(Tiger Saga #2) Tiger's Quest

by Colleen Houck

  “Uh, I don’t think there’s anything you can do.”

  He left me alone for a minute. Soon he was back pressing a damp cloth to my forehead.

  “Here, I brought you some lemon water. Mr. Kadam said it helps to hydrate.”

  Kishan forced me to drink the entire glass and then poured another glassful from the bottled water they’d bought. He finally let me stop after my third glass.

  “How are you feeling now?”

  “Better, thanks. Except my head is pounding. Do we have any aspirin?”

  Kishan found a small bottle. I downed two, sat forward, placing my elbows on my knees, and massaging my temples with my fingers.

  He watched me quietly for a moment, and then said, “Here, let me help.”

  Kishan scooted me forward a little so he could sit behind me. He placed his warm hands on the sides of my head and started massaging my temples. After a few minutes, he moved into my hair and down the back of my neck, kneading away the stiffness that came from sitting immobile in a car for three days.

  When he got to my shoulders, I asked, “Where did you and Ren learn to give massages? You’re both very good at it.”

  He stopped for a moment and then slowly began again as he spoke. “I didn’t know Ren had given you a massage. Mother taught us. It was something she’d been trained in.”

  “Oh. Well, it feels fantastic. Your hands are so warm they feel like heating pads. My headache’s almost gone now.”

  “Good. Lie down and relax. I’m going to do your arms and feet.”

  “You really don’t have to. I’m feeling better now.”

  “Just relax. Close your eyes and let your mind drift. Mother taught us that massage can take away the pains of the body and the spirit.” He started working on my left arm and spent a long time on my hand.

  “Kishan? What was it like being a tiger for all those years?”

  He didn’t respond for a long moment. I cracked open an eye and looked at him. He was focusing on the space between my thumb and forefinger. His golden eyes flicked over to my face.

  “Quit peeking, Kells. I’m thinking.”

  I obediently closed my eyes again and waited patiently for his answer. “It’s like the tiger and the man are always battling each other. After my parents died, Ren had been kidnapped, and Mr. Kadam left to search for him. There was no reason to be a man at all. I let the tiger take over. It was almost like I was watching the tiger from a distance. I felt completely detached from my surroundings. The beast ruled, and I didn’t care.”

  He moved to my feet, which tickled at first, but then I let out a deep sigh as he worked on my toes.

  “It must have been terribly lonely.”

  “I was running, hunting . . . and doing everything by instinct. I’m surprised I didn’t lose my humanity altogether.”

  “Ren told me once that being away from me, being on his own, made him feel more like a beast than a man.”

  “That’s true. The tiger’s strong, and it’s extremely difficult to maintain a balance, especially when I’m a tiger for most of the day.”

  “Does it feel different now?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “I’m reclaiming my humanity piece by piece. Being a tiger is easy; being a man is difficult. I have to interact with people, learn about the world, and find a way to deal with my past.”

  “In a way, Ren was more fortunate than you even though you were free.”

  He tilted his head and moved to my other foot, “Why do you think that?”

  “Because he was always with people. He never felt alone like you did. I mean, he was trapped, he was hurt, he had to perform in the circus, but he was still a part of human life. He still had the opportunity to learn, though in a limited way.”

  He laughed wryly. “You forget, Kelsey, that I could have ended my solitude at any time and chose not to. He was a captive, but I was sitting in a trap of my own design.”

  “I don’t understand how you could do that to yourself. You have so much to offer to the world.”

  He sighed. “I deserved to be punished.”

  “You did not deserve to be punished. You need to stop thinking that way. I want you to tell yourself you’re a good man and you deserve some happiness.”

  He smiled. “Alright. I’m a good man and I deserve some happiness. There, are you satisfied?”

  “For now.”

  “If it makes you happy, I’ll try to change my attitude about it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He moved over to my other arm and began massaging my palm.

  “So what changed for you? Did getting six hours back as a man make enough difference for you to want to live again?”

