When he awakened he was hungry.

The sea was growing calmer. But there was still a heavy swell, which made his departure, for the present at least, impossible. The day, too, was far advanced.

Although pressed by hunger, Gilliatt began by stripping himself, the only means of getting warmth. His clothing was saturated by the storm, but the rain had washed out the sea-water, which rendered it possible to dry them. He kept nothing on but his trousers, which he turned up nearly to the knees. His overcoat, jacket, overalls, and sheepskin he spread out and fixed with large round stones here and there.

Then he thought of eating.

He had his knife, which he was careful to sharpen, and to keep always in good condition; with it he detached from the rock a few limpets. It is well known that these are eaten raw; but after so many labors, so various and so rude, the pittance was meagre. His biscuit was gone; but of water he had now abundance.

He took advantage of the receding tide to wander among the rocks in search of crayfish.

He wandered, not in the gorge of the rocks, but outside among the smaller breakers. It was there that the Durande, ten weeks previously, had struck upon the sunken reef.

For the search that Gilliatt was prosecuting, this part was more favorable than the interior. At low water the crabs are accustomed to crawl out into the air. They seem to like to warm themselves in the sun, where they swarm sometimes to the disgust of the loiterers, who recognize in these creatures, with their awkward sidelong gait, climbing clumsily from crack to crack the lower stages of the rocks like the steps of a staircase, a sort of sea vermin.

For two months Gilliatt had lived upon these vermin of the sea.

On this day, however, the crayfish and crabs were both wanting. The tempest had driven them into their solitary retreats; and they had not yet mustered courage to venture abroad. Gilliatt held his open knife in his hand, and from time to time scraped a cockle from under the bunches of sea-weed, which he ate while still walking.

He could not have been far from the very spot where Sieur Clubin had perished.

As Gilliatt was determining to content himself with the sea-urchins and the chataignes de mer, a little clattering noise at his feet aroused his attention. A large crab, startled by his approach, had just dropped into a pool. The water was shallow, and he did not lose sight of it.

He chased the crab along the base of the rock; the crab moved fast.

Suddenly it was gone.

It had buried itself in some crevice under the rock.

Gilliatt clutched the protections of the rock, and stretched out to observe where it shelved away under the water.

As he suspected, there was an opening there in which the creature had evidently taken refuge. It was more than a crevice; it was a kind of porch.

The sea entered beneath it, but was not deep. The bottom was visible, covered with large pebbles. The pebbles were green and clothed with confervæ, indicating that they were never dry. They were like the tops of a number of heads of infants, covered with a kind of green hair.

Holding his knife between his teeth, Gilliatt descended, by the help of feet and hands, from the upper part of the escarpment, and leaped into the water. It reached almost to his shoulders.

He made his way through the porch, and found himself in a blind passage, with a roof in the form of a rude arch over his head.

The walls were polished and slippery. The crab was nowhere visible. He gained his feet and advanced in daylight growing fainter, so that he began to lose the power to distinguish objects.

At about fifteen paces the vaulted roof ended overhead. He had penetrated beyond the blind passage. There was here more space, and consequently more daylight. The pupils of his eyes, moreover, had dilated; he could see pretty clearly. He was taken by surprise.

He had made his way again into the singular cavern which he had visited in the previous month. The only difference was that he had entered by the way of the sea.

His eyes became more accustomed to the place. His vision became clearer and clearer. He was astonished. He found, above the level of the water, and within reach of his hand, a horizontal fissure. It seemed to him probable that the crab had taken refuge there, and he plunged his hand in as far as he was able, and groped about in that dusky aperture.

Suddenly he felt himself seized by the arm. A strange indescribable horror thrilled through him.

Some living thing, thin, rough, flat, cold, slimy, had twisted itself round his naked arm, in the dark depth below. It crept upward toward his chest. Its pressure was like a tightening cord, its steady persistence like that of a screw. In less than a moment some mysterious spiral form had passed round his wrist and elbow, and had reached his shoulder. A sharp point penetrated beneath the armpit.

Gilliatt recoiled; but he had scarcely power to move! He was, as it were, nailed to the place. With his left hand, which was disengaged, he seized his knife, which he still held between his teeth, and with that hand, holding the knife, he supported himself against the rocks, while he made a desperate effort to withdraw his arm. He succeeded only in disturbing his persecutor, which wound itself still tighter. It was supple as leather, strong as steel, cold as night.

A second form, sharp, elongated, and narrow, issued out of the crevice, like a tongue out of monstrous jaws. It seemed to lick his naked body. Then suddenly stretching out, it became longer and thinner, as it crept over his skin, and wound itself round him. At the same time a terrible sense of pain, comparable to nothing he had ever known, compelled all his muscles to contract. He felt upon his skin a number of flat rounded points. It seemed as if innumerable suckers had fastened to his flesh and were about to drink his blood.

A third long undulating shape issued from the hole in the rock; and seemed to feel its way about his body; lashed round his ribs like a cord, and fixed itself there.

Agony when at its height is mute. Gilliatt uttered no cry. There was sufficient light for him to see the repulsive forms which had entangled themselves about him. A fourth ligature, but this one swift as an arrow, darted toward his stomach, and wound around him there.

It was impossible to sever or tear away the slimy bands which were twisted tightly round his body, and were adhering by a number of points. Each of the points was the focus of frightful and singular pangs. It was as if numberless small mouths were devouring him at the same time.

A fifth long, slimy, riband-shaped strip issued from the hole. It passed over the others, and wound itself tightly around his chest. The compression increased his sufferings. He could scarcely breathe.

These living thongs were pointed at their extremities, but broadened like the blade of a sword toward its hilt. All belonged evidently to the same centre. They crept and glided about him; he felt the strange points of pressure, which seemed to him like mouths, change their places from time to time.

Suddenly a large, round, glutinous mass issued from beneath the crevice. It was the centre; the five thongs were attached to it like spokes to the nave of a wheel. On the opposite side of this disgusting monster appeared the commencement of three other tentacles, the ends of which remained under the rock. In the middle of this slimy mass appeared two eyes.

The eyes were fixed on Gilliatt.

He recognized the devil-fish.

It is difficult for those who have not seen it to believe in the existence of the devil-fish.

