by Tony Black
My family’s hut in Mount Cameron’s west was not so far on the back of a horse, but my mount did not warm to such a disrespectful handler as I galloped recklessly for home.
Great plumes of white breath came gushing from the grey’s nostrils. The leather reins in my hands burned and cut blistered lines on my palms. For a second I feared the grey would drop upon the road. At a deep trench she seemed sure to collapse, but righted herself and I knew I must treat such obstacles with more care.
All the while my mind raced ever faster. My head was dizzy and I felt queasily unwell. Father was likely home already, perhaps even hunting my tiger to his death.
I knew that I’d allowed my father to steal home unopposed and now I could not rid myself of the thought that my tiger would soon pay.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
My mother fell into shock to see me home at such an hour, her tired breath greeting me in a hoarse blast. She reached for me with her hands outstretched; she sensed I was in an agitated condition. I clasped strongly at the hands she held out to me. “Mother where is he?”
“Myko, you’re hurting me,” she said, “let me go.”
I looked down at my mother’s thin hands; they were bony and veined from knuckle to wrist. “Tell me where he has gone. I need to know. Now!” I yelled.
My mother did not answer. She only stared into my eyes.
I let go of her hands and they fell lamely by her side; she quickly raised them and tucked them beneath her arms to build a barrier between us.
Tears welled in my mother’s eyes as she spoke to me. “Myko, Myko, what is it? What has happened to you?” Over and over she pressed me, like the rush of a river pounding faster and faster, “Tell me, Myko, tell me, I am your mother … I am your mother.”
I would not answer her; my mind was filled with panic and rage and I had no time to play the game of mother and dutiful son. I knew my father would not be upon the land so soon after his return without good reason; he was too tired to take on any tasks other than those of the utmost importance. Father would go out this day with one purpose alone – to hunt my tiger.
I stamped through our home with the same care I would give to the mud-holes of a swamp as I looked to find my father’s hunting bag. I tumbled down a delicate shelf and tin plates fell loudly on the floor. The floorboards creaked sharp as log-splits beneath my heavy steps and the window’s frame rattled in the wall as I pushed aside lanterns and dinner pots that stood in my way.
“Myko, what has become of you?” called out my mother, her face the image of sorrow, “why are you acting this way?”
“Father’s hunting bag is gone,” I said, pointing to the mess I had created in my search for the tools of his grim trade, “look, look … it’s gone. Gone.”
Mother moved towards me; “Myko, please, be at peace.”
I turned away from her and walked towards our door. As I went, I saw a twist of strong hawser that usually hung on the door’s back was missing.
“Myko, come back here!” shouted Mother.
I wanted to pay no attention to her but she was my mother and to hurt her this way wounded myself. I knew that I was taken with passions that I could not control, but I steeled myself to face her.
“Mother, I know what he is about. Don’t try to hide it from me,” I said.
As I watched her head drop before me I felt like my world was turning inside-out.
“Where did he go?” I said again. My voice sounded loud and strong, it echoed off the walls of our crude split-paling hut, and though I knew it distressed my mother, I would have raised it further and cried louder, if I were able.
“Where did he go?” I wailed.
“I do not know,” said Mother; her hands now framed her face feebly, “he returned, and left again quickly.”
“To where?”
My mind raced on, I knew of only one place he would be, but I did not want to believe it until I heard the words come from her lips. “Is he on a hunt?” I demanded.
Mother shrank from me and began to tremble with fear, her eyes darting back and forth as she cowered within her black shawl. I felt a dark impulse to grab her delicate shoulder blades and shake her where she stood, but I resisted, clutching again her thin-boned hands and squeezing them tightly.
“Myko, the dogs, they were wild with a tiger scent. He could not stay, he had to …” My mother’s head dropped down on her chest. Her face was hidden as her words fell like vanished dreams. “It is his duty,” she said, “he is sworn to his duty, he will not surrender his good name to anything else. Myko, you must know this, you must, you must understand, surely you must.”
