Mr Hopkins remained on the window ledge, his forlorn expression matching his physical appearance. He seemed about as impressed with Mather as Mather was with him.
‘Why do you call him Mr Hopkins?’
Mather turned his attention away from the mangy feline, and replied, ‘Because he reminds me of a neighbour I had many years ago. Awful man. Couldn’t keep his nose out of my business.
He
was a scruffy ratbag too.’
I thought the animal possessed a certain charm, but being a cat-lover I was biased. Mr Hopkins pawed at the glass again and seemed to look directly at me.
‘Blasted animal,’ my host erupted, perhaps concerned that the cat was trying to steal the show. He knocked three times on the pane. The cat merely blinked and continued eyeing me.
I winced as another sharp pain shot through my head. Looking back at the mosquito, I noticed that its head was tilted in the direction of the window. A strange thought occurred to me, something that I now find very hard to put into words. I knew that the bizarre situation might have been affecting my judgement, but even that didn’t feel like a sufficient explanation for what I was feeling. It was as though I had stumbled into the middle of a conversation that I was unable to comprehend.
To clear my head a little I excused myself and returned to my room to retrieve my Dictaphone. I actually felt a little more positive about my trip. The insect was remarkable. I couldn’t wait to get some photographs of it, and could imagine it gracing the magazine’s front cover. Returning to Mather’s room, I sat at his desk to begin the interview.
‘Do you mind?’ I asked, indicating the recording device.
‘Oh no, not at all,’ he replied, lingering by the window, where he could keep an eye on the cat.
‘So where did you find her?’
‘Mmm? Oh, I have a number of acquaintances – fellow collectors, you might say – in various countries. An old friend of mine in Zaire wrote to me some years ago with the news that sightings of the Ganges Red were on the increase. Stories about her had been circulating near his research post for decades and, being busy on numerous projects, he couldn’t find the time to look into all of them. He was sceptical about the existence of a creature that had eluded capture for so long. I have to admit, I’d had doubts for many years myself. Nevertheless, I pressed him to at least talk to some of the native people who claimed to have seen her. He relented and for the next few weeks, when he had the time to spare, he made enquiries, interviewed certain individuals. He wrote back some time later, detailing a number of testimonies that all pointed to the same conclusion. The Ganges Red, or something fitting her description, was alive and well.’
‘But she isn’t the only one, is she? I mean, surely if these sightings are real they are of different insects?’
‘I wasn’t sure at first, but to my surprise I found myself beginning to believe the mythology surrounding her. And there have been no more sightings since she came into my possession.’
Mather paused for a while, during which all I could hear was the grinding noise made by the Dictaphone. He turned his back to the window and leaned against the sill.
‘I yearned to travel to Africa myself, but I had grown too accustomed to my life here. I always feel anxious whenever I think about leaving. Instead I made a plea to my friend to find the Lady himself, whatever it took. I told him that I would cover any necessary expenses. As it turned out, he had begun to share my excitement and had already started making arrangements. A week later an assistant of his came across a small cave near a river.’ He nodded towards the tank. ‘She was inside, along with thousands of smaller mosquitoes, most likely from the
Aedes aegypti
family. Unfortunately, the assistant and his guides died in their attempt to capture her. My friend found their bodies when he arrived at the cave some days later. Thanks to his experience in capturing dangerous insects, he was able to secure her almost without incident.’
‘Almost?’ I asked.
‘Well, it sounds incredible but my friend claimed the Lady possessed an ability to . . . communicate.’ Mather rubbed his head. ‘I know how it sounds, but many occurrences in nature are difficult to comprehend.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ I replied, more to keep him talking than anything else. Not for a moment was I prepared to believe that an insect could talk.
‘Mother Nature loves a paradox, as an old friend used to say to me,’ Mather continued. ‘And how right he was. Our Lady here is a living testament to that.’ He left the window and went back over to the recess, placing his hand on the glass and concealing the insect. ‘Scientifically, she shouldn’t exist – has no right to exist. And yet here she is, in all her astounding glory. I gave her a name of my own, you know. I felt rather odd doing it as she is hardly a pet, but I felt a compulsion of sorts. I initially thought of calling her Isis; then some short time later I had a vivid dream about her. I dreamed that she spoke to me and asked that I call her Nhan Diep.’
‘Like in the book you gave me?’
‘Yes, that’s right. I think the dream quite affected me to begin with,’ he replied, smiling. ‘But it was just my mind playing tricks with me. I like the name though, and it’s very appropriate.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Didn’t you read the story?’
‘Not all of it. I was too tired last night, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame. It’s a delightful tale.’
‘You mentioned a myth earlier . . .’
‘Yes, well, for a long while,’ he said, turning in my direction and affording me another look at the red monster, ‘the Ganges Red held a position in the natural world comparable to that of the yeti or the Loch Ness monster.’ He chuckled a little. ‘Until the numerous sightings and testimonies in Zaire there had been a few vague tales of encounters with her. None, however, supplied any supporting proof.’
‘There’s one thing I’ve been meaning to ask . . .’
‘Hmm?’
‘Yes, it’s been nagging me since you mentioned Zaire.’
‘Ah, yes, it’s the Democratic Republic of Congo now. But some people still refer to it as Zaire.’
‘Oh yes, I know. That’s not what was bothering me. It’s about the Ganges river . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, it’s in India, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’ My host had relaxed considerably since I’d found him wading around in the water earlier on. Perhaps talking about his favourite subject had done it.
‘So why is it called the Ganges Red?’
