In Search of the Blue Tiger

by Robert Power

  ‘Nothing is new,’ she ponders, ‘everything has been done before, thought before. We just keep repeating thoughts, events, actions.’

  The kettle boils and she rises to make a pot of tea. Leaving the tea to brew on the stove, she returns to the article and rereads the verses, trying to commit them to mind. Quietly to herself, she mouths the words.

  ‘The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.’

  She gets up and pours herself a cup of tea. She stirs in the milk, thinking all the while of the thoughts she is thinking and of those who thought them before.

  Upstairs, her husband is wide awake. He lies in the marital bed, listening to his wife moving around in the kitchen below.

  His thoughts distil and condense. Images of Mrs April float before him. For years he had seen her around town, the elegant, slightly distant widow whose husband had been plucked from the brink of peace. Thinking back, he realises he was always pleased to see her, in the distance, passing by. One clear memory is of her standing in the park. It must have been summertime or early autumn, for she was holding a cream-coloured parasol to shade herself from the sun. She stood alone, looking out across the boating lake. Something made her smile: a ripple on the water; a duck bobbing below the surface; someone fooling around in a boat. But there was something in the tenderness and lightness he saw in her smile which he carried through the years. He saw the smile again when he went to the library one day to find out how he might run his own accounts. The two images connected deep inside. A smile in a park and a smile in a library.

  A week later they met by chance. He was taking the long route to the bank, treating himself to some late-autumn sunshine and a passing view of the park’s famous wrought-iron gates. There she was, just as he had seen her all those years ago. Shielding her eyes from the sun, watching a small boy and his dog running away along a distant path. Smiling that same beautiful and beguiling smile. He stopped and they spoke. They walked a while and then had some tea in the café by the lake. Quite why he did he was never sure, but he told her about the smile she had smiled all those years ago and how it had stayed with him. After they parted he thought of her constantly. Nothing, neither prayer nor the love of his wife, could dispel such feelings. Two days later he called her at the library. She invited him to her house. With the tea things still laid out on the fresh cotton tablecloth in the parlour, she led him by the hand to her bedroom.

  For the first couple of months passion and excitement quashed any murmurings of guilt, any rumblings that he was committing a sin before his wife and his God. But the strain of deceit had begun to weigh heavily on him. Keeping this secret was too much. He must speak to someone.

  Pulling himself from bed and down onto his knees for his morning prayer for forgiveness, he resolves to speak to one of the Elders.

  Tiger Fact

  If you treat were-animals with respect and are polite to them, then they can be helpful. Schilling, a Dutch colonial civil servant who worked in rural Sumatra, reported the case of a woman who married a were-tiger. She had three sons who were able to transform themselves into tigers. Schilling records how they chased wild deer into his path, enabling him to shoot them. One of the sons located the exact place of a hunting dog, which had drowned in a river and was washed ashore, hidden in a hollow behind a waterfall.

  *NB: Next time I go to the Fishmonger Shop, be especially polite to Mr Fishcutter and see what he says.

  Brother Pearson has a good idea why Brother Fishcutter wants to speak with him after the Ministerial School meeting. During his thirty years as an Elder in the congregation he has seen the same look in the eyes of many a man. Lust. Sins of the flesh. Adultery. Sodomy, once: a sin, even though the recipient was the confessor’s own wife. But he is far from unkind, is Brother Pearson. There is no malice in him. He has no intention of seeing anyone suffer unduly. The suffering he saw during his year in Colombia was enough to last him a lifetime.

  Small groups are gathered on the forecourt of the Kingdom Hall, chatting and making plans for the outing to the woods on the weekend. The forecast is fairly good, but the flat grey skies and drizzling rain portend otherwise.

  ‘Still, Jehovah willing, we’ll have fair weather,’ smiles Sister Faithful.

  Children stand patient and obediently next to their parents. Mrs Fishcutter, Perch and Carp huddle under an umbrella. As always, slightly apart, set aside. No one ever says so, but many, even the most spiritual, find the Twins unnerving.

