Dance of the Tiger

by Bjorn Kurten

  One evening a light snowfall covered the crust, and in the morning the surface carried innumerable footprints of the forest’s wildlife. Tiger passed along quickly, but noted with rapid glances what animals had been afield. He was beginning to feel hungry, and his pack of food was growing light. He marked the trackways of hare and fox, horse and hyena. He lingered for a while over the footprints of an elk, but finally went on; the trail was cold.

  Suddenly he stopped and bent down, a puzzled frown on his face. Here was something new. Never before had he seen any footprints like these; fresh, too. They looked a bit like lynx tracks, but much bigger. And there was something else, something eerie about that pawmark. There were too many toes. Tiger shook his head, grunted, and looked around. There was nothing in sight. Too many toes! That was the mark of a hind foot. He whistled. Here was another hind foot, this one just a bit smaller, with four clearly outlined toes; like the lynx, but still too large. So there were two animals.

  “Here are the front feet,” Tiger murmured. Again like the lynx, again impossibly large. Yet the lynx was a big-footed beast. And what was this? It must be a front foot of the other one, of the one who had six toes on his hind foot. Tiger could not make it out. There were four toes and then something which looked like a blurred bunch instead of the inner toe. He stared incredulously, trying to recollect all the footprint lore his long experience had taught him, but never before had he seen these prints. What strange beasts were loose in the forest?

  Then, in a flash, he realized the truth. Two great cats hunting together, male and female, could mean only one thing. With shining eyes he turned away from his route and started tracking. The footprints were fresh. The animals must have passed through just a short while before. And he had always thought that the black tigers were gone forever! Wild plans and schemes thronged in his brain; foremost was his yearning to see the tigers. In the grip of a wild exhilaration, he ran on, his hunger forgotten.

  Tiger crested another ridge and skidded to a stop. Look! Coming in from the west, not just a trackway, but a great furrow in the snow, with big cakes of crust thrown aside; and within the furrow, the immense circular imprints of mammoth feet. Tiger read the story easily. It was a small family: a bull, a cow, and a calf. The bull had walked in front, plowing his way through the snow, the calf behind him, the cow in the rear. They would be tired soon, walking at that pace, breaking through the crust. The tigers had followed the mammoths. He could guess how eagerly they were bounding from the longer spaces between their tracks. He ran on after the mammoths.

  It was a long run. He was puffing and winded when he suddenly saw that the tigers had left the mammoth trackway and drawn off to the right. He sensed the importance of this; the mammoths had moved downwind and the tigers, closing in, were making a detour to prevent their scent from betraying them. He had better do the same. For a moment he considered following the tigers, but prudence won, and he took off to the left. Flushed, tired, and cautious he made his way up the little ridge ahead. There were the mammoths, clearly visible in the glade on the other side, where they had stopped. There was no sign of the tigers.

  Tiger froze in his tracks and studied the mammoths intently. Apparently they had not noticed him, or were not concerned. They were at the southern edge of the glade where the shade had protected the snow from the glare of the noonday sun and no crust had formed. The big bull was using his great curved tusks to sweep off the snow. In the patch he had cleared, the cow and calf were at work pulling up big bunches of grass and chewing voraciously.

  Tiger moved back behind a big pine tree. He hoisted himself up to the lowermost branch and scaled the tree, still staying behind it. Halfway up, he found a good place to sit. Here he could survey the scene without being noticed. The wind was bearing crosswise between him and the mammoths. He admired their great, shaggy black shapes, and marveled at the power and speed with which the bull had cleared away the snow.

  Now the bull fell to, and all three animals ate, moving their trunks dexterously and rapidly from the ground to their mouths.

  Suddenly the mammoths stopped foraging and simultaneously lifted the tips of their trunks. They had smelled something. It could not be his scent, for the wind was steady from his right. Both the bull and the cow stared upwind. Tiger craned his neck and saw his living totem.

