Tiger's Curse

by Colleen Houck

Mike ended up spending several hours in the garage that night cooing over and petting the convertible. I, on the other hand, spent my evening figuring out what to bring to India. I did my laundry, packed a large bag, and spent some time hanging out with my foster family. The two kids, Rebecca and Sammy, wanted to hear all about my two weeks at the circus. We also talked about the exciting things I might see and do in India.

  They were good people, a good family, and they cared about me. Saying good-bye was hard, even though it was only temporary. Technically, I was an adult, but I was still nervous about traveling so far alone. I hugged and kissed the two kids. Mike soberly shook my hand and gave me a half hug for a long minute. Then I turned to Sarah, who pulled me into a tight embrace. We were both teary-eyed afterward, but she assured me that they would always be just a phone call away.

  That night, I quickly slipped into a deep sleep and dreamed of a handsome Indian prince who happened to have a pet tiger.

  5

  the plane

  the next morning, I awoke with great energy and felt positive and enthusiastic about the trip. After showering and a quick breakfast, I grabbed my bag, hugged Sarah again because she was the only one awake, and ran out to the garage. Sliding into the Bentley, I found it as delicious as I remembered.

  I pulled into the fairgrounds parking lot and stopped next to a medium-sized cargo truck. The vehicle had a thick windshield, very big wheels, and tiny doors that required climbing a step to reach them. It looked like a monster truck past its prime, but, instead of being put out to pasture, it had been recruited into the cargo business. Behind the cab was a flatbed with a boxy steel frame draped with gray canvas.

  The ramp was down in the back: Mr. Davis was already loading Ren into the cage. Ren wore a thick collar around his neck, which was firmly attached to a long chain that Mr. Davis and Matt both gripped tightly. The tiger seemed very calm and unruffled despite the chaos going on around him. In fact, he watched me while waiting patiently for the men to prepare the truck. Finally, they were ready, and with a command from Mr. Davis, Ren quickly catapulted up into the crate.

  Mr. Kadam took my bag and slung the strap over his shoulder. He asked, “Miss Kelsey, would you like to ride in the truck with the driver or would you like to accompany me in the convertible?”

  I looked at the monster cargo truck and quickly made my decision, “With you. I’d never pick a monster flatbed over a sleek convertible.”

  He laughed in agreement before placing my bag in the trunk of the Bentley. Knowing it was time to go, I waved good-bye to Mr. Davis and Matt, climbed back into the convertible, and buckled my seatbelt. Before I knew it, we were cruising along I-5 behind the truck.

  Talking was difficult over the wind, so I just leaned my head back against the soft, warm leather and watched the scenery go by. We were actually driving at a leisurely pace—fifty-five mph, about ten miles per hour under the speed limit. Curious onlookers slowed their cars to stare at our little convoy. The traffic became heavier near Wilsonville where we quickly caught up to the morning commuters who’d passed us earlier.

  The airport was about twenty miles farther on Highway 205, a small highway that sat like a teacup handle on I-5. The truck in front of us turned onto Airport Drive and then pulled off on a side street and stopped behind some large hangars. Several cargo planes were lined up and being loaded. Mr. Kadam wove between people and equipment and came to a halt near a private plane. The name on the side read Flying Tiger Airlines, and it sported the image of a running tiger.

  I turned to Mr. Kadam, nodded my head toward the plane, and said, “Flying Tiger, huh?”

  He grinned. “It’s a long story, Miss Kelsey, and I will tell you all about it on the plane.” Pulling my bag out of the trunk, he handed the keys to a man standing by who promptly got into the gorgeous car and drove it off the tarmac.

  We both watched as several burly men lifted the tiger’s crate with a motorized pallet jack and expertly transferred him into the plane’s large, custom cage.

  Satisfied that the tiger was secure and comfortable, we climbed up the plane’s portable staircase and stepped inside.

  I was amazed at the opulence of the interior. The plane was decorated in black, white, and chrome, which made it look sleek and modern. The black leather seats were exceptionally cozy looking, a far cry from the cabin seats on commercial jets, and they fully reclined!

