by Robert Power
‘I’m trying to understand more about people and animals,’ I tell her from behind the scrapbook. Her eyelids open wide to show big bits of eyes. This, I know, means an adult is surprised by a child. So I say something else to help her.
‘I like legends about people and animals and I want to find a tiger name for my dog.’
I sense her weighing me up. After a few moments she tells me, in an authoritative but kindly voice, to follow her, to be quiet, not to look at any books save those she gives me, to sit still and return the books to the desk when finished.
‘All hands to the deck,’ I think, my own hands firmly clasping the rudder, ploughing through the cavernous waves of the China Sea, following in the wake of the Head Librarian, Adult Section.
‘Remember, you are a member of the children’s library and are here for educational purposes,’ she says, walking between the rows, not turning her head. ‘You are not allowed to take any books away with you. Am I understood?’
The quiver of my head seems to satisfy her.
I sit where I am told, relishing my borrowed grown-up status. She busies herself picking books from shelves, closely examining each one before placing it on the table beside me. One she looks at for a few seconds, flips its pages, then returns it. I focus on its slate-grey spine, memorising its position next to a tall olive green book on the second shelf up.
The books have few pictures, but the words are mesmerising. I sharpen my pencil and open up a fresh page of my scrapbook.
The legends in the books talk about how animals and people worked together and looked after each other. One story is about how animals brought fire to man. Native Americans tell that in days long ago the only fire in the world was on a mountaintop, guarded by three Skookums. Skookums are very strong and scary. They are large animals that live in lakes, with orange bodies and two long, thin, black tentacles. The Skookums guarded the fire carefully so that man could not steal it.
In those days Coyote was a friend of man and wanted man to be warm and happy. He made up a plan to steal the fire from the Skookums. He crept up the mountaintop, just before dawn, and grabbed the fire while the Skookums were dozing. One of the Skookums saw him and followed him down the mountain, but before she could catch him Coyote gave the fire to Wolf. Wolf ran away into the forest and just before Skookum grabbed Wolf he handed the fire to Squirrel. Squirrel scurried away to Frog who hopped off with the coals of fire in his mouth. Skookum chased Frog, but Frog managed to spit the fire on to Wood who lived in a huge tree. Wood swallowed it and Skookum did not know how to get the fire out of Wood. Skookum went away without the fire.
Later on, when all was quiet and Skookum was far away, Coyote called Man to a meeting and showed him how to get the fire out of Wood by rubbing two dry sticks together.
And that’s how the animals helped Man to get fire.
Now Man can cook all the animals he wants and eat them up.
I am licking my orange crayon, colouring in the body of a Skookum that I’ve drawn in my scrapbook, when I sense someone behind me. Looking around I see the librarian, peering over my shoulder. She has a pile of books in her arms, but she smiles at me and nods her head. Her approval gives me a warm feeling. Like the hot chocolate Great Aunt Margaret gives me sometimes when she likes me. Adults are so strange: one thing one minute; another the next.
FOUR
OSCAR SEARCHES FOR A TIGER NAME
‘A family is a little world within doors; the miniature resemblance of the great world without.’ James
Strong winds from the faraway tropics gather and fold into each other, pushing a heavy blanket of cloud across the curve of the sky. On a distant shore, the lighthouse at Tidetown winks in collusion with the rumbling storm. Down at the quayside the fishermen look up from mending their nets and smell the turbulence in the air. Seagulls and guillemots ruffle their feathers and cling closer to the cliffs.
The house awaits the onslaught. The bricks pull tight together, bracing themselves against what rumbles on the wind. Windowpanes shudder in their frames, shrinking from the icy blasts long cast, gathering momentum, far out to sea. Bolts clatter into latches, age-old steel holding fast. Doors turn hard in their locks, squeezing out any space between wood and wall. Chimneystacks crouch down and hug the roofs tight, ducking twigs and debris whipped up by the tongue of the storm. Under cover of dark, the tempest creeps along the coastline, towards the avenue of Dutch elm trees snoozing in the breeze. The town sleeps, unaware, defenses down. But in the House of the Doomed and Damned a lamp is lit: one eye opens to check what threatens in the night.
