by Tony Black
By New Year’s Eve our household grew stable enough to come together with the people of the village. Though I still carried anger sharp as a blade, I knew to keep it hidden.
Straw fires burned and bells rang out to celebrate the New Year. Kazimeras and Ruta drank barley wine and broke bread with the villagers. A brother of Ruta’s appeared, too, and spoke of witchings and other tall tales.
“Daina, Daina …” Ruta called out my mother’s name, “Daina, come, come with us indoors, we have something to show you.”
Ruta’s eyes sparkled like tiny stars; her breath became heavy as she ran to gather up my mother in her arms and rush her from us.
“Come on, Jurgis,” I told my brother, “we must follow.” We crept behind Mother, uneasy to let her out of our sight.
As we walked we heard much talk of the proper traditions we must perform at this time. People spoke of what the coming year might bring.
“Will the year be lucky or unlucky?” a man called to my mother.
She smiled, but gave no reply to the man.
“Will there be a good or a bad harvest, Daina?” called out another, removing his hat and bowing before her.
“Will our oppressors be merciful or unjust?” said yet another.
My mother clutched at her coat collars and moved delicately among the crowd, smiling as she went. My brother and I trailed her like little attendants to a mighty queen. We had never seen so many people who wished to talk to our mother.
“Were there to be a blizzard,” said Ruta’s brother, Pranciskis, “it would auger well for the crops.”
As he followed us indoors we saw that Pranciskis was lame; the heavy boot on his weak limb scraped loudly on the floor.
“And magpies,” he said, “we must pray for magpies, many, many magpies covering the garden when we wake, for that will bring us many new and welcome additions to our family.”
“Oh, Ruta,” said my mother. I knew she did not want to think of such things.
“No, no, this is a special time,” said Ruta, “the only time, just once a year, when we can speak with such certainty.”
I sensed that Ruta, like all the peasants, felt her country’s old traditions deeply.
My brother and I stood still at our mother’s side, as still and as calm as the few great trees that rested with their branches frozen by winter’s chills upon Father’s land.
We glanced up at our mother to check for changes in her face, but none came. It seemed as if my mother felt too afraid to allow any hint of emotion to seep out, lest it betray her, and my brother and me as well.
“Now,” said Ruta, “watch what I do.”
She placed a glass filled with water by the mirror on the wall.
“This is my mother’s,” said Ruta holding up a wedding ring, “she is dead,” she added, nodding quickly.
Ruta dropped the wedding ring into the glass of water and then put her plump fingers around its base as she began to stir the water with two long white stork feathers.
“You see, you must look,” she called to my mother, “look, look in there at the ring, do you see it?”
Mother peered into the glass. As she stretched her long white neck the lace collar of the crimson dress she wore showed beneath her coat. I knew this dress came in a present from my father, I remembered the joy on my mother’s face when he brought it home to her. My mother had not worn the dress since my father was taken from us.
“Well, well, do you see?” said Ruta.
Mother was silent. Her eyes moved between Ruta and the glass as though she sought guidance.
“Is there a face?”
My mother shook her head and gathered her coat’s collar tightly around her neck. The crimson dress was hidden beneath.
“Look, there must be a face. Keep looking, there must be a face.”
My mother continued to stare into the glass. The stork feathers swirled faster and faster as Ruta bit down on the tip of her plum-coloured tongue.
“What face?” said Jurgis.
“Shush,” I told him. I was engrossed in the scene playing out before us.
“What face, Myko? What face does she see?” pried Jurgis, but I waved off his pestering.
Soon Ruta’s plump hand grew tired and she lowered the glass. It clunked loudly on the hardwood and the mirror on the wall swayed where it hung. “Oh, it is all a waste! You have not done it properly, Daina!” she called out.
My mother looked confused; I do not think she knew what Ruta expected of her.
Mother narrowed her eyes; they took the shape of little almonds. “What was I supposed to see, Ruta?” my mother said. Her voice was low and calm as she spoke to our masters.
“To see,” snapped Ruta, “why, the face of your new husband!”
Mother’s eyes widened and they started to bulge at their whites, I thought their black centres would be forced out and fly like tiny arrows into Ruta.
“I have a husband,” said my mother. Her voice was louder now; it fell as weighty as lead.
Ruta swiped away the glass with the back of her hand and, at once, it smashed into pieces on the floor. The crashing noise brought a loud gasp from the room.
My brother and I fell paralysed where we stood. We did not know what to expect as we watched the water drip from the table’s edge and the stork feathers float gently to the floor, like the snow falling outside the window.
“I have a husband,” said my mother once more; her voice held less strength when she said it the second time. Mother looked overcome by her emotions.
“Now, now,” said Ruta. Her demeanour changed quickly, she seemed calmer as she approached and placed her plump hands on Mother’s delicate shoulders. I saw a tremble pass through my mother at Ruta’s touch.
“Now, now,” said Ruta again, “you must accept he is gone. It is time for you to move on, Daina … it is time for you to take a new husband.”