  “No. It wasn’t that at all.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “No. What changed my perspective was meeting a beautiful girl by a waterfall who said she knew who I was and knew what I was.”

  “Oh.”

  “She’s the one who rescued me from my tiger skin and pulled me back to the surface. And, no matter what else happens . . . I want her to know that I will be eternally grateful for that.” He lifted my hand and pressed a warm kiss on my palm. He smiled charmingly and placed my arm back on the bed.

  I looked up into his sincere golden eyes and opened my mouth to explain to him again that I loved Ren. His expression changed. He set his face and said, “Shh. Don’t say it. No words of protest tonight. I promise you, Kelsey, that I will do everything I can to reunite the two of you and try to be happy for you, but that doesn’t mean I can easily set aside my feelings, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Goodnight, Kells.”

  He pressed a kiss to my forehead, turned off the light, stepped through the connecting door, and shut it softly.

  I felt better the next day, extremely grateful to have recovered from my altitude sickness. We stopped in Gyantse, which was only two hours away but was on the route, and tourists were expected to spend the day there, so we had to as well. Mr. Kadam said that he’d been there before, that it used to be a major city on the spice trade route. We stopped to see the Kumbum Chörten, which was a school of Tibetan Buddhism, and had a Szechuan-style lunch at a local restaurant. The city was beautiful, and it was nice to get out of the car and walk for a while.

  We stayed in a hotel again that night, but Kishan spent most of his time as a tiger while Mr. Kadam tried to teach me how to play chess. I couldn’t bend my brain around the game. After he quickly beat me a third time, I said, “Sorry, I guess I’m more of a reactionary player than a think-ahead kind of girl. One of these days, I’ll teach you how to play Settlers of Catan.”

  Smiling, I thought about Li and his friends and Grandma Zhi. I wondered if Li ever tried to contact me. Mr. Kadam had disconnected all our phones and got us new cell phones and numbers right after we arrived in India. He said it was safer not to contact anyone back home.

  Once every two weeks or so, I wrote to my foster parents and told them we were out of cell phone range. Mr. Kadam had it mailed from faraway locations so that there was no way to trace where the letters had come from. I never gave them a return address because I told them we were always moving.

  They used a post office box to write me back, and Nilima picked up our mail and read the letters to me over the phone. Mr. Kadam dictated what things would be appropriate for me to include in the letters. He also had people discreetly keeping an eye on my foster family. They’d returned from their Hawaiian vacation with nice memories and nicer tans and found nothing amiss at home. Fortunately, it seemed that Lokesh hadn’t found them.

  On day five of the Friendship Highway tour, we stopped to see Yamdrok Lake. Its nickname was the Turquoise Lake, for obvious reasons. It sparkled like a bright jewel set against the backdrop of the snow-capped mountains that fed it.

  Mr. Kadam said it was considered sacred by the Tibetan people who often made pilgrimages to the lake. They believed it was the home
of protective deities who watched over the lake and made sure it didn’t dry up. They believed that if it did, it would mean the end of Tibet.

  Kishan and I waited patiently while Mr. Kadam engaged in an animated conversation with some local fishermen who seemed to be trying to sell him the catch of the day.

  When we got back in the car, I asked, “Mr. Kadam, exactly how many languages do you know, anyway?”

  “Hmm. I’m not really sure. I know the main ones needed for trade with Europe—Spanish, French, Portuguese, English, and German. I can converse well in most of the languages of Asia. I’m a bit weak on the languages of Russia and the Norse, know nothing of the islands or Africa, and I only know about half of the languages of India.”

  Puzzled, I asked, “Half? Just how many languages are there in India?”

  “There are literally hundreds of languages in India, both modern and classic. Though only around thirty are officially recognized by the Indian government.”

  I stared at him in amazement.

  “Of course, I only know a smattering of most of those. Many are local dialects that I picked up over the years. The most commonly used language is Hindi.”

  We wound our way through two more mountain passes and finally began our descent toward the Tibetan plateau. Mr. Kadam talked in order to keep my mind busy during the drive down the mountain as I was feeling a bit carsick.