Compared to this creature, the ancient hydras are insignificant.

If terror were the object of its creation, nothing could be imagined more perfect than the devil-fish.

The devil-fish has no muscular organization, no menacing cry, no breastplate, no horn, no dart, no claw, no tail with which to hold or bruise; no cutting fins, or wings with nails, no prickles, no sword, no electric discharge, no poison, no talons, no beak, no teeth. Yet he is of all creatures the most formidably armed.

What, then, is the devil-fish? It is the sea vampire.

This frightful apparition, which is always possible among the rocks in the open sea, is a grayish form, which undulates in the water. It is of the thickness of a man’s arm, and in length nearly five feet. Its outline is ragged. Its form resembles an umbrella closed, and without a handle. This irregular mass advances slowly toward you. Suddenly it opens, and eight radii issue abruptly from around a face with two eyes. These radii are alive; their undulation is like lambent flames; they resemble, when opened, the spokes of a wheel, of four or five feet in diameter. A terrible expansion! It springs upon its prey.

The devil-fish harpoons its victim.

It winds around the sufferer, covering and entangling him in its long folds. Underneath it is yellow; above a dull, earthy hue; nothing could render that inexplicable shade dust-colored. Its form is spider-like, but its tints are like those of the chameleon. When irritated, it becomes violet. Its most horrible characteristic is its softness.

Its folds strangle, its contact paralyzes.

It has an aspect like gangrened or scabrous flesh. It is a monstrous embodiment of disease.

It adheres closely to its prey, and cannot be torn away; a fact which is due to its power of exhausting air. The eight antennæ, large at their roots, diminish gradually, and end in needle-like points. Underneath each of these feelers range two rows of pustules, decreasing in size, the largest ones near the head, the smaller at the extremities. Each row contains twenty-five of these. There are, therefore, fifty pustules to each feeler, and the creature possesses in the whole four hundred. These pustules are capable of acting like cupping-glasses. They are cartilaginous substances, cylindrical, horny, and livid. Upon the large species they diminish gradually from the diameter of a five-franc piece to the size of a split pea. These small tubes can be thrust out and withdrawn by the animal at will. They are capable of piercing to a depth of more than an inch.

This sucking apparatus has all the regularity and delicacy of a key-board. It stands forth at one moment and disappears the next. The most perfect sensitiveness cannot equal the contractibility of these suckers; always proportioned to the internal movement of the animal, and its exterior circumstances. The monster is endowed with the qualities of the sensitive plant.

When swimming, the devil-fish rests, so to speak, in its sheath. It swims with all its parts drawn close. It may be likened to a sleeve sewn up with a closed fist within. The protuberance, which is the head, pushes the water aside and advances with a vague undulatory movement. Its two eyes, though large, are indistinct, being of the color of the water.

The devil-fish not only swims, it walks. It is partly fish, partly reptile. It crawls upon the bed of the sea. At these times, it makes use of its eight feelers, and creeps along in the fashion of a species of swift-moving caterpillar.

It has no blood, no bones, no flesh. It is soft and flabby; a skin with nothing inside. Its eight tentacles may be turned inside out like the fingers of a glove.

It has a single orifice in the centre of its radii, which appears at first to be neither the vent nor the mouth. It is, in fact, both one and the other. The orifice performs a double function. The entire creature is cold.

The jelly-fish of the Mediterranean is repulsive. Contact with that animated gelatinous substance which envelopes the bather, in which the hands sink, and the nails scratch ineffectively; which can be torn without killing it, and which can be plucked off without entirely removing it—that fluid and yet tenacious creature which slips through the fingers, is disgusting; but no horror can equal the sudden apparition of the devil-fish, that Medusa with its eight serpents.

It is with the sucking apparatus that it attacks. The victim is oppressed by a vacuum drawing at numberless points; it is not a clawing or a biting, but an indescribable scarification. A tearing of the flesh is terrible, but less terrible than a sucking of the blood. Claws are harmless compared with the horrible action of these natural air-cups. The muscles swell, the fibres of the body are contorted, the skin cracks under the loathsome oppression, the blood spurts out and mingles horribly with the lymph of the monster, which clings to its victim by innumerable hideous mouths. The hydra incorporates itself with the man; the man becomes one with the hydra. The spectre lies upon you; the tiger can only devour you; the devil-fish, horrible, sucks your life-blood away.

He draws you to him, and into himself; while bound down, glued to the ground, powerless, you feel yourself gradually emptied into this horrible pouch, which is the monster itself.

Such was the creature in whose power Gilliatt had fallen for some minutes.

The monster was the inhabitant of the grotto; the terrible genii of the place. A kind of sombre demon of the water.

All the splendors of the cavern existed for it alone.

On the day of the previous month when Gilliatt had first penetrated into the grotto, the dark outline, vaguely perceived by him in the ripples of the secret waters, was this monster. It was here in its home.

When entering for the second time into the cavern in pursuit of the crab, he had observed the crevice in which he supposed that the crab had taken refuge, the pieuvre was there lying in wait for prey.

Gilliatt had thrust his arm deep into the opening; the monster had snapped at it. It held him fast, as the spider holds the fly.

He was in the water up to his belt; his naked feet clutching the slippery roundness of the huge stones at the bottom; his right arm bound and rendered powerless by the flat coils of the long tentacles of the creature, and his body almost hidden under the folds and cross folds of this horrible bandage.

Of the eight arms of the devil-fish three adhered to the rock, while five encircled Gilliatt. In this way, clinging to the granite on the one hand, and with the other to its human prey, it enchained him to the rock. Two hundred and fifty suckers were upon him, tormenting him with agony and loathing. He was grasped by gigantic hands, the fingers of which were each nearly a yard long, and furnished inside with living blisters eating into the flesh.

It is impossible to tear one’s self from the folds of the devil-fish. The attempt ends only in a firmer grasp. The monster clings with more determined force. Its effort increases with that of its victim; every struggle produces a tightening of its ligatures.

Gilliatt had but one resource, his knife.

His left hand only was free; but the reader knows with what power he could use it. It might have been said that he had two right hands.

His open knife was in his hand.

