In Search of the Blue Tiger

by Robert Power

  The Judge surveys the courtroom, rubs his hand on his forehead and closes his eyes in quiet contemplation.

  JUDGE OMEGA: You are a strange and motley crew. I will now dismiss this session and summon you to reconvene tomorrow morning. Good day to you all.

  CLERK OF THE COURT: All rise.

  Exeunt the Judge.

  Day Five: SUMMING UP & SENTENCING

  Judge Omega concluded the trial with a summing up that kept the public gallery enthralled in suspense. In short, he said children should not kill their parents, religious fanaticism must be purged, fornication and adultery were all too common (if he had his way Mrs April would be sentenced too). He went on to say the world today was a different place from the one he was brought up in, and, finally, we could all do a lot worse than to re-establish the old standards of morality and true Christian values. The Twins, he concluded, were collectively and individually guilty of conspiring to murder and to murder in the first degree. Oscar Flowers was a gullible younger child, easily influenced by the older girls, but nevertheless confessed to his part in the wanton murder of Mr Fishcutter and honestly acquitted himself as the key witness. According to our laws, the judge summarised, he is too young to be held responsible for his actions and can be neither sentenced nor penalised.

  JUDGEMENTS

  Perch and Carp Fishcutter found guilty of conspiracy and first-degree murder, accomplices to arson and criminal damage. Sentenced to indefinite incarceration (to be reviewed after twenty years by the Minister for Judicial and Penal Affairs), initially in a female juvenile detention centre, and then in a high security women’s prison.

  Oscar Flowers, due to his tender age and the ancient law on non-culpability (last invoked when the Mayor’s demented elder son ran riot at the Maypole dance), the boy is to be set free, but by agreement with his parents he will be placed in the care of the monastic order on the Island of Goodhope, where he will grow to learn and learn to grow. The trial ended at 11.39 a.m.

  The Twins were taken away to begin their sentences.

  Oscar Flowers was taken back to his room to sleep and to await Brother Saviour who would meet him at the courtroom gates the following morning and take him to the monastery on the Island of Goodhope. The Judge announced this was to be his final case. He was retiring from the judiciary to take up a new and challenging post as Inspector of Schools for the Northern Provinces.

  TWENTY-THREE

  OSCAR SETS OFF TOWARDS THE FUTURE

  ‘The end crowns all; And that old common arbitrator – Time, Will one day end it.’ Shakespeare

  Sitting up front of the open-top carriage with Brother Saviour, I watch the muscles of the nut-brown horse shift and pump as the mare pulls us along the road leading out of town. I can hear my small suitcase bumping along in the back. The unfamiliarity of it all awakens a sense of freedom and excitement. I look over my shoulder as we ascend a hill and there is Tidetown, receding towards the sea. Something is shifting in me as we leave the town behind, a sense of moving forwards, as the old wheels creak and crush the gravel under our weight. I look up at Brother Saviour, who holds the reigns lightly in his hands. He smiles at me, winks, and then clicks his tongue.

  ‘Giddy up,’ he says to me and the horse, as we judder and clatter along.

  Above us is a goshawk, hanging in the air, as if by a thread from the sun. It ignores our rattle and shift, intent on a movement in the heather below. Then it swoops to the ground, and in the same movement arches away, a tiny tail dangling from its claws.

  Sometimes it would be nice to have a brother or a sister to share all this with. To tap them on the shoulder, put my finger to my lips and say ‘Shhh’ and then point out the interesting thing I’ve spotted. The hawk, a shape in a cloud, the look on Brother Saviour’s face. So for a while, between now and the next hill, I imagine I have a sister sitting next to me. Her name is Poppy. She passes me a piece of chocolate she has been saving for the journey. We giggle about things and pull funny faces at each other. Brother Saviour smiles, because he knows about children. Poppy is two years older than me, so she gives me a comforting look to let me know that everything will be okay and that all we have gone through is over and now we will have a chance to be happy. She is my big sister and she puts her arm around me in case I need it. We look each other in the eye. Our lives together hold us in the moment and give us strength. I can smell the freshness of her auburn-coloured hair and feel her breath on my neck.

