Tiger, Tiger

by Philip Caveney

  Bob looked puzzled.

  “Between pegs?” he echoed.

  “There are two ways of measuring tigers, Mr. Beresford. The honest way is to drive a wooden peg into the ground by the tip of his nose and at the tip of his tail, then measure a straight line between. Some hunters prefer to measure over curves … laying the tape along all the contours of the body. That can add on another four or five inches. Very good for the ego, no doubt. Of course, it was the rajas in India who had the most ingenious method. They had special tape measures constructed that had a couple of inches taken out of every foot. Hence all those records of eleven- and twelve-foot cats, shot from the backs of elephants. It’s true that the Indian tiger does tend to be a little larger than its Malayan counterpart, but even so…” He went into a silent muse for a few moments, his eyes narrowing as though he were squinting into some misty world that his companions could not see. Then he said, “I really wish you would leave that tiger alone, Mr. Beresford.”

  “Why?” The other man stared back at him defiantly.

  “How many tigers do you suppose are out in that jungle now, Mr. Beresford? Do you think you could put a figure on it?”

  Bob shrugged. “Wouldn’t have a clue,” he admitted. “Hey, but look here. You’re a fine one to talk, I must say! You’ve hunted them before, what makes it right for you and wrong for me?”

  “I didn’t say that it was right for me.”

  “Yeah … well, anyway, this one’s a cattle-killer.”

  Harry smiled sardonically but he kept gazing intently into the other man’s eyes.

  “Ah yes,” he murmured. “Of course he is. I’d forgotten about that.”

  Melissa had been listening quietly to the two men’s conversation for some time but now she saw the need to move in and referee again. The atmosphere of antagonism between the two of them was extraordinary, though it did seem to stem more from Harry than from the young Australian.

  “I understand you’re working on repatriating the Gurkhas, Bob?” she ventured, and managed to successfully steer him onto a new topic of conversation. Harry said nothing further, but simply sat regarding the two of them with an expression of open resentment on his face. For Melissa’s part, she was quite happy to chat with Bob Beresford, who was the most interesting proposition that had come her way in a long time. Not only was he strikingly handsome, but he was cheerful and easy to talk to. Still, Harry’s presence made the whole thing rather uncomfortable and Melissa was relieved when she saw her father returning with a bundle of papers under his arm. The relief was short-lived, though, for Harry immediately excused himself, mumbling something about some work he had to do.

  “What on earth’s wrong with Harry?” asked Dennis, as the old man swept out of the room. “He’s got a face like thunder.”

  There was a brief silence.

  “Anybody fancy a drink?” asked Bob awkwardly.

  * * *

  HAJI WAS JUST about at his wit’s end with Timah. His repeated cuffings and bites served only to discipline her for a very short time. Then her spirits would rise again and she would resume her childish antics, hiding among the bushes, pouncing out at him unexpectedly, pursuing him along the cattle trails like some overgrown cub. It was more than his dignity could bear, and in the end he was moved to indicate to her, by a series of movements and growls, that if she did not curb her frivolity, he would refuse to take her to the kill. This did the trick, for she was every bit as hungry as he was and now she trotted obediently along in his wake, smacking her lips in anticipation.

  After some time, they neared the place where Haji had made the kill and they could smell quite clearly the stink of rotten meat that had lain in the hot sun all day. This was tantalizing and Timah would have gone straight to the feast, but Haji directed a low growl of warning at her and she flopped down in the grass to wait with quiet reluctance. Haji did likewise, listening intently and peering into the darkness. He could see the mound of vegetation where the carcass lay and the rustling sounds of movement that reached him from the spot were quickly identified. A pair of large monitor lizards had found the kill and were snapping eagerly at the exposed viscera. Always suspicious, Haji took a long, slow stroll around the area, viewing it from every angle until he was sure that everything was as he had left it. Then, circling back to Timah, he indicated that all was well. The lizards skittered madly away as the big cats approached.