The antennæ of the devil-fish cannot be cut; it is a leathery substance impossible to divide with the knife, it slips under the edge; its position in attack also is such that to cut it would be to wound the victim’s own flesh.

The creature is formidable, but there is a way of resisting it. The fishermen of Sark know this, as does any one who has seen them execute certain abrupt movements in the sea. The porpoises know it also; they have a way of biting the cuttle-fish which decapitates it. Hence the frequent sight on the sea of pen-fish, poulps, and cuttle-fish without heads.

The devil-fish, in fact, is only vulnerable through the head.

Gilliatt was not ignorant of this fact.

With the devil-fish, as with a furious bull, there is a certain moment in the conflict which must be seized. It is the instant when the devil-fish advances its head. The movement is rapid. He who loses that moment is destroyed.

The things we have described occupied only a few moments. Gilliatt, however, felt the increasing power of its innumerable suckers.

The monster is cunning; it tries first to stupefy its prey. It seizes and then pauses a while.

Gilliatt grasped his knife; the sucking increased.

He looked at the monster, which seemed to look at him.

Suddenly it loosened from the rock its sixth antenna, and darting it at him, seized him by the left arm.

At the same moment it advanced its head with a violent movement. In one second more its mouth would have fastened on his breast. Bleeding in the sides, and with his two arms entangled, he would have been a dead man.

But Gilliatt was watchful. He avoided the antenna, and at the moment when the monster darted forward to fasten on his breast, he struck it with the knife clenched in his left hand. There were two convulsions in opposite directions; that of the devil-fish and that of its prey. The movement was rapid as a double flash of lightning.

He had plunged the blade of his knife into the flat, slimy substance, and by a rapid movement, like the flourish of a whip in the air, describing a circle around the two eyes, he wrenched the head off as a man would draw a tooth.

The struggle was ended. The folds relaxed. The monster dropped away, like the slow detaching of bands. The four hundred suckers, deprived of their sustaining power, dropped at once from the man and the rock. The mass sank to the bottom of the water.

Breathless with the struggle, Gilliatt could perceive upon the stones at his feet two shapeless, slimy heaps, the head on one side, the remainder of the monster on the other.

Fearing, nevertheless, some convulsive return of his agony he recoiled to avoid the reach of the dreaded tentacles.

But the monster was quite dead.

Gilliatt closed his knife.

It was time that he killed the devil-fish. He was almost suffocated. His right arm and his chest were purple. Numberless little swellings were distinguishable upon them; the blood flowed from them here and there.

The remedy for these wounds is sea-water. Gilliatt plunged into it, rubbing himself at the same time with the palms of his hands. The swellings disappeared under the friction.

Cabinet of Curiosities Arrives in the Netherlands

I was excited to receive copies the other day of this, the Dutch edition of Cabinet of Curiosities. The book also showed up on Facebook, where its title was translated as "Freak Show." I ought to write a book with that title some day. 

The Man-Eating Tigress of Chowgarh

In a remote region of Chowgarh state, India, goats were causing a problem. They got into fields where crops were growing and, being goats, ate whatever they could reach. The farmers who owned the crops wanted satisfaction, and they knew where to go for it. The man who owned the goats lived high on a hill. He should have kept them away from crops. The farmers climbed the hill to tell him so.

When they got the goatherd’s hut, however, they knew something was wrong. The goat pen, made of thorn bushes, was empty. In the yard the man’s big sheep dog was chained to an iron stake driven into the ground—a sensible enough way to keep a dog from running off when it’s not working. But the dog was dead. It had apparently starved because there was no one to feed it. The hut itself, nestled under a rocky outcrop, was vacant. They called for the goatherd, but got no answer. The whole situation made the farmers uncomfortable. Had the goatherd been robbed and murdered?

The next day, the farmers gathered up more of their neighbors and formed a search party. They found their answers about 400 yards from the hut, beneath an oak tree damaged long ago by a lightning bolt. That’s where they found the goatherd’s clothes, some scattered fragments of bone, and a human skull.

This was the first known victim of the Chowgarh man-eating tiger. Dozens more would follow.


The man of the hills was huge and powerful and agile. Since he’d grown up in the rough terrain of Chowgarh, he could climb like a goat. His agility was on display one day as he cut grass for his cattle from the face of a steep slope, keeping his balance as he worked with his knife. He and his eight-year-old son, who was equally agile, carried their armloads of cut grass up to a level band of ground to tie it in bundles. They had no hint that they were being watched. While the man bent over to tie another bundle, the man-eater of Chowgarh sprang on him. Possibly he turned his head at the last instant, because the tiger’s jaws failed to close on his throat. Instead, the upper and lower fang on one side of its jaws met in the back of his neck. On the other side, the lower fang stabbed into his chin, while the upper one crunched into the cheekbone just below his right eye.

The man fell precisely on the edge of the steep slope. With one hand he grasped a sturdy sapling; it prevented him from falling down the hill. The tiger kept still, standing over him with its fangs buried in his head and neck, its front feet straddling him, its hind feet between his legs. Maybe it thought it had succeeded in pinching his throat shut and was waiting for him to suffocate—a tiger’s usual method of killing. The man felt all the bones in the right side of his face collapse into a sort of pudding. He contemplated his next move.

His only advantage was the slope. He drew up his feet and positioned them against the cat’s belly—carefully, so as not to enrage it into taking some sort of action. Suddenly, he kicked hard and monkey-flipped the tiger over his head. It went tumbling down the slope. It seemed to have no idea how this had happened; when it hit the bottom of the hill, it ran away as if in danger.

Unfortunately for the man, the tiger had never released its grip. When it fell down the hill, it took half his face with it. The man watched to make sure his attacker was gone. His son was standing nearby, paralyzed with shock. “Give me your loin cloth,” the man said, and the boy did. The man used it to bandage his ruined face. Then he took the boy by the hand and they walked back to the village.

At home, he asked his wife to summon all his friends so he could tell them goodbye before he died. They offered to carry him to the nearest hospital 50 miles away. He declined, because he preferred to die in his own home rather than in a hospital, and because his head was in such fiery pain he couldn’t bear the thought of being moved and jostled. Someone gave him water to cool the pain, but when he drank, the water trickled out through the holes in his neck.