I placed my eyes upon my mother’s grief-ravaged face and watched as she rubbed nervously at her neck-bones, but I had no words for her. I saw my father’s actions had cut a scythe-sweep through her, as surely as they had done to me.
I ran from my mother and our home.
Anger drilled in my mind. I knew I must face my father and demand he leave my tiger to run free. I would not allow him to harm another beast to settle his bloodlust or greaten his hoard of weak praise and blandishments from Tasmania’s bushmen and fools.
As I ran on the paddocks, grim imaginings chased my thoughts. The sky fell to a violet hue above a mountainous backdrop and allowed a narrow tongue of blood-red sun to seep onto the sea far beyond.
I saw the waters, green and still, touch the floury-white sands and I hoped my tiger had wandered far beyond his lair. I raced farther out across the button grasses and felt my feet touch the water-cut gullies that fed the silver streams.
The air held no sounds, save the limp cries of birdsong that I told my ears to ignore as I sought for tiger cries, and the baying of my father’s dogs.
Branches cut at my face but I felt nothing as my eyes dug through the darkness of the forest. Black curls of crisp gnarled roots beneath the thin covering of soil struck like sabres as I stepped on them, but I did not slow my pace.
A gentle wind picked up and made a rushing sound through the branches that sounded like laughter following me. I quickened my steps to keep my track straight through the prying wind, but then I heard a piercing yap and I knew I must be upon my father’s dogs.
The sounds fell far from my tiger’s lair, outwith the forest and his hunting grounds. I ran as fast as I could against the gaining wind’s unbroken gusts. The light fell hazily through the canopy, coming down in weak beams that struggled to light the way before me. The air burned hot and muffled the noise like fog as I broke into the open pastureland, and felt my blood run strangely cold.
The sky suddenly darkened above and dove-grey plumes of cloud fell all around me like heavy blankets of smoke. On top of the hill, where I stood, only the eucalypts saw farther afield. My eyes smarted in the new light; I felt them begin to water, and soon I found myself wiping at salty tears.
I saw my father had a wallaby tied in a lure. It was a small animal but a sprightly one and ran in desperate circles round its tether. He held the marsupial within a sheep pen, its hasty exertions kicking clouds of dust from the dry pasture beneath its beating leap.
My father hid beyond the pen, crouched in a shallow gorge; his rifle poked above his shoulder where he had it strapped to his back.
I felt my lips stiffen and knew at once my words were frozen in my throat. My legs felt heavy with fatigue and my breath fell into convulsions. Behind my long wandering gaze my mind numbed. I felt weak enough to be blown out like a candle in the breeze. I knew my tiger must be near.
My father understood his task full and well. He had trapped and snared many tigers. As this knowledge lanced into my heart I felt sure I would soon see my tiger’s end.
The wallaby’s pounding suddenly increased within the pen. I would not have thought it likely, the poor creature looked near exhaustion, but it summoned further strength. I saw it gripped by terror as it completed frantic circles within what little distance it had to perform them. The creature’s heart was ready to burst.
I had not witn
essed a more desperate scene. I felt for the poor beast’s fate, its eyes were etched with panic. And then, as if attached to a length of fishing line, my tiger was pulled from the scrub upon the pen, and quickly clutched the wallaby within his widened jaws, bringing it down with one fell swoop.
The wallaby suffered little. I believe it met its end with great speed, but I could not watch what followed.
“No. No. No,” I called out.
I knew my tiger’s fate was sealed. He had taken the bait laid by my father and now my slim hope of finding his freedom was gone.
When I unfurled my tight-closed eyes I watched my father run to close the pen behind my tiger. I saw Father turn himself quickly to one side, his eyes suddenly probing further afield as he side-stepped awkwardly and roared to his pack of dogs. I could not see what he pointed at but I knew it must be my tiger’s mate.
