In Search of the Blue Tiger (23 page)

Lord, how long shall the wicked, how long shall the wicked triumph?'

Downstairs in the kitchen, Mrs Fishcutter is preparing supper. She hears the faint strains of her stepdaughters singing and sighs and ponders for a moment how little she knows of them.

In Malaysia, the
pawang
or medicine man of the Benua people changes himself into a tiger and uses séances to cure sicknesses. He sits in a magic circle with a lit candle. When the flame begins to quiver, this is the sign the tiger spirit has arrived to provide the needed cure. The shaman is transfixed by the flame until the tiger spirit enters him. He falls into a frenzy, growls and leaps around on all fours, even licking the sick person as a tigress would when tending to her cubs.

Look out of the top window of the fishmonger's house. Over the roof-top of the cordwainer yard and there you can glimpse the side door of the library. If you look carefully you can just see Mrs April. She is locking up after a long night's work. She has stayed extra late to clear the backlog of returned books and set up the children's library for tomorrow's puppet show. Geoffrey Prattle, the children's librarian, is on leave, training to be a ventriloquist, and Mrs April is happy to take on extra duties to give him time to chase his dream. Stretch your neck further and you'll see her making her way across the town square, past the memorial to the cabin boy, and on down the winding hill to her street.

Thinking about Geoffrey and his uncanny skills of mimicry, she catches the sounds and smell of the sea welcoming her as she turns the bend in the avenue leading to her home

Looking up, she sees a figure squatting in her porch.

She stops, unconsciously touching her hair into place.

But it is not Mr Fishcutter. At this very moment Mr Fishcutter, feeling as boneless and filleted as the rainbow trout in his deep-freeze, stands at the end of the jetty, staring out to sea, praying for the strength to resist the pull of the flesh.

No, it is not Mrs April's lover. It is me, Oscar Flowers, a young boy who wants to ask her what dies when we are killed and when do we know the time to sacrifice.

Here's Mrs April. She opens the garden gate and walks towards me, as I wait by her front door. She is smiling and kind as always.

‘What a nice surprise,' she says, ‘someone lovely to share a hot chocolate with.'

As always, she welcomes me and settles me inside.

The smell of the chocolate is comforting. The mug warms my hands.

‘So, young Oscar, what brings you out at this time of night?' she asks as she sits down on the sofa next to me.

‘I need to ask you some questions,' I say, ‘about God and demons and sacrifice.'

She gulps on her drink.

‘Those sound like big questions for a Monday night.'

I sip the chocolate. It is milky and soothing and helps me concentrate on what I want to say.

‘Jehovah asks us to sacrifice. That's what Perch and Carp have been telling me. And there are demons, disguised as people. Like were-wolves that come out at night.'

I look up at her to see if she has any idea about Mr Fishcutter, but she continues smiling, listening to what I say. I drink down the rest of the chocolate, down to the bottom of the mug where it is sweet and thick and sugary.

‘So I want to know how you know if a person is just a person or a were-animal or a demon and how you know when God tells you what to do?'

‘Hmmm …' says Mrs April, tapping a fingernail to her forehead, ‘… let me ponder a second or two.'

She pauses for a while, as she so often does when playing chess or answering my questions. She seems to be trying hard to get it right.

Then she stands up, walks over to the sideboard and picks up the photo of Mr April. She looks at the photo of her husband as if she wants him to help her with what she has to say, or at least to be sure he hears her.

‘Oscar, I think the answers to all those questions come from inside you. You know some people believe God is in you and around you. Once you get in tune with what is good then you will know where the demons and the were-wolves are, and what is bad and what is good. You have to learn these things. They come with growing up, from living life and knowing people. Good and bad.'

She looks up from the picture and over towards me.

‘But Oscar … Oscar, you don't have to understand … not just yet. There's plenty of time. All your life you will have for this. For now, just trust what you know.'

‘But how do I know what I know?'

She stares back at the photo, as if she's drifted far away.

‘You will, Oscar, just have faith that you will.'

‘Plays are good or bad, as they are used, And best intentions often are abused.' Taylor

I close my eyes tight. Even the dark I cannot see. Please it is a drama or a play. A drama. A play. Please that they are asleep, having left the wireless on by mistake. Please it is somewhere else. Another house. I peek through the crack of the door, afraid of what I know what I will see. Locked limbs and bruised flesh. Blood on the sheets. Panting and breathing. Glistening sweat and saliva. They fail to notice me. Their small child peering through the doorway into the throes of their battle.

