The Last Tiger: A Novel

by Tony Black

  “Unexpected, moving and magical. A new direction for Tony Black, and a bold one too.”

  ~Emlyn Rees, International bestseller

  “A rare and heartfelt fable of an immigrant boy torn between his fears for an endangered species and the father who’s employed to kill off what remains of that breed.”

  ~Paul Sayer, Whitbread-winning author

  “It’s great, a real departure from the dark arts of crime fiction but a successful one as it creates a genuinely engaging picture of strangers in a strange land, as well as carving a haunting space between historical reality and timeless fable.”

  ~Nick Barlay, Granta ‘Best of Young British Novelists’

  “In this, his next book, Tony Black demonstrates what a talented and versatile writer he is. We’re in Tasmania with a family of immigrants and the father is paid to hunt the very last Tasmanian tiger - and his son is horrified. His prose is at times spare and at times poetic as Tony delivers up a fascinating and moving novel about family ties and the truths we don’t want to face.”

  ~Michael Malone, author of The Guillotine Choice

  “The Last Tiger is beautifully told - the nearest a novel could come to poetry without being such. The descriptions are rich and vivid, the reader is entirely immersed in the family’s lives and their tribulations ... A powerful tale of man and the environment.”

  ~Goodreads, five-star review

  The Last Tiger

  Tony Black

  Cargo Publishing

  The Last Tiger

  Tony Black

  First Published in 2014

  Published by Cargo Publishing

  SC376700

  Copyright © Tony Black 2014

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form or binding other than that in which it is published.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-908885-55-5

  Printed and bound by Bell and Bain, Glasgow

  Typeset and designed by Cargo Publishing

  www.cargopublishing.com

  Also available as:

  Kindle Ebook

  EPUB Ebook

  For my wife and son

  Chapter One

  In the distance, beyond Father’s bowed head, below the river’s swell and past the few great trees that once stood surrounded by forest, there were people, waiting.

  “Why do they come, Mama?” I asked.

  “They come to wait for the ship, Myko.”

  My mother raised her hand to shield her eyes and peered to the skies; the hot sun drew all the colour from the land. “They come and we will all meet them together, here, where we will make our new home.”

  Mother paused, then stooped before me. For a moment I caught sight of the tears in her eyes. I had seen so many of her tears on our voyage that I did not know what to say or do. I turned to see if my brother, younger than me by one year, had an answer, but it was just an instinct; at once I remembered he was gone from us.

  Where I stood my mother held me tightly, but I did not struggle; I knew she wished to hide her tears from me. I rested my face upon her shoulder and watched the wide open country unfolding. I saw the snow-capped ridges of the mountains, small but rugged. Past the grassy plains and the river valleys I saw the dense woods and the impassable rainforests, and as we came closer to the island I saw the button grass plains and the distant mountain ranges. They were surrounded in forest and stretched as far as my gaze carried into this new land.

  At first sight of the island my father bent over as if in prayer and laid his head upon the gunwale. “Van Diemen’s Land,” he sighed. “Van Diemen’s Land, Van Diemen’s Land,” he said over and over quietly to himself.

  A shiver passed through Father and he touched his heart, as if to check its beat. I had never before seen weakness in my father – even when he returned broken and wounded from battle, he held his head high. My mother’s sobs shook me as I watched my father folded over before us, and my own heart began to pound loudly.

  As the bosun approached, he laid the flat of his hand upon Father’s back and spoke; “You know, that name has not been used for fifty years.”

  The sun cut creases in the bosun’s face as he stood in its glare and chopped the air with his hand, motioning me to relay his words in the old language. I tried to do as he said but my father merely made a cross of his brows, straightened his broad back, and walked away to stand gazing into the clouds, alone.

  I stepped from my mother’s arms and the brief freedom felt like a gift to me as I approached the bosun. “What name does the island use?” I said.

  The bosun opened wide his oil-black fingers and, with a sweep of his hand, pointed to the green land we approached. The tree trunks were etched white in the sun, against the pale blue of the sky. “Well,” he said, “in the last century, the mighty British Empire sent ships full of convicts to this island.”

  I did not know the word he used. “What are convicts?” I asked; much of this new language was still strange to me.

  “Thieves, mainly,” said the bosun, “but rougher yet, all manner of lawbreakers and dogs.” He jutted his hands together. “They came here held in chains, in the thousands they came, dumped on the island like England’s refuse!”

  The bosun slitted his eyes and trained them on me. “Upon this island, my boy, the wild sons of convicts roam …” He laughed and ruffled my straw-blond hair with his hand. “The island’s fathers wanted to hide this past so they shed the fearsome name of Van Diemen’s Land and now they call it, Tasmania.”

  “Tasmania,” I said, testing the new word. The bosun tipped back his head and smiled as I spoke.

  “Tasmania,” I said again; the word sounded strange upon my tongue.

  As the ship drew close to the island’s shores I saw the green paddocks, with their dark wrinkles and rust-coloured tracks cut by the flocks and herds. The treetops reflected the sunlight which landed on the highest points, where sea birds soared in the skies above. I had never seen anything like the vast span of their wings as they glided across the island.