  “The Tibetan Plateau is sometimes called the Roof of the World due to its high elevation. It averages around 4,500 meters, or roughly,” he worked out some calculations in his mind, “14,750 feet. It’s the third least populated place in the world, Antarctica being first and Northern Greenland being second. It’s home to several large brackish water lakes.”

  I groaned and closed my eyes, but that didn’t help.

  I tried to focus on something else and asked, “Mr. Kadam, what’s a brackish lake?”

  “Ah, there are four classifications of salinity in bodies of water— fresh; brackish, or brack; saline, or salt; and brine. A brackish lake, for example, the Caspian Sea, is somewhere between saltwater and freshwater. Most brackish water is found in estuaries where a saltwater ocean meets a freshwater river or stream.”

  Kishan growled softly, and Mr. Kadam stopped his lecture. “Look, Miss Kelsey. We’re almost at the bottom.”

  He was right, and after a few minutes on a normal, flat, only somewhat bumpy road, I felt much better. We drove another couple of hours to the city of Lhasa.

  15

  Yin/Yang

  Mr. Kadam had managed to secure a meeting with the Dalai Lama’s Tibetan office since a personal meeting was not possible. Mr. Kadam attempted to keep the reason for the visit vague so as not to reveal more details than were necessary with the staff. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do. Our appointment was set for Monday, which gave us three days to cool our heels.

  To pass the time, Mr. Kadam took us on a whirlwind tour of Tibet. We saw the Rongphu Monastery, the Potala Palace, the Jokhang Temple, the Sera and Drepung monasteries, and also shopped at the Barkhor market.

  I enjoyed seeing the tourist attractions and being with Kishan and Mr. Kadam, but underneath, I still felt an undercurrent of sorrow. The dull ache of loneliness swept over me in the evenings. I still dreamed of Ren every night. Although I trusted Durga to keep her promise and watch over him for me, I really wanted to be with him myself.

  Mr. Kadam took us out of the city limits on Saturday to practice using our new weapons. He started with Kishan and the discus. The discus was heavy for Mr. Kadam, just like the gada had been, but seemed light to both me and Kishan.

  When Mr. Kadam turned his attention to me, I was ready. He taught me how to string the bow first.

  “The force you use to pull back the string is what determines the power of the bow. It’s called the draw weight.”

  He tried to string my bow and found he couldn’t. Kishan was able to string it easily. Mr. Kadam stared at the bow for a minute and had Kishan take over teaching me.

  I asked him, “Why are the arrows so small?”

  Kishan replied, “Arrow length is determined by the size of the archer. It’s called a draw length, and yours is pretty small, so these arrows should fit you perfectly. The length of the bow is also determined by your height. An archer doesn’t want a bow that’s unwieldy.”

  I nodded.

  Kishan continued his explanation of the various workings of the bow and arrow, including the string notch, the arrow shelf where the arrow rests and is pulled back, and the bowstring. Then it was time to try it out.

  “Take your shooting stance by placing your non-dominant foot about five to ten inches ahead,” Kishan said. “Keep your legs shoulder width apart.”

  I followed his instructions. Though it was more difficult for me than for Kishan, I managed to get the job done.

  “Good. Nock your arrow and rest it on your thumb with the single fletching pointing out. Hold the bowstring with your first three fingers and tuck the arrow between your first and middle finger.

  “Now lock your bow arm and look at your target. Draw back until your thumb touches your ear and your fingertip touches the corner of your mouth. Then release your arrow.”

  He demonstrated the entire process for me a few times and sunk two arrows into a distant tree. I copied his moves. When I got to the drawing part, my hand shook a little. He stood behind me and guided my hand as I drew back.

  When I was in the right position, he said, “Okay, you’re ready. Now aim and shoot.”

  I let go and felt a snap as the bow shot my arrow off with a twang. The arrow sunk into the soft dirt at the foot of the tree.

  Mr. Kadam exclaimed, “That was very good! A wonderful first attempt, Miss Kelsey!”