I show my scrapbook to Mother. She says it should win a prize. We are in the kitchen, but there is no food on offer. She is drinking whiskey; the Great Aunt is clicking her rosary beads and chewing a toffee; the dog is stretched out in front of the fire. The Father must be back at sea.
‘Read us something, little Oscar,’ says Mother, the light from the open fire lightening her complexion, catching a gleam in her eye. ‘Tell us some fascinating tale to amuse us,’ she slurs.
She is a bit drunk, but not sad or nasty.
I open up my book. Carefully turn the pages. The dog pricks up his ears.
I take a deep breath and announce: ‘How the tiger got its stripes. According to a Vietnamese legend.’
‘Pagan nonsense,’ murmurs Great Aunt, not moving, sucking deeply on her toffee, hurrying through the rosary beads to ward off any evil.
‘How the tiger got its stripes, as retold by Oscar Flowers the first.’ I look at Mother. She has a glass to her mouth and either hasn’t heard or doesn’t care about the small embellishment. It is something I fancy to be, rather grand and regal. I clear my throat and read on.
‘This story comes from ancient times when animals spoke and people listened.’
I look to see if Mother and Great Aunt realise I am on to them and their animal ways. But one sips whiskey and the other sucks her sweet, and there is no change in the air. So I read on.
‘A farmer was eating lunch in a rice field in the shade of a banana tree. He was probably eating banana sandwiches, but we can’t be sure. He noticed his water buffalo was getting worried, which was no surprise because it could smell a tiger getting closer.
‘The fearsome tiger sprang towards the buffalo, shouting: “Don’t be afraid, I won’t do you any harm. I just want to talk to you.”
‘The buffalo felt reassured and listened to the tiger. They sat together by the pond.
‘“Why do you let that weak man make you work for him? You are ten times stronger than him, you have better vision and a better sense of smell, but you do all his work. What is the magic power he has over you?” said the tiger to the buffalo.
‘“Well,’ said the buffalo,” rubbing his tired and weary back, “I know I shall never be free from the power of the farmer, because he has a talisman he calls wisdom.”
‘“Hmm. I must ask the man about that,” replied the tiger. “If I could get this thing called wisdom then I could be equal to man and no longer fear his intentions.”
‘So the tiger asked the farmer if he could have some wisdom. The farmer was most courteous and apologised for having left the wisdom at home, but promised he would go back to his village and get it for the tiger.
‘“Wait here,” he advised the tiger. “If you come with me the villagers are sure to stone you. But I am worried that you might eat my buffalo while I am gone. Please put my mind at rest by allowing me to tie you with ropes.”
‘The tiger was suspicious, but he wanted the wisdom so much that he let the man tie heavy ropes around his body and then shackle him to a tree. The farmer rushed off and returned with armfuls of straw that he placed around the helpless tiger.
‘“Behold my wisdom,” shouted the man as he set fire to the straw.
‘The tiger was badly burnt and roared so loudly all the trees around him trembled. He raged and pleaded with the farmer. Even the buffalo, who had good reason to fear the tiger, asked that the tiger should be free
d. But the man refused. Finally, the flames burnt through the ropes and the tiger fled to the forest. After a long while his wounds healed. But forever more tigers have the black stripes of the ropes that the flames seared into the flesh of their ancestor. And from that day onwards tiger would never trust man.
‘That’s how the tiger got its stripes. The End.’
Mother is asleep, the empty glass on the table beside her. The dog is on the floor chewing a piece of wood from the coal-scuttle. Then I notice Great Aunt has a tear in her eye.
‘My baby,’ she wails, ‘my darling, darling baby. All in cinders, all in cinders.’
She sucks on her rosary beads, tears coursing down the dry and wrinkled skin of her face like a summer storm on parched earth. The embers of the fire glow in the hearth. The room is darkening. I watch Great Aunt as she shudders and mumbles. She waves a hand at me, so I close my book.