  Haji flopped down again, waiting politely while Timah ate her fill. This she did quite eagerly, throwing herself upon the carcass and tearing at the putrefying flesh in a frenzy. She consumed over half the meat that was left on the carcass and at last, satisfied, she moved off to the river to quench her thirst. Now it was Haji’s turn. His appetite was less keen, for he had dined well the previous night. Even so, he had little trouble in stripping the cow down to a poor collection of bare bones. Then he too, moved to the river to drink. They lay stretched out beside the kill for a while, listening to the steady vibrant hum of the insects in the night. But Haji was always restless in the vicinity of an eating place and after a short while, he got up and led the way along a familiar cattle trail. Timah followed him for a distance of several miles but then they came to a place where the trail forked left and right. Haji started along the right fork, but after he had gone a little way, he realized that Timah was no longer following him. He turned to gaze back at her. She was standing, looking at him, and everything about her stance and expression told him that she wished to take the left-hand path. He growled once, a half-hearted command for her to follow him, but he knew before he had uttered the sound that she would not heed him. In many ways, after the wild behaviour she had exhibited earlier, he was relieved. Without further comment, he continued on his way and when he glanced back a second time, the trail behind him was quite empty. He was not surprised to see this. The solitary life was the way of the tiger, and this particular union had been a rare occurrence. A brief vision of Timah’s lovely black-marked face came to him and he felt a strong sense of contentment wash over him, but then the image was gone and he returned to the more usual habits of watching the jungle through which he was travelling.

  He moved on along the path and vanished into darkness.

  * * *

  THE CAR sped recklessly along the jungle road. Melissa glanced at her father’s face. In the green glow of the dashboard it looked alien, unfamiliar. The two of them had just been discussing Uncle Harry’s mysterious mood earlier that evening.

  “The long and the short of it,” concluded Dennis, “is that he just doesn’t like Bob Beresford.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Oh, search me. But it’s a fact. Harry always says it’s because the poor fellow’s Australian, but somehow that isn’t reason enough. Do you sense an … antagonism between them? Almost a rivalry?”

  “Yes, but from Uncle Harry more than from Bob.”

  Dennis glanced at her slyly.

  “Oh, so it’s Bob already, is it?”

  She smiled. “Yes, why not? I’m eighteen now, Daddy, you must bear that in mind!”

  “Melissa, I stopped trying to keep you in order years ago. I’ve got nothing against the Aussies, anyway.”

  “He’s not like most Aussies. He’s a dish.”

  “Hmm.” Dennis frowned. “Just the same, I’d watch what you say to Harry. He might get jealous.”

  Melissa chuckled.

  “Oh really, you have to laugh. Anyone would think Harry and I are engaged, the way you’re going on.”

  “Yes, but you know how fond he is of you, Melissa. God knows what he’ll do when we shove off back to England. Poor old fellow…”

  “We’ve done everything we can to get him to go with us.”

  “Yes…” Dennis sighed. “But that’s one old leopard who won’t change his spots. And let’s face it, he wouldn’t be happy anyplace but here. He belongs.”

  They fell silent. Melissa stared straight ahead. A steady stream of fat night insects sped into bloody oblivion against the c
ar’s windscreen. Occasionally Dennis flicked on the wipers to clear the bodies away. Melissa was thinking about Bob Beresford again. She couldn’t understand why Uncle Harry resented him so much. His youth, more than anything, she supposed. Perhaps the Australian reminded him of a younger version of himself. Then again, perhaps it was nothing to do with that. At any rate, Bob was the only interesting development in what was quickly becoming an ocean of suffocating monotony. She would investigate the possibilities of an involvement of some kind. It would at least occupy her energies until she was ready to leave for England.

  The car had moved onto a busier stretch of road with a sheer drop on one side, and this was flanked by a row of illuminated road signs warning of the possible danger. Melissa gazed at the signs now and she saw something she had never noticed before. Spiders had stretched their intricate webs across the brightly lit surfaces of the signs, as though knowing that a ready supply of food would be drawn to the glow. Caught in the webs at regular intervals were a succession of large, beautifully coloured butterflies. Helpless, they waited for the spider in the corner of each web to creep forth and devour them at his own leisure.

