In Search of the Blue Tiger

by Robert Power

  He looks intently at me. The candle throws shadows from my altar: the Blue Tiger taking shape on the wall.

  ‘Do you understand what I am trying to tell you, Oscar?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ I say, ‘I really think I do.’

  I get to talk about so many things here. Brother Saviour tells me to find my own God. He says it’s up to me. To show me the way forward I light a candle at my altar every day. I place it in front of the Blue Tiger. I found an old padlock on the beach at Open Bay today. Me and Stigir go there a lot. The padlock I found had Chinese writing on it, so I figure it must have come from an old pirate treasure chest. People are always talking about all the shipwrecks that lie off the coastline. When I lit the candle I thought of Mr April, Mr Fishcutter and the Great Aunt’s baby. I asked the Blue Tiger to use his strength to guide and protect them, wherever they are and whatever they are doing. And I said I was sorry for whatever I had done to hurt or displease them. If my God lets me come back to earth after I die I still want to be a blue tiger. Brother Moses says none of us knows what God really is, so anything is possible. So it is possible that when I die I can be a blue tiger in another life. It’s just as possible as anything else I suppose, and that’s good enough for me.

  I like the food the monks make, especially the rhubarb crumble. The sharp taste of the fruit and then the sugary bits on top. Yummy.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  NOT WAVING

  ‘Not waving but drowning.’ Smith

  ‘Do you want to know the truth, or shall I tell you what really happened?’

  The Mother wakes with the words somewhere very close by. Closer than the pillow at her ear. The space beside her is empty, her husband over the sea and far away, her son elsewhere and out of mind. Outside, as dead as the night is, the rumblings of a storm rattles at the window.

  ‘The truth or what really happened?’ she whispers softly to herself, as she slides from the bed and leaves the room. Out in the corridor all is still and as strangely unfamiliar as the predawn can be. She shivers, her thin nightdress doing little to keep out the cold.

  The long window at the end of the passage is full of the moon, low in the sky, still and resolute, ignoring the billowing clouds that race across its surface.

  ‘Moon, moon, moon,’ she sings. ‘True moon, you saw me standing alone, without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own.’

  And then the dream in her heart sets her a-dancing, her arms swaying softly above her head, her feet shifting on the polished wooden floor.

  Once again she is the prima ballerina, the fulsome moon the spotlight high above the stage of the Marinsky Theatre in Saint Petersburg. There, leaning over the footlights, is the Baron, in full evening dress, top hat and tails. He throws the bunch of blood-red roses on to the stage and blows her kisses of wild admiration and devotion.

  Somewhere across the bay the thunder claps. She turns and bows, taking in the applause, enjoying the moment. Coming to a stop, she rests her face on the cold glass of the windowpane, watching her breath as it creeps and mists around her on the smooth surface of the window.

  ‘The truth or what really happened?’ she whispers, breathing the words onto the pane, seeing their imprint settling on the glass.

  A single dart of lightning shatters the sky. She remembers a night at the circus and a tiger leaping through a hoop of fire. Sitting next to her husband and son, a tear in the corner of her eye: a tear for lost opportunity. A glance from her little boy, confused as to why his mother can be sad with so much excitement in the ring.

  Then a scene from her own girlhood.

  Her mother is just back from the hospital, where her father said she needed to be to rest her nerves. ‘Your mama is still not well,’ he had said, ‘but Dr Fox thought she should spend a few days with us, to help her get better.’

  High up in the old oak tree, the thick rope dangling from the ancient bough.

  ‘Look at me, Mama, look at me,’ she shouts to her mother, way below. ‘I’m on the trapeze, the one and only Anastasia, newly arrived from Volgograd.’ And she swings from up high, curving an arc against the brightest blue of summer skies.

  Then walking back to the house, her Mama’s arm around her shoulder, the sun beating down on her back, the grass soft and yielding under her bare feet. ‘I want to run away to the circus, Mama. That’s all I want. To swing on the trapeze and live in a caravan.’