He fell into delirium. It seemed to him that his suffering went on eternally. He prayed for death. And finally he woke from his long delirium and found his wounds healed. He’d been a strong man, and he still was, but now he was thin as a leather strap. Soon his hair turned white. He was, of course, disfigured for life—with, as he put it, “a face that no man can look on without repulsion.”


Each tiger leaves a distinctive set of footprints. For this reason, experienced hunters and even some ordinary villagers could tell that the same tiger was responsible when other deaths occurred. After the man-eater had killed more than 40 people across an area of some 1500 square miles, however, the tracks doubled: she had been joined by a companion. This companion was her own cub, who had now grown large enough to join her in hunting food. Soon the cub, a female roughly as big as her mother, was discovered eating corpses by her side; and then one night a husband and wife died together, one killed by the mother tiger, the other by her daughter.

That was the situation when Jim Corbett arrived. Though he was only an amateur hunter and conservationist, Corbett had succeeded in killing more than a dozen man-eaters where others had failed. He had stopped the worst man-eater on record, the Champawat tigress, which had killed at least 436 people. He also killed the Panar leopard, which had killed some 400 people. Corbett’s first glimpse of the Chowgarh tigers came when he followed the trail of a farmer’s missing white cow. As he crept cautiously through a ravine, looking for signs of the cow amid the waist-high ferns, Corbett suddenly saw its white leg sticking up. Oddly, it twirled in the air, as if the cow had taken up ballet. Then Corbett heard a tiger growl. He deduced that the two tigers were eating the cow, mostly hidden among the ferns. The leg moved as the tigers sheared meat from the carcass. The growl meant the tigers were having a minor disagreement over some morsel.

Corbett noticed an outcropping of rock nearby. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled through the ferns toward the outcropping, shoving his rifle along the ground ahead of him. Once he’d reached the outcropping, he climbed it, staying behind it so the tigers wouldn’t see him, trying to stay quiet so they wouldn’t hear him. Finally he was able to peep over the top of it. He was ten or 15 feet above the ground, and he had a good view of the two tigers. One of them was still eating the cow. The other lay nearby, cleaning its immense paws with its tongue. Corbett wanted to kill the mother. She was the experienced man-eater. It was possible the daughter hadn’t fully learned how to hunt people and might stop doing so without her mother’s example to guide her. His rifle had two barrels, both loaded, but he knew he’d only have time to kill one tiger, at best. The other would flee at the sound of the first shot, and a tiger is far faster than a human; it can cover dozens of yards before a person can take aim. The problem was that the tigers were virtually the same size. Corbett couldn’t tell which was the mother.

He made his best guess, aimed, and fired. The tiger he’d hit reared up, then fell, seemingly dead. The other sped away down the ravine and, as Corbett had expected, was gone before he could draw a bead on it. He watched the fallen one to see whether it was really dead. He didn’t want to approach until he was sure; even if it was badly wounded, it could easily kill him before he could shoot it from a close range. He pelted it with a few rocks and got no reaction. Only then did he feel confident enough to draw near. Up close, he could see that the dead tiger was actually the daughter—she had a glossy coat and a full set of teeth with little wear. He used a pen knife to cut off her skin, head, and paws, all in one piece. He had learned from experience that people felt safer if they could see and even touch the physical evidence of a man-eater’s death.

In a nearby village, Corbett found that every single man he talked to had known someone eaten by one or both of the tigers. Some of them had had close calls themselves; they had the scars to prove it. Corbett was in the wilderness hunting ten days later when he heard someone screaming his name. A man had come to tell him a young woman had just been killed only half a mile from the village. He rushed back, only to find the woman sitting up on the stone-paved village courtyard. She was badly hurt, but alive.

She had been working in a field with others when the tiger sprang on her. The others screamed, and the startled tiger ran away. The others assumed she was dead. All of them, including her husband, ran back to the village. It was only when she came walking home that they realized their mistake. In its brief contact with her, the tiger had peeled her head like a banana. Her skin was split between her eyes. From there, the wound ran back along the top of her head, each half of the scalp flapping back to expose her skull. Other wounds reddened her head, neck, chest, shoulder, and hand. Her long black coils of hair were caked with blood.

Corbett carried a bottle of antiseptic for just such emergencies. He cleaned her wounds and bandaged them. Within ten days, they had healed, except for one deep puncture in the back of her neck.

Some days later, the tigress attacked again. The victim was a woman collecting firewood on a steep hillside. The woman saw the tiger an instant before it sprang. She flung herself down the hill to escape. The tiger’s reaction was incredibly fast: it caught her in midair. They tumbled down the hill together. Neighbors heard her scream and saw the tiger carrying her into thick brush. They ran for help. No one knows exactly what happened next. When she woke, the woman had no memory of anything past that instant when the tiger had caught her in the air. She found herself badly wounded in the face and elsewhere. An injury to her neck kept her from screaming for help. She knew where she was, however—a familiar stream ran nearby. She crawled home on hands and knees. There her father and friends put her to bed. They had to protect her from the bottle flies that smelled blood and came to feed on her wounds and lay eggs in them. Within hours, she was in a feverish delirium. Bits of meat often get trapped behind the teeth and claws of carnivores; bacteria breed in it. For that reason, people who survive a mauling often die of infection afterwards. That’s what happened in this case. The woman was already near death by the time Corbett arrived and washed out the wounds with antiseptic. She died that night. (Afterwards, at Corbett’s request, the government supplied the villages of the area with their own stocks of antiseptic medicine.)

That made two victims in a row who had survived the tiger’s actual attack, even though one of them had died later. Corbett knew what this meant: the mother tiger was old and feeble. She must have depended on her grown cub to help with the killing, but Corbett had killed the cub. Though she remained far faster and stronger than any human, she had become a sloppy predator who often missed her mark. Corbett felt her feebleness was the reason she’d become a man-eater—though he himself had killed some healthy, robust man-eaters in his time.