  The tiger was a big animal, yet it looked ridiculously small compared with these mighty mammoths. It had emerged from the wood on Tiger’s right, directly in the mammoths’ line of wind. The mammoths now stood stock still, facing the tiger. Trying to control his excitement, Tiger devoured the great cat with his eyes. The tiger—it must be a male, he was so big—also stood still, facing the mammoths. He had an air of the utmost innocence. He seemed to be surveying the mammoths with a look of benevolent apology, as if he had appeared on the scene by sheer accident and would bow out presently.

  This animal was the most remarkable and unforgettable Tiger had ever seen. He stood very high in front, on long forelegs, his back sloping to low hindquarters, his head erect. It was the stance of a playful puppy, and the tiger’s eyes seemed to radiate innocent wonder. A small V-shaped white throat patch on the black skin enhanced the clownish appearance of the creature. The only feature marring his amiable expression was the white glint of the left scimitar-tooth, clearly visible against the black chin. The tiger stretched his neck, as if measuring his height against the mammoths. Then he rose for a moment on his hind legs, lifting his forelegs with hanging paws, more like a playful puppy than ever. The mammoths, on whom these antics made no impression, continued to stare.

  The tiger, still a picture of faultless good will, sank down on all fours and sauntered forward at a leisurely pace. On this side of the glade the crust was firm underfoot. There came a warning rumble from the mammoth bull. His trunk moved restlessly and his ears flapped out. The cow and calf closed in beside him, the calf sheltered between its parents. The tiger, whose high stance and proudly carried head gave him an air of superiority despite his smaller size, continued to amble forward.

  This was too much for the bull mammoth. His trunk flew high, and with a scream of rage he rushed at the tiger.

  With a single pained glance, which seemed to deplore such a misconstruction of his intentions, the tiger veered around and gracefully evaded the onslaught. The bull, after driving him away, turned around to rejoin his family.

  The tiger sat down and yawned, baring his great curved scimitars, and closed his jaws with an audible click. Tiger could not help grinning. His heart was going out to that fearless, cunning, clown of an animal, a midget fighting a giant.

  Then in one quick, flowing movement, the tiger rushed the mammoths.

  He never reached them. The great bull whirled around to counterattack, and the tiger dashed away. He moved without effort on the snow crust, which the mammoth broke through at every step. The bull returned to his mate.

  Ears cocked, the tiger sat down and meditatively watched the mammoths. He had lost nothing of his look of innocence. Then came another rush, another response, and the tiger sprang back, only to make a dash toward the cow while the bull was retreating.

  The snow was flying; the dance continued. The tiger made his rushes from a new angle every time, forcing the mammoth to plow unbroken crust in his defense. As the tiger circled the mammoths, the cow became more and more flustered and was occasionally drawn to try an attack. Another dash; another onslaught by both mammoths, and suddenly there was a flash of black in the dense alders at the other edge of the glade.

  The calf, unprotected for a moment, had eyes for nothing but its parents and their fight. The tigress, meanwhile, had been lying in ambush in the woods behind him. Now she was out in the open, unnoticed by anybody but Tiger, who saw her swollen belly and knew that she was pregnant. In her desperate rush, she rose very high up on the side of the calf. There was a momentary embrace; her scimitars flicked as she thrust them into the calf’s neck. Then, with a jerk, she broke away and dashed back to cover.

&nbs
p; The calf gave a squeal of pain as blood gushed from its neck where the tiger’s scimitars had ripped two great wounds. The bull, trumpeting with rage, crashed into the wood after the she-tiger, but was hopelessly impeded by the alder thicket. The cow tried to keep between the calf and the male tiger, who was still maneuvering in a half-circle, making a sally from time to time. The baffled bull emerged from the wood and immediately charged at the tiger, who evaded him as easily as before. Now the bull was implacable. He continued to pursue the tiger, who led him a long dance over the glade. The mammoth sank into the snow and became more and more winded. Traces of blood showed that even his tough skin was getting frayed by the ice.

  At last he could do no more. He stopped in his tracks just below Tiger, and looked at his tormentor with smoldering eyes. The tiger sat down and started gravely to lick his paw.

