by Tony Black
We once spoke freely; “Why not?” I had asked him.
“A tiger can cause great fear in a dog,” said Father, “a dog must be taught to attack a tiger and, even then, coaxed into every conflict.”
“The dogs are frightened of the tigers? Why?”
My father had lowered his gaze, his eyes bored into me with an intensity I still recalled. “They fear what they do not know, Myko,” he said.
I got down on my knees and swept at the tiger tracks with the flat of my hand. Dread filled me, but more of my father’s words came back to give me hope that my tiger could be spared one last fight.
I remembered the time Nathaniel suggested to my father they go snaring near the plains to seek out winter furs. My father dismissed the rugged trek to the island’s deepest reaches.
“I know of no one who has settled there,” he said, “the land offers nothing to man.”
It sounded like an adventure to me. I needed to know why he refused Nathaniel. “Why? What is there?” I asked.
“The island’s interior has heavy rainfall, Myko. Much of the country is elevated and covered with thick forests. The mountain tops are craggy and the gullies deep and wide. Access to these regions is difficult for any man.”
“Nobody goes there?”
“Even the hardiest bushcutters find the undisturbed terrain too tough.”
“Then why did the idea excite Nathaniel so much?”
My father shook his head. I did not know whether it was my question or Nathaniel’s suggestion he found most naïve. “To the island’s native species, the interior is a haven,” he said, “the pademelons and devils occur there in great numbers. The possums thrive too. But it is no place for man, Myko.”
The island held many places where no man could access the land, where the swamp gums reached three-hundred feet high. Places of poor climate and mountain cirques that are impossible to farm. This kind of land is of no use to any man. In such a place, I now wondered, could my tiger be safe?
My hands were covered with the red earth. The layers beneath the topsoil were dry and scorched at my palms, but I continued to rub away at my tiger’s tracks, lost in my thoughts.
I knew there was great fear of unsettled regions in this part of the world. The settler’s lore was scattered with tales of men who perished far from home. Some succumbed to hunger, others merely lost to nature in the bleak land.
Mile upon mile of desert on the main is said to be littered with the remains of early settlers who sought riches beyond the sand dunes. Others merely tried to challenge the further reaches of the unknown, and perished for their curiosity.
Between the elements, the natives, and nature’s snakes and spiders, a yellow streak of cowardice was painted around much of the land by superstitious fools. Such regions just might be my tiger’s saviour.
If I could lead him far from his lair, I thought, then with his mate and cubs, he could be at peace.
In the island’s heart my tiger would find rest, content that the hunter he feared most had no desire to intrude upon him there.
As I withdrew from the ground I looked down at my hands to see my blood mixed with the red of the earth. Dark welts curled around the smoother parts of the flesh which had swelled and turned the colour of raw meat. I was aware of the pain I had caused myself as I rubbed my damaged hands together.
Slowly, I walked to the water pump. I brought down the heavy handle several times and the cool water which flowed out soothed my nagging wounds. I could not so easily alter the course of my thoughts.
I pushed my head beneath the pump’s spout. The flow of water flattened the thick crop of my yellow hair and ran down on my back. My clothes clung to me, my shirt was soaked with the cool water, and I shivered where I stood.
As I withdrew from the water pump I found my mind had not altered; my thoughts remained the same. Where I stood, on my father’s tied holding, was not a place my tiger should be. If he stayed he would be killed as surely as if I were to seize a scope gun and train its sights on him.
I returned indoors where, in the hut’s stuffy stench, I found my mother sleeping. She looked peaceful, deep inside her dreams. My mother was far from me; I wondered what occupied her thoughts in her deep sleep. She looked like a small child, curled in her bed, smiling at all the happy goings of another world.
My mother was content, yet for such a long time she had been assailed by cruelties in her sleep. This morning the demons lifted from her, as fast as a bushfire cleared by heavy rain. I longed to keep Mother within my gaze for as long as I could, but as I watched the face that only moments before had been kissed by angels, my mother turned suddenly as grey as the ash on a funeral pyre.