  “Are there still convicts here?” I asked the bosun.

  White smile lines cut into the corners of the bosun’s eyes. “No, my boy,” he said, “not in the year 1909 … but these are still wild lands, Tasmania has its tigers.”

  “Tigers!” The word jabbed a needle of ice in my belly. The thought of an encounter with a tiger – an animal I had only seen in picture books – made me wonder what would become of us all. Would we be attacked? Would we be killed? What other strange beasts roamed the island?

  The bosun leaned down low before me, his forehead loomed over his round eyes like a high tombstone. “Yes, there are tigers,” he said, dark tones leaping in his voice, “great fearsome beasts – fangs bigger than any shark’s, they have!”

  The bosun’s tale came as steadily as the plink, plink, plink of raindrops; I felt my eyes widening and my mouth drooping with every new word. At once I wanted to be back in the Sakiai, where we were once happy, all together as a family.

  The bosun crouched down low and sat on his heels; his belly protruded like a stuffed grain sack above his belt and he was close enough for me to smell the pipe tobacco on his breath. “Not a corner of this island is untouched by the tigers, my boy, they roam everywhere. See, it’s their island, they know it’s no place for a man. Hell, they’ve a right to it too.”

  “Why?” I asked, my voice weakening, twitches and tremors passing through me.r />
  The bosun leaned forward; his shirtfolds filled with flesh and his shoulders became rounded. “I could tell you a hundred stories, maybe even a thousand, all reasons why those beasts and man were never meant to live side by side.” He flicked his eyes to draw me closer and whispered, “Once I heard there was a tiger snatched a babe from its mother’s arms – devoured it whole, before the poor woman’s very eyes.”

  I pictured the bloody image and I shut tight my eyes to force it out, but it stayed, until I heard my mother calling me to her side: “Come here at once, Myko, come, we must prepare.”

  The bosun snatched off his hat and clutched it to his chest. His eyes widened above glowing cheeks as red as berries. Then he stared, fixed on me for a moment, and lunged forward with a playful snarl, “Rarrr …”

  I flinched and jumped back from him and the bosun began to laugh loudly. He snarled again, like a tiger, and then waved me off, back to my mother.

  The sun shone brightly and a strong breeze sprayed the deck and all upon it. The sea scent came sharply to my nostrils as my mother reached for my coat buttons, rummaging to fasten them. At twelve years of age I felt too old for her attentions. I wanted to push away her delicate fingers, but I could tell as she wrapped me up tightly that her thoughts were with my brother.

  I thought of Jurgis too. At the start of our journey we dreamed of all the motor cars and tall buildings we would see. But as we neared port I knew now that this was not a place like the America we had set sail for.

  I looked to my father, still crouched upon the gunwale. He held his head within his hands now, his fingers clutched so tightly it were as though he tried to stop the insides from bursting upon the spray wet boards at his feet. I stared at him for a moment and suddenly, as though I willed it, his gaze fell upon me.

  I pulled away from my mother at once. “Leave me be,” I said. My words were harsh, and I quickly regretted how they sounded, but Mother sensed I meant her no harm and moved back.

  I watched her step lightly away from me; as she went, she looked slight enough to be carried by the breeze to Father’s side. She began to gently stroke my father’s neck with her handkerchief, and then she removed the small piece of lace to dab at her wet eyes. She spoke softly to keep her words from me, but I was still close enough to hear; “How can we live in this place?” she said.

  Father lowered his hands and looked up at my mother, his eyelids were white and heavy, as if they longed to be closed forever upon the world outside. “I have no idea,” he said.

  As I stood alone and watched my parents together I wanted to run to them, to know all would be well, but something held me where I was. I did not move as the passengers crowded on deck and the ship sailed nearer port. The sea breeze was crisp and fresh, alive with a strange tang carried from the approaching island. Soon more people surged around me, their fingers clutched at blanket rolls and tightly-packed market baskets.

  “Myko, Myko …” Mother called out to me, “come here, we must stay together.”

  “What is that smell, Mama?”

  “The smell?”

  “Yes, out there.” I pointed over the blue of the sea to the island.

  My mother followed my fingertip and lifted her head to the breeze. “That is, I think, the eucalyptus trees, Myko. Do you like it?”

  “No,” I said. My reply was firm.

  “But why, Myko? It is such a sweet smell.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t like it.”

  I saw the faces in the crowd remove their hats and fly them in the air. Bodies were packed tightly around me, clammy hands touched my face as people pulled themselves forward, struggling to see the land come into view. I was scarcely able to move as a man appeared from high above us and called out, “Hobart.”

  The deck applauded when the port was hailed, but neither my parents nor I joined in with the crowd’s cheers.

  Chapter Two

  At dock the friendly bosun shook all our hands. Father reached out to him, I saw him place an item in the bosun’s pocket but it was removed and returned quickly to him. I could not see what the item was, it was very small. My mother kissed the bosun upon the face; as she did so he smiled, and then he was gone from us, back to the decks of the ship which had carried us across the oceans, to what we did not know.