Despite her declining abilities, the Chowgarh tiger continued to elude hunters and kill or injure people. Her man-eating career was now in its fifth year. The end came one day when Corbett and two helpers visited a certain clearing. They knew the tiger had killed a young man there some time before. Their plan was to tie up a buffalo in the clearing. The buffalo would serve as bait. Corbett could hide nearby and shoot the tiger if it attacked the buffalo. However, Corbett didn’t want to wait and merely hope the tiger would wander by discover the buffalo. He asked one of his helpers, Madho Singh, to lure the man-eater. Madho Singh climbed a tree and pretended he was cutting wood. He talked and sang and knocked his axe on the tree. These noises would let the man-eater know human prey was in the area. Meanwhile, the other helper cut grass for the buffalo to eat, and Corbett stood on a flat rock with his gun at the ready.

The strategy worked; Corbett soon sensed the tiger was nearby, watching the three men at their work. He turned to face the forest where she was lurking, but the tiger slipped away without attacking. That wasn’t unusual; a stalking predator often takes its time and watches for danger. Corbett suspected the tiger would return and take the buffalo later, so the three men withdrew. They would hide on a hillside from which they could see the tethered buffalo and shoot the tiger when it came back.

This plan led them to a ravine. As they made their way along it, Corbett found a bird’s nest. In it were two oddly-shaped eggs. Corbett decided to take them for his collection. He carried the eggs in one hand, his rifle in the other. The three men continued down the ravine. As Corbett slid himself over a steep twelve-foot cliff, taking care not to break the eggs, the tiger growled.

She hadn’t kept her eye on the buffalo. She had followed them instead. It wasn’t hard to guess why. But where exactly was she?

Corbett walked softly on the sandy bottom of the ravine. He expected the tiger to spring on him at any moment—from either bank of the ravine, from behind a fallen tree or a rock. He had no idea where to point his rifle. His helpers, who had no weapons of their own, walked some distance behind him. He looked around a rocky corner—and came face to face with the man-eater. She lay poised to spring. It seemed to him that she wore the expression of a dog happy to see its owner. She didn’t attack. She was waiting for him to move. Like a house cat who’s only interested in a ball when it rolls, she needed motion to assure her this was an animal worth taking. Slowly, Corbett swung his rifle into position. This seemed to take forever; he felt as if he were in one of those nightmares in which the dreamer finds himself paralyzed. Yet he knew moving any faster would bring an attack. Finally the rifle was pointed directly at the tiger. He couldn’t bring it to his eye for careful sighting, but he didn’t need to; she was only eight feet away. He pulled the trigger. The rifle knocked his hand back as it recoiled from the blast. For a long moment, nothing else seemed to happen. Then, slowly, the tiger lowered her head onto her paws. Her happy expression had not changed. Blood fountained from the hole in her fur.

The bullet had broken her spine and torn through her aorta.

Corbett looked down and realized he was still holding the eggs, unbroken, in his palm. They had saved his life; if he’d had both hands free, he would have had the rifle ready, would have spun quickly to shoot at the tiger—and found that she was far quicker. It was only this delicate burden that forced him to act slowly.

He put the eggs back in their nest.

Not As Inspirational As It Sounds

Thrilled to see my poem “Hope” in the latest This Land. I can’t show the whole thing here, but this little glimpse provides a teaser, plus a hint of the gorgeous photography that accompanies it. The issue also contains some reporting you won’t see anywhere else. For example, there’s Mark Singer’s first-hand account of dealing with Donald Trump, a gentleman who has lately been in the news for something or other.

UPDATE: This Land is now sharing the entire poem on its website.

An Observer of the Kingdom of Deadly Animals | Newsroom

Credit: Mark Brown

A nifty write-up today in the University of St. Thomas Newsroom:

An Observer of the Kingdom of Deadly Animals | Newsroom: "Gordon Grice likes celebrating nature. He also likes sharing all the ways it could potentially kill us. As he is apt to point out, those two ideas are not mutually exclusive."

Edgar Allan Poe: The Dead Man to His Lover

I succumbed to a fierce fever. After some few days of pain, and many of dreamy delirium replete with ecstasy, there came upon me a breathless and motionless torpor; and this was termed Death by those who stood around me.

My condition did not deprive me of sentience. It appeared to me not greatly dissimilar to the extreme quiescence of him who, having slumbered long and profoundly, lying motionless and fully prostrate in a midsummer noon, begins to steal slowly back into consciousness, through the mere sufficiency of his sleep, and without being awakened by external disturbances.

I breathed no longer. The pulses were still. The heart had ceased to beat. Volition had not departed, but was powerless. The senses were unusually active, although eccentrically so—assuming often each other's functions at random. The taste and the smell were inextricably confounded, and became one sentiment, abnormal and intense. The rose-water with which your tenderness had moistened my lips to the last, affected me with sweet fancies of flowers. The eyelids, transparent and bloodless, offered no complete impediment to vision. As volition was in abeyance, the balls could not roll in their sockets, but all objects within the range of the visual hemisphere were seen with more or less distinctness; the rays which fell upon the external retina, or into the corner of the eye, producing a more vivid effect than those which struck the front or interior surface. Yet, in the former instance, this effect was so far anomalous that I appreciated it only as sound—sound sweet or discordant as the matters presenting themselves at my side were light or dark in shade—curved or angular in outline. The hearing, at the same time, although excited in degree, was not irregular in action—estimating real sounds with an extravagance of precision, not less than of sensibility. Touch had undergone a modification more peculiar. Its impressions were tardily received, but pertinaciously retained, and resulted always in the highest physical pleasure. Thus the pressure of your sweet fingers upon my eyelids, at first only recognised through vision, at length, long after their removal, filled my whole being with a sensual delight immeasurable.

All my perceptions were purely sensual. The materials furnished the passive brain by the senses were not in the least degree wrought into shape by the deceased understanding. Of pain there was some little; of pleasure there was much; but of moral pain or pleasure none at all. Thus your wild sobs floated into my ear with all their mournful cadences, and were appreciated in their every variation of sad tone; but they were soft musical sounds and no more; they conveyed to the extinct reason no intimation of the sorrows which gave them birth; while the large and constant tears which fell upon my face, telling the bystanders of a heart which broke, thrilled every fibre of my frame with ecstasy alone.