Mother’s head jerked back violently and she sat bolt upright, her mouth agape before me. “Myko!” she called out.
I stood before her, but she looked through me as if I were glass. “Mama, I’m here,” I said. My words sounded clear but my mother was wracked by spasms of fear where she sat, bead-eyed and hollow-cheeked.
“Myko, Myko,” she cried out again.
“Yes, I’m here.”
My mother snapped from her trance and held me in her gaze. “Oh, my Myko, my Myko,” she said. Her voice was stilled and mouse-like.
I held my arms out to her. I knew she dreamt again of my father’s death to come. I saw the familiar scene which played upon her face at such times.
I raised the lantern by her bed and brought more coarse-woven blankets to take away her chills.
“Be calm, Mama,” I said.
I offered all the comfort I could gather, but my blood twitched within my veins at the task before me. I knew that, no matter how unwell my mother might be, I must make a hasty departure from her soon.
“Mother, I must leave you alone,” I said, “I have my duties. Will you be all right?
“Oh, Myko, you are a good boy,” she said.
My mother stroked my hair gently with her hand and I sensed her care for me. Though my mother’s blessings were heartfelt, I wished for none of this now. I only wanted my mother to end her drill of daily hurts.
A loose curl unfurled itself from the dark frowziness of Mother’s hair. I reached over to turn it behind her ear and she clasped my hand tightly, “You have become so busy, Myko … what is it?” she said.
I could not let her know what I was about. I remained icy calm.
“Mama,” I said, as I pulled away from her, “I have my duties.”
Mother leaned toward me and I saw that the contours of her face grew hard. Her mouth was a taut wire, her eyes grief-ravaged beyond their bemused stare. “What duties?” she said.
I did not answer; I collected my scarf and tied it before her to show I must leave quickly. Grim imaginings prowled through my thoughts. I knew my time to act was now.
“Goodbye, Mama,” I said softly.
I left my mother trembling in the cold of our crude split-paling hut. As I hurried on the road, I felt a deep shame that I did not light any fire in the hearth.
My mother was distressed, and I had left her hastily in her time of need. I tried to push these thoughts away, but my head was filling with many dark images now. I forced myself into the task before me and I ran towards it keenly. I planned to take on only my lightest duties and then I would return home, to seek out my tiger. Beyond this I did not know what awaited me. I only knew that if I could somehow gather up my tiger and his family, I would set out for the island’s rugged interior.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It was a cold morning. As I walked my steps came as slow and light as the dew settled upon the pastures. I pulled my collars tight and tried to fix my thoughts on what I must do, but my feet felt weighted down and began to trail me.
I knew I was being foolish to take such a task upon myself. My chance of reaching the end I hoped for was slim when I had the entire station staked against me. For years the settlers had hunted the tigers in these lands. Could I really hope to save my tiger in the face of such hatred?
&nbs
p; I crossed one of Father’s stiles; its steps were wet beneath my feet and forced me to lose balance. As I fell backwards my head landed hard on the last of the steps. Where I lay, the sun’s light crossed my eyes quickly and my heart was cajoled to beat a little faster. I was unhurt, but shaken.
I raised myself up and the bead of gold in the sky retreated behind a cloud. I imagined its brief appearance served to widen my eyes, and I put in hard on my path. As I strolled the pastures my boots stuck in the moist soil. Damp fronds clung at my heels and fell like petals upon the breeze as my pace quickened.
My strides grew with my purpose and I saw that to leave the station at such a busy time was wrong, but this bothered my conscience little. I had to search out my tiger, no matter where it took me. All that mattered to me at this time, as I took charge of my slim hope, was my tiger’s survival.
The amber sun shone dully, its light leaking through the white clouds and breaking on the green dimness of the fields. I kept a steady eye on the down-cupped grooves of the low hills as I drifted on the track to the station.