  In a sudden flash of conviction, Melissa thought that she had been shown a metaphor for her own life. As a child, she had been a grub, a lowly caterpillar, buck-toothed, lank-haired, painfully skinny. When sides were chosen for team games, her name was never called. Whenever a boy had shown interest in her, it was only his way of obtaining an easy introduction to a prettier, less accessible friend of hers. Lord, those painful days of adolescence! How had she ever survived them? Then, strangely, miraculously, cocooned in the grey dormitories of a boarding school, she had become a lovely butterfly; she still wondered at the transformation herself. The skinny body had acquired womanly curves. The prominent teeth had somehow settled into a dazzling smile, enveloped by soft sensuous lips that any man would want to kiss. She had emerged from that cocoon and now her wings were dry, she was ready to take a first heady flight … but to where? She thought of the spider webs and she shuddered; yet she knew that she would fly anyway, for to remain motionless and apprehensive for even a few days more was something she couldn’t even bear to think about.

  The car sped onwards in the comforting direction of home.

  CHAPTER 7

  IT WAS early morning and Haji was prowling amongst familiar mangrove swamps, where the silted yellow sluggishness of a river collapsed into a misery of pools and muddy sandbanks. A couple of fat frogs leapt away from his approach and slapped into water. He was, as yet, not hungry enough to bother with them, but when times were particularly hard, there was very little that he considered beneath his dignity. Before now he had eaten many frogs, also snakes, crabs, turtles, and even fish when the opportunity had presented itself. Wild pigs were generally the mainstay of his diet, but lately there seemed to be a bewildering shortage of the creatures and the only signs of them he had encountered all day had been months old.

  He came to a place now where a great outcrop of rock jutted up from the surrounding trees and undergrowth and he recalled that here was an old favourite sleeping place of his, a small cave at the base of the rock. But as he neared it, he was perturbed by a powerful smell that seemed to be issuing from within. It was in a strange way familiar and at the same time it incorporated another smell that did not belong with the first odour. He came to a halt for a moment, sniffing and grimacing, unsure of what to do. At last, he ventured a little nearer and issued a loud roar of enquiry; whereupon several large black shapes came squawking and flapping out of the darkness, almost blundering right into him. Haji was so startled, he almost turned tail and ran. But then he realized that the creatures had been just a flock of scavenging magpies who had clearly not noticed his approach. Still, the shock had unnerved him a little and he paced backwards and forwards for several minutes, his head down, while he made low rumbling growls deep in his throat. He began to move away from the cave, but the smell antagonized him with its nagging familiarity and at the back of his mind was the thought that the cave must hold some kind of food if the magpies had been there. So he approached again, slowly, cautiously, craning his head forward to peer into the dark interior. The smell became more powerful by the moment.

  He slipped into the cool shade, setting down his feet on the chill rocks with great precision. Now, he realized why the smell had seemed so familiar to him. Against the back wall of the cave, where the ceiling curved down low to meet the ground, he could discern the long striped back of a tigress lying on her side. It was his other, older mate, Seti.

  Haji uttered the habitual coughing growl of welcome that tigers use, but she made no reply. She was lying with her head turned away from him and seemed to be resting, though she should surely have woken at the sound of his voice. Haji was unsettled by the strangeness of her behaviour and nervously he called her again, but she remained silent. He stood for several long moments, debating what to do. The unfamiliar smell was frightening him. In it, he thought he detected something that spoke of birth and his suspicions were confirmed when he spotted a tiny cub stretched on the ground beside Seti. He stepped forward and nuzzled it, but it did not move or make a sound. Now he crept fearfully up to Seti and saw that a second cub lay nearby, but that too was strangely still and silent. Then he saw that a third cub lay half in, half out of Seti’s body, the tiny wrinkled face and paws immersed in a sea of congealed blood. A thick mantle of flies buzzed greedily over the area, settling, flying up, resettling.

