The Crow Eaters Read Online Free PDF

saw beyond – into a man’s future – actions that were yet to be. ‘God forbid,’ he said to himself, shuddering. Pulling himself together with a tremendous effort he mumbled, ‘No, not a murderer, but your humble servant who is in distress.’
    The Mystic held aloft his jewelled arms and rolled his murky eyeballs heavenward. So effective was this performance that Freddy, convinced of the man’s terrible powers, prostrated himself within the boundaries of his own territory and sobbed, ‘O saint, you must help me. Have mercy on me!’
    ‘Sit up,’ commanded the Fakir, and Freddy, looking into his dilated, snake-still eyes, was filled with an overpowering urge to unburden his soul, to dig out and spill all the hot and monstrous secrets that sometimes crept even into his consciousness. A faint warning signal flashed in his befuddled mind: what if the man dispossessed him of his soul …?
    The Mystic had Freddy exactly where he wanted him. Practised in the psychology and histrionics of his trade, he relied on shock tactics to unnerve a man into taking the tricky leap across the credibility gap. He addressed only the mostrespectable looking of his clientele as murderers, scoundrels, thugs and adulterers. He startled ruffians and professional murderers into undying devotion by calling them misunderstood saints or reincarnations of past divines. In either case his tactics worked. And it is to Freddy’s credit that he had called him a murderer.
    Freddy, meanwhile, was engaged in a desperate struggle to maintain possession of his soul. Bravely, determinedly, he looked straight at the terrible eyes, daring them to deprive him of his psyche. Matching his will against the other’s cunning powers, he fought a pitched and fiendishly lonely battle.
    The Fakir, oblivious of all but the smell of money on the man, had not the remotest idea of his client’s qualms on behalf of his soul. He continued glaring mechanically, his ferociously pitted face framed in a stiff tangle of black unkempt hair.
    After a full minute, pregnant with unspeakable horrors for Freddy, the Fakir snapped the unholy connection by commanding, ‘Bollo!’ (Speak).
    Quaking on his haunches, Freddy’s voice quavered, ‘I have reason to suspect my mother-in-law has sold herself to the devil. She torments me with evil curses and I cannot sustain the loss to my business any longer. She has also worked a spell on my wife and children – even they are turning against me. O Fakir, you must help me,’ he pleaded in hushed agony.
    Extending his hand across the boundary of vials, the Mystic held out an incense-burner. Freddy gratefully smeared some ash on his forehead. Discreetly removing a crisp ten rupee note from his pocket, he placed it in the incense tray.
    The Fakir’s hypnotic eyes flickered an appreciative second. His demeanour underwent a subtle change. Without any noticeable alteration in his harsh, domineering manners he managed artfully to convey an aura of compassion and sympathy.
    ‘Go,’ he said gruffly, pointing a stiff finger to the exit. ‘Go now and get me a coil of her hair.’
    Freddy stood up and salaaming gratefully, backed towards the door.
    ‘Be sure to snip the hair yourself,’ added the Fakir in a surprisingly conspiratorial voice.
    The moment Freddy emerged from the dank, stifling tenement into the twilit street, his buoyant assurance in the Mystic’s competence vanished. It was as if the chill evening air had lifted the smog of incense and artifice from his confused mind. For an instant his customary commonsense prevailed and he wondered at himself for having visited the charlatan at all. But then he recalled the semi-naked man’s mesmeric glower – why, the fellow had almost sneaked off with his soul! Where would he be now had he not clung to it with all the strength of his will! No, the bedraggled Fakir had something in him. It would be foolish to discredit him entirely.
    Perplexed and preoccupied, Freddy bumped into a