  Then we lurch up and over the hill and I’m on my own again. No Poppy, no gentle caress. I look around me. The purple-and yellow-tinged heather is replaced by gorse bushes and the sky is bigger at the crest of the hill. Something of me is alone. But I know how to do this, and when I think of what has gone before it’s probably for the best. To be just as it is.

  Tiger Fact

  The Balinese goddess Pulaki is often pictured with three tigers who are able to possess men. Barong, a mythological beast in Balinese folklore, can take the form of a tiger. The Barong is often seen with a scarlet-striped cloak, like the markings of a tiger.

  Journeys are for thinking. For drifting in and out of. Where the light on a leaf, the sound of a bird, switches on a memory. Being neither here nor there, but somewhere in between. I let my mind wander with the turn and trot of the horse and cart.

  I am lying in my pram in the bright sunshine in the garden. There is a bumblebee buzzing around my head. Then a huge black cat appears at the end of the pram. And Mother, running from the kitchen, waving a broom above her head, screaming at the cat, it hissing and then leaping down, the sound of its claws rasping on the canopy, then flopping off the end, sleeking away under the tiny gap in the fence. Mother picking me up and holding me tight, protecting her babe from the dangers of the wild.

  A ballerina turns atop a jewellery box, reflected in the mirror of a dressing table. I am wearing a hat with feathers and a bright pink boa tickles my neck. The doorknob turns against the lock. I gasp silently as the ballerina slows and stops. I hold my breath as the footsteps recede down the stairs. I look at myself in the mirror, as I wind up the key on the side of the jewellery box. The music commences as, once more, the ballerina takes up her graceful dance.

  Bright red poppies line the roadway, dancing and bobbing with the breeze as if practising for the moment they sprout legs and sprint up the hill: ‘Race you to the top!’ Towering above them are rank after rank of silver birch trees, an army frozen in time, uniforms ragged and threadbare.

  ‘Nearly there,’ proclaims Brother Saviour, as we crest one more hill and I get my first view of the Island of Goodhope. It stands before us dwarfed by the surrounding cliffs: an outcrop stranded in the bay as if it was left behind as the land moved on. It is green and wooded and I can just make out a path through the woods and the hint of an outline of a building through the treetops.

  ‘The tide’s out, so we can cross,’ says Brother Saviour.

  We rumble down the hill and then the horse stops at the water’s edge, looking at the uneven and slippery rocks of the causeway, waiting for the reassuring click of his master’s tongue.

  ‘It’s alright boy,’ says the monk, as the horse finds his way on to the path.

  As we trundle and rock our way towards the island I look out to sea and the rolling waves breaking on the sandbank. A flock of cormorants is terrorising a school of sardines. The sea sparkles and bristles with the frenzy of diving birds and panicking fish. The horse heaves us off the causeway and we rumble up the hill through the sweet-smelling pine and spruce trees.

  ‘Not long now,’ says Brother Saviour to both the mare and me.

  Soon enough the path evens out and up ahead the solid structure of the monastery comes into view. As we get closer I get a glimpse of beautiful stained-glass windows along the walls: blues and reds, yellows and sparkling whites glowing in the sunset. Somewhere in the near distance comes the sound of men singing in choir. We clutter to a halt and Brother Saviour jumps down, grabbing my bag as he goes.

  ‘Come
on, Oscar,’ he says enthusiastically, ‘we’re here.’

  I jump into his outstretched arms and he places me next to my bag.

  ‘First things first,’ he adds as he unbridles the horse. ‘This mare has earned her corn. You wait here a minute while I settle her in the stable.’

  The horse neighs in approval as she is led across the small courtyard. I look up at the building that is to be my home. The walls are old, made from slate-grey stone. At the very top is a weathervane that appears to be pointing in the right direction. The sound of the monks singing is distant, but somehow comforting. I rest my cheek on the wall to get a sense of this place. The stone is cold, but with a solidity that tells me I will be protected. Walking to the far corner I can just see a small bay, with its jetty jutting out to sea.

