Dance of the Tiger

by Bjorn Kurten

  Tiger’s comrade now poured forth a torrent of words. When he was through, a young woman stepped up and greeted Tiger with a hug. She was pale-faced, freckled, and red-haired like the others. Otherwise she resembled the Whites, though Tiger noted that her eyebrows did not meet above her nose, but were curved, giving her face an expression of permanent surprise. Her eyes were flashing green and had the same air of quiet assurance as those of Miss Angelica.

  “May you soar high, dear Mister,” she said, revealing to Tiger’s relief that she spoke the White language fluently. “Thank you for rescuing poor Goosander. I have to apologize to you on his behalf. He is not very bright, as you may have noticed, but he is a good seal-hunter. My own name is Swallow. The Whites call me Buttercup, for among them a human receives his bird-name only after death. We have different name-traditions: we are the Reds. I bid you welcome to our village. I hope you will stay for many days, so that we can thank you.”

  Tiger was impressed. “My name is Tiger,” he said, “and I come from Trout Lake, far inland. I have lost my family and my tribe, and for two winters I have lived with the Whites on Veyde’s Island.”

  “Then you have much to tell,” said Miss Swallow, “and you must stay with us long enough to share your story. Now, though, we must look after poor Goosander.”

  Goosander had suffered nothing worse than a bad sprain, but he had endured a lot. He had been seal-hunting on a group of islets northeast of Morningland and had fallen on the slippery rocks. Crawling back, he got caught in the storm, which utterly confused him. Tiger described how he had found Goosander on the ice.

  That day Tiger also told Miss Swallow the story of his life, and she translated it to her people, who listened with great interest. The first stars were coming out in the east before he finished. “But now, Miss Swallow, I want to hear about you. I never heard about the Reds: you must be strangers from far away.”

  “It is getting cold,” said Miss Swallow. “Let us go into my hut, and I will tell you about my people.”

  Tiger followed her into the hut, where a seal-fat lamp was burning. He recoiled slightly at the sight of two death’s-heads, piebald with ochre, on a stone slab. Miss Swallow bowed to them and passed her hand over her face. Tiger shuddered. He certainly would not care for a couple of dead people in his house.

  “My parents,” announced Miss Swallow. “This is Tiger, an honored guest.”

  Tiger imitated Miss Swallow’s bow and passed his hand over his face. She smiled and sat down, cross-legged.

  “I can understand that you are curious about us, and I want to tell you our story as frankly as you have told yours. But before I start, there is one thing I must say to you. You yourself, your behavior, and yes, your story too, have taught me a lot. You have turned my thoughts and emotions in a new direction, as if a river were changing its bed. But you shall judge for yourself.

  “We come from the east. We have walked across the ice, winter after winter, to get as far away as possible from the Blacks who took our country. You heard what Goosander said, ‘The only good Black is a dead Black.’ I was the first to say that, and it was I, too, who first said, ‘Red is beautiful!’ Without the pride and will to endure which these words have given us, we should have perished many winters ago.

  “But alas, not all of the Reds realized it. Many of our people just stood open-mouthed from wonder and admiration when the Blacks came. The Blacks, they speak a tongue which seems to sparkle and sing like that of the birds, and when we hear it we feel that we bleat and bellow like the ox and the ibex. The Black men are tall and proud, and they regard us as the soil under their feet. They loom up like visions, with their dark eyes and long beards, and our women lie down on their backs for them. But the Blacks only use them for pleasure; they laugh at the foolish Troll bitches.

  “Our customs are nothing to them. When we show our courtesy in our own way, with our hands before our eyes, they make fun of us, flinging their hands about and laughing. If a Red or a White is in a Black man’s path, he pushes them aside, for he regards himself, with his throwing-stick and his elegant weapons, as our better. We have only our simple handiwork, which we have learned from our ancestors since the beginning of time. The Black men kill our holy birds—the white swan, from whom everything emanates, and the gaudy long-tailed duck, who brings us the lovely summer—and take the eggs.