Why should I dwell on fears? The thought grabbed me like an eerie shock. I felt my heart governed by a greater power. A source from outside took over: my mind, my body and my actions were not my own now.
Tall trees skirted the track on both sides and swayed in the blue air above the rapid singing stream. It wasn’t long until I saw the smoke spirals rising from the billet’s chimney stacks and soon, as I cut through the yellow paddocks, I was close enough to hear the roof’s loose shingles rattling in the breeze.
“Boy, come down this way,” a man yelled to me, “this cart needs unloading.”
I had hoped to avoid chores, but all the boys were being led to and from the station’s billet as if part of a great procession.
“Come on, come on. The sacks won’t jump down themselves,” said the foreman from the bakery.
With the other boys I began to take down the heavy sackfuls piled high on the carriage floor. The foreman smiled; his voice was different from the coarseness of the other men, his words weren’t strangled by a Tasmanian drawl but sounded in the proper fashion, like an Englishman.
“Well done boys,” he called out, “we’ll have this truck empty in no time. No time at all.”
I watched the foreman flare out his nostrils and lick at his underlip, and then he joined with the great flurry of boys in unloading the truck.
We worked like demons as the foreman’s voice raked the air, shouting encouragements, “Keep up, keep up boys. Many hands make light the work!”
Every boy fell mute, their heads bowed, their backs turned to the sky as they pressed into the task. I saw each boy grow swollen-faced, the blood brightening their cheeks as they worked in a trance.
“Myko, Myko,” I heard my name called at me. As I moved to follow the sound, I saw Tilly watching from beyond the cart’s front.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“I have to help out. Why aren’t you helping?”
Tilly threw up her hands and then she kicked up dust with her bare feet. “You know why!”
“What?”
Tilly jumped into the cart. “Because I am a girl, silly.”
I did not think I was the silly one. Tilly stood taller than me, I thought whoever stopped her from working with us boys must be the silly one.
As I bent to pick up another flour sack Tilly placed a bare foot on the load before me, “Leave it,” she said, “I have something to show you.”
I looked over my shoulder; I saw the other boys wondering why I had stopped working.
“Tilly, I have to help them.”
She dug in her heel as I tried to pick up another sack; it was impossible to lift.
“Tilly, the foreman will see.”
She pulled her hands from her pockets and latched them on my shoulders, spinning me around to face the mill’s coign; “Open your eyes, Myko!”
I saw the foreman stood with a crowd of settlers, his long bony fingers digging into his tobacco pouch as he smiled and laughed with the group of men.
I straightened my back and took a step closer, to stand staring, unblinking. Flies clustered in my nostrils and eyes as I halted and I felt my shirt clinging to me.
“Come on, Myko, let’s go.”
My breathing came in gasps as I stepped down from the cart. The boys watched as I went, but did not halt in their labours. I walked soundlessly, all the while staring back to the boys, until I reached the water barrel and quenched my thirst.
Tilly leaned on the water barrel and kicked out her legs as I drank. She wore a white flannel shirt that was torn at one elbow and covered with pale bluebells. “I know something that you don’t, Myko,” she said. I knew she was trying to tease me with this new knowledge of hers.
“What is it?”
Tilly leaned away from the barrel and tipped back her head. She looked up to the sky as she spoke, with one finger tapping the side of her face. “Oh, just that the grey mare is stabled up.”
At this time the grey worked harder than ever; I found it impossible to believe. “In the stable? Why?”
“Never mind why, Myko, come on.” Tilly set out running for the stable. I followed behind her, wondering what we would find. I knew the animal was not sick, Tilly would have been upset by such news, but I wondered why the mare was not put to work.
At the stables the grey stuck out her nose and shook her mane up and down at the sight of us. Tilly ran forward and, leaning on her toes, stroked the mare’s face. She smiled widely as the beast’s ears twitched happily.
“Look, she’s glad to see us,” said Tilly.