Quickly, I ran for my father. The distance seemed great from the hill-top to the goings below. I watched Father run, too; as he went he unfurled a burlap sack from beneath his coat and then he scooped up two tiger cubs and fastened upon a third.
All drowsiness left my blood as I cut the air to where my father rested in peaceful conquest. I ran faster and faster and I soon came close enough to hear him greet me. “Myko, Myko,” he called.
I did not respond. I ran straight for the sheep pen to where he held his quarry.
“Myko, what is wrong?” said Father.
A heavy scent clung in the air as my father stood smoothing his whiskers before the tiger, which devoured its prey in the sheep pen.
I felt ready to grasp the gun from my father’s hand should he prepare to fire on my tiger. I watched him with cautious eyes; I dared not remove my gaze. “What will you do with it?” I demanded.
As he turned to face me I sensed my presence was no more surprise to him than a tide touching a sandbar. “That is quite a greeting, Myko. Hello, my son,” he said, and then he turned away once more.
“The tiger, Father, do not kill it!” I was bleary-eyed but my voice held strong.
He began to unfurl his rifle before me. “They are a pest, my son.”
My thoughts drifted in and out. I twitched nervously as I thought to snatch the rifle from him. “Do not kill it! I warn you.”
My father drew his stare back to me, his eyes narrowed as he took me in. I knew he sized me for my actions; he tried to judge the strength of my determination.
“Myko, the tigers are a threat to the flocks,” he said slowly.
“Do not kill it,” I said. My teeth were gritted, my jaws clasped tight. I could see the gun in his hand; I watched him pull pack the hammer and I was ready to take it from him. I was ready to fight with my own father and the thought drew shame into me.
“Myko!” he said, shocked. As he walked towards me I could see I had displeased him more than ever I had.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
When my father came back to us in the Sakiai, we believed ourselves blessed by God above.
Father looked pale and weak, his skin tawny around his mouth and eyes. I saw marks on his face that were not there before. One of the marks, a hard dark scar above his chin, ran under his jawline and back towards his ear. This jagged, tormenting battle wound made me unhappy; I did not like to think of my father having suffered with the pain it must have caused him.
“I have eaten nothing for three days bar fish heads begged from guardsmen on the train,” said Father; he had little strength, his journey had tired him out.
“Where did you come from?” my brother asked, the happiness in his voice a joy to hear.
“I came from an army camp,” said Father, “six hundred miles south-east of Moscow.” As he spoke he kept a steady eye on his wife his gaze drew out my own. When I turned to my mother I felt shocked to see her trapped behind a veil of terror, her face black as tarpaper.
As I watched my mother she shifted nervously, it seemed as though the boards beneath her feet burned too hot for her to stand. Her left eyelid carried a tic and her delicate fingers rubbed endlessly on the two white triangles of her lace dress-collars.
In time my mother calmed.
There came not a single day following Father’s return that we did not bless the Lord and give up our thanks. My mother shone, in ways we had not seen before.
“Drink up, drink up, you need to build your strength,” Mother said as she nursed our father, feeding him broth and onions cooked in goat’s milk.
“Daina, you are my strength,” said Father. He pulled my mother onto his knee and stroked her long black hair, held in pretty braids, piled high on her head.
My mother laughed like a girl and my father smiled widely; but I knew the strangers in our home did not share my parents’ joys.
Pranciskis viewed these goings through slitted eyes. He flopped sulkily in front of the fireside and sucked in his pockmarked cheeks as he drew tapers to light his pipes.
“Are there no chores to be done around the farm?” he said, “Or are we all to spend the day giggling like children?”
Pranciskis sat forward with his nose pinched to the flames, his earlobes burning red, and his eyes sewn tightly closed. He looked to all the world like a fencepost blown cockeyed after a storm. Deep currents raged within him. I knew Pranciskis planned something for us; it seemed like he waited for his moment to show us that he was still our better.
