In Search of the Blue Tiger (40 page)

Mrs April lays the rug on the hardened floor by the fire and begins to unpack the picnic hamper. There are sandwiches of cheese and cress, a buttered malt loaf, apples and pears and a flask of lime cordial.

I stare into the flames and conjure up the courage to speak. From my heart. Something feels different now Father is dead. It is like sadness and expectation rolled together. As if his death is a special gift to me, a sacrifice to let me be free in the world. One morning I was in the Great Out Doors with Stigir, watching the seagulls on the cliffs of Open Bay encouraging their chicks to fly. Some were really scared. The parent birds would push them to the edge. The chicks would stumble and fall in panic and the parents would push them over the cliff. Some would free-fall, try out their wings and take flight. Others would splash into the sea. But then they would bob up to the surface and ruffle their feathers as if nothing had happened. The parents would fly off, leaving them to work the rest of it out for themselves.

I gulp to help the words to come out.

‘In a dream about Father, he's always trying to say something to me. And I think he does, but when I wake up I can never remember what he's trying to say.'

Mrs April, laying out napkins on the picnic rug, looks over her shoulder at me and smiles.

‘Dreams are like that. They tell us a story. They help us make sense of our world. They do their healing and then they disappear. Puff,' she says, blowing into the air above her.

‘But if I could travel in time, like Saint Augustine tells us, I could meet him and ask him what he wants to say.'

Mrs April thinks a moment, smoothing the rug with her two hands, as if in supplication.

‘Oscar, dreams are like time travel, in a way. There's always a bit of the past, our pasts, in the stories they tell us. And often a glimpse into the future. Dreams can mix up what we know, what has happened and what we think might come in the future. Dreams can show us different ways of being.'

As the words leave her lips the image of a circling dance and an owl in a tree sprinkle though her mind.

‘But we can never undo the past. There are many things we would want to say to each other. Your Father said what he said and was who he was. It is what you have of him and that will always be enough. The past needs to rest. We can change it here and now, by who we are, who you are. The future is there ahead of us to explore.'

I think for a minute, watching the flames licking the logs.

‘I'd like to go into the future and meet my children. To see how I am with them.'

‘I think, Oscar, you will be a marvellous father. You will be kind and generous and you will teach them much that is good to learn.'

‘What will I teach them?'

Mrs April looks into the fire as if each leap and twirl of blue and orange and yellow portends the future.

‘I know something of you Oscar. And I believe you will teach them to be themselves, to be solid in the world. You will teach them tenderness and kindness of spirit. You will show them all you've learned yourself. You will be their mirror to life. And you will teach them chess. You will tell tales of tigers and of the joy of kite flying. And,' she adds with a laugh, ‘you will remind them to only move one limb at a time when climbing trees and cliffs.'

‘I'd like it to be like that,' I say, Stigir snuggling into my lap as he becomes attuned to the softness of our conversation.

‘It will be like that. I can see into the future,' she says in an exaggerated voice, waving her hands in front of the flames like a magician, making them jump to her bidding. ‘Now for our feast.'

And so we share the food together, under the gaze of the two mysterious women on the mantelpiece.

The walk back from the old ruined house is magical. The moon and stars seem brighter than ever, shimmering off the gently rippling waves of the low tide and lighting our way along the path.

The Monks have left some cold meat and salads for us in the kitchen, so we have a midnight supper before going to bed. We then creep quietly along the corridors for fear of waking the sleeping Brothers, the light from our candles bouncing off the cloister walls, setting our huge shadows before us. I show Mrs April to the guest room and we whisper goodnights.

Stigir knows to be silent as we enter my room, and, without being told, snuggles onto his blanket by the washstand.

Feeling in my pocket, I take out the old watch and the crumpled photo. Mrs April said it was okay for me to take them as they were treasure and she knew I'd look after them well. The tiredness of the day wells over me: the excitement of having Mrs April here and sleeping a stone's throw away; the walk; the climb; the magic of finding the mysterious house and the strange mixtures of energy and emotions it stirred. I look into the veiled faces of the two women in the photo, but there is nothing to see save the shadows of their expressions and their peculiar sense of unease. I place the photo against the Blue Tiger in my altar and put the watch on top of one of my favourite stones. Then I put the still lit candle by the picture and climb into bed.

I drift off to sleep, mesmerised by the picture, the way the candlelight shimmers across the women's faces and the pocket watch, its hands locked at two and at five. Somewhere in the distance I hear the sound of cart wheels turning and horses' hooves on cobblestones. Who can be out at such a late hour? My eyes are heavy, they flutter and close. Through my flickering eyelids I fancy I see the faces in the photo move, as if in slow motion. A hand lifts and pulls back a veil, skeins of smoke rise from the chimney of the house, a bird sings. And still the sound of the cart wheel. And a ticking. A tick tock. Tick tock. And the second hand on the pocket watch clicks into life.

