by Jon Berkeley
“Miles!” boomed the voice of Lady Partridge, and as the monumental lady swept toward him Fuat was gone, leaving only a rustle in the long grass.
“Hello, Lady Partridge,” said Miles, grinning weakly.
“Thank goodness you’re all right!” said Lady Partridge. “The whole world seems to have gone mad.”
“You’re not the first person to say that,” said Miles. “Is Baltinglass okay?”
“As well as can be expected for a foolish old man,” said Lady Partridge. “He’s being looked after by a foreign lady. She says she doesn’t have the bright hands, whatever that means, and that you will be needed as soon as you can be spared.”
“Nura?” said Miles. “But if she’s here, then so is Cortado.”
“You don’t need to worry about him,” said Fabio, appearing out of the darkness.
“He’s had a meeting with the tiger,” said Gila.
“And it didn’t go his way,” said Umor.
“Varippuli!” said Miles, struggling to his feet.
“Varippuli?” echoed a voice behind him.
Lady Partridge looked at the hairy figure of Barty Fumble in astonishment. “Well, blow me down!” she said. “It spoke!”
“He’s not The Null anymore,” said Miles. “This is my father, Barty Fumble.”
“I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Fumble,” said Lady Partridge, her politeness getting the better of her astonishment, “though I’m sure I have no idea what’s going on.”
“That makes two of us,” said Barty. He scratched himself vigorously. “I seem to have been asleep for a long time, and now I wake up as a carpet.”
“It’s very complicated,” said Miles.
“There’ll be plenty of time to explain later, I’m sure,” said Lady Partridge. She helped Miles steady himself, and they followed the Bolsillo brothers slowly toward the circus wagon. A lamp had been hung over the back door, and Little stood there alone in a pool of light. She smiled sadly at Miles, her face wet with tears.
Miles took a deep breath and looked into the back of the wagon. He knew what he would see, but no amount of forewarning could soften the blow. The tiger lay stretched out on the clean straw, his eyes closed and his striped flanks still. He looked old and at peace, a magnificent beast who had lived his span of years and more, but the terrible stillness that filled him was hard to grasp. Miles fought back the tears, a lump expanding in his throat, and he stared hard at the tiger’s body as though he could will him back to life. He could not believe that he would never again see the welcome sight of shifting stripes in the grass, or feel the fire from those amber eyes filling him with confidence and strength.
He felt Little’s hand slip into his, but he kept his gaze on Varippuli until the tears flooded his eyes and he could no longer see clearly. He was about to turn away when he noticed something strange. Sticking out from underneath the tiger was a knee-length boot. The boot was as still as the tiger himself, and it belonged unmistakably to the once Great Cortado. It was clear the ringmaster too was dead, a hungry soul who had reached the end of a crooked path. Miles understood now the echoing roar he had heard from the darkness. It was Varippuli’s last stand, and the end of the villain who had tried so many times to kill him, and who had finally perished trying to steal the tiger’s very soul.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. “The tiger was a friend of mine too, a long time ago,” said Barty Fumble, “but all things must come to an end.”
Miles swallowed with difficulty. “I didn’t know him for long enough,” he said.
“Maybe not,” said his father, “but a friendship should be judged by its depth, not by its length.”
Miles looked up at Barty’s face. There was something in his sad, quizzical smile—and perhaps the faintest echo of a roar in his voice—that made Miles wonder if the tiger had truly left them after all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
A POSSIBLE FUTURE
Barty Fumble, Egg-restored and bushy-bearded, sat against the outside wall of the gazebo that had once held The Null, drinking in the winter sunlight and scratching himself from time to time. Miles and Little sat on either side of him in comfortable silence, she with her new silvered wings tucked discreetly away, he with his floppy orange bear sleeping soundly in the inside pocket of his old overcoat.
“Tell me again,” said Barty Fumble in his deep, rumbling voice, “about the Palace of Laughter.”
Miles began the story of how he had first met Little at the Circus Oscuro, and how they had traveled to the Palace of Laughter in search of Silverpoint and Tangerine. It was not the first time Miles had told this tale, but his father’s memory was slow to return and he seemed to enjoy hearing it over again, especially the parts about the tiger.
“I remember all those conversations, you know,” he said. “In all the time I was lost in the blackness my tiger dreams were what I lived for.” He chuckled deeply. “Remember that nasty little boy you brought to lunch in the olive grove? The one who tricked you into picking apples?”
Miles laughed. In the days since he had restored his father to himself he had come to realize why Barty’s voice had seemed so familiar to him. The tiger he had befriended had been half Barty Fumble, a tiger and a man rolled into one, though mercifully unaware of his own strange nature. When Miles thought back over his adventures with Varippuli he could not separate the two in his mind, and he had ceased to try. There had been enough of Barty Fumble in the tiger for him to get to know his missing father, and there was enough of the tiger still in his father to ease the pain of losing Varippuli. All in all, he felt, it could have turned out worse.
“So this is where you’re hiding out,” said Nura, sweeping around the corner of the gazebo in her midnight robes.