I stood at Tilly’s back and watched as she harnessed up the grey and led it out into the paddock. “Here, Myko, you can go first,” she said.
I took the reins from Tilly. “But why has the grey been left in the stable today?” I asked.
Tilly did not seem interested in my question. “Oh, the men rose early today, that’s probably why.”
“Risen early, for the dipping?” I asked.
“No, Myko, they’re finished.”
If the dipping was finished I understood why the mare was stabled. But surely the men would be at rest in the early morning if there was no dipping? “Tilly, where are the men now?”
She lifted her hand to the grey’s flank. “Up, up, Myko. Come on, we have the horse all day!”
“Tilly, the men, where are they?” I pressed.
She turned away from me and patted at the grey. “Should I go first? Do you not want to take your turn?”
I placed a hand on Tilly’s shoulder and gently moved her towards me. “Tilly, tell me.”
Tilly dropped her head before me; I thought she might start to cry.
“Tilly, what is the matter?”
“Oh, Myko,” she began to sob.
I touched her face, it was wet with tears.
“Myko, I don’t want to say.”
As I looked at Tilly I felt her anguish; between us the air was thick with her hurt. I did not need to hear her say the words she held inside. I climbed onto the grey and dug in my heels.
“Myko! Myko!” I heard Tilly calling at my back, but I was already across the paddock and pressing the grey hard on the road.
Many thoughts scratched at my mind. I felt as if some tiny burrowing rodent, a spotted quoll perhaps, or an eager bandicoot, had climbed in my ear and refused to leave until it explored every last inch of my head.
Upon the grey’s back I grew both hot and cold, I felt like a fever had overcome me. My heart beat both fast and slow as I took the horse out into the pastures around Woolnorth to search for my father, but I could not see him anywhere.
In the fields the flocks huddled quietly under the blue and cloud-washed sky. I found no hint of any threat to them from the tigers my father was employed to rid the station of.
I followed the road through the heat haze and beyond the wall of trees that jutted the heathland like a giant-cut wedge. The grey felt sprightly and e
ager and I allowed her to stretch out her legs in a gallop for a time. When the grey’s breath hardened I clawed in the reins and her pace slowed enough for me to see the magpies probing the trees’ bark on the ground for insects.
I soon came to a sturdy fencepost, where I spotted an old cove. I nodded first and then removed my cap; its cloth was dampened with the sweat of my brow and I wrung it in my hands like twisting hay. “Mr Coyle,” I said, acknowledging his name.
The old cove’s face shone like a lantern and his honey-coloured whiskers leaped up his face like nimble squirrels. As he began to speak through a wide palate, his tongue roamed so freely that his words broke like steamer whistles.
“Is a fine day for roaming the pastures, my young man,” he said. His every utterance came sheathed with whistles and sprays. “But it’s a queer sort of place this morning … very quiet, very quiet indeed.”
“Have you seen my father?” I asked.
The old cove surveyed me from head to toe, he seemed perturbed that I interrupted his claver.
“Oh, the tiger man? I saw him,” he said. He became excited and a loud clack replaced his whistles, it sounded like the noise of a platypus diving on calm waters. “I saw many men this morning!”
I knew the old cove was keeping coy. For some time I had known that to men like him there was great sport to be had from my clumsy grasp of the island’s rituals. But I grew emboldened by the task before me and I did not let the old cove better me just to puff his gills.
“You saw him? Tell me, when?” my voice scolded. I watched him slit his eyes; the wetness of his moustaches drooped beyond the gobbet of his mouth like a drooling hound. I cut short his game and I saw he was not pleased.
“Now don’t you take that tone with me, my boy,” he said. His voice was like a schoolmaster’s – noisy and full of bluster – his design was to try and unhinge me. He wanted no less than to see me slink back from him like a whimpering pup that had just learned its first lesson at the end of a rolled newspaper. But I would not feed his desire; I had deeper passions aflame within me. I showed the old cove my back and kicked at the grey’s flanks.