The Last Tiger: A Novel

by Tony Black

  “What is wrong?” whispered Jurgis, tugging on my shirtsleeve.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is she sick?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is she asleep?”

  I had no answers for my brother, I was as perplexed as he was by the sight before us.

  “Perhaps, she is asleep,” I said finally.

  I leaned forward and touched my mother’s face; she felt warm. I moved closer to my mother and lay beside her on the floor, at her back; as I did so I felt my brother join us.

  And so we lay with Mother on the floor, curled up like her cubs, succumbing to new ways we had yet to learn of.

  Chapter Eleven

  I never expected such fanfare upon my return to the billet. Lights blazed and fiddles played as the shearer smiled and removed his sweat-brimmed hat, then took to wiping down his teeth with a piece of rag. “Come on now, boy,” he said, shaking out the rag, “there’s a time to be had.”

  The shearer glowed with the excitement of the night. His steps fell jauntily as his heels tapped over the stone path.

  “Help me get set up with this picture-box,” he said, “now be careful, there’s a pretty penny to be made with this piece of tackle!”

  I held up the picture-box and watched him unfurl the wooden legs and straighten them with their brass pintle fasteners.

  “Listen up,” he said, curling his hand around the back of his ear, “sounds like quite a crowd.” He smiled widely, showing the fine job he’d made of cleaning his teeth.

  “Well, come on, boy.” He placed a hand upon my back and shook me where I stood. “Now try not to look like it’s the gallows you’re headed for!”

  I strode on quietly, my eyelids lowered as I gulped down my emotions and made towards the thick snubbing post of the door.

  Great merriment and activity filled the billet, the mood had lifted, but it did not reach me. At once my attention turned to a new presence: I smelled the scent of my tiger. Its strong musk rent the air like firecrackers; there was no mistaking my tiger’s closeness.

  I looked around, but I could not see him. My mind was all a scatter as my gaze flooded the broad room. Where was my tiger? Faces burst from every corner of the barn. Bright faces, blooms set on their cheeks, polished brows shining in the firelight.

  Laughter rose all around me and voices sounded high in mirth beside the strings of fiddles. I trained my eyes to the lantern-light; my stares cut through the haze of warm bodies and heady spirits, and then, finally, I saw him.

  “No,” I said aloud. I turned away, but was drawn back again.

  My tiger was stretched lifeless across Father’s lap. A pewter tankard atop his skull spilled stout down upon his crown in dark rivers.

  I wanted to run out. I wanted to throw my head in the water trough and cool my brows, but suddenly I heard my name called.

  “Myko! Myko!” I watched as my mother picked up her skirts and ran to me.

  Her eyes looked pale and tired, but could not hide the jolt in her emotions. “Myko, Myko,” she said, her mouth quivering on every word, “I was so worried about you!”

  My mother held me, tight as a saddle-belt, where I stood. “My Myko, you have come back to me.” I saw her spirits rise, as surely as cream rises to the surface of a milk-pail, but then, suddenly, her voice changed. “What is this?” Her eyes were glassy as she took in the sight of the shearer carrying his picture-box.

  “Do you think he will allow it, mam?” he said.

  The shearer set down his kit and tried to spot my father through the gathering. A spry old woman blocked his way as she stood on an apple box to better view the goings. People I did not know arrived in streams and peach-cheeked children ran amok everywhere.

  People in the crowd carried gifts for my father and reached out with hands for him to shake. Below his feet I spied a honey pot and a new woollen blanket; a haunch of beef from the store was roasting upon the open fire.

  “I can hardly see a thing,” said the shearer, “how am I to take pictures like this?”

  My mother pushed me before her and broke into a stride; as she did so she turned to the shearer and said: “I will lead the way.”

  The shearer smiled widely once more; already I was tiring of his gleaming teeth. “And I will most surely follow,” he said, “I will follow.”

  As we crossed the tight-packed room Father nodded to us and drew my tiger closer to him. His square jaw was held firm, his dark eyes were as black as sea-rocks. My father saw me but did not call me to him; he merely basked in the crowd of adoring eyes which surrounded him.