  An attractive Indian flight attendant with long, dark hair gestured to a chair and introduced herself. “My name is Nilima. Please, go ahead and take your seat, Miss Kelsey.” She had an accent similar to Mr. Kadam’s.

  I asked, “Are you from India too?”

  Nilima nodded and smiled at me as she fluffed a pillow behind my head. Next, she brought me a blanket and a variety of magazines. Mr. Kadam sat in the roomy chair across from me. He waved away the attendant and strapped himself in, foregoing the pillow and blanket.

  I had flown in a plane only a couple of times before on vacations with my family. During the actual flight, I was usually pretty relaxed, but the takeoffs and landings made me anxious and tense. The sound of the engines probably bothered me the most—the ominous roar as they came to life—and the pushed-back-in-your-chair feeling as the plane left the earth always made me queasy. The landings weren’t fun either, but I was usually so excited to get off the plane and move around that I just wanted to be done with it.

  This plane was definitely different. It was luxurious, wide open, and had plenty of legroom and comfy leather reclining chairs. It was so much nicer than flying coach. Comparing this to a regular plane was like comparing a soggy, stale French fry you find under a car seat with a giant baked potato with salt rubbed into the skin and topped with sour cream, crumbled bacon, butter, shredded cheese, and sprinkled with fresh-cracked black pepper. Yep, this plane was loaded.

  All this luxury, coupled with the beautiful convertible car, made me wonder about Mr. Kadam’s employer. He must be someone very rich and powerful in India. I tried to think of who it might be, but I couldn’t even fathom a guess.

  Maybe he’s one of those Bollywood actors. I wonder how much money they make. No, that can’t be it. Mr. Kadam has been working for him a long time, so he’s probably a very old man now.

  The plane had built up speed and taken off while I was pondering Mr. Kadam’s mystery employer. I hadn’t even noticed! Maybe it was because my chair was so soft that I just sank back into it when the plane ascended, or maybe it was because the pilot did an exceptional job. Perhaps it was a little of both. I looked out the window and watched the Columbia River grow smaller and smaller until we passed through the cloud cover and I couldn’t see land anymore.

  After about an hour and a half, I’d read a magazine cover to cover and finished the Sudoku puzzle as well as the crossword. I set down my magazine and looked at Mr. Kadam. I didn’t want to pester him, but I had tons of questions.

  I cleared my throat. He responded by smiling at me over his news magazine. Of course, the first thing that came out of my mouth was the question I cared the least about. “So, Mr. Kadam, tell me all about Flying Tiger Airlines.”

  He closed his magazine before setting it down on the table. “Hmm. Where to begin? My employer used to own, and I used to run, a cargo airline company called Flying Tiger Airlines Freight and Cargo or Flying Tiger Airlines for short. It was the largest major trans-Atlantic charter company in the 1940s and 1950s. We provided service to almost every continent in the world.”

  “Where did the name Flying Tiger come from?”

  He shifted slightly in his seat. “You already know that my employer has a fondness for tigers, so it was that, coupled with the fact that a few of the original pilots had flown ‘tiger’ planes during WWII. You might remember that they were painted like tiger sharks to look fierce in battle.

  “In the late ’80s, my employer decided to sell the company. But he kept one plane, this one, for personal use.”

  “What is your employer’s name? Will I get to meet hi
m?”

  His eyes twinkled. “Most assuredly. He will introduce himself when you land in India. I am certain he would like to converse with you.” He shifted his gaze to the back of the plane for a moment and then back to me. Smiling with an encouraging expression, he added, “Are there any other questions?”

  “So you’re kind of like his vice president?”

  The Indian gentleman laughed. “Suffice it to say, he is a very wealthy man who trusts me completely to handle all of his business dealings.”

  “Ah, so you’re the Mr. Smithers to his Mr. Burns.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at me. “I’m afraid I don’t understand your reference.”

  I blushed and waved a hand. “Never mind. They’re characters on The Simpsons. You’ve probably never seen the show.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t. Sorry, Miss Kelsey.”

