by Carl Nixon
Let us make our ending right here and now.
With Lucky and Elizabeth standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the Mansfield whale. They watch as the boys run their hands along the sweeping jawbone, and clamber beneath the rail to swing off the great ribs. Katherine wakes. Elizabeth scoops her up and holds her against her shoulder. Her husband watches and smiles.
‘I’m lucky,’ he says and takes Elizabeth’s free hand in his.
‘Yes, I know you are.’ She leans over and kisses him lightly on the lips.
What better place than here to end our story.
fifty-five
A loose end?
The story that Elizabeth told to Jack, The Balloonist, has been left up in the air — as it were. To see how that story concludes we must return to the papers that Michael Newman showed me at our second meeting. You may recall that among the official documents and photographs were the first two pages of a manuscript for a children’s book. What happened to the other pages is a mystery.
It was most likely in the late 1950s or early 1960s when Elizabeth wrote down the story that she had begun to tell to Jack nearly forty years earlier. She recorded it in longhand, using a fountain pen. The title of the story is written on the top of the first page: The Balloonist. Underneath this, written in faded pencil, can still be read, Or the Story of the Virgin and the Whale.
Upon inspection, it seems to me that those pages are more than a first draft. There are only relatively minor crossings out and just a single note in the right-hand margin. The story is full and detailed and the sentences flow easily. For these reasons, I suggest that this version of the story is a copy of an earlier draft that has since been lost.
Late draft or not, it’s difficult to say exactly how closely the story on these two yellowed pages resembles the story told to Jack in the dark of their shared bedroom in Sydenham Street. By the time she came to commit the story to paper, Elizabeth must have been a different person. The birth of two further children, Lucky’s continuing bouts of ill health and then his unexpected death, not to mention losing Jack, all that must have changed her. It’s impossible to say how Elizabeth grew (or diminished) over the years, as a person and as a storyteller, what new emphasis or insights the years had given her by the time she came to write The Balloonist.
We do know, however, that by that time she had begun telling The Balloonist to her grandchildren. Both Michael’s and Katherine’s children recall hearing at least parts of the story from their grandmother.
Tucked alongside the two pages of manuscript was a letter from a local publisher. The company was most active in the 1950s and 1960s but, in a sign of the times, has since been swallowed up by an international publishing conglomerate. The letter is of the standard type sent by publishers to would-be authors.
Thank you for submitting your manuscript. We have read it carefully, but at this time regret to inform you that we are unable to etc., etc.
There is, however, a personal touch. Scrawled in pen at the bottom of the letter is a brief note. It is written in blue ink and the handwriting is so tight and tangled that before it can be read it has to be unravelled by the eyes like a ball of twine:
An interesting story but far too frightening for young readers. Also, we could never publish a children’s book containing the words [sic] ‘virgin’.
The signature is illegible but definitely differs from that on the bottom of the form letter.
In those days, it was still standard practice that submissions to publishers be typed. One of Elizabeth’s grandchildren, Michael’s second son, recalls his grandmother owning a typewriter of the old-fashioned jab-and-push variety, so it is doubtful whether the incomplete handwritten copy we still have is exactly the same as the one that Elizabeth sent to the publisher and had rejected. What happened to that typed copy of The Balloonist is unfortunately also unknown.
One last point. There was an illustration among the papers that I was shown. Neither Michael, nor any other member of the family, could remember who drew it. In a mixture of crayon and paint a child has depicted the Whale, the Virgin, the Tiger and the Balloonist. The drawing seems to show the point in the story when the unlikely band set off from the beach in pursuit of the kidnappers’ boat. The crayon Whale is cobalt blue, faded only a little by the years. The Balloonist is a stick figure, made up of four grey lines and a circle. In what seems to be a particularly boyish embellishment, he is holding what appears to be a club or possibly a gun. The black and orange Tiger is disproportionately large. He is showing his teeth. Standing next to the Tiger is the Virgin. She has been drawn in white crayon on white paper so is harder to see than the other characters. Around her body, however, is a yellow outline, as though she were glowing or perhaps she is reflecting the huge yellow crayon sun set up in the right-hand corner of the page.
fifty-six
‘Where are we up to in the story?’ Elizabeth asks Jack.