  “Sir, if I may, a few pictures?” said the shearer.

  “Yes, pictures, of course,” said Father.

  The shearer positioned his picture-box and motioned towards my father’s lap, where my tiger lay. “Sir, the beast – it must be prominent.”

  My father let out a playful growl and in one mighty sweep of his arms, lifted my tiger upon his chest.

  The lifeless body fell limp in my father’s hands, its head lolling slowly, and then Father raised the corpse towards the roofbeams. He moved my once beautiful tiger like a child’s toy stuffed with rags, until he had his trophy high enough for all to see.

  The crowd cheered as the shearer snapped his first picture of Father with my tiger. It scalded my heart to remember how I had once seen the animal roam free.

  “Tuppence a time,” said the shearer, “tuppence is all for your very own picture with the Woolnorth Tiger!”

  Many sprang upon the offer, but my father bridled, raising his hand quickly and slicing it down like the sweep of an axe. “No!” he growled; his voice was loud and resonated powerfully. I saw he had no desire to share his prize with anyone.

  “But, sir,” said the shearer, bowing low to better face my father, “for each picture taken, one penny shall be paid to you.”

  My father’s hard mouth widened to a pearly gleam and then he slapped his hand on his thigh. “We have a deal,” he said, as he gripped the shearer’s hand tightly.

  “Well, I will be first to take up the offer,” said one of a pair of fisherman, “we missed the hunt but we’ll have a picture as a minding of this day … ain’t often we see a tiger taken now.”

  Where the fishermen stood before my father their faces clouded with awe. I watched the first fisherman hand my father a bucket of eels as a mark of respect and approval.

  “Thank you,” said my father, “I have use for such things.” I knew Father was pleased by the gifts he received; for so long we had so little.

  Where the fishermen stood they rocked on their sturdy boot-heels with their heads lowered. They seemed trapped by a web of embarrassment, but their happiness to please my father glowed as hot as the belly of a stove.

  The taller of the two seemed eager to address my father. He stepped forward and made a great show of throat clearing to signal his intention to speak. When his words broke a tremor rose in his voice.

  “I-I once came across a bull tiger,” said the fisherman. He removed his felt hat and smoothed down his pale fringe, “as big as a full grown man it were … I swear he stood over five feet tall!”

  My father and the people around him listened with great interest. As the fisherman spoke, a hushed awe filled the billet. It grew so quiet that I heard the soft spray of raindrops on the windowpanes; outside the river’s current rang strong and deep and clean.

  “I was walking back from McCabe’s Paddock when out the wattle there he stood.” The fisherman ran his tongue over his scaly lips as he spoke. “He had a lamb in his great jaws, I believe he was draining its blood as I come upon him. Well, the tiger saw me and there was a growl came out him. I swear I wasn’t game to tackle him, I had no weapon on me save my bare hands.”

  Every face in the barn fixed upon the fisherman. As he lowered his voice hardly a sound was made, save the rustle of clothing and the creak of boards as people leaned closer, careful not to miss a word.

  “As I watched that bull tiger, I s
tood rigid,” he said, “and then, God strike me blind if this is a word of a lie, but another came upon me. It were his mate, she were smaller by a full two feet of length, but she were maddened by me. She leapt for my throat, but I had the chance to grab a rock up from beneath me and make a lob at her as she sailed through the air. That useless slut fell faster than any penny in a well. Them are the most useless animals in the bush, I swear!”

  “But what about the bull?” called out one of the children.

  “I was coming to that, yes sir, I were. The bull no more cared I’d killed his mate than he could imagine a pig with wings in the sky above us. He kept his big eyes on me, but the lamb was his main concern, he were sucking its blood as natural as any lamb suckles to its mother. It were as right as the day to him, but to me it were a sight. I think I must have grown my confidence when I took down his slut for I leapt for him and we had us a wrestle there and then upon the dirt. There was blood dripping from his fangs but I was a man in no mood to be scared by such things. I was ready to kill that brute stone dead.”

