Panthera

Part Four: A Throne of Beasts and Shadows

By Colonel James Halden (Ret.) © 1949

The morning after Panthera’s massacre, the camp was draped in silence. The dead had been gathered, their bodies wrapped in cloth, but the stains of their blood still darkened the earth. The fires had long since burned out, but the stench of charred wood and death lingered in the air, a reminder of what had transpired. There was no revelry, no camaraderie among the soldiers or the villagers—only an unspoken understanding that the beast had not simply attacked us.

It had judged us.

I was summoned to the great tent, a temporary structure where decisions were made by men who pretended to have control over things far beyond them. Major Edward Lancing sat at the center of it all, a figure of rigid authority, a man I had long respected. His command was unquestioned, his discipline unwavering. I had seen him hold the line in battle, seen him issue orders that had saved lives. But here, in the thick of this untamed land, he was an enforcer first, a protector second.

The village elders arrived with measured steps, their faces unreadable. But now, a new voice joined them. Rajat Banerjee, a younger man, fierce-eyed and sharp of tongue, had stepped forward in Singh’s place. He was not content with quiet diplomacy. He was of the new breed of men—restless, eager, emboldened by the suffering of his people and the fading might of the Empire.

Rajat began with an indictment. "For centuries, the beast has taken only one per full moon, a cycle of nature that we have understood. But since you English arrived with your guns and your fire, you have angered it, and now the blood does not stop flowing. You have made this worse, and we demand you leave and let us restore balance."

Lancing let out a short, humorless breath, resting his forearms on the table. "You demand? Then let me tell you what I demand. I demand that you step in line and accept the reality of the world. I have no interest in leaving this village to its own devices when I have orders to ensure its survival. I am here to protect this land, to create stability, to prepare India for the modern world. Without us, you will fall to chaos."

Rajat’s jaw clenched. "Spare me your justifications. You claim to bring stability, but you mean control. You say you protect religious minorities, but do you know how many times we have been attacked in our own homeland? And you now claim to shield those who once came as invaders? You do not bring peace, Major. You bring submission. And we are finished submitting."

Lancing was not a man who riled easily, but I saw the fire in his eyes. "Do not pretend your hands are clean, Banerjee. I have seen too many men speak of freedom while burning their neighbor’s homes. You speak of past invaders, but in recent years, it is your own people who have turned against the Muslims in this very region, forcing us to maintain a heavier presence here than we would prefer. If the British leave, you will turn on each other before the year’s end. There are only 76,953 British soldiers in all of India—a country of 254 million. Do you truly think you are held in chains by us, or by your own divisions? And when the blood begins to flow, it will not be the jungle that takes you. It will be your own countrymen."

Rajat straightened, his expression unreadable. "Then allow me to take my concerns to the Crown. We should speak directly to the King about our village and its sovereignty."

Lancing let out a short, sharp bark of laughter, shaking his head. "You want an audience with the King? Perhaps you’d like to sit on his council while you’re at it? No, Banerjee. Your concerns die here, just as your rebellion will, should you take it any further."

The tent was silent. Some of the older villagers cast glances between the two men, sensing that the tension had stretched to its limit.

Then, Lancing leaned back, exhaling. "We will not leave. That is out of the question. However, the hunters... well, their presence benefits neither of us. Their failure has embarrassed the Crown, and they have brought ruin upon your village. The German papers have now taken to writing about our failures in India, reveling in the spectacle of British misfortune. They sniff at our wounds like hyenas, delighted to see the Empire stumble, eager to remind the world that even the mighty can bleed. Sending them home is a solution that serves both our interests."

A silence stretched between them. Then Rajat gave a slow nod. "That much, I can agree to."

The discussion was brief. The British had lost too many men. The bounty had brought disaster instead of victory. The hunters would be sent home.

---

Kendrick was not present at the meeting, but when he heard of it, his reaction was volcanic.

I heard the shouting before I saw him. Kendrick stormed into the tent, his once-pristine ivory suit now permanently stained with sweat, dirt, and blood. His hair was disheveled, his eyes sunken, his movements frantic. He had become a man undone, and yet in his unraveling, there was a terrible clarity. "You’re sending us home?" he snarled, his voice cracking. "You’re giving up? Do you not see? This is more than a hunt. This is more than a beast. This is a reckoning!"