It has been a week since Lucky was declared a free man. He has not returned to Woodbridge but is staying at a pleasant hotel near the centre of Mansfield, in the lee of the cathedral. Elizabeth visits him every day and they go for long walks. They talk about the future. That very morning, while strolling along the banks of the river, she held his hand for the first time.
Jack is in his pyjamas. He has requested that the bedside light stay on tonight. ‘You remember,’ he says. ‘The boat is attacking the Whale. All the kidnappers have guns and the man is locked up in the cage with the baby tiger.’
‘Oh yes. The man could see the kidnappers lining up along the bow of the boat with their rifles ready.’
‘At the ready.’
‘With their rifles at the ready.’
The Moon Virgin had been watching the kidnappers’ boat as it swung around to face them and she saw that is was picking up speed. Beside her, the Tiger paced nervously.
‘It seems that the negotiations have failed. Perhaps you should instruct our large friend to swim away.’
The Moon Virgin did not reply. Instead she began to sing again, in a language of her own devising. Although the Tiger did not know what the words meant, he thought it a very beautiful song, particularly for one of the hairless apes, who normally made noises more like the grunting of warthogs. He would, however, have preferred to hear her under less stressful circumstances.
The boat steamed towards them, black smoke pouring from its funnel, until the Whale was almost within range of the men’s rifles. One or two of the more overeager kidnappers began shooting but their bullets fell harmlessly into the ocean in front of the Whale.
‘I really do think that we should go now,’ said the Tiger.
The Moon Virgin continued to sing. And a strange thing happened. A thin mist, barely perceptible on such a bright, cloudless day, appeared in the air above the surface of the ocean. The mist quickly thickened into a haze and then into fog. In less than a minute, the Whale had faded into white and all the kidnappers could see were swirling, shifting walls of heavy fog. The men muttered to each other uneasily.
‘Quarter speed and straight ahead,’ bellowed Kruger to the helmsman. The boat’s engine immediately slowed. The fog had now become so thick that the kidnappers could barely see beyond their own noses.
Crouching in the cage with the tiger cub, the Balloonist saw his opportunity. No one was watching him. They were all too busy staring out into the fog that had sprung up as if by magic. Reaching into his trouser pocket, he pulled out the long, razor-sharp thorn of the jibjab tree. He unwound the piece of cloth that he had wrapped around it and, reaching through the bars, he pushed the end of the thorn into the padlock. The man began to twist it to and fro while the tiger cub watched him with large eyes.
At last the lock gave a click and sprang open.
‘Come with me,’ whispered the man. ‘Stay close as a shadow.’
The cub had been taught well by his parents and did as he was told. Together the man and the cub crossed the deck to the cage holding the cub’s mother. The man repeated
the trick with the thorn and within seconds that door was also open.
When she emerged, the tigress was almost as big as her husband. Her cub immediately moved to a spot just behind her.
‘Do you understand me?’ asked the man. She nodded.
‘Can you and your cub both swim?’
The Tigress gave him a disdainful look. ‘Of course we can swim. We are tigers.’
‘Then take your cub and go over the side. Your husband and our friends are waiting. Swim away from the boat. They will find you.’
The Tigress’s eyes searched the deck. ‘I would rather stay and revenge myself on these reeking hairless apes.’
‘They are well armed. Think of your cub.’
The Tigress stared into the man’s eyes and then, lifting her cub in her mouth, turned and in three bounds had leapt over the starboard side and into the ocean.
‘What was that splash?’ Kruger’s shout came from somewhere near the bow.