  “To our village came two of these Black men, tall and bearded. We fell down and worshipped them like gods. They spoke in their fluid tongue, laughing at us as soon as we opened our mouths. They took our food and drink; we waited on them and obeyed their orders. From our berries they created magic potions which made them laugh still more and whetted their appetite for our women.

  “I was hardly more than a child. I was afraid of their loud voices and laughter, so I kept away. But one of them tricked me into drinking the magic potion, which made me sleepy and confused. They took me, first one, then the other. That night I, who had never known a man, became a woman, and when they slept I killed them both.

  “All the people in our village were bewildered and afraid. What was going to happen to us? They talked of a neighboring village in which the people had risen against the Blacks—killed one and chased the others away. These people thought themselves rid of the Blacks, but one night they returned with many men and killed everybody they could find—women, men, and children. They razed the huts to the ground, made a bonfire of them, and threw on the living and dead. Would this happen to us, too?

  “Then I spoke to them, inspiring them with courage and defiance. I pointed to the dead Blacks and said, ‘The only good Black is a dead Black.’ Most of them agreed to come with me, and I led them away from the village. The only things we took with us were our weapons and our dead, whom you see here. That was the beginning of our long march west across the sea, for the Blacks in our country came from the east.”

  “I always thought the world came to an end at the sea,” said Tiger. “Now you tell me there is another country on the other side; that there are Blacks and Reds in it, just as there are Blacks and Whites in this country. How strange!”

  “Yes, but it is very far away. We have journeyed many winters. Once we stopped, after going from island to island. We had reached an ice-field that seemed to have no end, but a clear day showed us land far away, and we went there. Then we crossed more land, arriving at a sea that looked endless; no land could be seen on the other side. That autumn we saw long-tailed ducks and swans flying west, and when the ice came we followed them. After a long, long march across endless ice-fields we saw land in the distance and knew that the birds had not led us astray. Here, we thought, is our new country; here we can live in peace from the Blacks.

  “I am not saying this to accuse you, Tiger. On the contrary: you have taught me that there are also good Blacks, Blacks who give their hand to help, Blacks who do not despise our language and customs. From your story I realize that there are good and bad people among you, just as there are among ourselves. Still, I have to tell you what we have gone through, so that you can understand why Goosander feared you.

  “On this side of the sea we met the Whites for the first time. They received us kindly, and we lived with them for two winters. Many of us learned a little of their language, but I had to learn it fully, for I am the leader of my people and I had to lead them farther. We could not stay and abuse the hospitality of the Whites. Each autumn we saw the birds fly southwest, and we were full of unrest. I had to speak with the Whites, to find a place where we could stay without encroaching on anybody’s hunting grounds. So I lived with a White family, and spoke their language every day.

  “This winter we started out once more, and from what you tell me, we can go no farther. The Blacks are now in front of us. So I ask you, Tiger: Do you think we can stay here, on this island, and live in peace? To us it is good. There are plenty of fish, seals, and other game, and the berries ripen every summer. The nearest White village, in the direction we came from, is three days away. We do not
wish to intrude on your territory either, Tiger, so I ask you for advice.”

  Miss Swallow fell silent and looked expectantly at her guest. She had been sitting quite still while she told her story; now she unconsciously raised her hands to her red hair. Behind her the two dead gazed with empty eye-sockets into the dim light, as if echoing her question. Tiger, too, was silent for a moment.

  “Miss Swallow,” he said, “the sea is great and the islands are many. Of seals and other game there is enough for all of us, and the bilberries rot away each autumn for the lack of women and children to pick them. Nothing could make me happier than to have you as our neighbors, and nothing is better than a good neighbor. Thus I say, and thus my people will say: Stay here.”

  He stretched out his hands, and Miss Swallow took them in hers.

  THE BIRDS OF THE SOUL

  Here comes a candle to light you to bed,

  And here comes a chopper to chop off your head.

  —Nursery rhyme

  Tiger stayed with the Reds for a few days, resting after his terrible experience on the ice. In company with Miss Swallow he visited the injured seal-hunter, Goosander. He was lying in his hut, his foot watched over by two skulls, one human, the other a bird’s.