  “Did he bite you?” It was the same child again.

  “No, my little one, he did not,” said the fisherman enthusiastically, “I was reaching my hands around his throat. I would have strangled him where he lay, but the beast took fright and ran from me. The last I saw of him was when he took off running through the wattle. I swear he moved faster than any terrier taking for a rabbit hole.”

  “What did you do with the mate?” said the child.

  “I took her up to the hut with me; she had young in her pouch, that’s the reason she was so set to kill me. A tiger slut will always attack when carrying young, y’see. I did plan to raise the pups and claim a bounty on them when they were full grown, but my kangaroo dogs killed them before they were another day old. The slut, I got a whole pound for, and ten shillings for each the pups.”

  “Did you keep the skin, can we see it?” said the child. He had consumed every word of the fisherman’s story; I knew sleep would be a trouble to him this night.

  “No. No, I didn’t keep the skin.”

  “Why not?” said the other fisherman. He squared his shoulders beneath his tweed coat and pushed forward his square-clipped beard. “How come I never heard you talk of no tiger before?”

  “I just didn’t keep it, that’s all. I knew a fella once bought them up, he sold them to another fella who sent them to London, said they were all the rage for the gentlemen’s waistcoats. I think there was tailors waiting on them skins, got them by the thousand. But mine were a mite on the raw side, I had no desire to keep that smelly beast’s coat around as a reminder.”

  Fever gripped everyone inside the billet; the people were raised on such fare as this all their lives and now they had their very own tale to tell. But I could not suffer their voices a second more and I slipped into the shadows towards my bunk.

  As I left the crowd I stumbled, knocking over a mop handle. When it landed it jolted my nerves, and my blood rushed faster. I felt cruelly punished as I stumbled onto my bunk and covered my ears to all the noise within the billet.

  I begged for sleep to take me far from this world, but as I lay awake I was alive to every board’s creak.

  Chapter Twelve

  The morning after the billet had celebrated the killing of my tiger, fierce quarrels raged within our large and open barn.

  A woman screamed at the top of her lungs for a missing sliver of soap. Another let wail about the few flakes of mouldy flour she received in her rations.

  “Out, you drunken whore,” cried the factor, as he grabbed a woman from her bunk.

  “Go to hell!” she roared at him.

  “I’ll give you hell,” said the factor as he raised a cane and brought it down on the woman’s back. She roused enough to lunge at him, biting his thigh.

  “Whore!” called out the factor and swiped the cane across her gullet.

  The woman fell back on her bunk and groaned loudly. The factor dragged her by her long, greyed hair to the door and as they went the woman coughed blood, before she was cast upon the road. Her children, still in their nightshirts, followed weeping at her heels.

  “Stay clear, stay clear, you hear!” said the factor as he made to slam the door on them.

  The station workers and their wives were of a coarser kind than I had known. Our own people were a mild and accepting lot, but the Tasmanians were of wilder stock.

  As I ran to the window to watch the family that the factor had turned out, my attention shifted quickly. A shower of young boys swarmed around the front of the barn where Father had nailed my tiger.

  “A shilling, a shilling,” said the biggest of the boys to every passer-by, “one shilling and you may touch its hide!”

  I turned back to the barn where I joined my mother by the fireside. The warm glow unfurled a golden rug beyond the hearthstone. As Mother turned her face to me, her coal-black hair shone bright. “Myko, what is wrong? You look so fearful, tell me and I will help.”

  I did not know what to say or how to answer her. I knew there was nothing she could do. Since my father had brought down my tiger I felt as helpless as ever, more helpless even than when the Czar’s soldiers arrived in the Sakiai. At least then I had hopes my father would protect us, but now it was my father who stoked my fears.

  Mother picked up one of the bulging candle mounds and scraped the wax into an old tin can. “Do you know when you were newborn we had a beautiful life,” said Mother as she placed the can at the fireside.