The day waned; and, as its light faded away, I became possessed by a vague uneasiness—an anxiety such as the sleeper feels when sad real sounds fall continuously within his ear—low distant bell-tones, solemn, at long but equal intervals, and mingling with melancholy dreams. Night arrived; and with its shadows a heavy discomfort. It oppressed my limbs with the oppression of some dull weight, and was palpable. There was also a moaning sound, not unlike the distant reverberation of surf, but more continuous, which, beginning with the first twilight, had grown in strength with the darkness. Suddenly lights were brought into the room, and this reverberation became forthwith interrupted into frequent unequal bursts of the same sound, but less dreary and less distinct. The ponderous oppression was in a great measure relieved; and, issuing from the flame of each lamp, (for there were many,) there flowed unbrokenly into my ears a strain of melodious monotone. And when now, approaching the bed upon which I lay outstretched, you sat gently by my side, breathing odor from your sweet lips, and pressing them upon my brow, there arose tremulously within my bosom, and mingling with the merely physical sensations which circumstances had called forth, a something akin to sentiment itself—a feeling that, half appreciating, half responded to your earnest love and sorrow; but this feeling took no root in the pulseless heart, and seemed indeed rather a shadow than a reality, and faded quickly away, first into extreme quiescence, and then into a purely sensual pleasure as before.

And now, from the wreck and the chaos of the usual senses, there appeared to have arisen within me a sixth, all perfect. In its exercise I found a wild delight—yet a delight still physical, inasmuch as the understanding had in it no part. Motion in the animal frame had fully ceased. No muscle quivered; no nerve thrilled; no artery throbbed. But there seemed to have sprung up in the brain, that of which no words could convey even an indistinct conception. Let me term it a mental pendulous pulsation. It was the embodiment of Time. By the absolute equalization of this movement had the cycles of the firmamental orbs themselves, been adjusted. By its aid I measured the irregularities of the clock upon the mantel, and of the watches of the attendants. Their tickings came sonorously to my ears. The slightest deviations from the true proportion—and these deviations were omni-prevalent—affected me just as violations of truth were wont, on earth, to affect the moral sense. Although no two of the time-pieces in the chamber struck the individual seconds accurately together, yet I had no difficulty in holding steadily in mind the tones, and the errors of each. And this keen, perfect, self-existing sentiment of duration was the first step of the soul upon the threshold of the Eternity.

It was midnight; and you still sat by my side. All others had departed from the chamber of Death. They had deposited me in the coffin. The lamps burned flickeringly; for this I knew by the tremulousness of the monotonous strains. But, suddenly these strains diminished in distinctness and in volume. Finally they ceased. The perfume in my nostrils died away. Forms affected my vision no longer. The oppression of the Darkness uplifted itself from my bosom. A dull shock like that of electricity pervaded my frame.

I appreciated the direful change now in operation upon the flesh, and, as the dreamer is sometimes aware of the bodily presence of one who leans over him, so I still dully felt that you sat by my side. When the noon of the second day came, I was conscious of those movements which displaced you from my side, which confined me within the coffin, which deposited me within the hearse, which bore me to the grave, which lowered me within it, which heaped heavily the mould upon me, and which thus left me, in blackness and corruption, to my solemn slumbers with the worm.

How to Survive a Deer or Moose Attack

Your favorite nature writer is quoted in this informative article:

How to Survive a Deer or Moose Attack:

They’ll attack hikers in the wilderness, gore people tending their gardens, and there have been multiple cases of bucks busting through the windows of houses and business because they saw their own reflection in the glass. Some bucks will even hold a grudge, like one that attacked a driver afterthey had hit it with their car.

And if you want more of my take on the subject of dangerous deer, follow the "saw their own reflection" link to an article of mine on Gizmodo. Or, simply dip into your copy of The Book of Deadly Animals

The Gray Wolf

An old-fashioned werewolf story.

The Gray Wolf

by George MacDonald

One evening-twilight in spring, a young English student, who had wandered northwards as far as the outlying fragments of Scotland called the Orkney and Shetland Islands, found himself on a small island of the latter group, caught in a storm of wind and hail, which had come on suddenly. It was in vain to look about for any shelter; for not only did the storm entirely obscure the landscape, but there was nothing around him save a desert moss.

At length, however, as he walked on for mere walking's sake, he found himself on the verge of a cliff, and saw, over the brow of it, a few feet below him, a ledge of rock, where he might find some shelter from the blast, which blew from behind. Letting himself down by his hands, he alighted upon something that crunched beneath his tread, and found the bones of many small animals scattered about in front of a little cave in the rock, offering the refuge he sought. He went in, and sat upon a stone. The storm increased in violence, and as the darkness grew he became uneasy, for he did not relish the thought of spending the night in the cave. He had parted from his companions on the opposite side of the island, and it added to his uneasiness that they must be full of apprehension about him. At last there came a lull in the storm, and the same instant he heard a footfall, stealthy and light as that of a wild beast, upon the bones at the mouth of the cave. He started up in some fear, though the least thought might have satisfied him that there could be no very dangerous animals upon the island. Before he had time to think, however, the face of a woman appeared in the opening. Eagerly the wanderer spoke. She started at the sound of his voice. He could not see her well, because she was turned towards the darkness of the cave.

"Will you tell me how to find my way across the moor to Shielness?" he asked.

"You cannot find it to-night," she answered, in a sweet tone, and with a smile that bewitched him, revealing the whitest of teeth.

"What am I to do, then?"

"My mother will give you shelter, but that is all she has to offer."

"And that is far more than I expected a minute ago," he replied. "I shall be most grateful."

She turned in silence and left the cave. The youth followed.

She was barefooted, and her pretty brown feet went catlike over the sharp stones, as she led the way down a rocky path to the shore. Her garments were scanty and torn, and her hair blew tangled in the wind. She seemed about five and twenty, lithe and small. Her long fingers kept clutching and pulling nervously at her skirts as she went. Her face was very gray in complexion, and very worn, but delicately formed, and smooth-skinned. Her thin nostrils were tremulous as eyelids, and her lips, whose curves were faultless, had no colour to give sign of indwelling blood. What her eyes were like he could not see, for she had never lifted the delicate films of her eyelids.