  Her mother laughs and squeezes her tight.

  ‘It won’t happen. Not to you,’ says her mother, with a tone to her voice that is unfamiliar, a roughness to her touch that is alarming.

  And she doesn’t know why, but something wells up inside her and she digs her fingernails into her mother’s arm and scratches her as hard as she can. And her mother shrieks and slaps her across the face. How quickly things can change. And there she is, in a heap on the lawn, covering her face with her hands, the sounds of her mother’s voice battering her from one side to the other. A voice and words she does not recognise.

  ‘You animal … disgusting child … deserve nothing … look what you’ve done … to your own mother … blood on my blouse … there’s blood on my blouse …’

  And she is alone. A door slams somewhere. And the sun is too hot and the grass prickles her legs, and there’s a fly trying to drink the tears from her cheek that burns from the hand of her mother.

  ‘Do you want to know the truth, or shall I tell you what really happened?’ she mouths silently, the moon picking out a solitary bird heading out to sea.

  Tiger Fact

  During autumn storms are caused by an angry tiger on the lookout for a mate. This tiger is the reincarnation of the star Alpha, a tiger star. After five hundred years, this tiger, now called Hu, becomes a part of the Milky Way. A few more centuries pass by and he becomes the white tiger, Pai Hu. A thousand years later Pai Hu becomes immortal and lives on the moon (‘the silver stream of heaven’) from where he protects the earth and her creatures. When we see an eclipse of the moon, this is because the tiger is trying to eat it.

  Today Brother Moses organised a short story competition to encourage the Brothers to use the library more. Here are the rules:

  1. It must be in English. No Latin is allowed, as the younger monks can no longer read Latin.

  2. It must be 350 words or less.

  3. All entries must be written by two monks writing together. We encourage an older monk to pair with a younger monk for a joint entry.

  4. It must be a conversation with a famous historical figure of your choice.

  5. It must contain the following words in the order they appear in this list: icons; travel; angel; tea-cozy.

  6. The title, names of the entrants and word count must be written on the front sheet, though this will not be seen by the judges.

  7. It must be delivered to Brother Moses by Friday 23rd at 5pm at the latest.

  Brother Saviour and I paired up. We wrote the story in our heads during two sessions in the fields. Then I wrote it down in the library and we did a final edit before supper today. We spent most of the time finding a way to include the word ‘tea-cozy’ without it having anything to do with a teapot. We thought this would help our entry to stand out. Here is a copy of our entry.

  ‘A WALK AND TALK ON THE BEACH.’

  By Brother Oscar and Brother Saviour.

  Three hundred and fifty words exactly.

  I am 104 years old and am Abbot of the monastery. Every day I take a solitary walk along the beach at Open Bay. Today I met another very old man walking towards me. Like me, he is dressed in a monk’s cassock, but his is blue, not brown. He raises his hand in greeting. We stop to talk.

  ‘Good morning,’ says I.

  ‘Good morning to you,’ says he.

  ‘My name in Brother Oscar.’

  ‘Mine is Saint Augustine.’

  My eyesight is poor, but I see in his face the image I recognise from statues and icons.

  ‘Do not be alarmed.’

  Does he not know tha
t nothing alarms me?

  ‘You see, I am from the past. It is my duty to travel through time to help people understand the world they live in. There are many of us. Some people see us as guardian angels. To help and guide. And that is true.’

  ‘Have you seen Blue Monkey on your travels? He is my guardian angel, but I haven’t seen him in a while.’

  ‘No, I haven’t, but I’ll let you know if I do.’

  He puts his hand on my shoulder.

  I wait for his wise words. He looks me directly in the eye and smiles.

  ‘I have seen many things and learned many lessons. This life is abundant and unfathomable and should be worn like a loose garment. You will only find true happiness when you see sadness and joy as one and the same, divested of their identity.’

  He turns to walk away, his words on my mind.

  ‘But before I go,’ he says solemnly, ‘one further piece of advice that has held me in good stead down the centuries. Never trust a man, who upon entering an empty room and seeing a tea-cozy on the table, does not try it on as a hat.’

