Crybaby - Chapter Four
Chapter Four of the blockbuster new novel, Crybaby by best selling, multi-award-winning author Mark Watson...
CRYBABY
©Copyright 2024 by Mark Watson
CHAPTER 4
The Constable
The Shaman was dying. He knew it in his subconscious. Whatever he had ingested was killing him, and he didn’t know why. His earthly body lay motionless as his spirit floated above it. He could see that his friend, the mahout, had already passed away. They were very old men, drugged and sedated beyond their limits, pushed from the land of the living into the realm of death.
The Shaman didn’t understand why his powers had started working now, after a lifetime of failure. He had always been more of a sham than a shaman, never performing anything truly magical or mysterious. His act had been a facade to earn a few pennies, consisting of dancing around fires, smoking, and drinking whatever he could find. His main trick had been “making it rain,” which was easy enough in the rainforest where rain was frequent.
He had also been known for curing animals and talking to animal spirits, neither of which required more than hollering gibberish until something coincidental happened, which he would then claim as a success. The area had generally been full of tourists, so looking the part and striking various dramatic poses had been enough to fill his supplication bowl. As he had aged, he perfected his appearance, much like a department store Santa growing a long white beard and gaining weight. His face, deeply lined and etched with the passage of time, told a story of wisdom hard-earned and experiences both profound and painful. His eyes, generally red and bloodshot had been filled with the secrets of the forest and the spirits that dwelled within it.
Draped in ceremonial robes, each patch and stitch had been a testament to his life's journey and the traditions he upheld. The vibrant patterns represented the elements, the animals, and the ancestors he honored. Feathers, beads, and bones woven into his matted hair had not been mere decorations; they were symbols of his connection to the spiritual world, each one a token of a significant vision or an encounter with the beyond.
His body, though aged and worn, had moved with a deliberate grace that spoke of his deep connection to the earth. Every gesture had been infused with purpose and reverence, from the way he tended to his sacred fire to the manner in which he prepared his ritual tools. The smell of burning herbs, mainly weed, and incense had surrounded him, a fragrant reminder of the ancient practices he pretended to keep alive. His sole act of hygiene had been what he called a daily “fire bath” which consisted of standing on one leg in the smoke from his fire and smoking marijuana, it didn’t so much leave him physically clean as spiritually content.
But this experience was new. One of his supposed powers was to escort the souls of the dead to the afterlife, and he figured this must be an offshoot of that ability, although his spirit was just as intoxicated with whisky and drugs as his body. His spirit had left his mortally crippled human form and was woozily looking down at his soon-to-be corpse. He didn’t have much time left.
The whisky hadn’t just left his spirit in a state of extreme drunkenness; he was also absolutely furious, which whisky also tended to do. Who had done this to him and why? Who had killed his only friend? His anger raged, and if you could see into the spirit realm, you’d see that his spirit blazed with a fiery red aura. He felt, even though he was almost ninety, that he was far too young to die. He had so much more to accomplish, and now he had been robbed of his remaining years. His aura burned white-hot.
His spirit rose through the roof of his hut and up, up into the gathering gloom of the twilit forest air. This wouldn’t be the end of him, oh no. He would find the man who’d killed him and destroy him somehow. With that thought, his spirit suddenly appeared at the bottom of the ravine where the body of the thief lay, broken and dead with his brains dashed out. Too late!
Again, if auras could spit and curse, you would see the Shaman’s spirit do just that; it blazed with fury. He wouldn’t be denied. He would seek someone else to exact his revenge. His spirit winked out again and appeared much further away, down the river where a huge elephant was about to bathe.
It was Crybaby, covered in blood as though baptized with it. Good. This would be his instrument of vengeance, the carrier of his spite and anger, a vessel of his hatred for mankind.