At the foot of the cliff, they came upon a little hut leaning against it, and having for its inner apartment a natural hollow within. Smoke was spreading over the face of the rock, and the grateful odour of food gave hope to the hungry student. His guide opened the door of the cottage; he followed her in, and saw a woman bending over a fire in the middle of the floor. On the fire lay a large fish broiling. The daughter spoke a few words, and the mother turned and welcomed the stranger. She had an old and very wrinkled, but honest face, and looked troubled. She dusted the only chair in the cottage, and placed it for him by the side of the fire, opposite the one window, whence he saw a little patch of yellow sand over which the spent waves spread themselves out listlessly. Under this window there was a bench, upon which the daughter threw herself in an unusual posture, resting her chin upon her hand. A moment after, the youth caught the first glimpse of her blue eyes. They were fixed upon him with a strange look of greed, amounting to craving, but, as if aware that they belied or betrayed her, she dropped them instantly. The moment she veiled them, her face, notwithstanding its colourless complexion, was almost beautiful.

When the fish was ready, the old woman wiped the deal table, steadied it upon the uneven floor, and covered it with a piece of fine table-linen. She then laid the fish on a wooden platter, and invited the guest to help himself. Seeing no other provision, he pulled from his pocket a hunting knife, and divided a portion from the fish, offering it to the mother first.

"Come, my lamb," said the old woman; and the daughter approached the table. But her nostrils and mouth quivered with disgust.

The next moment she turned and hurried from the hut.

"She doesn't like fish," said the old woman, "and I haven't anything else to give her."

"She does not seem in good health," he rejoined.

The woman answered only with a sigh, and they ate their fish with the help of a little rye bread. As they finished their supper, the youth heard the sound as of the pattering of a dog's feet upon the sand close to the door; but ere he had time to look out of the window, the door opened, and the young woman entered. She looked better, perhaps from having just washed her face. She drew a stool to the corner of the fire opposite him. But as she sat down, to his bewilderment, and even horror, the student spied a single drop of blood on her white skin within her torn dress. The woman brought out a jar of whisky, put a rusty old kettle on the fire, and took her place in front of it. As soon as the water boiled, she proceeded to make some toddy in a wooden bowl.

Meantime the youth could not take his eyes off the young woman, so that at length he found himself fascinated, or rather bewitched. She kept her eyes for the most part veiled with the loveliest eyelids fringed with darkest lashes, and he gazed entranced; for the red glow of the little oil-lamp covered all the strangeness of her complexion. But as soon as he met a stolen glance out of those eyes unveiled, his soul shuddered within him. Lovely face and craving eyes alternated fascination and repulsion.

The mother placed the bowl in his hands. He drank sparingly, and passed it to the girl. She lifted it to her lips, and as she tasted--only tasted it--looked at him. He thought the drink must have been drugged and have affected his brain. Her hair smoothed itself back, and drew her forehead backwards with it; while the lower part of her face projected towards the bowl, revealing, ere she sipped, her dazzling teeth in strange prominence. But the same moment the vision vanished; she returned the vessel to her mother, and rising, hurried out of the cottage.

Then the old woman pointed to a bed of heather in one corner with a murmured apology; and the student, wearied both with the fatigues of the day and the strangeness of the night, threw himself upon it, wrapped in his cloak. The moment he lay down, the storm began afresh, and the wind blew so keenly through the crannies of the hut, that it was only by drawing his cloak over his head that he could protect himself from its currents. Unable to sleep, he lay listening to the uproar which grew in violence, till the spray was dashing against the window. At length the door opened, and the young woman came in, made up the fire, drew the bench before it, and lay down in the same strange posture, with her chin propped on her hand and elbow, and her face turned towards the youth. He moved a little; she dropped her head, and lay on her face, with her arms crossed beneath her forehead. The mother had disappeared.

Drowsiness crept over him. A movement of the bench roused him, and he fancied he saw some four-footed creature as tall as a large dog trot quietly out of the door. He was sure he felt a rush of cold wind. Gazing fixedly through the darkness, he thought he saw the eyes of the damsel encountering his, but a glow from the falling together of the remnants of the fire revealed clearly enough that the bench was vacant. Wondering what could have made her go out in such a storm, he fell fast asleep.

In the middle of the night he felt a pain in his shoulder, came broad awake, and saw the gleaming eyes and grinning teeth of some animal close to his face. Its claws were in his shoulder, and its mouth in the act of seeking his throat. Before it had fixed its fangs, however, he had its throat in one hand, and sought his knife with the other. A terrible struggle followed; but regardless of the tearing claws, he found and opened his knife. He had made one futile stab, and was drawing it for a surer, when, with a spring of the whole body, and one wildly contorted effort, the creature twisted its neck from his hold, and with something betwixt a scream and a howl, darted from him. Again he heard the door open; again the wind blew in upon him, and it continued blowing; a sheet of spray dashed across the floor, and over his face. He sprung from his couch and bounded to the door.

It was a wild night--dark, but for the flash of whiteness from the waves as they broke within a few yards of the cottage; the wind was raving, and the rain pouring down the air. A gruesome sound as of mingled weeping and howling came from somewhere in the dark. He turned again into the hut and closed the door, but could find no way of securing it.

The lamp was nearly out, and he could not be certain whether the form of the young woman was upon the bench or not. Overcoming a strong repugnance, he approached it, and put out his hands--there was nothing there. He sat down and waited for the daylight: he dared not sleep any more.

When the day dawned at length, he went out yet again, and looked around. The morning was dim and gusty and gray. The wind had fallen, but the waves were tossing wildly. He wandered up and down the little strand, longing for more light.

At length he heard a movement in the cottage. By and by the voice of the old woman called to him from the door.

"You're up early, sir. I doubt you didn't sleep well."

"Not very well," he answered. "But where is your daughter?"

"She's not awake yet," said the mother. "I'm afraid I have but a poor breakfast for you. But you'll take a dram and a bit of fish. It's all I've got."

Unwilling to hurt her, though hardly in good appetite, he sat down at the table. While they were eating, the daughter came in, but turned her face away and went to the farther end of the hut. When she came forward after a minute or two, the youth saw that her hair was drenched, and her face whiter than before. She looked ill and faint, and when she raised her eyes, all their fierceness had vanished, and sadness had taken its place. Her neck was now covered with a cotton handkerchief. She was modestly attentive to him, and no longer shunned his gaze. He was gradually yielding to the temptation of braving another night in the hut, and seeing what would follow, when the old woman spoke.