  Mr. Kadam seemed slightly uncomfortable or nervous when talking about his boss, but he enjoyed talking about planes, so I encouraged him to continue. I wiggled in my seat and shifted. Kicking off my shoes, I sat cross-legged in the chair and asked, “What kind of cargo did you transport?”

  He visibly relaxed. “Over the years, the company transported quite a collection of interesting cargo. For example, we won the contract to convey Aquatic World’s famous killer whale, as well as the torch from the Statue of Liberty. Most of the time, though, the cargo was quite mundane. We transported things such as canned goods, textiles, and packages, quite a variety of things, really.”

  “How on earth do you fit a whale into an airplane?”

  “One flipper at a time, Miss Kelsey. One flipper at a time.”

  Mr. Kadam’s face remained serious. I laughed hard. Wiping a tear from the corner of my eye, I clarified, “So you ran the company?”

  “Yes, I spent a lot of time developing Flying Tiger Airlines. I very much enjoy aviation.” He gestured to the aircraft. “What we’re riding in here is called an MD-11, a McDonnell Douglas. It’s a long-range craft, which is necessary when traveling across the ocean. The body is spacious and comfortable, as you might have noticed. It has two engines mounted under the wings, and a third engine is located in the back at the base of the vertical stabilizer. Of course, the interior is built for comfort and relaxation, and we employ the pilot, ground crew, as well as other staff to ensure security.”

  “Hmm, sounds . . . sturdy.”

  He leaned forward a bit in his seat and spoke enthusiastically, “Though this plane is an older model, it still provides for a very swift journey.” He began numbering its features on his fingers, “It includes a stretched fuselage, a large wingspan, a refined airfoil on the wing and tail plane, and brand new engines.

  “The flight deck features the most modern conveniences—electronic instrument panels, dual flight management, GPS, central fault display— and it also has automatic landing capability for bad-weather conditions. Of course, we also kept our original company name and logo on the side, which you identified when we boarded.”

  He had become eagerly spirited during his technical ruminative. I’m sure it all meant something, but what exactly, I had no idea. The only thing I got out of it was that it was a pretty darn good plane and sounded like it had three engines.

  He must have figured out that I had no clue what he was talking about because he looked at my perplexed face and chuckled. “Perhaps we should discuss something else, eh? What if I share some tiger myths from my homeland?”

  I nodded enthusiastically, urging him to go on. I drew my legs to the side and tucked them into my chair. Then I pulled my blanket up to my chin and leaned back into my pillow.

  Mr. Kadam’s intonation changed as he went into storytelling mode. His English articulation dropped off, and his brisk accent became more pronounced, the words more melodic. I enjoyed listening to the cadence of his rhythmic voice.

  “The tiger is considered the great protector of the jungle. Several Indian myths say the tiger has great powers. He will bravely combat great dragons but he will also help simple farmers. One of his many tasks is to tow rain clouds with his tail, ending drought for humble villagers.”

  “I’m very interested in mythology. Do the people of India still believe in these tiger myths?”

  “Yes, especially in the rural areas. But, you will find believers in all parts of the country, even among those who consider themselves a part of today’s modern world. Did you know that some say that a tiger’s purrs will stop nightmares?”

  “Mr. Davis said that tigers can’t purr. He told me that big cats that growl and roar can’t purr, but sometimes I swear Ren purrs.”

  “Ah, you are correct. Modern science says that a tiger cannot produce the sound identified as a purr. Several of the larger cats make a pulsating noise, but it isn’t quite the same as the purr of a housecat. Still, there are some Indian myths that speak of a tiger purring. It’s also said that a tiger’s body has unique healing properties. This is one of the reasons why they are regularly hunted and killed and their bodies mutilated or sold for parts.”

  He leaned back in his chair, relaxing. “In Islam, it is believed that Allah will send a tiger to defend and protect those who follow him faithfully, but he will also send a tiger to punish those he considers traitors.”

  “Hmm, I think if I were Islamic I would run away from it, just to be on the safe side. I wouldn’t know if it’s coming to punish or to protect.”

  He laughed. “Yes, very wise of you. I confess, I have adopted somewhat of the same fascination that my employer has for tigers, and I have studied numerous texts regarding the mythology of Indian tigers, in particular.”