In time my mother lost the sparkle of youth which had lit her since Father’s return and went back to her weeping ways.
“I cannot take this,” she burst out one morning.
My father let out a great sigh; I wondered if it was heard around the whole house.
“Daina …” he said, drawing my mother to him.
“No, it is no good, Petras,” she pushed him away, “it is no good.”
My mother ran from him. As we watched her climbing the staircase we grew quickly anxious. We knew a change was coming with the wind. We lived inside a tinderbox, like little pieces of touchwood, awaiting one spark to send us all into flames.
“Daina,” my father called as he ran at her back.
Jurgis followed to my parents’ bedroom door, but I held him before he rushed in. Through a gap of some inches below the door we watched my mother crying. She sat on the edge of the bed with her soft, frail neck lowered, her head held in her hands, her long black hair hanging lamely before her.
My father stepped around her; he drew his hands in fists, his strides were full of purpose. “Why, but why would he do it?” His face looked to be mixed with worry and confusion.
My mother did not reply to Father’s question, she merely continued sobbing from behind her tangled mass of hair and cupped her hands over her face.
“But I have not quarrelled with him,” said Father, his voice strained, his words clipped in tone. “Even though he is living below my roof!”
I watched my mother roll on her side. I saw her shaking where she lay as she called out my father’s name. “Petras, Petras, please understand, I know him, I know him too well.”
Mother’s sobs deepened to animal wails, wild cries of despair that she made no attempt to disguise. I saw her press her fingers into her eye-sockets and I wondered if she tried to force back her tears. She had drawn the last drop and dreg of her strength.
My father went to her side again. He placed a hand on her back and then he took a piece of paper from her grasp and looked at it for a moment.
My mother sat up abruptly. “Give me that!” She snatched back the paper and tore it into shreds. “Let the Czar go to hell!” she cried, “Let the Czar go to hell!”
My mother’s teeth gritted as she tore at the paper and cast it into tiny pieces. Madness filled her eyes. I had never seen my mother act this way before.
“The army returned you to me,” she said, “to me, the army returned you to me!”
Mother fell upon the bed, weeping. Her face lay hidden from me and from my father, who watched her where she lay, his hand outstretched, but not daring to touch her.
The sun shone fuller through the windows and yellow blades of light lowered down upon my mother and father. I was close enough to see the dust play in the light’s glow but I did not understand anything of the scene before me.
“No, Daina,” said Father, “the army had no idea where I was. Until someone told them.”
My father paused. “Now, they will come for me.”
Mother sat upright; tears ran upon her face and more welled in her eyes. “I will not lose you again,” she said. As she spoke I sensed the brute anger in her voice. “I will not.”
Father held Mother close to him, and a finger of sunlight drew a line between his heavy shoulders. Above my mother’s heartfelt cries I could just make out my father’s words: “Then what choice do we have, Daina, what choice?”
Early the next morning, before Pranciskis and the others had risen, my family fled from our home.
We crossed the holding yard first, and then the green fields. We walked silently for a long time. Mother and Father kept especially quiet, passing few words between them.
As I listened to the birds singing their sweet tunes of the early morning, the entire countryside lay completely still. We followed the morning’s mist as it retreated over the hillside and watched the sun rise higher in the sky, so high that it soon sat upon the white clouds, which stole all the warmth of the sun’s rays and darkened the path before us.
Suddenly everything changed. After miles and miles of walking peacefully on the road, the air around us quickly filled with an unearthly disquiet.
“What is that noise, Myko?” asked my brother.
I had no answer for him. “Stop and listen,” I said, “we might hear it better then.”
The noise began like a siren, slowly being wound by hand, building all around us. It came from behind us, beyond the hill, where a violent sky had spread.
“Petras, I am scared,” said Mother.
My father halted in the road and looked back. Together we tried to place the source of the discord. As we stood, the noise grew and then, as we waited in fear, all was revealed to us.