  Kishan made me practice again and again. I quickly built up enough skill to hit the tree trunk like Kishan, although not in the exact center. Mr. Kadam was amazed at my progress. He thought it was probably thanks to all my training with the lightning power. We quickly noticed that the arrows never ran out and that they also eventually disappeared from the target.

  That will surely come in handy.

  Kishan was working on his discus again when I took a break. I sipped some bottled water while watching Kishan practice.

  Nodding toward Kishan, I asked Mr. Kadam, “So how’s he doing with the discus thing?”

  Mr. Kadam laughed. “Technically, Miss Kelsey, it’s not a discus. A discus is used in the Olympics. What Kishan is holding is called a chakram. It’s shaped like a discus, but if you look carefully, the outer edge is razor sharp. It’s a throwing weapon. In fact, it’s the weapon of choice for the Indian god Vishnu. It’s a very valuable weapon when wielded by someone with skill, and Kishan, fortunately, has been trained in its use, though he hasn’t practiced in a long time.”

  Kishan’s weapon was made of gold with diamonds embedded in the metal, similar to the gada. It had a curved leather handgrip like a yin-yang symbol. The metal edge was about two inches wide and razor sharp. I watched as he practiced, and he never caught it on the razor edge. He either caught it on the handgrip or on the inside of the circle.

  “Do they normally return like that? Like a boomerang?”

  “No. They don’t, Miss Kelsey.” Mr. Kadam stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Watch. Do you see? Even if he targets a tree it makes a good jagged slash in the trunk and then spins back to him. I have never seen that before. Normally it can be wielded like a blade in close combat or it can be thrown over a distance to disable an enemy, but it will remain embedded in the target until it’s retrieved.”

  “It looks like it slows down when it approaches him too.”

  We watched him throw a few more times. “Yes, I believe you are correct. It slows on approach to make it easier for him to catch it. Quite a weapon.”

  Later that evening, when we returned to our hotel, Kishan placed a board game on the table after dinner. I laughed.

  “You got Parcheesi?”

  Kishan smiled. “Not exactly.
This is called Pachisi, but you play it the same.”

  We took out the pieces and set up the board. When Mr. Kadam saw the game, he clapped his hands together as his eyes twinkled with a competitive gleam.

  “Ah, Kishan, my favorite game. Do you remember when we played with your parents?”

  “How could I forget? You beat Father, which he handled fine, but when you beat Mother at the last roll of the dice, I thought she’d have you beheaded.”

  Mr. Kadam stroked his beard. “Yes. Indeed. She was rather put out.”

  “Do you mean you guys played this game way back when?”

  Kishan chuckled. “Not like this exactly. We played the live version. Instead of pawns we used people. We constructed a giant game board and set up a home base that everyone had to get to. It was fun. The players would wear our color. Father preferred blue and Mother, green. I think you were red that day, Kadam, and I was yellow.”

  “Where was Ren?”

  Kishan picked up a piece and twirled it thoughtfully. “He was off on a diplomatic trip at that time, so Kadam subbed for him.”

  Mr. Kadam cleared his throat, “A-hem, yes. If the two of you don’t mind, I would prefer to be red again, as the color brought me luck last time I played.”

  Kishan spun the board so the red color was in front of Mr. Kadam. I picked yellow; Kishan, blue. We played for an hour. I’d never seen Kishan so animated. He almost seemed like a young boy again, with all the cares of the world lifted off his shoulders. I could easily envision this proud, handsome, taciturn man as a happy, carefree boy who grew up to stand in the shadow of his older brother, loving and admiring him, but at the same time feeling that he was somehow less important. Somehow less deserving. By the end of the game, Kishan and I had left Mr. Kadam in the dust. There was only one pawn left for each of us, and mine was closer to home.

  On the last roll, Kishan could have knocked me out to win the game. He stared at the board for a moment studying it carefully.

  Mr. Kadam’s steepled fingers were tapping his upper lip, which was turned up in a small smile. Kishan’s golden eyes met mine briefly before he picked up his pawn and skipped over mine, moving into a safety zone.