  She sighed heavily. “Yes, we had a beautiful life then … what has happened to us, Myko?”

  I looked up at her, her eyes were wistful as she stared into the warmth of the flames; I felt my mother shared my fears.

  “I don’t know what has happened, Mother.”

  “No, and nor do I!” She threw down the tin. The wax scrapings spilled on the boards at her feet.

  “Do you know, in the old country, when you were born, Myko, we were so blessed that people then believed we owned a returning coin!”

  Mother smiled, and I began to laugh.

  “It is true … it is true,” she said. “Do you know what a returning coin is, Myko?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  I had never heard of such a thing. It was strange to hear my mother talking of the old country. It seemed so very far away, such a different place to where we were now.

  As my mother placed her tired eyes upon me they flickered in the fire’s light. She seemed happy to think of the old country and our old ways like this; I believe she too felt her spirits sickening within this place.

  “A returning coin, Myko, is a very special coin – one that returns to you whenever something is bought.”

  I felt my eyes widen. “Anything?”

  My mother leaned forward, she dipped her head and smiled. “Anything! You could buy goods from a store and it would make its way back – that is a returning coin!”

  She clasped her hands together; her happiness seemed to fill the room. “Yes, my Myko, in the Sakiai for a time, they believed we possessed such a thing.”

  My mother began to laugh, creases were formed at the side of her mouth and around her eyes, thin little lines I had never seen before which were illuminated by the firelight.

  “And do you know,” she said, “such a coin also brought back all the money a person ever possessed? Yes, my Myko, surely someone who possessed such a coin enjoyed a beautiful life indeed. No?”

  I nodded. “Yes, Mama.”

  “But, now we have no such coin. If we did, it is gone.”

  My mother smiled again. She held me to her by the fire. I was glad to be back by her side, I knew then that my mother’s love was something I would never lose. Though I sensed we had all lost so much already, I knew my mother would always stay by my side. The thought was a great comfort to me as my father appeared in the doorway before us.

  “Myko,” he called out, “gather yourself, we have much to do today.”

  My father sound
ed harsh, I dreaded seeing him. I could hardly bear to place my eyes on him without feeling a burning anger rising in my guts.

  “Myko,” said Father, “to the cart at once!”

  My mother pushed me away. “Quick. Go. Do as your father says.”

  I raised myself and ran past my father, straight through the doorway.

  With the young Scotsman, Nathaniel, we took a slow trail to the southern hills creek. The road made a small rise beneath the black-wet spiles of the bridge where the mud-brown waters lapped high after the heavy rains.

  The sun stretched over the paddocks where long blue shadows reached out from the gum-tree bases. The horses’ breath came heavy in the dense air and all around spread the fresh tang of steam rising from the wattle grasses.

  As we travelled along the road’s small rise, Nathaniel stroked the checkered walnut stock of his bolt action Winchester. “A fine selector’s firearm,” he said, “just fine … just fine.”

  Nathaniel sat silently for some moments as he admired the Winchester, and then he sat bolt upright, his eyes popping.

  “I will shoot me a tiger,” he blurted, “and it better be soon.”

  Nathaniel lifted the gun up and fired off a single shot into the scrub. The rifle crack nearly slung him from the carriage – his shoulder was not firm enough to hold the recoil.

  “I swear, I will shoot me a tiger!” he shouted.

  The breeze carried the smell and taste of gunshot but Father was silent as he watched Nathaniel lower the rifle. In my mind I raked the air with my fist and brought it down on Nathaniel’s pointed nose, but I held myself in check and did not move an inch.

  I watched as the lavender hills pulsed on the horizon and the sunlight continued to ooze over the land. My anger had been stabbed and my blood was up; I knew it would take little to see me vent my emotions this day.

  At the creek there had been heavy rainfall and the sedgeland covering the hills was stripped, carried down into floodplains below. Stranded lambs stood bleating with fear and terror, while their mothers kept watch over swathes of rippling grey waters, where once their grazings lay.