  With an angry growl, Haji moved forward so he could nuzzle at Seti’s face. She was lying stretched out, her dry tongue lolling from her open mouth, which seemed to hold an expression of pain. At first, Haji thought that her eyes were closed for he could see no glimmer of light from them. But then he realized that she had no eyes, for the thieving magpies had stolen them and that was why she was so still and quiet. He knew now that the third smell was the awful stench of death, and he shrank back from it in fear, hugging the wall of the cave as he crept away. He turned back once or twice and cried fearfully for the cubs to follow him but then he realized that the death-smell was on them too and anyway, they had been so young they could barely crawl to their mother’s milk. As she was blind in death, so had they been in life, however brief that was.

  Haji reeled out into the sunlight, frightened, bewildered. He knew now that Seti and the cubs could never emerge from the cave, that the death-smell had bound them there forever. He would never encounter them on the trail again and though he could not really understand grief, there was an anxiety in him at the loss of his old companion and his inability to fully comprehend what had happened to her. He paced up and down, walking faster and faster, and working himself into a kind of frenzy, for he could still feel the stench of the death-smell in his nostrils and he was torn between a natural impulse to run away and a powerful desire to stay with his mate. But the image of her blind eyes kept coming back to him, telling him that it was useless to stay and risk the death-smell, for she could never find him now.

  At last, he articulated the frenzy of conflicting emotions within him into a great shattering roar, which he flung to the wind. It echoed from the crags of rock, seeming to multiply in volume and duration until the entire jungle for miles around throbbed to the sound of his confusion. Flocks of birds scattered skywards, deer raced into jungle, milling in confusion, troops of monkeys shrieked feeble insults in return. But the roaring continued, all through the long morning and late into the afternoon.

  * * *

  HARRY STEPPED OUT of the taxicab onto the crowded pavement of one of the main streets of Kuala Trengganu, the state capital. He handed the driver a five-dollar bill and waved away the change. The taxi accelerated off into a melee of cars and bicycles, all reassuringly ploughing a path down the left-hand side of the road. Harry glanced quickly about. Kuala Trengganu, like most sizeable Malay towns, was a riot of sounds, smells, and visual peculiarities. Harry didn’t make the trip very often, but the only real shops were here and he had something
special in mind. He noticed a couple of bedraggled beggars advancing towards him with their arms outstretched, and he wisely took to his heels, striding purposely past the ranks of Chinese emporiums and eating places, each with their own garish advertisements for drink and cigarettes displayed on tin boards outside. It was not that he begrudged the beggars a few cents, but he had learned from experience that news of a generous Englishman could spread amongst the begging community like wildfire and then the wretched creatures would appear as if by magic, crawling out of every nook and cranny. In such instances, it was simply impossible to give everybody something, there were just too many of them; and so, one played a kind of cat-and-mouse game with them, only rewarding those who showed uncanny persistence in staying the distance.

  Harry moved past a fruit stall, where the revolting smell of durians, a popular local delicacy, assailed his nostrils. From there, he strolled directly past a market that specialized in dried fish, where he experienced the kind of contrast in aromas that would have had a less experienced man retching. As he walked, he was aware of many amused eyes watching him. He was quite aware of the ridiculous spectacle he represented to the Malays, this wiry old Englishman dressed in khaki shirt, shorts, and leather sandals; but he had long ago given up worrying about his vanity and was quite immune to the shouts and gesticulations that were made to him as he went by. He knew quite well that there was no malice intended, that the locals had a purely open way of expressing themselves and anyway, he had to admit that there was something rather ludicrous to be found in the appearance of most Englishmen abroad. For all that, he walked proudly, his back straight, and his chest pushed forward, for he had never forgotten his military background. Indeed, it had woven itself into the very fibres of his being; it was as much a part of him as the colour of his eyes.