  After its first fright the mammoth calf went into a state of complete shock. The single attack of the tigress had severed the artery in the animal’s neck, at the same time mercifully robbing it of its senses. The blood spurting from the wounds made great red patches in the snow. The calf sank down to its knees, then fell over, its life flowing out in a final burst of blood. The male tiger stopped licking himself and looked on tranquilly as the bull mammoth slowly walked back to his calf.

  The mammoths stayed with the dead, and when Tiger looked back, the male tiger had vanished. Rejoining his mate, thought Tiger. There was nothing to do now but wait. Tiger climbed down and found a place where he could make himself a den. There he slept, after finishing the last of his food.

  When Tiger returned in the morning, the mammoth parents were gone, and the tigers were feasting. They had already eaten the trunk and much of the meat; the entrails lay in the snow. The enormous meal had already satisfied the female tiger, who was now lying at rest, while the male continued to eat half-heartedly. He appeared to be sated too, and finally joined his mate. Rolling over on his back, his four paws in the air, he started to lick himself, all over his magnificent black breast with the shining white patch.

  Tiger was drawn irresistibly to the great cats. Slowly he moved toward them, talking softly to them all the time; afterwards he could not remember a word of what he had said. The sated tigers looked at him briefly but without interest, until he was only a few feet away. Now the male tiger looked at him attentively, craning his neck to do so while lying on his back. He did not stir. Brimming with awe and love, Tiger studied the great beast. His big paws were remarkable, and the hind feet did indeed have six toes. The front paws were peculiar; instead of the normal inner toe, which he could see in the female, there was a bunching of three vestigial toes which hung limply and flapped about as the tiger moved his paws. He understood now why the tracks were so queer; yet the tiger did not seem to be bothered by his abnormal condition.

  The male rolled softly to his side, and Tiger admired his silky black fur and brilliant throat patch. His head was long and narrow; his eyes had greenish irises. The tiger yawned, displaying his fearsome teeth; then his eyes closed. His whiskers bunched forward. Most were black, but a few hairs were totally white.

  Following an impulse, Tiger drew his hand-axe and cut a few strips of meat from the dead mammoth. The tigress opened her eyes, big and round, to look at him, but she did not move. Tiger stuffed the meat into his pack and bid the animals a ceremonious farewell. Then he slowly retraced his steps, under the gaze of both tigers.

  The tigers spent the next few days by their kill, and Tiger rejoined them several times. Hyenas and wolves showed up; Tiger chased them away. Then one morning the tigers were gone. Their tracks showed that they were heading north. Tiger was tempted to follow them, but he kept his head. He knew that he had things to do, and now he thought he knew how to do them. He would appear gentle and innocent, but behind that mask he would be as swift and deadly as the tigress.

  There was one thing he had to do before he went on. Not far away, he found what he was looking for: a great granite hogback with a smooth, ice-polished surface, where the wind had swept away much of the snow and the sun had melted the rest. Tiger built a great fire and, armed with charcoal and mammoth fat, went to work.

  He sketched out a great picture of the scene he had witnessed. The immense black mammoths took shape under his hand. Then came the tigers. He worked in ecstasy to reproduce in sensitive lines the flow of power, the clownish insolence, the mastery of the male tiger; to catch the urgency and precision of the female, her single, high-rising attack, the one unerring stroke of violence in the whole combat. There was no hate or anger in her, only the rapture of fulfillment. He too knew that sudden flood of peace from a task well done. He worked as in a trance.

  Still he was not finished; there was one area of the rock-face that he had not filled with pictures. There he drew a different image, which came from another secret place in his mind. There were only two figures here: one, a majestic shelk; the other, a black tiger moving in to attack. The shelk, for all its glory, was touched by the premonition of death, while every line in the tiger was alive with implacable anger.

  After days of toil, all was finished. Exhausted, yet with a consciousness of purpose and resolution that was new to him, Tiger contemplated his work.