‘I can’t see a thing!’ yelled another kidnapper.
‘Sounded like something falling overboard,’ called someone else.
The Balloonist was about to follow the Tigress into the ocean when he heard a terrified scream. It had come from near the stern. He ducked behind a pile of crates just as Kruger appeared out of the fog, waving his pearl-handled revolver.
‘What’s happening back there?’ bellowed Kruger.
What neither Kruger nor the Balloonist knew was that the Tiger was onboard the boat. A few minutes earlier, the Whale had submerged and swum silently up close to the stern. He was so low in the water that the Tiger and the Moon Virgin appeared to be walking on top of the ocean. In the fog no one had seen the magnificent leap which carried the Tiger aboard.
There was a very good reason why the Moon Virgin had earlier addressed the Tiger as ‘Emperor of the Green Shadows and Most Feared of All’. The Tiger hunted among them, moving as even less than a shadow through the fog, taking the kidnappers one by one. He killed the first without a sound. The man barely had time to blink.
A sudden blur.
A flash of white teeth.
A slash of claws.
Men who were standing only a few feet away from their companions disappeared without anyone seeing a thing.
The helmsman, sensing something behind him, turned towards the open door of the wheelhouse, but he was too late to save himself. After that, the boat steered itself in large circles through the fog.
Within minutes, there was only Kruger and two others left alive. By now they knew that they were not alone. The African with the gold earrings stood with the hairs on the back of his neck stiff as needles, his rifle lowered, the barrel moving from side to side.
A scream. And he was gone.
The next to die was called Fisheye by his former companions. He had his back to the ship’s funnel. Sweat glistened on his face and his rifle shook. He saw movement out of the corner of his left eye and managed to swing around and squeeze off a wild shot. It was the last thing he ever did.
‘Fisheye!’ yelled Kruger. ‘Answer me!’
But Fisheye was as dead as all the rest.
Running to the cages, Kruger saw that they were empty and let out a terrible string of curses in German. He called his men, yelling out their names, but of course none replied.
The Balloonist was watching Kruger from his hiding place behind the pile of crates when he saw the Tiger. The great cat was slinking low across the roof of the wheelhouse. Kruger had his back to the Tiger and had not seen him. The kidnapper ranted and raved and swung his revolver this way and that. The Balloonist watched as the Tiger positioned himself for the killing leap.
Two things happened at the same time. A random eddy of air meant that the fog cleared, just for a split second. In that moment the Balloonist saw every detail of the Tiger: the twitch of his mighty shoulders, the stony black of his eyes, the fresh blood around his jaws.
The second thing that happened was that Kruger somehow sensed movement behind him. At the very same moment that the Tiger sprang, Kruger spun and fired his revolver.
The Tiger gave a roar of pain and fell to the deck at Kruger’s feet.
The Balloonist had to stifle a cry. For a terrible moment he thought that his friend had been killed. But the great eyes opened and the Tiger struggled painfully to his feet. The Balloonist could see that the bullet had hit the Tiger in his front leg, where the fur was now dark and matted. Kruger took a step forward and pointed his gun between the Tiger’s eyes.
‘How terrible it must feel to almost succeed,’ he said.
The Tiger looked over at the empty cages. ‘You are wrong. I have succeeded.’
Kruger scowled. ‘At least this trip will not have been a total waste. I still have the diamonds and after I have shot you I will sell your body. Your skin will become a rug for rich people to walk on. Your bones will be ground up for old Chinamen to drink.’
‘Oh, do stop babbling and shoot me,’ said the Tiger bravely.
The kidnapper smirked. ‘Very well. I will.’
‘Stop!’
The Balloonist stepped out from behind the crates and advanced on the kidnapper. He held the thorn of the jibjab tree in front of him like a dagger.
Kruger was now in a difficult position. He had the wounded Tiger on one side of him and the Balloonist advancing on the other. He could not cover both of them with his gun. He swung the revolver around to the man.