“I thought you had the far eyes,” said Miles with a smile.
Nura looked at him sternly. “You of all people should know how draining it is to use such a gift,” she said. “Do you think I’d waste my energy searching my mind for three lazy goats such as you?”
“Celeste always seemed to know exactly what you were doing, even when you were thousands of miles apart,” said Barty.
“That was easy,” said Nura, sitting down beside Miles. “We were twins, and all twins have the far eyes for each other.”
“You never told us exactly what happened to the Great Cortado,” said Miles.
Nura shrugged. “Cortado wanted to be joined with the tiger,” she said. “He got his wish, but not in the way he imagined.”
“How did you make him enter the cage?” asked Miles.
“I didn’t,” said Nura. “I would not want that on my conscience. I brought him and Tau-Tau to Hell’s Teeth because there was no other way I could get there to help you. I left them sitting in the van, parked about half a mile away, and told them to await my return. As it turned out I was too late to help you, but Cortado’s suspicion had gotten the better of him, as I suspected it might, and he and Tau-Tau had been following at my heels. While I was occupied with Baltinglass of Araby they found the tiger resting in the back of the van, and the Great Cortado saw his opportunity.”
“But why did he get in with the tiger?” asked Little. “He was terrified of Varippuli.”
“Doctor Tau-Tau interpreted the key for him,” said Nura. “He told him that he must enter the tiger’s cage.”
“That explains a lot,” said Miles. “He can always be relied on to get things wrong.”
“He didn’t get it wrong,” said Nura. “The key turns differently for everyone who uses it. That is what a well-made key does, and this one was exceptionally good.”
“You mean it has more than one meaning?” said Miles.
“Of course,” said Nura. “The key makes happen what is meant to happen. You embraced your father and returned him to himself. Baltinglass found the power to unlock the Tiger’s Egg in his third lightning strike. All this was in the key, and more.”
“Then what was Tau-Tau’s interpretation?” asked Little.
; “He told Cortado to embrace the tiger he feared, while Tau-Tau uttered an incantation over the fake Egg. He knew that the Great Cortado and the tiger had clashed twice already, and the key told him that the third time would be decisive.”
“Decisive for who?” said Miles. “Varippuli or Cortado?”
Nura looked at him with a glint in her dark eyes. “Whom do you think he had his money on?” she said.
Miles leaned back against the gazebo wall. He could feel Tangerine stirring awake in his pocket, and the thought of the small bear brought a broad smile to his face. His aunt returned his smile. “You are thinking of the bear?” she said.
Miles nodded. “I’m just glad the life has come back to him, though I still don’t understand how it happened.”
“The world is not here to be understood,” said Nura. “A small bear who had been home to two souls, and who had been sung to life once before, was struck by lightning. There are no recipes for such strange ingredients. It has probably never happened before, and will almost certainly never happen again. Some people attract odd happenings like a magnet attracts nails, and you are such a person, Miles. Just be grateful that he wasn’t burned to a crisp.”
“I am!” said Miles with feeling, and he reached inside his pocket to give Tangerine a squeeze.
His father scratched at the last remains of the shaggy pelt that had fallen out in tufts as he returned to his former self. He seemed to have lost the drift of the conversation. “What happened to the blind gent?” he said after a while.
“Baltinglass is still a bit shaky, but he’s better than he was. Constable Flap has taken him back to Cnoc to help sell his house,” said Miles. “He’s agreed to come and live at Partridge Manor, as long as he can plant an orchard here.”
“And the fellow who made that fabulous flying machine—what was his name?”
“Tenniel,” said Miles. “I heard he’s set up an aviation company with Captain Tripoli. I don’t think either of them is truly happy unless he’s flying.”
“Speaking of which, I have to go,” said Little. “There’s chaos to be spun, and I can’t sit around here all day.” She jumped up from her seat and looked around to make sure there were no strangers watching before she unfurled her wings. They were brand-new ones, silvered with liquid chrome yet still as fine as the ones she had lost, and she was immensely proud of them. As far as anyone knew she was the only Song Angel ever to have been invited to join the Rascals, and those few angels who had protested had been argued down by the entire Council. It was well-known that she had traveled to the hard world and befriended the boy who had brought Bluehart’s treachery to light. Stories of her heroic exploits spread in the Realm much as the adventures of Miles himself did in the town of Larde, and to most of the Realm’s citizens she could do no wrong. She and Miles had been officially pardoned by the Council, and Little had even managed—in the face of some resistance—to have that pardon extended to everyone who had encountered the tainted Egg.
“Do you have to go right away?” said Miles.
“They’re calling me,” said Little, “but I’ll be back. I can come back whenever I want.”
“Are the Sleep Angels okay with that?” said Miles.
Little nodded. “It’s not like when I was a Song Angel,” she said. “The Sleep Angels don’t have much control over the Chaos Angels. And besides, since we exposed Bluehart’s plan I’m back in their good books.”
“As much as anyone can be,” said Miles with a shiver.
