Goonkaal: The Fire-Eyed Spirit of Kaalthari
[...One of the many tales my great-grandfather told us… from his village of Kaalthari, where each day was a struggle for survival, and each night they stitched them into stories to be retold....]
In the folds of the Nadiaar Hills, where mists hung low and the trees whispered old secrets, a quiet village - Kaalthari, carved its life out of the earth. Cattle grazed in the outer forest, goats bleated from small pens, and hens flapped in dusty courtyards.
But then came the blood.
It began with a calf found half-eaten at the forest’s edge. Then another, ripped, mauled, dragged into the undergrowth. The elders muttered of a mountain tiger, a striped brute known for strength and cunning. A beast touched by shadow. The villagers, driven by necessity, couldn't wait long. They formed a hunting party…..drums thundering, fire torches blazing, old double barrel guns loaded to kill.
For days they scoured the forest. Shadows danced. Tracks appeared, then vanished. The tiger, clever beyond normal, slinked past nets and gun barrels like smoke. On the fifth day, silence fell. It seemed to have disappeared…. simply…gone.
To keep it out, they carved a fire-line through the forest. Charred wood smoked at the borders, stone towers with wooden beacons lit each night. Fires…both shield and signal.
For a while, it seemed enough.
Until blood returned—inside the village.
Dead hens. Shattered goat pens. Severed heads of cats strewn near doorsteps. The killer now prowled the very heart of the settlement. It was no longer a tiger. It was a curse.
Whispers spread faster than fire through dry leaves.
Of a mythical creature….
Goonkaal
A vengeful spirit in tiger’s flesh. A demoness of the old forest gods. She had come not just for food…but for retribution.
Then came the carpenter.
He had only gone to fetch a dry plank from under his storehouse. But there, in the cool shadow, lay the beast. She stared at him..not with hunger, but warning. A deep growl rumbled like a drum of near death.… She slashed at him…but stood her ground.
He lived. And so the myth grew teeth.
The village turned warlike. Men roamed nights with machetes and muskets. Women and children were sent to distant kin. But still, the Goonkaal fed. On dogs, on hens, on fear.
Then the outsider came.
A soft-eyed man from a village beyond the mountains. He said little, walked slow. But his eyes followed trails unseen. He traced where Goonkaal had gone, where she lingered, where she rested.
“Strange,” he murmured. “She stays. Not hunts and leaves. She nests.”
The villagers scoffed. They wanted death, not riddles.
That night, he walked alone. To the fire-lines. He doused three of the flaming towers. Quietly. Carefully. He laid tree branches across the embers. Made a narrow path…barely wide enough for a mother and her young.
Then he waited.
Two days passed.
No cries. No killings. No broken pens. Silence…for good.
The villagers rejoiced. Called him magician…. Saint…. Beast-whisperer.
But the man stood still at the forest’s edge, feeling the weight of unseen eyes.
Perhaps the Goonkaal had watched him…before vanishing into the deep woods. Perhaps she’d known his mercy. Or perhaps she had simply left, her cubs crawling close, following her scent trail into dark safety of the deep mountains.
No one knows.
But the legend remained.
Each year, the village lights the fire pillars again…..as barrier….as content reminder of lingering fear.
And still, some nights, far beyond the fire-line, villagers say they hear rustling in the dark…
low growls… the glint of yellow eyes.
Not one.
Many.
The children of Goonkaal may have grown.
And they have not forgotten.
Not the fire.
Not the fear.
Not the scent of man.
One day, they may return.
In the folds of the Nadiaar Hills, where mists hung low and the trees whispered old secrets, a quiet village - Kaalthari, carved its life out of the earth. Cattle grazed in the outer forest, goats bleated from small pens, and hens flapped in dusty courtyards.
But then came the blood.
It began with a calf found half-eaten at the forest’s edge. Then another, ripped, mauled, dragged into the undergrowth. The elders muttered of a mountain tiger, a striped brute known for strength and cunning. A beast touched by shadow. The villagers, driven by necessity, couldn't wait long. They formed a hunting party…..drums thundering, fire torches blazing, old double barrel guns loaded to kill.
For days they scoured the forest. Shadows danced. Tracks appeared, then vanished. The tiger, clever beyond normal, slinked past nets and gun barrels like smoke. On the fifth day, silence fell. It seemed to have disappeared…. simply…gone.
To keep it out, they carved a fire-line through the forest. Charred wood smoked at the borders, stone towers with wooden beacons lit each night. Fires…both shield and signal.
For a while, it seemed enough.
Until blood returned—inside the village.
Dead hens. Shattered goat pens. Severed heads of cats strewn near doorsteps. The killer now prowled the very heart of the settlement. It was no longer a tiger. It was a curse.
Whispers spread faster than fire through dry leaves.
Of a mythical creature….
Goonkaal
A vengeful spirit in tiger’s flesh. A demoness of the old forest gods. She had come not just for food…but for retribution.
Then came the carpenter.
He had only gone to fetch a dry plank from under his storehouse. But there, in the cool shadow, lay the beast. She stared at him..not with hunger, but warning. A deep growl rumbled like a drum of near death.… She slashed at him…but stood her ground.
He lived. And so the myth grew teeth.
The village turned warlike. Men roamed nights with machetes and muskets. Women and children were sent to distant kin. But still, the Goonkaal fed. On dogs, on hens, on fear.
Then the outsider came.
A soft-eyed man from a village beyond the mountains. He said little, walked slow. But his eyes followed trails unseen. He traced where Goonkaal had gone, where she lingered, where she rested.
“Strange,” he murmured. “She stays. Not hunts and leaves. She nests.”
The villagers scoffed. They wanted death, not riddles.
That night, he walked alone. To the fire-lines. He doused three of the flaming towers. Quietly. Carefully. He laid tree branches across the embers. Made a narrow path…barely wide enough for a mother and her young.
Then he waited.
Two days passed.
No cries. No killings. No broken pens. Silence…for good.
The villagers rejoiced. Called him magician…. Saint…. Beast-whisperer.
But the man stood still at the forest’s edge, feeling the weight of unseen eyes.
Perhaps the Goonkaal had watched him…before vanishing into the deep woods. Perhaps she’d known his mercy. Or perhaps she had simply left, her cubs crawling close, following her scent trail into dark safety of the deep mountains.
No one knows.
But the legend remained.
Each year, the village lights the fire pillars again…..as barrier….as content reminder of lingering fear.
And still, some nights, far beyond the fire-line, villagers say they hear rustling in the dark…
low growls… the glint of yellow eyes.
Not one.
Many.
The children of Goonkaal may have grown.
And they have not forgotten.
Not the fire.
Not the fear.
Not the scent of man.
One day, they may return.