My mother fell silent. She seemed a great distance from us all, close enough to touch, but as unreachable as the marrow of our bones.
Ruta’s plump hands forced Mother into a chair. Where she sat she stared at the floor. My brother and I went to her side and I placed my arm around her trembling shoulders, but I felt I was of little comfort to her.
“I have a husband,” said Mother, “I do … don’t I?”
My mother looked towards me but I did not get to answer as Ruta lunged at me and rushed Jurgis and me outside, where the snow fell heavily on the ground. “Go … go and find dry tree branches for everyone,” said Ruta.
I wanted to be indoors with my mother. “Why? What for?” I asked.
“To place in the fallen snow, of course,” said Ruta, her voice suddenly lively. I knew it as the voice adults adopted to distract children, to coax them quickly to their will, “In the morning we shall check the branches and those whose are still standing up will have a prosperous New Year.”
I looked to see my mother through the window, as Ruta quickly ushered us out of doors. “Go, go now,” said Ruta, shooing us with her arms, her cheeks flushed red as the sun in the evening’s sky.
I looked once more beyond Ruta to my mother. Her arms had fallen flat to her sides, her coat flapped open and it revealed the dress my father had given her.
At my mother’s side I spied Pranciskis, leaning over her, his crooked leg hanging behind him like a cruel shadow.
“When we check in the morning, what if the branch is fallen over?” said Jurgis.
“Well, then,” said Ruta, “then there will be a death before the next new year.
Chapter Twenty-One
I dragged my haul of Huon pines to the woodpile and let the axe fly into their hard shanks. They were as straight as a tall ship’s mast and solid as stone within.
I could heft an axe from dusk until dawn and gain no more discomfort than a few calluses upon my hands, and I tore through the trees like a demon. With each blow I tried to spend the angry energy that ran through me like a poison. My mind held only one thought: How will I hide my
tiger?
Even if I snared or trapped him, what possible chance did I have of capturing his mate as well? I knew the tiger population had grown scarce and I might have encountered one of the last pairs on the island. My actions must be swift.
“What are you thinking about, Myko?” I turned to see Tilly sitting on the yard’s stone wall, her bare feet swinging before her.
I said nothing and returned to the pines, taking up the axe again.
“It’s tigers!”
“What?”
“You are thinking of tigers,” she jumped down from the wall and walked towards the woodpile, swaying her arms as she went, “I can tell.”
I put down the axe, “How?”
“Because, Myko … it is all you think about.”
I knew I had watched my father at a spree of killing and done nothing to halt it; I wondered, was my guilt as girded as his? Could Tilly see it?
“It’s not true,” I tried to cover my feelings, “I was thinking of something else.”
Tilly stuck out her neck, her head jutted into my face, “What?”
“Nothing that would interest you.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
She danced around me, pulling at my shirttails as I tried to avoid her gaze. “Tell me. Tell me. Tell me,” she sang.
“All right,” I said, “just stop, and I’ll tell.”
Tilly stood before me; she closed her lips tightly and held her hands behind her back.
“I was thinking about my old home.”
“What about it?”
“I was thinking how different it was to here on the island.”
Tilly tilted her head to the side, “You don’t like it here, do you?”
“I didn’t say that I didn’t like it. I was just thinking of my old home.”
I went to sit down on the woodpile. Tilly followed and sat at my side. “Tell me something about your old home.”
“Tell you what?”
“Just something about it … something that happened.”
I could think of nothing to tell her. “Like what”
“I don’t know, just something.” I heard impatience creeping in Tilly’s voice.
I picked up a small pebble and threw it into the air; it carried over the yard and came down on the road. “I will tell you a strange thing that happened once.”
Tilly turned around and brought her head down to rest upon the back of her clasped hands. “Tell me then, tell me.”
“Once, when I was travelling home with my father, I saw a beggar man.”
Tilly interrupted, “What did he look like?”
“He was unwashed. His elbows and knees poked through his clothes and he was slumped in the road.”
“What happened when you saw him?”
“My father called him over. ‘Come here, my friend,’ he said. And then he unwrapped some rye bread and held it out to the beggar man.”
“Did he take it?”
“At first I was scared to look as he came to us, but then I saw him raise his thin arm. It looked like a twig.”
Tilly shifted her head, “Did he take the bread?”
“He took the bread. I looked into his face, but the beggar man’s eyes were closed tight.”
“He closed his eyes?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I knew my story confused Tilly. “When I asked my father why he gave the beggar man our bread, he said, ‘We must always help those who need our help’.”
Tilly stood up and brushed down her long trousers. “That is a strange story, Myko.”
“I have been thinking about it a lot lately.” I rose to my feet. “Tilly, I have to go, I have the flocks to see to.”
I picked up my lantern and tucker bag and turned toward the track for the coastal runs to check on Father’s flock.
Tilly waved to me as I went.
My eyes were slitted against the wind as I crossed a low hillock. I saw the moon shining on the great stretch of sea beyond the coast. Little ripples broke on the black surface and gathered in greater rolls to lash the crags further inland.