“Exactly. Some of them are still suspicious of me, but it’s never been known for a Sleep Angel to go to the bad, and I think it shook them up a bit. I still keep out of their way as much as possible, but I always did that.”
Miles nodded. “I’ll see you soon, then.” He gave her a hug, wondering if she would always come back often to see him, or if her absences would grow longer and her visits fewer. Only time would tell, and he made himself smile as she launched herself effortlessly up into the sky and out of sight.
“Soon it will be time for me to leave too,” said Nura. “Your grandmother will be wondering how we fared. You must come to visit us again, now that you know the way.”
“I’d like that,” said Miles. “Maybe when my father is fully recovered we could both come.” He felt the desert might have gotten into his veins too, as it had with Baltinglass of Araby. He had only to close his eyes to feel the rolling gait of the camel, and to see in his mind’s eye the welcoming oases and the ancient towns that seemed carved out of the desert itself. A picture of Temzi came into his mind, and he remembered with a smile that he had some camels to discuss with her.
“Of course,” said Nura. “You would both be welcome. Now I must go and prepare for my return journey.” She kissed Miles on the cheek and walked back toward the manor, humming quietly as she went.
If you’ve ever felt that everything has worked out remarkably well against all the odds, you will have some idea of the satisfied feeling that came over Miles as he sat by his father in the last of the evening sun. The Great Cortado’s own hubris had finally caught up with him and finished his schemes for good. Doctor Tau-Tau was serving time in prison, pleased to be free of Cortado’s bitter clutches and touchingly relieved to find that Miles, Little and Baltinglass had not been cruelly murdered after all. He was not allowed any luxuries in his cell, but he kept the bogus Tiger’s Egg carefully hidden, still believing that it held powers he might someday learn to use in a daring escape.
Silverpoint had returned to storm duties. He was viewed with some suspicion by others of his caste, but with great respect by the Chaos Angels for blasting an old man in a copper hat, which was just the sort of thing they found entertaining. After his experiences with Miles and Little, Silverpoint secretly preferred the admiration of the Rascals to the confidence of his peers, and though his aim with lightning had always been exceptional he had taken to sending the odd bolt astray, just to liven things up a little.
The Bolsillo brothers were wintering still in Partridge Manor’s extensive stables, preparing their incomparable show for another season. Miles and Barty visited them often to reminisce about their respective days on the road, and there were many evenings around the campfire that were long on music and laughter and the occasional show of impromptu acrobatics. Barty vowed that he would return to the circus life once he was back to normal, though Gila commented that they would have much more use for him while he still looked like a molting yeti.
So here they are at last, barrel-chested Barty Fumble and his courageous son, Miles, sitting quietly together in the last of the evening sun. “What was the worst thing of all?” Miles asks of his father, as he watches Tangerine push through the weeds like a miniature jungle explorer.
Barty Fumble chuckles. “The worst thing?” he says. “Probably shedding all this hair. You have no idea how itchy it’s been! Sometimes I thought I’d go out of my mind.”
He looks at Miles out of the corner of his eye and bursts into a great, booming laugh that makes the gazebo windows rattle. “I thought I’d go out of my mind!” he says.
They talk on in the gathering twilight, Barty telling stories of Celeste that make her come more alive than any photograph could, and Miles slowly filling in the things that Barty Fumble has missed. He tells his father how he outwitted the Stinkers at Pigball, about his heart-stopping flights in the Realm, and how the key to the Tiger’s Egg was revealed to him in a flash of lightning, and Barty listens to his son’s adventures with pride and delight. They speak too of the future that stretches out before them, and as the last sliver of sun winks out on the horizon they are talking there still, making plans for a life that once seemed impossible, where their adventures will be shared and their stories linked like the twin trunks of the great beech tree in Lady Partridge’s garden.
Diary of Celeste Mahnoosh Elham
November 1920
Packed my belongings and left home in search of the Tiger’s Egg. Mother says at 17 I am too young to leave, but here in dust
y Kagu time stands still, while beyond the horizon the whole world awaits me. It was she who told us stories of the wondrous power of the Tiger’s Egg, tales that set my soul on fire. Now she tells me it is just a myth, but she knows I can read the truth in her eyes.
Last night I dreamed again of the tiger, of the strange traveling show and of the small men who live like jerboas beneath the ground. I can make little sense of these dreams, but I have no doubt they are shadows of what is to come.
Mother refused to leave her bed and bid me farewell. Nura also tried to make me stay, but I know she wished she too had the courage to leave. She walked with me as far as Wa’il, then we said our good-byes. I will miss her so, yet my feet can hardly wait to start on the long road to the future.
August 1921
I have traveled far to the north, following the clues in the tales that live in my memory, and oh, such things I have seen as I never would have imagined. Using the skills of healing that Mother taught me, I have worked my way across the sea, and learned much of use.
It’s said there were once five Tiger’s Eggs, but one only is known to survive, and that is in the keeping of the Fir Bolg. I heard a description of these hairy little people from a sea captain whose grandfather had once had the misfortune to meet them. The captain might have been describing the little men of whom I have often dreamed! I drew them for him, and he was amazed.