  “That is the way it will be done,” he said. The pictures sealed his compact with the great Guardian. He slung his pack over his shoulder and walked away. The sun felt warm. His eye fell on a nosegay of hepaticas, deep blue against a background of melting snow. He smiled. He was hungry. There were great things to be done.

  THE WASP

  And you could be stung by a wasp. There are those who have died of that, too.

  —Lars Huldén, Heim

  Soon Tiger came to a well-trodden path. It was covered by new snow but formed a well-defined furrow, and he was glad to see that it would lead him in the right direction. He was now well provided for, and since he did not have to stop and hunt for food, his progress was rapid. There was still light in the evening sky when he stopped to spend the night under the branches of a fallen tree.

  Tiger had been thinking of his plans all day. This time he was going to be prepared. Like his father he tried to look forward, to gauge the enemy’s moves and to choose his own. The Chief had pitted his cunning against that of the mammoths; Tiger had a far more terrible adversary. It was Shelk, once killed, yet still alive, unique in power, with a hundred warriors to obey his call. Surely, then, Shelk could use another warrior, and he, Tiger, would apply to become one of Shelk’s gang. He would probably have to pass a test, but he was a good atlatl shot, and a good artist besides.

  A new idea struck Tiger. He spoke the language of the Whites, which very few others did, apart from Shelk himself. There must be many White prisoners. Whatever Shelk’s purpose with them, he would find a good linguist useful. Once a member of the band, he would bide his time as cunningly as the black tigress. Sooner or later the moment would come, when he was alone with Shelk. Then he would strike.

  But wait! He must have a story to tell. Shelk would certainly ask him about his past. It would not do to say he came from Trout Lake. No, he knew what to say: he was an itinerant artist. They were not uncommon. Sometimes they were apprentice shamans who traveled from village to village. His home was—by the Salt Sea? No, he did not speak like the Salt Sea people. You knew them from their speech, as he himself had known Goshawk. He would say he came from Falcon Hill. His father had told him about the place. It was far to the south. Where had he learned the language of the Whites? That was easy. He had been in the north, in the land of the Whites.

  He lay awake that evening, perfecting his plan. At last he went to sleep, but he was rudely awakened in the grey dawn by somebody pinning him to the ground. Sleepy and terrified, he saw a man bending over him, and felt a spearpoint at his neck.

  “One move and you’re dead,” the stranger tittered. Tiger tried to break loose, but the spearpoint pressed into his neck. A second man brutally turned Tiger over and bound his hands behind his back. Then he kicked him a
nd said in a deep, mournful voice, “Get up!”

  Both men were Blacks. “Who are you? Are you Shelk’s men? I—” started Tiger, but the man with the tittering voice cried fiercely, “Shut up! Time enough to talk when you meet our Chief—talk, or hang.”

  He was a heavy, squat fellow. He stood broad-legged and kept his spearpoint at Tiger’s neck.

  “Get up,” commanded the other man, who was tall and thin. Tiger shrugged and rose, and the men immediately stepped to his sides, gripping both his arms. “Come along, and mind you, no funny business,” said the tall man.

  “But—” Tiger began, and got a smart blow over his face with the shaft of a spear. “Shut up,” ordered the short man. “Not a word before you stand before the Chief.”

  During the walk, the men talked to each other, paying no heed to the prisoner. “He’ll hang like the others, Glutton, old man,” said the merry one. “The Witch’ll be pleased to cut out his liver.”

  “Take it easy,” murmured the gloomy Glutton. “Maybe the Chief will let him live. You shouldn’t be such an alarmist, Beaver. If you cut out his tongue and take off his left hand, he can still be useful. You see everything in black.”

  “Yes,” said Beaver, laughing, “that’s what I’m like. It’s too bad that such a nice-looking man will have his guts running out of him while he hangs in the tree with the other one, but that’s how you have to deal with his sort, my dear Glutton.”

  “I wouldn’t lose hope in his place,” said Glutton lugubriously. “If he speaks fast and plenty when the Chief interrogates him…”