Then I whistle to my dog and we wander into the garden to see what the moon is up to.
Munching on a cheese and pickle sandwich, I sense footsteps overhead in the kitchen. Sometimes a shaft of light between the floorboards is blocked out by the sole of a shoe. I lick my lips and lose myself in my book. It is a tale of the hurricane that washed away a town in America. The photos show bodies in the ruins and rescuers staring out at the camera like they’ve been caught in a dream. Survivors tell of roofs cutting peoples’ heads off and being bitten by deadly snakes in the branches of treetops. How terrifying it must have been, how exciting, the huge wall of water, the roar of the wind. The chaos. On another page is a picture of the sea the day after. It is calm and the sky is orangey with a few clouds streaking across the sun. There’s a bird flying by and I can almost hear the whistling of the wind. I smell the pages of the book: the salty ocean, the seaweedy air.
Over the next week I look at my scrapbook each evening, reading out facts and legends to the little dog who tugs at the tassels of my bedspread as we sprawl on the floor. In bed I tell Blue Monkey the story of the day. Most nights I dream of a tiger moving through an exotic landscape. I hear its soft paw prints on the hard ground and feel its fur brush against my eyelids as I sleep.
But I need to know what is in the slate-coloured book. What is the secret the adults want to keep from me?
The next day I return to the library.
A watery sun catches the few yellowing leaves left on the horse-chestnut trees fringing the main street. I wonder how the librarian will be. As I speed along on my bike, I imagine asking for the mysterious book.
‘That one’s far too grown up for you, laddie,’ she will scowl, and everyone in the library will turn to stare, huge books in their hands. ‘It’s far too special and wise. Now run along next door and find a nice picture book.’
But I will stand my ground, hold her stare and say: ‘I saw Father smash Mother’s face on the headboard of their bed in the backroom. The blood flew up the wall like the spray from a wave, frothy and red. It slid down the wallpaper like the receding tide on a sandy beach. I stood in the doorway and Father looked up, his back arched, shouting at me to leave the room, his hands holding Mother’s hair as if it were the reins of a horse. I am old enough. I demand the book with the slate-grey cover.’
With these thoughts in my mind I prop my bike against the wall. I swagger through the large swing doors of the adult library like a cowboy and walk up to the desk. The lady librarian is seated there. She smiles. She is not as I imagined. Not what I had prepared myself for. But that is okay – I learned long ago that being an adult is hard: they can be sad and distant on the sunniest of days, and bright and breezy when a storm is brewing.
‘Excuse me, Miss, but I wondered if there were any more books on people and animals.’ I hold open the scrapbook. ‘I’ve filled lots of pages, but I want to fill the whole thing.’
The library is empty of people. There are no piles of books in front of her. She seems to have time for me.
‘You seem to like serious books?’ she asks, looking over the top of her glasses.
‘I think I do,’ I say sheepishly. ‘But I do want to be a tiger and I’ve just got a new dog.’
‘What is your name?’ she asks.
‘Oscar. Oscar Flowers.’ I decide Oscar Flowers the First might be confusing.
‘Well, Oscar, what have you found most interesting in your reading so far?’ she asks. Her eyes sparkle.
‘All of it really. The facts, the legends. Like how animals used to be able to speak to people and animals were wise, but when one tiger spoke the man tricked him and burnt him at the stake. That’s why tigers have stripes – the burn marks.’
She is listening, but I don’t think she quite understands. I try to explain.
‘Like Jesus and the marks on his hands and feet. When he was crucified. Well, the tiger was burnt at the stake and the rope made marks on his skin.’
I haven’t thought very much about any of this before, but it seems to make a lot of sense, so I carry on.
‘Tigers make me feel they’re from another place. Visiting. To see if they want to stay here. Like Jesus. But men treat them so badly. Killing them and crushing their bones and leaving their babies with no parents to look after them.’
‘So you’ve learned a lot,’ she says, looking at me in a kind way. ‘You like legends, you say?’