I heard scarcely any noise, save the murmurings of the sea – its suck and wash – and the crackling of crushed twigs and bark beneath my steps.
As I came upon the sheep I found them quiet in their pens as they clung together like cobwebs in the dark. A few stirrings and bleatings broke out here and there, but the flock remained secure. I was pleased by this; I had much to occupy me and I knew the flock would suffer if they needed my attentions.
I set out on the less travelled tracks, in search of my tiger.
I moved towards the wild unsettled country that stuck like a solid wedge at the bourne of the station’s cleared land. I had no plan, save an unformed desire to warn my tiger to leave this unsafe trail.
My father would return soon. His duties would be light in the coming days whilst he regained his strength following the dipping, but his dogs would be active. They were taught to fasten upon a tiger scent and would begin to hunt as soon as they arrived.
As I searched for my tiger I knew he was no nearer sanctuary than when I first laid eyes on him. I had dwelled on the plight of my tiger for days and my search brought me no rest from the panic I felt.
My heart hardened and my mind grew as sharp as the spine tipped branchlets of the bitter pea’s prickly shrub: my course was set, I would do all I could to save my tiger.
My senses became heightened as I wandered through the ragged and twisted strands of tanglefoot which crossed my path. The lantern lit the way beyond me and shone further into the dense wood, but I saw nothing there except a single set of owl eyes which caught me unawares upon a low branch. The owl let out a flat hoot and I removed the lantern’s glare quickly.
I searched on.
I crossed miles of boggy spear grass flats, soft as dough underfoot. I waded waist-deep through great stretches of brown water and its stench made my skin crawl with horror.
I had all but given up. I knew my tiger was a wise beast and would not show himself to me unless he knew he must.
For a short time I toyed with the hope that my shouts to him – where he fed with his mate – had turned him from this place.
Did I lead him to safety? I wondered. The words ran like a song inside my head. But soon they stopped and new words grew to itch at my brain.
At the edge of the rough country, where the station’s green acres began, my thoughts turned sharply. As I came upon my father’s snares I collected up the brush possums from the ground and carried them on my back and, suddenly, I felt a most unusual silence fall upon the bush.
I had known no silence like it in this place. I swear the breeze was told to desist. Even the marsh frogs and the tree frogs by the Myrtle burrows cut their gurglings where they lay.
I craned my neck. Stars collected like jewels in the sky as I lowered my gaze. When I shone the lantern squarely in front of me I was forced to draw in my breath sharply. It was my tiger.
He looked upon me with two steely black points, each needle eye reflecting back the lantern’s light across the distance. He stood scarcely ten or twelve feet from me. I guessed his size and shape and believed he could latch his jaws on my neck in one great leap. But he did not. He merely watched me, curious.
My first thought was fear, but within a few short seconds I replaced it with a deep respect. I felt chosen by my tiger to spend time within his reach, even though I felt like a trespasser where I stood.
It appeared as plain to me then as the stars in the sky above: this island was his. I had no call to be there in his way.
My tiger faced me for a moment and then from the blackness his mate joined with him, taking his side quietly by the rear. Her eyes shone wide and welcoming; I saw no fear of me reflected in those dark pools. I watched them stand before me, quietly taking in my form, and judging me no threat. They accepted my presence in their hunting grounds.
I grew light-headed wi
th joy, and then I caught the bull sniffing the air. He sensed the brush possum I carried on my back.
The magic I felt suddenly vanished. I wondered: was my attraction to these tigers the easy meal I carried?
I took a possum by the tail and threw it before the tigers. They watched me as if disbelieving and then the bull raised his nose to the air once more. The possum presented little interest. I tried to coax the tigers with a larger possum, edging ever nearer as I dangled the lifeless bait before them, but they were not roused.
I knew at once my actions were foolish – the tigers would not touch a dead possum – they ate only their own fresh kill.
I laid down the load I carried over my shoulder. I was now close enough to count the stripes on their backs and place the point where the fur turned downy white upon their bellies.
The tigers were beautiful creatures. They were so peaceful, and so far removed from the menacing tales that followed them to every corner of the island.
I smiled uncontrollably – my father taught me this was unwise, a predator does not like to see our teeth – but I could not hold back my joy. My happiness as this precious experience unfolded was immense.
I stood as close to the tigers as perhaps any man ever had; they held no fear of me and I held none of them. I reached out a hand before them. I wished to touch the bull’s head, to feel myself closer and show my friendship. He did not recoil. I believe he would have let me touch him then, but his attention was captured and once again he raised his nose up in the air.
I withdrew my hand and with the passing of an instant, the tigers were gone, back upon their night’s hunt.
I longed to go with them, to lead them far from here. To the hills and open valley spaces. To the mountain plains and the wooded gullies of the central plateau. To where there was no man to fear them. To where they could roam together in freedom, on their island home.
Chapter Twenty-Two
My mother waited by the fireside for my return. As I bounded into our crude split-paling hut the slim Huon pines burned brightly, crackling on the fire.
“Myko, you are home,” she said.
I could not contain the feelings coursing through me.