‘Come any closer and I will kill you.’
‘I’ve no doubt. The interesting thing, though, is that your pretty revolver only takes six bullets. I’ve been counting and by my reckoning you’ve got only one shot left.’
The Tiger growled deeply and took a step towards Kruger. The needle-sharp tips of his claws scrapped the hardwood deck.
Kruger swung the gun back towards the Tiger.
The man took another step forward.
Now Kruger was forced to point the gun back at him. ‘The next one to move dies!’
The Balloonist spoke calmly. ‘If you shoot one of us, I promise you that the other will finish you off. I suggest that the only sane thing you can do is surrender.’
‘Never!’ snarled Kruger.
From the look in his eye it was clear that the German was not sane. It was also clear that he had decided his next move. He feared the Tiger more than the man and swung his gun back onto the great cat. ‘I choose you.’
‘No!’ yelled the Balloonist. Raising the jibjab thorn above his head, he charged. Now Kruger had no choice. There was a shot. The Balloonist staggered backwards and the jibjab thorn clattered to the deck.
In a blur, the Tiger sprang. Kruger’s shaved head was big, yet it still fitted into the great jaws. With a crunch, like the sound of an ostrich shell breaking, the leader of the kidnappers died.
The Tiger let the limp body fall and walked over to where the Balloonist lay on the deck. There was a small hole close to his heart that leaked crimson blood in a steady trickle.
‘Why did you do it?’ asked the Tiger gently.
The man managed a smile. ‘In a battle some people must die so that their friends may live.’
The Tiger stared down into the Balloonist’s face. ‘Every year on this day I swear to you I will tell your story to my family. And when I have hunted my last hunt, my children will tell their children. In this way, we will never forget you. It has been a great honour to know you.’
‘And you, my friend.’
The Tiger bowed his head low. The Balloonist closed his eyes and took his last breath.
fifty-seven
There are tears on Jack’s cheeks. Elizabeth brushes them away with the edge of her finger.
‘What happened after he died?’ asks Jack.
‘The fog cleared and the Whale carried his body back to the beach. The Moon Virgin washed him in the warm ocean and then she dressed him in his uniform again. The Moon Virgin, the Tiger, the Tigress and the cub buried him at the foot of a tree in a clearing close to the beach.’
> ‘Was it a jibjab tree?’
Elizabeth smiles. ‘Yes, it was.’
‘It’s not fair. He had a son too.’
‘His family were very proud of how brave he had been.’
‘But what will they do now?’
‘That’s a different story.’ Elizabeth stands. ‘I think they’ll be all right. They’ll look after each other.’
Jack has no more questions. He lays his head back on the pillow. Elizabeth switches off the lamp. A strip of yellow light from the hallway falls through the half-open door into the room.
‘I didn’t know him very well but I’ll still miss him,’ says Jack quietly.
‘So will I,’ says Elizabeth. ‘I’ll miss him every day and very, very much. Goodnight, my love.’
‘Goodnight.’
fifty-eight
Enough.
All endings are arbitrary. Before all, how can you know when a story is truly finished?
the end
acknowledgements
I am grateful for the advice and expertise of many people, generously given at various stages of writing this novel. My publisher Harriet Allan’s enthusiasm kept the story alive. Professor Patrick Evans, Victoria Hallum, Jeffrey Clarke, Rebecca Radcliffe, Dr Caroline Foster and Rachael King were all invaluable. I must also acknowledge the insightful guidance of my editor, Anna Rogers.
The story within a story (within a story) told by the Moon Virgin to test the Balloonist’s wisdom is, I believe, a variation of a story from an old Tarzan movie, which I saw in my childhood but have been unable to locate again.
The early stages of this novel could not have been written without the assistance of a grant from Creative New Zealand.
Thanks to Peter and Dianne Beatson for the Beatson Fellowship, which helped with the completion of the story.
About the Author