I nod, I do.
‘Well, I’ve just read a nice one in a new book we bought for the library. I’ll show it to you if you’re interested.’
‘Is it about people and animals?’ I ask.
‘Yes, in a way. People and nature. More nature than animals.’
She thinks for a minute and then goes on to tell me her story.
‘Well, the legend I read was about a country called Nepal – that’s far from here, where it’s warm and sunny. It tells how the mountains first came to that country. Once, all mountains had wings. They flew around the world as they pleased. But the God of Rain wanted to bring water to the Nepalese, so he cut the wings from the mountains. The mountains fell to earth, forming the huge mountain range we now call the Himalayas. The wings floated off into the sky and turned into clouds, which clung to the mountains. That is why, wherever you see mountains, there are clouds to bring rain to replenish the earth.’
She smiles at me again, warmly. Her face opens up and I see a friendliness in her eyes. I have never seen it before. Not before now. Not from where I come from.
‘I can tell you are a scholar,’ she says, standing up. ‘I have so many young boys coming here, asking for books, who are far from serious. Now follow me, there is one more book I think might help you. Though as I said before, you can’t take any books out, as you are a special visitor to the adult library.’
She turns to see me follow: ‘You can call me Mrs April.’
I sit at the same desk as before, watching her scanning the shelf where the slate-grey book was left. She is tall, thin as a stick. Her hair is held away from her face in a peach-coloured hairclip, shaped like an oyster. She wears a long chocolate-coloured skirt stretching to her calves. Around her neck she has a ring of beads like tiny apricots. This lady, reaching for a book, her long fingers covered in rings of white gold and caramel glass, looks so beautiful to me at this moment.
‘There you are,’ she says, placing the small volume in front of me. ‘This will give you some more information for your project.’
I turn it over. It has a title that sets my heart racing:
Man meets animal in flesh and claw
The book is in two halves. The first is subtitled:
Man-Eaters: On Land and Sea.
Inside are fantastic pictures. One shows a polar bear dragging a man from his tent on the ice. Another has a huge eagle flying high above the mountaintops, a struggling baby tightly gripped in its talons. In another, an alligator seizes the leg of a man in its powerful jaws, blood and flesh dripping through the torn trouser-leg. Sharks and wolves, grizzly bears and lions, pythons and crocodiles. A world of immense danger.
My heart ju
mps to discover a whole chapter on tigers.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see Mrs April looking at me from her desk. She smiles and pulls a face of horror and alarm. I stifle a laugh, reassured. I open my scrapbook at a fresh page. In large block capitals, which later on I will colour in blood red, I write:
MAN-EATING ANIMALS
1. TIGERS
Man-eating tigers have killed over one million people in Asia during the last 400 years, about 2,500 per year. Here’s a good example: during one year in Riau Province, Sumatra, thirty people were killed by tigers, compared with twenty-five deaths by murder. And tigers aren’t murderers, they are only doing what is natural. Maybe they’re getting their own back for that man who burnt the first tiger at the stake after the tiger trusted him so.
When I become a tiger, I will be a man-eater. Then I can eat the Father when he’s a man. Or at night, when he’s a wild pig, I can hunt him down and watch the fear grow in his eyes as I trap him in the forest.
One legend says anyone who identifies the whereabouts of the tiger will be the next victim. The ghost of the last victim of the man-eating tiger rides on its back and chooses the next, pointing out anyone who betrays the tiger’s movements.
I draw a whole-page picture of a man in a purple cloak on the back of a tiger. The hooded figure points to the lighted room of a house in the village in the near distance. I am so engrossed in my reading and writing I barely hear the bell ring to signal the library is closing.
Mrs April taps me gently on the shoulder.
‘It is time to go, I am afraid,’ she says. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll keep the book to one side, so you can use it any time.’
I look down at my picture. The man is pointing to someone. Trying to tell the tiger something. The house I have drawn reminds me of my house. There is a lit window. What is going on in there? What are the sounds I am straining to hear?