As the Shaman in the hut began to choke, taking his final breath, his angry spirit flashed into the giant monster like a ball of blazing light. Crybaby stopped and roared, filled with anger and fury. The spirit winked out of existence at the exact moment the Shaman gave up his mortal coil, but the feeling remained. The elephant’s huge brown eyes glowed a violent red as though lit by fires within, and it turned from the water. It would leave the blood on its tusks and head; it would leave the gore splattered on its feet and knees. It had become more than just an elephant; it was a monster seeking vengeance, its purpose clear and single-minded. It would no longer be poked with sticks, beaten, ridden, or chained. It would kill until something or someone stopped it.
Dead.
Jack regained consciousness slowly and painfully. Vague memories of terrible dreams filled his mind, where a relentless, monstrous animal with steaming, glowing red eyes pursued him. No matter where he ran or what he tried, it always caught him, bringing him back to the beginning, running and crawling away. When he finally opened his eyes, he immediately closed them again; the pain in his head was too much. After a while, the pain subsided enough for him to open them again and try to figure out where he was. He seemed to be on some sort of camp bed in a store cupboard. He groaned and tried to sit up but quickly fell back into unconsciousness.
“Hello,” he croaked, his throat dry. Spotting a bottle of water on the floor, he drank from it. “Hello,” he tried again, a little louder.
Presently, the door opened, and a man entered, wearing a gunmetal colored official uniform.
“Ah, hello Jack,” said the man. “One moment, please. Don’t try to get up, and I will bring a chair.”
“Am I in a hospital?” Jack asked.
“No, sorry Jack, there are no hospitals here. This is the police station. We put you here to recover. This is where we sleep between shifts. Please,” he continued, “don’t try to move. You are safe. Let me get a chair.”
Soon the man was sitting next to Jack while Jack sipped the water.
“My name is Nisheed Kumar. I am the constable of police here. I apologize for the discomfort, but we are a small community without the top-notch medical services you may be used to. But rest assured, the doctor from the town has been here, and you are going to be just fine—no broken bones or anything. You are very, very lucky.”
“Okay,” said Jack. “I’m still here, aren’t I? I was on holiday. I remember now. Oh fuck, there was an elephant. Something happened, I fell off. Oh shit, where’s Chris? Is she okay?”
Nisheed reached out and put his hand on Jack’s. “I’m afraid not. There was a terrible incident. The elephant has gone rogue. It…err…” He hesitated, struggling to continue without giving Jack the devastating news. “…errm. Well, the elephant killed some people. Christine was one of them.”
“Oh God. What happened?”
“It seems the elephant was stolen. We don’t know by whom, but we found the elephant handler and his friend dead in a hut near here. They were fed whisky and sedatives, which were too much for them. They were very old… they died.”
“There WAS an elephant handler, I remember now. The elephant… Crybaby, it squashed him, then threw him off a bridge.”
“Ah,” said Nisheed. “We didn’t know that. We didn’t look down there. There were quite a few bodies to deal with. Look, better to tell you everything. The elephant attacked a cultural tour as it came down the mountain. It went completely crazy, killing tourists, mahouts, and other elephants. Then it fled. We haven’t seen it since.”
“Since?” said Jack. “How long have I been here?”
“Two days.”
“Can I go home? I mean home home?”
“Not at the moment. I’m very sorry but, doctor’s orders. You were found unconscious in the village by some locals. They brought you here, to the police station. Our doctor did what he could with the resources available. The rest of the group... well, the survivors have been relocated to a safer area. They're being looked after."
Tears welled up in Jack's eyes. "Christine..."
Nisheed placed a comforting hand on Jack's shoulder. "I know. I'm truly sorry for your loss. We are doing everything we can to find Crybaby and ensure this never happens again."
Jack's grief was momentarily overshadowed by a surge of anger. "How could this happen? How could someone let this happen?"
Nisheed looked troubled. "The sedatives, the way the handlers were found... and what you told me just now. We're investigating, but in a remote area like this, it's difficult."
Jack's mind raced with questions, but his body was weak, and he felt himself growing tired again. "I need to rest," he said, his voice barely a whisper.