  As we stood on the shore of our new land we watched the great hoists lower boxes of possessions onto the docks, but we had nothing.

  People flowed like oats from a cut bag towards the township: broad men in oilskins and pale women clutching their bonnets in the heat of the shadeless day. Carts came to carry off grog barrels and the road was churned up with lazy wheel tracks as clouds of dry red dust rose all around.

  I heard caged chooks squawk and I saw them worry at the pins that fastened them in, as everywhere, the sun-burnt faces of the Tasmanians stared on, mouths as wide to the air as fresh-landed cod.

  “Myko, what is the matter?” said Mother; I saw the words itched at her. “Why are you so nervous?”

  I shifted from side to side, all the while turning back to check what was behind me. My skin crawled in horror as the hot sun painted a yellow blanket over us. “It’s nothing,” I said. I tried to reassure my mother, “It’s just all so new … that’s all.”

  The men leaned against walls, the heels of their sturdy boots dug into the ground like dung forks. Some filled pipes from snout bags and some merely rested with thumbs in dusty waistcoats, hostile black eyes creeping beneath their hat brims.

  Mother turned her attentions from me to brush at my father’s shoulders with her open hand. “Where has all this dust come from?” she said, as her hand made a drum beat on my father’s broad back.

  “It is the sun,” said Father, his words slow and cautious, “it dries everything and when the people move about it goes up in the air.” My father knelt down and took up some dry soil in his fingers; as we watched the grey soil drain from his fist, the small grains crumbled to dust and were carried away by the breeze.

  Father stood up and wiped his hands together – I thought he might speak, but he said nothing, he merely squinted at the sun and sighed.

  I watched Father’s chest rise and fall as he stood before us, as straight as a milled log. His eyes darted quickly about and then fell into the shadows of his skull as the sun laced into his brows. As I watched him I saw the white cotton collars of his shirt were frayed at their edges.

  “We must eat, we are all hungry,” said Mother as she lifted her gaze and quickly ran her tongue over her pale lips.

  Father looked about him, down towards the town, and once more to the ship we had just left. His mouth remained shut tight, like a thin wound, and then he dug in his pocket and looked at his timepiece. “We will have to find a store,” he said. His eyes stayed on the pocket watch as he started to walk.

  “It was your father’s,” said Mother. Little muscles began to twitch at the sides of her face as she spoke.

  “We must eat,” said Father.

  Mother’s words rippled like a stream, “But … but …”

  “We must eat.”

  Father held tight to the pocket watch as he broke into his stride, and the hanging chain leaped at his side, cutting through the sun’s beams, catching the rays and glistening like the sea beyond. Mother and I followed behind as Father guided the way; his steps were long and full of purpose and I had to move quickly to keep pace with him.

  Sand-coloured buildings shimmered around us as we passed through town, the yellow stones looked as if they would wash away with the rain. I reached out to touch them – they were warm in the sun, but they were course and rough-hewn, and nothing like the buildings I had known.

  “This will do,” said Father as he stopped outside a shop.

  I looked up towards the shop’s sign. “What is it?” I asked.

  No one answered me. My mother and father stood staring at each other for a long time and then I spoke again. “What is this place?”

  Father turned to face me. “It is a p
awnbroker’s shop, Myko.”

  The shop’s sign fluttered as the shore breeze whistled around the door jamb and a bell clanged as we entered.

  Inside a corridor ran to the back porch where I saw the pawnbroker resting in a rope hammock. “Just a minute,” he called out. His words were followed by loud rasping coughs. As he stood up the pawnbroker put his hands to his back and pressed in his lumbar like he was easing into a tight girdle. “Just coming … I’m just coming now, won’t be more than a few moments.”

  As I looked up and down the store shelves I saw there was a row of stout jugs and little kegs behind the counter. Canned goods and flannel shirts were piled high on a table, while heavy horse blankets were stored underneath. Tin cups and frying pans hung on pot hooks everywhere and fancy goods, silver buttons and knife blades, shone from behind glass-fronted showcases.

  “Good day,” called out the pawnbroker as he came through to the store’s front. His skin was dark and shiny from the sun’s hammering; deep furrows were cut above his nose and around his eyes. “Now … how can I be of assistance?”

  My father held out his pocket watch and I saw that, even indoors, it shone brightly. There were no markings on the timepiece but I could see the fine movements inside when the pawnbroker raised it to his eye. He did not seem to be interested and I felt glad; I did not want my father to sell his pocket watch.

  “Hmnn,” said the pawnbroker. As he turned down the corners of his mouth two rows of dark crescents appeared on either side of his face. His skin was crossed with lines and darkly freckled and I did not like to look at him.

  I turned away to paw at bolts of cloth and square-toed boots, when suddenly my gaze was yanked to the wall behind the counter. An animal skin was hung proud of the store’s goods; it was not very large, about the size of a farm dog.

  As I gulped my breath, I counted thirteen dark black stripes down the back of the olive-brown skin. There had been cuts made, the ears and paws were removed and I thought it was an unfortunate beast; its thirteen stripes had proved unlucky indeed.