"The weather will be broken all day, sir," she said. "You had better be going, or your friends will leave without you."

Ere he could answer, he saw such a beseeching glance on the face of the girl, that he hesitated, confused. Glancing at the mother, he saw the flash of wrath in her face. She rose and approached her daughter, with her hand lifted to strike her. The young woman stooped her head with a cry. He darted round the table to interpose between them. But the mother had caught hold of her; the handkerchief had fallen from her neck; and the youth saw five blue bruises on her lovely throat--the marks of the four fingers and the thumb of a left hand. With a cry of horror he darted from the house, but as he reached the door he turned. His hostess was lying motionless on the floor, and a huge gray wolf came bounding after him.

There was no weapon at hand; and if there had been, his inborn chivalry would never have allowed him to harm a woman even under the guise of a wolf. Instinctively, he set himself firm, leaning a little forward, with half outstretched arms, and hands curved ready to clutch again at the throat upon which he had left those pitiful marks. But the creature as she sprung eluded his grasp, and just as he expected to feel her fangs, he found a woman weeping on his bosom, with her arms around his neck. The next instant, the gray wolf broke from him, and bounded howling up the cliff. Recovering himself as he best might, the youth followed, for it was the only way to the moor above, across which he must now make his way to find his companions.

All at once he heard the sound of a crunching of bones--not as if a creature was eating them, but as if they were ground by the teeth of rage and disappointment; looking up, he saw close above him the mouth of the little cavern in which he had taken refuge the day before. Summoning all his resolution, he passed it slowly and softly. From within came the sounds of a mingled moaning and growling.

Having reached the top, he ran at full speed for some distance across the moor before venturing to look behind him. When at length he did so, he saw, against the sky, the girl standing on the edge of the cliff, wringing her hands. One solitary wail crossed the space between. She made no attempt to follow him, and he reached the opposite shore in safety.

The Man-Eating Horse of Lucknow

In the early 1800s, when India was under the rule of the British East India Company, two English observers rode in a buggy through the city of Lucknow. The streets were deserted. Since Lucknow was a populous city and it was broad day, the men couldn’t at first understand where everyone had gone. They saw only a few people in the distance, running away from the street the buggy traveled. Then they came upon a citizen who was not running away. She lay on the street, her face chewed to a pulp, her body so bludgeoned as to lose its human shape, her hair clotted with gore.

The men rode on, passing the closed doors and windows of houses. The next human being they encountered was a young man, also battered and bitten to death. Finally they saw a soldier standing on a roof. He told them the “man-eater of Lucknow” was to blame. This horse, it was reported, had already killed a number of people; his reputation had spread across the region. Now, as they spoke with the soldier, the Englishmen suddenly saw the animal itself—a big bay stallion rushing down the road. In its mouth it shook a dead child.

When it saw the Englishmen’s buggy, it dropped the child and galloped toward them. The horse pulling their buggy so was frightened they could hardly control it, but they managed it well enough to escape into an iron corral. The stallion arrived. They saw that its head was slathered with blood; clots clung to the hair of its jaws. It tried to kick through the fence, its iron shoes ringing against the iron bars, but the men and their horse were safe inside. It gave up this particular quarry. As it trotted away, it passed through an arch where soldiers had set an ambush. They managed to lasso and muzzle the stallion and lead him into a pen.

He was now the property of the king, who immediately made use of him—as entertainment. The king’s men used a mare to lure the stallion into a fenced courtyard. Then they introduced a tiger. The tiger quickly killed the mare, but hesitated to attack the stallion. After some careful stalking, the tiger sprang. The horse was too quick; he ducked his head and neck to miss the killing bite, though the tiger managed to slice the flesh of his haunches before he was kicked away. A second spring brought the same result. This time, however, the stallion’s iron-shod kick broke the tiger’s jaw, and it refused to try again. The attendants allowed it to return to its cage.

The king had not had his fill. He ordered another tiger released into the courtyard. This one had already been fed. It had no interest in the formidable horse and could not be provoked to fight, even when the attendants prodded it with hot pokers. It, too, was allowed to return to its cage.

Now the king ordered three water buffalo brought in. Water buffalo are generally harmless, but when enraged, they can kill people and even tigers. In the courtyard of the king, however, the buffalo weren’t enraged. They seemed merely puzzled. The stallion looked them over for a few moments. He approached and sniffed at one of them. The buffalo stood with their heads together, like dull-witted counselors conferring. The stallion turned his back on them—and kicked. His hind feet pounded the flesh of the nearest buffalo. It seemed merely annoyed, but the king was delighted. He announced that the “man-eater of Lucknow” had earned his life with his courage. After that, the stallion lived as an exhibit at the king’s palace. Visitors to the town stopped to see him. He was kept in a large cage so that he wouldn’t hurt anyone else.

Was this stallion really a man-eater? I doubt it. Horses aren’t designed to eat meat. They will eat it when especially hungry or, it seems, from idle curiosity. One, for example, was spotted eating a chicken. People have even fed them on blood in a misguided belief that this will make them stronger or faster or more aggressive when used in war. What it really makes them is less healthy; their stomachs are built for grasses and other vegetation. It’s far more probable that the “Man-Eater” of Lucknow merely killed people by biting (as well as kicking). Horrified witnesses mistook its intentions. It surely meant to kill, but not to eat.

This kind of aggression is not typical of horses, but it has precedents. Horses readily kill when they feel threatened by, for example, unfamiliar dogs. Another cause of aggression is abuse. In one case, a man who whipped his pony found himself bloodied with kicks and bites. The pony attempted to bite the man on the face—very much as the victims in Lucknow were bitten. In this case, the man escaped before the pony could finish him. No one knows what abuses the Man-Eater of Lucknow may have endured at the hands of humans.

Solomon Islands Skink

Its expression looks almost human, doesn't it? The world's largest skink has an unusual social life. It mates for life, and couples form friendships with other couples. In fact, they form little communities in which the adults help each other take care of the young. Sometimes they even adopt orphans. All of this is terribly unusual among reptiles. 

This species is also called the monkey-tailed skink because its tail is prehensile. It uses this to help it climb.  

Photos by Dee Puett.
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