Lancing did not rise from his seat. He merely exhaled, regarding Kendrick as one would a rabid dog. "We are cutting our losses. The Crown does not fight battles it cannot win."

Kendrick’s laughter was sharp, manic, the laugh of a man who had seen beyond the veil of reason and found only horror staring back at him. "You are fools, all of you! You don’t understand! Panthera is not an animal—it is the jungle itself, it is fate, it is the shadow that follows us! And if we turn away, if we admit that we have lost, then the world will see it! They will know! They will see that the British Empire is not what it once was! That we are ghosts clinging to the past while the future devours us whole!"

Lancing did not flinch. "Enough, Kendrick. You will return to your quarters. The next ship will take you back to England. You are finished here."

But Kendrick did not step back. His fingers twitched as though he were on the verge of lunging. His breath came fast, ragged. For a moment, I thought he might draw his pistol. I moved instinctively, stepping forward, grabbing his arm.

"Kendrick, that is an order," I hissed.

He looked at me then, and for the briefest moment, I saw something almost pitiful in his eyes—an exhausted, broken man clinging to the last embers of his belief that he could control the uncontrollable.

Then, the rage took him. He jerked forward, reaching for something—’til this day, I wonder if he reached for Lancing, or the vapors of his sanity, I couldn’t tell. But the soldiers had already seen enough. They slammed him to the ground, pinning him as he thrashed. He howled as they forced the shackles over his wrists, his struggles violent, his words a mixture of curses and something incomprehensible—prayers, perhaps, or prophecies of doom. He fought like a man possessed, and it took four men to subdue him.

Even as they carried him off, his voice rang through the camp, raw and unhinged. "You’re all going to die! You think you can walk away? You think the jungle will let you? The jungle does not forget! It does not forgive! It will watch you! It will take you, one by one!"

And then, silence.'

Sadly, this wouldn’t be the last that I ever saw or heard from Dr. Kendrick.

---

Dusk came, and with it, a visitor.

She arrived on foot, alone. The villagers saw her first, and even before she spoke, they fell to their knees. It was not fear that moved them, but reverence.

It was as if the jungle itself had sent a reprieve. Where there had been grief, there was now hope, like Hector's wife, Andromache, running his bathwater before he faced Achilles—one last reminder that there was still something worth fighting for.

She was dressed in simple hunting leathers, yet there was nothing simple about her. Her skin was dark as the rich earth, yet smooth as polished stone. Her hair, a black so deep it shimmered violet under the setting sun, cascaded down her back in waves, catching both light and shadow. But it was her eyes that struck me most—green, the color of untouched canopies, ancient, watching, knowing.

She did not walk. She glided.

She did not speak. She sang.

Little girls clung to her legs, their small hands gripping her clothing as if she were an anchor in a storm. Elder women wept openly, some whispering prayers, others recounting tales of her ancestors—stories of battles against the Mughals, stories passed down from their great-grandparents. They called them stories from the South.

Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper, yet it filled the camp as if carried by the wind itself. I did not understand the words, but I felt them, deep in my bones. A lament, a promise, an unspoken challenge to the jungle itself.

Then, she spoke. Her words were simple, yet they carried the weight of something ancient.

“I will hunt the beast. But the bounty must go to the village, to restore what has been lost.”

That night, I found her by the river, sharpening a wagh nakh—a claw-like blade, ancient in its design, deadly in its purpose. I pleaded with her, told her there was no honor in this, no future in it.

“Stay,” I urged. “This hunt will not bring salvation. You could die, and for what? Let me take you away from all this.”

She looked at me with a softness I had never seen before. “It is not about honor. It is about balance. The people must learn that no one will come to save them. Not the British. Not kings. Not the old gods. We must save ourselves.”

I wanted to beg her again, but the words caught in my throat. In those moments, I realized I loved her—not in the way a man loves an ideal, but in the way a man loves something he knows he can never truly have. But I knew, deep down, she had already chosen her path.

And as she disappeared into the jungle, armed only with the wagh nakh and a simple wooden flute, I found myself trailing her, unable to resist the pull of my own cursed curiosity.

And somewhere, in the heart of the jungle, Panthera watched.

Dr. Alistair Kendrick’s loses his wits