  “He will be all right,” said Miss Swallow. “I have sucked the evil from his foot, and now his departed ones are watching over it. For such a slight illness there was no need for me to send out the bird of my soul. Twice I have sent her all the way to the Land of the Dead. It is a long and terrible journey, and once I did not get there in time. After such an ordeal my poor body lies as if dead for a day and a night.”

  “But that one,” remarked Tiger, nodding toward the bird skull, “is not human.”

  “You have seen that we do not bury our dead the way the Whites do, or cover our graves with flowers. We move from place to place, and we need the aid of our dead. We also strive to be united with those whom we cherish. When one of our people leaves us to go into the Land of the Birds, he gives us that which is most precious—his brain, with its living thoughts, emotions, and knowledge. This becomes our holy communion; with it, part of his soul enters us.

  “Sometimes, though, one of our people gets lost and is never found again. That is what happened to Goosander’s father. Then we seek the bird whose name the departed bears. We treat it as we would a human skull, for we have been taught that in the moment that the sacrament touches our lips, it is changed into the flesh and blood of the departed.”

  Tiger was thoughtful. He realized that Miss Swallow was a powerful shaman, and though his father, the Chief, had been no friend of shamans, the composed and kindly Miss Swallow was certainly very different from the shamans the Chief had spoken about. Perhaps the Red and White shamans were better than the Black.

  Well-fed, with a supply of meat for his journey, Tiger set out across the fast ice, following the chain of islands. There had been a light snowfall a few days before, but now the sun was out, and by midday it felt distinctly warm. Toward evening, when the glare diminished and the sun was red on the horizon, he passed familiar landmarks, and finally arrived at the two skerries closest to Veyde’s Island: the Old Man, long and meager, and the Old Woman, who turned her round buttocks to the sky. There they rested forever, in company, and seemed to agree. Perhaps their spirits sought each other in the night. They were good-natured and friendly, two silent but nice neighbors.

  Dusk was falling when Tiger reached Veyde’s Island and went up on the long moraine spit pointing south. In the summer, terns and turnstones would nest here; now it was icy and barren, he ran along the path through the wood to the winter village.

  “Veyde! Veyde!” he called out.

  There was no answer. There was no fire. Nobody was in sight.

  He called out again, and ran to the house he shared with Veyde. It was empty and cold. The small lamp, which always burned day and night, had gone out.

  With mounting terror Tiger stepped outside again. Suddenly he was running about in a panic, shouting, listening, shouting again. Now he was in the wood, stumbling over stumps and fallen trees, now on the ice, now on the bluffs where the summer tents used to stand.

  Much later he was back in the house. He had filled the lamp and lighted it with shaking hands. He looked around in a daze. There was nothing to show what had happened to Veyde and Marten. It was as if they had gone out for a moment, planning to come back directly. On the floor he saw a half-made fur blouse and some sticks that Marten used to play with, squeezing them in his small hands, striking them together and listening intently to the sound. Now Marten was gone, but the sticks were here.

  Tiger went from house to house, carrying the lamp. All were empty like his own.

  He stood outdoors. The air was still and cold. The whole island was frozen in an immense silence, and above him were the stars. Everything had passed away as in a dream. The world was empty, and he alone was left in it.

  Tiger looked up at the silvery star-dust bridge that arched above him. The stars hung in still clusters. Only the Star-Hunters, the roving ones, moved each night. The Wolf Star was red in the west: was there a message for Tiger in its hot gaze? To the south he saw the calm eye of the Slow One. But the Hunter of the Evening, the sun’s fierce warrior with his changeable moods, could not be seen. He had gone to rest for the night. Tiger knew that the Whites thought of the great bridge as the path of the birds, along which they would make their last journey. In the icy stillness a falling star crossed the sky, and Tiger flinched as if he had been struck. Was that a soul-bird flying away?

  Finally quieted after his panic, Tiger spent the night between sleep and waking, dozing, then starting up. He heard a voice; somebody called his name: hope returned, time and again. But no one came; nobody was there; all was silent.