  ‘Goodnight, Sister Fishcutter, Perch and Carp,’ says Sister Olga with a wave, already retreating towards the bus stop out in the lane. ‘The rain’ll pick up before the night’s out. All the better for Sunday.’

  Perch looks at Carp. Carp looks at Perch. Sister Fishcutter spies her husband leaving the side entrance of the building with one of the Elders. It is Brother Pearson: he who gave the talk on Saint Paul’s letter to the Ephesians. The Ministerial School had focused on the role of women in the congregation. Scriptures were cited to show that just as Christ was head of the congregation, so a man was head of the family. The subservience of women was assured and the meeting ended with a rousing chorus of ‘From house to house, from door to door, the Kingdom message bring.’ Her husband told her he needed to speak to Brother Pearson after the meeting, so she and the Twins should go straight home. It is only a short walk across the common, over the old bridge, along the quayside to their rooms above the fishmonger shop.

  The rain is getting heavier. ‘Perch, Carp, follow me. It’s time we were headed home.’

  Brother Fishcutter watches them hurry through the open gate, three bodies leaning into the rain: his family walking away from him. He feels a sadness and a separation. The Elder turns the big key in the lock of the Kingdom Hall door and points to the pagoda over by the herb garden.

  The two men scurry across the forecourt. The wind is getting up; the lower branches clatter against the bamboo roof of the shelter. They settle on the wooden benches.

  ‘And how’s the cigarettes, Brother Fishcutter?’ says Brother Pearson to break the ice, to get the conversation flowing. An article in the Watchtower had reflected on the Apostle’s description of the body as a temple and had decreed cigarette smoking a sin against Jehovah. All Witnesses were given six months to quit.

  ‘Prayer and resolution, Brother Pearson,’ replies Brother Fishcutter. ‘I think I’m getting there.’

  ‘Good, good,’ says the Elder, giving a small cough as if in sympathy.

  Silence.

  ‘I’m here for you,’ says Brother Pearson, after a short while.

  ‘I know, I know that,’ says the other man. He sounds flustered. ‘The fact of the matter is simple. I’m … I’m … Oh.’

  ‘Take your time,’ says the older man. ‘We have as long as we need.’

  ‘So I’ll begin,’ says Brother Fishcutter, his voice calmer, some composure settling over him. The rain and wind wash across the pagoda, spraying at their feet.

  ‘It’s not bad. I can’t see it as bad. But I know it’s against the scriptures. I know that …’

  He pauses.

  Brother Pearson says nothing. No therapist is Brother Pearson, but he knows the power and place of silence. At times like this he remembers an old Italian painting he once saw. It is a portrait, with the Latin epitaph: ‘Be silent, unless what you have to say is better than silence.’

  Brother Fishcutter holds his head in his hands. Brother Pearson places a comforting hand on his shoulder. He holds him in the moment. The Elder, the wiser, three decades older and less vulnerable to the lures and snares of the world. After a moment, and the hint of a sob, the Elder realises he has something better to say than silence.

  ‘Whatever you have done, Jehovah already knows and is ready to forgive you.’

  Brother Fishcutter looks up, washes his face with his palms, runs his fingers through his lush horse-black hair, takes a gulp of air and lets it out.


  ‘I love her, Brother, but it is wrong. It is fornication and it is adultery and it is ungodly. And,’ he says, with a pause for emphasis, ‘she is not in the Truth.’

  He looks away, through the dark and rain, to the lamplight and puddles of water beyond.

  ‘She is a good woman,’ he continues quietly. ‘She understands things about me. She gives me something I get from no one else. But I know it is wrong and I want to unburden.’

  ‘And Sister Fishcutter?’ asks the Elder.

  The younger man sighs, watching the rain fill the sky.

  ‘No, she knows nothing. I have been devious. I have been indiscreet, but I have been devious.’

  ‘Then it must end. It must end before anything else begins,’ says Brother Pearson. His voice is calm, his tone gentle and non-judgmental. ‘You do want it to end?’ he asks. ‘You do know it must end?’

  Brother Fishcutter bows his head, covers his face with his hands and nods in agreement.