"Of course," Nisheed replied. "Rest now. We'll talk more later. You're safe here."
Jack drifted off into a restless sleep, his dreams once again haunted by the terrifying images of Crybaby and the tragic events that had unfolded.
Nisheed went back to his office and sat down, noticing that his back creaked, and he made a small grunt as he settled into his chair. He recalled a Hollywood film he had seen a few years ago where an old cop kept complaining to his younger partner that he was “too old for this shit,” and he felt the same way. Nisheed had been a policeman for as long as he could remember. Although he’d done a short stint in the big city, he had been a provincial constable for much of his career.
Nisheed's journey into law enforcement had begun decades. Fresh out of the academy, he was eager to serve and protect his community. His first assignment was in a bustling urban center, where he quickly learned the ropes, dealing with everything from petty crimes to serious offenses. However, the pace and impersonal nature of city life left him longing for the familiarity and tranquility of rural living. When a position opened up in his hometown, he jumped at the chance to return.
Back in the province, Nisheed dedicated himself to his work with renewed vigor. Over the years, he built a reputation as a diligent and fair constable, respected by colleagues and townspeople alike. He handled a variety of cases, from domestic disputes to wildlife issues, but it was the increasing incidents with rogue elephants that posed the most persistent and dangerous challenges.
This wasn’t the first time he had dealt with rogue elephants and related deaths; it was more common than people thought. If the tourists who flocked to the area for cultural tours knew just how frequent these incidents were, he doubted they would even go near the creatures. The problem was becoming more common as people continued to encroach upon the wild elephants’ habitats.
Recently, things had gotten worse. Human-elephant conflict had been escalating due to rapid urbanization, deforestation, and agricultural expansion. Elephants, once having vast territories to roam, were now confined to shrinking patches of forest. This forced them to venture closer to human settlements in search of food and water. Crops like sugarcane, bananas, and rice were particularly attractive, often leading them to raid farms and local stores, destroying livelihoods and causing significant economic losses.
Additionally, the fragmentation of their habitats disrupted the social structures of elephant herds. Young males, or "teenage" elephants, often found themselves isolated from the guidance of older, more experienced elephants. These young males, lacking the social framework and discipline provided by a stable herd, were more prone to aggressive behavior and less wary of human settlements.
The elephants were not the only ones under stress. Local communities, feeling the pressure from these ongoing raids, sometimes retaliated violently. They set up electric fences, used firecrackers, and in some cases, even resorted to poison or firearms to protect their crops and homes. These confrontations often resulted in injuries and deaths on both sides, further raising the tension between humans and elephants.
As Nisheed mulled over these thoughts, he couldn't help but feel a deep sense of weariness. The challenges were immense, and the solutions were neither simple nor quick. Crybaby, though, presented a bigger problem. The elephant had been too large for tours and too old to be reintegrated into a herd. The only man who had been able to control him had been his handler, who had a deep and kind understanding with the beast. With his handler dead, Nisheed feared that the elephant would need more than rounding up and shipping off to be resettled somewhere away from humans. He didn’t know how right he was.
He checked in on Jack again. The young man was suffering a troubled sleep, tossing and turning and struggling with his dreams. There was nothing Nisheed could do. He closed the door gently, planning to wait until the late shift arrived before going home to his wife and family.
Back at his desk, Nisheed tried to organize his thoughts and jot down some notes, but the exhaustion was overwhelming. His eyes grew heavy, and before he knew it, his head drooped forward, and he fell asleep. The soft hum of the office, the distant chirping of crickets outside, and the steady rhythm of his own breathing lulled him into a deep slumber. For a few hours, he was free from the weight of his responsibilities, lost in a dreamless sleep.
It didn’t last long, he was rudely awoken by the sound of a huge crash, then shouts and gunfire…
Crybaby had returned.
END OF CHAPTER FOUR
Next Chapter: A Hollwood Movie
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