  At dawn he was outside again, looking at the white sheet of snow. The only signs of life were his own footprints, a confused pattern, recalling to his mind the awful night and the hopeless search.

  The sun rose higher, its rays falling on the snow and the tracks between the tree-trunks. Now Tiger saw what he should have seen from the start. His footprints were red, as if his own blood had been pouring out of him at every step. He scratched the snow away with his foot. Underneath, the rock was covered with frozen blood.

  The certainty hit him like a fierce blow in the stomach, and he sank down on his knees. Shelk had returned. He had promised to do so, and he had kept his promise.

  Yet Tiger had seen him die; he had buried him. It was true, then: Shelk was immortal. He had risen from his grave and returned, bringing vengeance with him. So it must be. Shelk was mightier than anyone else; mightier than the shamans, mightier than the Guardians. He had traveled to the Land of the Dead and he had come back. What was it he had said? “I am the Son of the Sun; I am the Guardian of birds.” To such a man even the spirits who keep watch over the gate to the Land of Dead Men must defer.

  In these moments Tiger experienced the most extreme terror of his life. Alone in front of his and Veyde’s house, in the clear sunshine of the winter morning, he stood stupefied, blindly accepting his fate, balancing on the verge of an abyss of witlessness and self-destruction.

  Finally he became aware of movements somewhere in the distance, and he looked up. It was a bevy of crossbills fluttering eagerly among the pines. At the unexpected sight of the small birds, which brought Marten and Veyde back to him, it seemed that a cool and fresh wind blew through his mind. “No!” he cried out. He felt a surge of defiance. Yes, he was alone; but he was still alive. Shelk had not killed him yet, so he was not omnipotent after all.

  “Shelk, you shall die for the second time,” he said.

  Why not? What was it they had said about him? That he could be in two places at the same time? Then he had two lives. Baywillow had taken one; Tiger would take the other. He stood up decisively. “O Black Tiger, make me cunning and deathly like yourself,” he prayed. In his mind’s eye he saw the shape of the great Guardian rise out of Trout Lake. “You mu
st teach me,” he whispered. He was going to the Land of the Osprey, to challenge the Great Devil!

  But first there was another truth to find out.

  Tiger found them without difficulty. A mound of branches had been thrown together in the wood, and later covered by the new-fallen snow. With loving care he removed the branches, and the first thing he saw was the pale face of Miss Angelica. For a long time Tiger looked at her. Even in death she retained her proud, authoritative mien, but somebody had closed her eyes, had laid her to rest.

  Beside her was Mister Marestail, wounded by many spears. In his icy face there was wrath but also triumph. You avenged her, thought Tiger. More corpses came to sight. There were Mister Alder, young Campion, Miss Silverweed—at the sight of her Tiger was filled with an even greater bitterness. She who had lived so often in her own mysterious world; she whose body he had penetrated while it was still living and warm; she whom he had given a child for Baywillow. They were all cold and their faces stony under his caress. Carefully he covered them up again.

  Now he knew that Veyde was alive, that Marten was alive, that many of the others were alive. He also knew that somebody had been here after Shelk. Loving hands had laid the dead to rest. Yet Tiger felt that it had to be done better. For two days he carried rocks to make a great cairn to cover them all and keep them safe from wolves and hyenas. “The others I shall see in the Land of the Osprey,” he told himself. “I am going to kill Shelk; but in the summer we’ll come back here to scatter flowers over the grave.”

  Once again he was traveling.

  THE DANCE OF THE TIGER

  If, as claimed, the large sabers made it very difficult to eat,

  the animals took 40 million years to starve to death.

  —G. G. Simpson, Major Features of Evolution

  The sun rose in a high arc, and a noonday thaw filled the air with the moist fragrance of melting snow and the scent of the pines. Freezing and thawing built strangely inclined fences of brittle ice, which glittered in the sunlight, along the edges of the glades. In the open spaces, a carrying crust had formed upon the snow, so Tiger avoided the dense woods and walked along the eskers. Because they led consistently aslant of his course, he had to shift now and then from one ridge to the next, always moving in a zigzag trail.