  ‘Then it is a simple matter of prayer. Prayer to Jehovah for forgiveness. Prayer for strength. Shall we pray now? Shall I pray for you? Shall I pray with you?’

  Lightning strikes. As always, before the thunder.

  One wave peeks over another to see the lights of Tidetown flickering and bobbing in the distance. It licks its lips, then falls down into the swell. Again the wave is pushed back up to hear the distant strains of the accordion being played in the smoking room of The Sailor’s Rest down by the quayside. Sweeping onwards towards the shore, tussled and tossed by the spume and seaswell, bounced off the harbour wall, the wave reaches up and peers down the alleyway between pub and lifeboat house, to catch the merest glimpse of Perch and Carp, as they look out from their rooftop window.

  In the attic bedroom of Perch and Carp a crystal globe hangs from the rafters. It catches the flicker of the candle which illuminates the mystical signs and symbols scarred and engraved on its surface.

  ‘Sister, do not doubt,’ whispers Carp.

  ‘I do not … only …’ Perch whispers for fear Jehovah may hear.

  ‘Only what, Sister?’

  ‘That maybe there’s another way.’

  ‘Sister, beware the Devil masquerading as soft thoughts.’

  ‘You mean …’

  ‘A demon on your shoulder. Whispering.’

  ‘Whispering in my ear.’

  ‘Droplets of poison for words.’

  ‘To sow doubt. To lodge uncertainty.’

  ‘Remember it is the Devil, the beast we will kill.’

  ‘The Devil was an angel.’

  ‘And still he comes in disguise.’

  ‘And takes up lodging.’

  ‘In our Father’s heart.’

  ‘There is no other way.’

  ‘I know. I truly know.’

  ‘No doubt, Sister.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  In the street below four figures turn the corner. They are clowns from the circus that is camped on the edge of the town, returning from a night at the inn. Their spirits are high, as they tumble and joke along the way. Three wear outsized shoes, red noses and baggy striped trousers pulled up high with colourful braces. One stands apart. The Harlequin. He is steeped in history, the upturned mouth on a chalky face, the chequered clothes, ruffed collar and pointed hat. It is he alone who sees the two sisters in the open window, who spies the shimmering orb above their heads. He stares up at them, a single tear painted on his cheek. And he waves, barely moving his hand from side to side, but waving nonetheless.

  Turning back into the room, Carp reaches up and spins the globe. It sways maniacally from side to side, wobbling on its axis as if hit by a meteor.

  ‘Time to dress the kitty, Perch,’ says Carp, pointing to the small black cat coiled up in the corner of the room.

  Carp reaches under the bed and pulls out an old suitcase. She heaves it onto the mattress and clips open the latches. The case springs open, like a prisoner released from his bonds. She pulls out scarlet ribbons and scraps of silk, then holds aloft a small Easter bonnet.

  Perch takes a tiny morsel of dried fish from a jar on the window ledge. The cat looks up, sniffing the air. She rises to all fours, stretches each leg in turn, then slinks across the floor towards the two girls. As Perch places the tidbit in the cat’s mouth, Carp ties the frilly bonnet around its head and an apron around its middle.

  The cat settles by the fire. Perch takes a Bible from a small table, finds psalm ninety-four, and then the two girls begin to sing together.

  ‘Oh Jehovah God, to whom vengeance belongs,

  Oh Jehovah God, to whom vengeance belongs, show thyself.

  Lift up thyself, judge of the earth, render a reward to the proud.

  Lord, how long shall the wicked, how long shall the wicked triumph?’

  Downstairs in the kitchen, Mrs Fishcutter is preparing supper. She hears the faint strains of her stepdaughters singing and sighs and ponders for a moment how little she knows of them.

  Tiger Fact

  In Malaysia, the pawang or medicine man of the Benua people changes himself into a tiger and uses séances to cure sicknesses. He sits in a magic circle with a lit candle. When the flame begins to quiver, this is the sign the tiger spirit has arrived to provide the needed cure. The shaman is transfixed by the flame until the tiger spirit enters him. He falls into a frenzy, growls and leaps around on all fours, even licking the sick person as a tigress would when tending to her cubs.