  With that he disappears, leaving me alone on the beach, to recall the last time I put a tea-cozy on my head, happy to be able to trust myself.

  I walk back up the hill, my cassock flapping in the cool breeze.

  There are rumours of a wave. The bowsain said he could smell it on the wind, had noticed the smaller waves sweeping together from east and west, pushing up the sea in their wake.

  It is the Father who stands on watch, scouring the sea for any signs to heed. For now it is inky blue, shining and shifting like fractured glass that can’t make its mind up whether to crack or not. The huge moon bounces off the sea’s surface: a visitor not wanting to get its toes wet.

  The Father scans the horizon. He is a real man of the sea, cutting a fine figure against the night sky. Tall and wide shouldered, his thick black hair and full beard shield him from the cold and wet. He pulls the collar of his heavy wool coat around his neck, his deep brown eyes set firmly on the shifts and swells of the water below.

  He hears footsteps to tell him he is no longer alone.

  ‘You been long at sea, sailor?’ asks the voice in the near dark.

  The Father turns. He feels as if he’s heard the voice before. The figure emerging from the night, the new deck hand who arrived from nowhere on the day the trawler readied to set sail, is little more than a boy swamped in a huge coat.

  The Father spits overboard, adding another drop to the ocean.

  ‘You been long on this boat?’ tries the youngster again, standing closer now.

  The Father can see his face now he is nearby. His skin is smooth and there’s something about his profile that stirs a memory. Is it myself, the young man fresh on the deck? he thinks. A sudden spat of wind steals the thought away.

  ‘Long enough,’ says the Father, eyes fixed back on the sea.

  ‘So is the wave coming?’

  ‘It’s always coming,’ replies the Father, never more contented than when there’s the promise of adventure, danger, and the risk to life. ‘It’ll come from the south, so we need to keep our course straight into its path.’

  ‘Do you mind if I stay here awhile?’ asks the boy.

  ‘That’s your choice,’ says the Father, turning and facing the boy, remembering himself on his first watch, eager to do right, fearing nothing or no one.

  ‘You want a cigarette, lad?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The Father lights two cigarettes and passes one to the boy, noticing the shiver in his hand as he takes it.

  ‘It’s my first voyage away from home,’ says the boy. ‘I’ve watched the ships come and go all my life and at last a captain said yes when I asked if I could come aboard. He said he’d seen me waiting and my time had come.’

  ‘He’s a fair man, is the captain,’ says the Father, drawing deeply on his cigarette.

  A huge gust of wind shakes the boat and the two on deck are pelted with hailstones. The boy grabs the Father’s arm to regain his balance.

  ‘You okay?’ says the Father.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he says. ‘Just happy to be here. On the boat, I mean.’

  A wave thuds against the bow, spraying the two with a wash of cold saltwater.

  ‘It’s a good place to be. You know you’re alive out here,’ says the Father, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

  ‘This is what I want. To be alive. Father always said the sea makes a man of the boy.’

  ‘So it does. So it will. Listen to your father. I listened to mine.’

  There’s silence for a moment or two.

  ‘What did he say that you listened to?’

  ‘Not words,’ replies the Father, still looking far out to sea. ‘It was always the look in his eyes. He never needed to say words. I listened to the mood on his face ever since the day he pushed me back into the street to stand up for myself.’

  Some more silence, as if there is no more to be said. As if being silent is better than words.

  The boy looks to the Father and then to the sea. Then the Father talks on.

  ‘These three huge bullies, the Swash brothers they were called. Gypsies, they were. Tinkers, we used to call them. They chased me from school. I got home ahead of them. I was a fine runner in those days and glad of it. So I closed the door behind me. Panting I was. Father was home that day and he asked me why I was panting. I told him about the tinker boys out in the street. And do you know what he did? He cracked me on the side of the head and pushed me back out in the street, bolting the big heavy door behind me. “Fight your battles,” he said. And there were the three huge boys; they could hardly believe their luck.’