‘Well’ – Mather faced the tank again – ‘the first sighting of her, albeit unsubstantiated, was near the city of Varanasi on the left bank of the Ganges over eighteen hundred years ago. There are indications, however, that she was around even before that.’
‘You mean the species was around then, surely,’ I tried again, still wondering who he was trying to fool.
‘Well, I don’t tend to focus too much on the details. After all, this is a myth we’re talking about. Myths have been around since the dawn of man, and have always been exaggerated to produce a greater and greater effect. Whether it was the Lady here who was seen eighteen hundred years ago or not, she’s still a magnificent specimen.’
I let it go. ‘So are there any other stories you can tell me?’
‘There have been numerous alleged appearances all over the globe. The more modern sightings are the most important ones. In the late nineteenth century she was seen in various locations along the Ganges, but then she seemed to keep out of sight until nineteen thirty-one, when a missionary stationed in Kabalo, in the heart of Zaire, found a small boy washed up on the banks of the Lukuga river with horrific wounds all over his body. The missionary claimed that he himself was then attacked, but luckily left unscathed, by a huge red monster. He was something of an insect specialist apparently, and despite the size of the creature, he maintained it could be nothing other than a mosquito. The sightings continued, but not with great regularity until recently.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘But couldn’t there still be more Ganges Reds out there?’
‘Freaks of nature aren’t always unique, it’s true. Such accidents can be repeated. However, I have a gut feeling that she may indeed be one of a kind, as amazing as that sounds. As for her lifespan, well . . . who knows?’
Mather seemed sincere, which bothered me a little. How could he even entertain the notion that this creature had been around for centuries – him being a doctor and man of science? It just didn’t make sense. I made up my mind to write the article without any of Mather’s wild claims. They would just jeopardize the article’s integrity. I would make a reference to it being the only living example of its kind, but I would say nothing of its supposed longevity. After all, a photograph of the thing would be enough to captivate the magazine’s readers. There was no need to use myths and legends to decorate the story. I wanted to be thorough, however; I wanted to get as much out of Mather as possible in case I was asked to do a follow-up article. Derek was unpredictable at the best of times. If he asked me to write a second story focusing on the background of the mosquito and the tales it had inspired, it would be good to have the information to hand.
‘Tell me more about the legend,’ I directed.
Without warning, Mr Hopkins, who was still sitting outside the window, began hissing. His attention was now intensely focused on the mosquito. The cat shrank back from the window, so much so that he nearly fell off the ledge. As he flattened his ears to his head and bared his teeth, I had the strange impression that a battle of wills was taking place between the cat and the insect. I looked from the window back to the recess in the wall, and saw the Ganges Red lift itself off the glass to hover once more above the detritus at the bottom of the tank. The cat maintained its aggressive posture. I was about to say something to Mather, when the animal leaped from the ledge and tore off into the trees.
‘So, er . . . the legend?’
‘Yes, well, where to start?’ Mather sat down on the edge of the bed, crossing his legs and gazing up at the ceiling in concentration. ‘Among some tribes that live along the Congo river, the Ganges Red is believed to possess more than just a long lifespan. She is rumoured to be immortal. One tribe claims the Ganges Red is a physical manifestation of the Devil.’
‘The Devil? Whatever next?’
‘Yes, quite. There are many variations on this theory though. Some Indian people who claim to have had contact with her say that rather than actually
being
the Devil, the Ganges Red is more of an instrument, a way for the Prince of Darkness to spread his pain throughout the world. Because of this she earned the title Devil’s Hand, which was how she was known until nineteen sixty-two, when Doctor John Harper gave her the name Ganges Red. Harper had spent some time in India and Africa researching a book on abnormal mosquito behaviour.’
At last I felt the story was moving into the realm of reality. ‘Do you have a copy of the book?’
‘No, I’m afraid not,’ he said regretfully. ‘I’ve tried on numerous occasions to obtain a copy. I must have contacted every specialist bookshop, with no luck. I’ve been very tempted to look for it in person, but . . . I couldn’t leave the island for too long. The Lady here needs constant attention.’
‘Shame.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘I’ll make a point of having a look on the Internet for it when I get back. There are a number of out-of-print book companies I could try.’
‘That’s very good of you.’ Mather nodded. ‘Yes, it would be a lovely book to have in my collection. It has an extensive list of the names given to the Ganges Red over the years.’
‘Really? Do you know any of them?’
‘A few. Satan’s Claw, Scarlet Death, the Sword of Hell, Hell’s Wrath. With some of these names, a little is lost in the translation, but you get the idea.’
‘How about the Scarlet Woman?’ I offered, grinning. ‘Or the Red Death?’
The look my host returned was hardly one of amusement. ‘No, I’m afraid not.’
Mather sat amongst his thoughts for a while. I have to admit that the unfolding history of the Ganges Red did interest me. Not only had Mather been telling the truth in his letter, but he’d now presented an intriguing back-story, even if it was far-fetched. The silence continued, and I was about to reach over and press the pause button on the Dictaphone, when Mather cleared his throat.
‘One story concerns a group of white settlers who encountered the Lady somewhere near the Orange river in South Africa. They were plagued by headaches, fevers and strange dreams for months afterwards, even though they hadn’t made physical contact with her.’
‘Headaches?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Sudden, sharp pains behind their eyes. Most peculiar.’
I immediately thought of the stabbing sensation I’d experienced only moments before, then cursed my stupidity. I was being taken in by Mather’s story and allowing myself to be spooked.
‘Couldn’t it have been mass hysteria? A big coincidence?’
‘Possibly. Who knows? The group agreed that she was somehow capable of entering their minds, of forcing images into their heads. They said she made them feel apprehensive, paranoid, even terrified.’