  Look out of the top window of the fishmonger’s house. Over the roof-top of the cordwainer yard and there you can glimpse the side door of the library. If you look carefully you can just see Mrs April. She is locking up after a long night’s work. She has stayed extra late to clear the backlog of returned books and set up the children’s library for tomorrow’s puppet show. Geoffrey Prattle, the children’s librarian, is on leave, training to be a ventriloquist, and Mrs April is happy to take on extra duties to give him time to chase his dream. Stretch your neck further and you’ll see her making her way across the town square, past the memorial to the cabin boy, and on down the winding hill to her street.

  Thinking about Geoffrey and his uncanny skills of mimicry, she catches the sounds and smell of the sea welcoming her as she turns the bend in the avenue leading to her home

  Looking up, she sees a figure squatting in her porch.

  She stops, unconsciously touching her hair into place.

  But it is not Mr Fishcutter. At this very moment Mr Fishcutter, feeling as boneless and filleted as the rainbow trout in his deep-freeze, stands at the end of the jetty, staring out to sea, praying for the strength to resist the pull of the flesh.

  No, it is not Mrs April’s lover. It is me, Oscar Flowers, a young boy who wants to ask her what dies when we are killed and when do we know the time to sacrifice.

  Here’s Mrs April. She opens the garden gate and walks towards me, as I wait by her front door. She is smiling and kind as always.

  ‘What a nice surprise,’ she says, ‘someone lovely to share a hot chocolate with.’

  As always, she welcomes me and settles me inside.

  The smell of the chocolate is comforting. The mug warms my hands.

  ‘So, young Oscar, what brings you out at this time of night?’ she asks as she sits down on the sofa next to me.

  ‘I need to ask you some questions,’ I say, ‘about God and demons and sacrifice.’

  She gulps on her drink.

  ‘Those sound like big questions for a Monday night.’

  I sip the chocolate. It is milky and soothing and helps me concentrate on what I want to say.

  ‘Jehovah asks us to sacrifice. That’s what Perch and Carp have been telling me. And there are demons, disguised as people. Like were-wolves that come out at night.’

  I look up at her to see if she has any idea about Mr Fishcutter, but she continues smiling, listening to what I say. I drink down the rest of the chocolate, down to the bottom of the mug where it is sweet and thick and sugary.

&nb
sp; ‘So I want to know how you know if a person is just a person or a were-animal or a demon and how you know when God tells you what to do?’

  ‘Hmmm …’ says Mrs April, tapping a fingernail to her forehead, ‘… let me ponder a second or two.’

  She pauses for a while, as she so often does when playing chess or answering my questions. She seems to be trying hard to get it right.

  Then she stands up, walks over to the sideboard and picks up the photo of Mr April. She looks at the photo of her husband as if she wants him to help her with what she has to say, or at least to be sure he hears her.

  ‘Oscar, I think the answers to all those questions come from inside you. You know some people believe God is in you and around you. Once you get in tune with what is good then you will know where the demons and the were-wolves are, and what is bad and what is good. You have to learn these things. They come with growing up, from living life and knowing people. Good and bad.’

  She looks up from the picture and over towards me.

  ‘But Oscar … Oscar, you don’t have to understand … not just yet. There’s plenty of time. All your life you will have for this. For now, just trust what you know.’

  ‘But how do I know what I know?’

  She stares back at the photo, as if she’s drifted far away.

  ‘You will, Oscar, just have faith that you will.’

  FIFTEEN

  OSCAR LEARNS MORE ABOUT SACRIFICE

  ‘Plays are good or bad, as they are used, And best intentions often are abused.’ Taylor

  I close my eyes tight. Even the dark I cannot see. Please it is a drama or a play. A drama. A play. Please that they are asleep, having left the wireless on by mistake. Please it is somewhere else. Another house. I peek through the crack of the door, afraid of what I know what I will see. Locked limbs and bruised flesh. Blood on the sheets. Panting and breathing. Glistening sweat and saliva. They fail to notice me. Their small child peering through the doorway into the throes of their battle.