  ‘Ah, that’s Open Bay,’ says Brother Saviour, who has reappeared. ‘I’ll take you down there in due course, but first I’ll show you to your room.’

  I follow him through a stone arch leading to a cloister enclosed by lovely carved columns. We cross a lush green lawn to the far corner, where he opens an unlatched door. Stepping down a single step I peer inside to see a simple room: a small bed, a table and chair, a shelf by a lead-framed window, a wash jug. But the walls are thick and the air is fresh and we both smile at each other.

  ‘It’ll be dark soon,’ he says, ‘time to rest. I sleep directly opposite on the other side of the cloister, so you needn’t feel alone.’ He touches my arm and smiles again. ‘I’ll see you first thing in the morning.’

  I open my bag and take out my new scrapbook, the one I started during the trial. I smooth out its pages and place it in pride of place on the small table.

  It smells nice, round and about. The strong stone walls are the same texture on the inside as out. I stand in the middle of the room, breathe in deeply and smile to myself.

  Tiger Fact

  In Yunnan province of south-west China, the Naxi people practise Bon, a religion older than Tibetan Buddhism. You can see tigers in their ancient scroll paintings. The spirit of the tiger is important for Naxi shamans. The tiger image has been used for thousands of years to protect against evil.

  The sun shines brightly on the cold stone floor. It is morning. Brother Saviour stands in the open door.

  ‘It’s time to wake up, Brother Oscar,’ he says. ‘Today you will work with me in the field. It’s a lovely sunny day, but the cold weather’s not long off and there’s much to do before then.’

  I stretch and yawn, contented to be in a room as familiar and comforting as warm buttered toast. I leap out of bed and dress in a hurry. Through the window I see Brother Saviour filling a watering can from the tap in the cloister.

  ‘Come on,’ he says, watering a small patch of rosemary in the narrow bed fringing the wall, ‘you don’t want to be late for your first breakfast.’

  I follow Brother Saviour upstairs, around corners, down passageways, across courtyards and through arches. I imagine myself to be Alice, he the White Rabbit, his monk’s tasselled cord the tail I keep in sight.

  ‘A real maze,’ he says, as he disappears around another corner, ‘but, like life, you’ll work it out if you’re patient.’

  By the time we arrive at the dining hall the other monks are already seated on benches on either side of the long oak tables. Smiles and welcoming nods greet me as Brother Saviour shows me to an empty place. Then a bell is rung and all the monks stand, make a single file and shuffle towards a trestle table along the far wall.

  ‘Just copy what I do,’ whispers Brother Saviour. ‘We don’t speak at meals. A time for quiet contemplation.’

  The two ladles of honeyed porridge are delicious and I eat with relish. As soon as my bowl is empty Brother Saviour ushers me outside and leads me around the back of the main hall and along a narrow path towards an old conservatory and open fields. In the near distance, over the ridge of the hill, I can see the path leading down to the small bay. The sea is calm and the haze on the horizon joins it to the soft milky hue of the morning sky.

  ‘We thought you would enjoy working with me in the fields in the mornings,’ says Brother Saviour, resting on his hoe, ‘and then helping out in the library in the afternoons.’

  ‘That sounds nice,’ I say, memories of my days with Mrs April coming softly to mind.

  I mimic him, leaning on the rake he gave me to spread the straw on the strawberry patch we are preparing for the coming cold.

  ‘A good balance,’ he adds, ‘indoors and outdoors. Body and mind, soul and spirit.’

  I smile at him, pick up a piece of straw and chew it like a real man of the land.

  He laughs and we carry on our work, tending to the new strawberry plants, still joined by runners to their parent. We clear away the old damp straw and carefully pack fresh straw around the plants to protect them from the frosts. Like a small family, two or three new plants are beginning to take root away from the parent, though the life-giving runner still holds them together until the offspring are strong enough to be set free.

  All morning we kneel on the ground tending the tiny plants, snuggling them in straw as if swaddling babes, careful not to disturb their tender roots, nor break the runners. The wind is cold, but the sun is bright and the air deliciously fresh.