  He trailed off for a moment, lost in thought, and his eyes glazed over. His index finger rubbed at a spot on his open collar, and I noticed he was wearing a small, wedge-shaped pendant on a chain that was half-tucked inside his shirt.

  As his focus turned back to me, he quickly dropped his hand to his lap and continued, “Tigers are also a symbol of power and immortality. They are said to vanquish evil through various means. They are called life givers, sentinels, guardians, and defenders.”

  I straightened my legs and angled my head back into the pillow. “Are there any damsel-in-distress type tiger myths?”

  He considered, “Hmm, yes. In fact, one of my favorite stories is about a white tiger that sprouts wings and saves the princess who loves him from a cruel fate. Carrying her on his back, they relinquish their corporeal forms and become a single white streak journeying into the heavens, eventually joining the stars of the Milky Way. Together they spend eternity watching over and protecting the people of Earth.”

  I yawned sleepily. “That’s really beautiful. I think that one’s my favorite too.” His soft, melodic voice had relaxed me. Despite my best efforts to stay awake and listen, I was falling asleep.

  He continued steadily, “In Nagaland, they believe that tigers and men are related, that they are brothers. There is one myth that begins, ‘Mother Earth was the mother of the tiger and also of man. Once the two brothers were happy, loved each other, and lived in harmony. But a feud began over a woman, and Brother Tiger and Brother Man fought so wildly that Mother Earth could no longer tolerate their quarrel and had to send them both away.

  “‘Brother Tiger and Brother Man left the home of Mother Earth and emerged from a very deep, dark passage inside the earth said to be a pangolin’s den. Living together inside the earth, the two brothers still fought every day, until eventually they decided it would be better to live separately. Brother Tiger went south to hunt in the jungle, and Brother Man went north to farm in the valley. If they stayed away from each other, then both were content. But, if one encroached upon the other’s territory, fighting began anew. Many lifetimes later, the legend still holds true. If the descendants of Brother Man leave the jungles in peace, Brother Tiger will also leave us in peace. Still, the tiger is our kin, and it is said that if you stare into a tiger’s eyes long enough, you will be able to recognize a kindred spirit.’”

  My ey
elids were drooping against my wishes. I wanted to ask what a pangolin’s den was, but my mouth wouldn’t move and my eyelids felt so heavy. I made one last effort to stay awake by shifting up in my seat a little bit, forcing my eyes open.

  Mr. Kadam looked at me thoughtfully. “A white tiger is a very special kind of tiger. It is immitigably drawn to a person, a woman, who has a powerful sense of self-conviction. This woman will possess great inner strength, will have the insight to discern good from evil, and will have the power to overcome many obstacles. She who is called to walk with tigers—”

  I fell asleep.

  When I awoke, the chair across from me was empty. I sat up and looked around, but I didn’t see Mr. Kadam anywhere. Unbuckling my seatbelt, I headed off to find the restroom.

  Opening a sliding door, I walked into a surprisingly large bathroom. This was not at all like the small boxy bathrooms in a regular plane. The lights were recessed in the walls and they softly illuminated the special features of the room. The bathroom was decorated in copper, cream, and rust colors, which were more to my liking than the modern austere look of the plane’s cabin.

  The first thing I noticed was the shower! I opened the glass door to peer inside. It had beautiful rust-and cream-colored tiles set in a lovely pattern. There were mounted pumps full of shampoo, conditioner, and soap. The copper showerhead was detachable, and a simple squeeze turned it on and off, similar to a kitchen sink sprayer. I figured this design would help to use less water, which wouldn’t be in abundance on a plane. A thick cream-colored rug covered the beautiful tiled floor.

  Off to the side two vertical cubbies, set into the wall, were filled with soft, alabaster towels held in place with a copper bar. Another wide compartment sported a silky soft, fully lined robe that felt like cashmere. It hung from a copper bar. Just under that, another smaller alcove held a pair of cashmere slippers.

  A deep sink, shaped like a skinny rectangle, had a pump on each side of the copper faucet. One was full of creamy soap and the other with a sweet lavender lotion.