I will fly between them, a small child, the perfect sacrifice. I will take the blows on my neck, my thighs, my back, my chest. I will put myself between he and she, the cowdog and the boar with his tusks and bristles.

The word sacrifice comes from the Latin: sacrificium, meaning something made sacred by giving to the Gods. Greeks sacrificed animals they were very fond of as they thought they would be the best gifts to the Gods and they would then get something in return. They would sacrifice things precious to them like birds and fish and sheep. They burnt the animals because the Greeks thought the flesh would turn to smoke and float up to the Gods. Sacrifices in the day were for friendly Gods. What was left over was eaten by the people making the sacrifice. Nighttime sacrifices were made so the Gods would stay friendly and so that nothing bad would happen to the Greeks. No one ate what was left. So, if you're hungry, make sure to sacrifice during the day.

We are in the School Assembly Hall. Miss Cat-Eyes has put us into our groups to work on the plays. I like being with Perch and Carp, even if they treat me otherwise, even if they treat me separate. They, like me, are apart. I am in their universe. Jehovah. Sacrifice. Abel and Cain. The mystery of paradise. Ever since we met on the railway bridge, when we were spying on Mrs April and their father, I feel connected to them. I know I am the junior member, the little kid. They never really talk to me, they just tell me things. But that's enough for me. For now, that's enough.

We sit in our group in an alcove where the geranium cuttings are kept on the window ledge. Around us some children jump up and down in excitement; others look blank and confused. Miss Cat-Eyes moves between the groups, gesticulating, encouraging, enthusing, doing her best to draw ideas from them. But we need no coercion, nor cajoling. We are clear. Perch and Carp have written the scripts, the parts are allocated. The Twins whisper to each other. Perch scratches out and scribbles the alterations to her master copy of the play. I sit in silence waiting for instructions.

‘So, how about this group?' says Miss Cat-Eyes, appearing behind us. She squats down on her haunches to be right-sized next to us, looking earnestly from one to the other.

‘How have you gotten on since the last lesson?' she asks.

‘We will present the story of Abraham and Isaac,' announces Perch, not looking at the teacher.

‘We have nearly finished the script,' says Carp, looking at her sister. ‘We'll begin proper rehearsals soon.'

‘And Oscar,' she says, turning her cat-eye glasses to me, ‘who are you to be?'

‘I'm Abraham,' I say. ‘I get to make the sacrifice.'

I glance over to the Twins. They seem satisfied with my answer.

‘Ah,' replies Miss Cat-Eyes, ‘the father who is told to sacrifice his son. How do you think Abraham feels when he is told to do that? Abraham?'

‘Me?' I say.

‘Yes, you, Abraham.'

‘The father is the head of the home and the family,' interrupts Carp.

‘Like the Elders are the head of the congregation and Jehovah is the head of the Witnesses on earth,' adds Perch.

‘Hmm,' hums Miss Cat-Eyes, listening attentively, ignoring a nearby group who seem to be wrestling with their parts.

‘So the father must set an example in following the commandments of Jehovah. We must all make sacrifices for Jehovah,' says Perch.

‘Very good. And Oscar, what does it mean to you to be the father?' asks the teacher.

From somewhere comes a memory of being ill. Of having a raging fever. Of feeling so hot I thought my skin would melt. Of seeing images of snakes and eels, crocodiles and whales on the ceiling above my bed. Father sat the whole night through with me. His huge forearm across my chest as if to hold and weigh me down to the earth in case I should float away. On his arm the tattoo of a parrot. In this sudden moment, I conjure a memory of kindness and gentleness, not violence and neglect.

‘Sacrifice,' I answer. ‘A father should make sacrifices and he should protect his children. Like pelicans pecking at the breast to feed blood to their hungry babies.'

She looks a bit shocked. This is obviously not the answer she was expecting.

‘Parents should do what they have to do for their children,' I add.

‘Ah, there's the dilemma,' replies the teacher, as if she has struck upon something very profound.

‘The dilemma at the heart of it all,' I say.

She nods her head sagely. ‘And who will play Isaac?'

The Twins exchange glances.

‘We have not decided yet,' replies Perch. ‘Not yet.'

‘Well, jolly good,' says Mrs Cat-Eyes. ‘It all seems to be progressing very well. Keep it up. No homework this week. Just keep rehearsing in your spare time. Practice makes perfect.'

Then off she goes to deal with the ghost stories and teenage romances being plotted elsewhere in the room.

‘We'll find somewhere to rehearse, away from here,' says Carp.

‘Somewhere else,' echoes Perch.