly in the middle of the train station, gaping at the sign as Indian businessmen and families scurry all around, clutching tattered cases and handbags, in their best suits and most colourful saris because travel is still an occasion, an event worthy of careful planning and honest respect, a memory for the children to recall after many tired years, ticket stubs to keep and photographs to cherish, beginning with this hectic crush at the ticket window and the grim tiled room that smells like cigarettes and petrol and men gone too long without soap.

Remus imagines himself from overhead, a still silent figure, a rock in the stream as another train creaks noisily into the station and travellers surge forward like ants swarming a dead caterpillar on the jungle floor, and the tracks carry them away with excruciating slowness at first, but they accelerate and at some point, perhaps, fall into line beside a wide, shimmering river that carries silt and snowmelt and pale blue, spice-scented forgiveness from the mountains, losing its clarity with every muddy, crowded, worshipful mile, before finally tumbling into the ocean. But the river does not die in the sea. The water is always moving, always flowing, chasing along the coasts and tripping over islands, spreading through the oceans like a drop of red in a colourless potion, diluting and fading until it is no more than a pale pink mist that breaks against the grey rocks etched in Remus' memory, a jumble of sea-carved stones at his feet, draped in a fog so thick the island is invisible. But he when he squints he sees shapes and figures, half-formed faces and dancing hands reaching desperately across the water, and the muttering of the waves dragging against the stone becomes a voice, the voice becomes a plea, the plea becomes maniacal laughter. Remus closes his eyes and turns away from the shore. Britain at his feet is a flat, featureless, green map, borders and roads in crisp certain black, arrows denoting the movement of dead armies and artful scripts honouring towns and villages with names of men whose lives are long forgotten. The legend captures symbols in a neat rectangular box, explanations and complications, occasions for pity and engagements of doubt, familiar names and faces slightly obscured by the thick, scented smoke blowing in from the east.

Somebody bumps Remus and he starts.

He can feel it, in that second when odour, sound and colour crash around him once again, the power that floats on the air like incense, the chaos that burns in his scars and seizes every reason, apology or excuse and transforms it into something dark and changeable, flowing like the kali vastu behind the shadows, rippling in the moonlight.

Then, all at once, the feeling fades. He shifts his case again to the other hand, wiping a sweaty palm on his trousers and joining the mob-like queue before the ticket window. Dark eyes watch him suspiciously. Rather than looking away he meets each gaze for the briefest moment, wondering at the thoughts behind the veiled expressions.

Behind the grimy window a scowling man barks, "Yes? Station?"

Remus buys a ticket to Haridwar.

THE END