  ‘So what happened next?’ asks the lad, shouting above the squall.

  ‘I took a terrible beating that day, but I took it. And afterwards I went to boxing school. A year later I won a scholarship exam and the head teacher gave me a fountain pen. I was the only boy in the school who had ever won a scholarship. And those same three boys stole it from my desk. So I waited at the school gate and challenged them. One at a time. One by one. Each in turn I knocked flat to the ground. And bloodied as I was and though I never got the pen back, I knew I was on my own always and could only ever count on my own strength to get me through.’

  ‘Do you still box?’

  ‘The last time I boxed was on a troop ship to Palestine.’

  The Father jerks his head as if evading an unexpected left hook.

  ‘On board was the British Army heavyweight champion. They set up a ring on deck and in the fifth round I sent him crashing to the canvas. The same combination that put down the biggest of the gypsies. Two right jabs followed by a crunching left upper-cut.’

  He re-enacts the final blow. The shadow boxer in the night. Jab, jab. Upper-cut.

  ‘Did you take up the scholarship?’

  ‘No,’ says the Father, still jabbing the air. ‘Not in those days. The likes of me went to work as soon as there were hairs on your legs.’

  Suddenly, there’s an eerie silence, followed by a distant bubbling and rumbling. The two night watchmen, the Father and boy, exchange glances and then squint into the darkness.

  By the time the wave hits Tidetown it is a shadow of its ocean self, yet huge enough to make its mark on history. It swoops in from the mouth of the bay and breeches the harbour wall with a thump and a whoosh. The drinkers in the Sailor’s Arms, with last orders on their minds, barely have time to be startled before the water crashes through the window, sending tables and chairs in a swirl, smashing friends against foes in a spin with no time to settle differences.

  Up the hill, the townsfolk come out into the streets in dressing gowns and slippers to make sense of the din, picking out from the dark the white foam of the swell and surge on the quayside below. All is abubble and afoam, with boats hauled from their dry-docks to be spun on the tide. The sea, having conquered new land, calls a truce and settles into its newfound territory. The drinkers, sodden and waist-deep in brine, waddle
out the door of the Sailor’s Arms.

  Mrs April settles by the fireside, her favourite Blackwatch tartan rug over her lap. On the record player Mahler competes with the storm that is doing its best to battle on until dawn. She knows all too well the power and wrath of the sea and when the wave thumped the coastline her heart jumped a beat. Like everyone else, she went out to her front gate and saw the commotion, heard the rumours being flung up and down the high road, looked up to the blackened, angry skies and realised something very serious was in the offing. But she had decided there was little for her to do but wait until morning, stay warm by the fireside and let events unfold.

  Pulling the cardigan around her shoulders she turns her attention to the letter that has sat on her dressing table since the afternoon post. Carefully she slits open the envelope with the silver paper-knife with the ebony handle her husband gave her on their wedding night. As always, it cuts beautifully, sharp as ice.

  She knows the letter is from Oscar: the handwriting on the address, the watermark across the stamp. She sits back comfortably in the old armchair, unfolds the letter and reads:

  Dear Mrs April,

  I hope this letter finds you well. I am very happy here at the monastery, especially now that Stigir is with me. Thank you very much for looking after him so well. He likes it here and sleeps at the end of my bed on a blanket. I am very busy. I have two jobs. One in the library and one in the orchard. The librarian is called Brother Moses and I’ve told him all about you and the library in Tidetown and he is very interested to meet you. I know you have met Brother Saviour already, when he came to your house to collect Stigir. When he returned here he asked me if I would like to invite you for a visit and of course I said yes. So this is my main reason for writing. To invite you to come here to see me and Stigir. We will show you around and I am sure you will have a nice time. Please come on the 21st. You can come in the morning and then stay overnight if you wish. Brother Saviour says some of the monks will be in Tidetown early to sell vegetables at the market and could bring you here. Please let us know if it is a good date for you. Otherwise we can arrange a more convenient time.