  Soon enough, another bell rings and I follow Brother Saviour back along the path to the dining hall, like him, wiping my brow with the back of my hand to show a job well done.

  ‘Fine work,’ he says, slapping me on the back, ‘you’ll make a good gardener. A gardener in the morning; a librarian in the afternoon.’

  Brother Moses is a tiny man. He wears the smallest cassock, but it has always been too big for him. The cuffs are too long, so he turns them back on themselves. The hem would drag on the floor if not for the belt and the folds at the waist. But his stature has never worried him and none of the monks have ever ridiculed him. He’s always been accepted for who he is, size and all. But nonetheless, it’s nice to have a child standing in front of him, someone he can look in the eye.

  ‘So you must be Oscar. Brother Saviour said you love books and want to help out in the library.’

  ‘Yes, I do love books,’ I say, looking around at the long rectangular room, piled from ceiling to floor, shelf upon shelf, with finely bound books. ‘Mrs April sometimes let me help her in the library in Tidetown.’

  ‘Very good, so you’ll be able to teach me some tricks too. I’m Brother Moses,’ says the little man with the red curly hair. ‘Not a usual name for a monk, I know.’

  ‘Why, not?’ I ask, not really knowing what monks ought to be called.

  He smiles big and happy. I find myself smiling back and nodding my head.

  You remember Moses from the Bible?’

  ‘Yes, God gave him the ten commandments after he rescued the Jews from Egypt. Then he got very angry because they worshipped idols when he went up the mountain.’

  ‘That’s the fellow,’ says the monk, clearly impressed with my knowledge. ‘He was also found as a baby, a foundling, floating in the river. The daughter of the Pharaoh spotted him and adopted him as her own. Well, it was a bit like me, but without the river and bulrushes. I was left in a basket in the porch of the monastery when I was a baby. So the Abbot called me Moses. On account of being found in a reed basket. And I had bright red hair even then, so it all fitted. Do you remember the story of the burning bush?’

  ‘A sign from God?’ I say, memories of my Bible studies with the Fishcutter Twins overlaid with images of fires in coach-houses and church halls.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘to show Moses that God was with him. Anyway, I’ve been Moses since that day and been here ever since.’

  I like this man. He feels like who I think I might be, but more sure of who he is.

  He smiles some more and I smile back.

  ‘Maybe, you’re Moses come back again,’ I say.

  ‘Maybe, who knows?’

  ‘God?’

  He scratches his head, twirls a lock of red hair betw
een his fingers and taps the end of his nose.

  ‘Yes, my bright young man. God knows. I think we’ll be good company for each other, I’m sure. So follow me,’ he commands, walking between two shelves as if parting the mighty waters of the Red Sea, ‘we’ve jobs to do.’

  All afternoon we work together: cataloguing and re-shelving books, putting aside those that are worn and weathered and in need of repair. After a break of tea and toast, topped with blackberry jam (from fruit harvested from the hedgerows), Brother Moses carefully examines the damaged books to see which require most urgent attention. These we take to a small room at the back of the library where Brother Moses sleeps.

  I am carrying an over-sized and ancient volume whose spine is cracked and laid bare. It’s nearly as big as me and I’m having trouble seeing my way forward. So I watch Brother Moses’ feet preceding me and retrace his steps as we enter the room.

  Inside, the room is a miniature version of the library, with books strewn over every surface and covering most of the floor. There is a strong smell of glue. In one corner is the only table. It looks like a field hospital, with injured books, in various stages of rehabilitation, carefully lined in rows.

  ‘They come here battered and bruised, so I fix them up, let them rest and then send them back into the fray,’ says Brother Moses, carefully placing the new admissions in an empty space on the floor.

  Except for the books the room is sparse. There is a narrow bed, a jug and basin for washing, and, beneath the small window, a two-drawer chest pushed up against the wall. The only objects on view in the room are atop the chest. There I see a statuette of a saintly figure standing next to a laughing Buddha. In front of them is a pile of shells and stones. Five candles form a circle around the objects.