Across the night, in the woods at the end of the bay, the front door of the old house shifts on its single hinge with a happy sigh. The house stretches in relief. In the garden, under wheels of weed, deep inside the long-neglected beehive, the larvae of the Queen bee stirs from her slumber.

I know I am asleep, but I hear the cart wheel turn, the clock tick tock and I know the women in the photo are watching me, waiting to walk into my dreamworld and tell me their story.

It is a prison cell. The walls, the floor, the ceiling are white. The light is whiter. Two figures huddle in a corner, arms wrapped around each other. Shipwrecked, forsaken.

Their heads rise up in unison. Slowly. Eyes closed.

One is Perch. One is Carp.

The loud turn and clank of a key. The door, precarious on one hinge, opens.

Brother Pearson strides in. He opens a huge book.

The Twins ignore him.

BROTHER PEARSON: Disfellowshipped for sins against the Spirit, you be. Sins against Jehovah. Princes of the New Millenium, you are not. You will not rule with Jesus during the thousand-year reign before the beast is locked away forever.

The Twins raise their arms in adoration.

PERCH AND CARP: We beseech thee, let our supplication be accepted before thee, and pray for us unto the Lord thy God, even for all this Remnant; for we are left but a few of many, as thine eyes do behold us.

CARP: That the Lord thy God may show us the way we may walk, and the thing that we may do.

PERCH: And I saw an angel come down from heaven, having the key of the bottomless pit and a great chain in his hand. And he laid hold on the dragon, that old serpent, which is the Devil, and Satan, and bound him a thousand years, and cast him into the bottomless pit, and shut him up, and set a seal upon him, that he should deceive the nations no more, till the thousand years should be fulfilled: and after that he will roam the earth for a short time more.

The Twins pull at their hair and faces in excitement, staring past Brother Pearson at the blank wall. Clinging to each other, bodies entwined, hearts beating hard, in rhythm.

CARP: He comes.

PERCH: He is here to show us. To anoint us to the Remnant.

Appearing in one corner of the cell, kneeling in supplication, in prayer, an angel. The appearance of a man. But a man of such beauty, of such serenity. He wears a plain garment of sack-cloth and his feet are bare. His wings are sumptuous, like those of a swan, only the feathers are golden. Surrounding him is an aura of diaphanous light, veiled and ephemeral. The angel remains motionless, his hands together in prayer. The light changes from white to gold to pink to blue.

I sit beside him. I stroke the soft feathers of his wings and hear the murmur of his prayer.

I peek over his shoulder. No Twins. No Brother Pearson. No prison cell.

But the clouds.

The cliffs.

The outline and townscape of Tidetown.

And the sea, the sea.

The tide is creeping in as is its wont. The waves lap gently as if aware of the need to give the town a good night's sleep. As each wave rolls up the beach, I hear the souls of the ancient mariners whispering their secrets and hopes.

‘How beautiful she was on our wedding day,' sighs Mr April.

‘When can I tell him I love him,' says the Father.

Father, please, please. Please say the words.

‘The big ship sails on the alley-alley-oh!' sings Billy Bones, the long-dead cabin boy.

The peaks and troughs of the waves send their whispers townward. Sleepers in their beds catch snippets and sentiments. Tossing and turning through the night as the whispers of the dead and drowned enter their dreams as strangers or loved ones. Voices from the past stirring memories, touching hearts and minds.

MISTER APRIL: We would have had bonny babes and liquorice and flowers. And you would have brought books home to read by the fireside.

FATHER: I would have loved you, my son. Standing together on the deck.

BILLY BONES: From cabin boy to admiral of the fleet!

All the would-haves and hopes draw their breath as the tide turns and they are sucked back out to sea to be buried once again under the waves.

FATHER: I love you, my one and only son.

Father, yes, please, please.

MISTER APRIL: Blushing bride.

BILLY BONES: Cutlass and gunpowder.

And the townsfolk wake, remembering remnants and phrases waiting to be washed away by steaming cups of tea and face flannels.

Am I awake? I feel my body turn. In the surf. An angel wing brushes my face.

I open my eyes. The angel is gone. The seascape, the townscape, sucked back into the wall. The white light returns.

Father, father, please. Please.

I stand between Brother Pearson and the Twins, as if I am on trial all over again.

BROTHER PEARSON: The tiny divide between kiss and kill. Oscar, think of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane, Judas' lips on his cheek, a crucifixion, coins scattered to the ground and a body hanging from a tree.

PERCH: Our angel.

CARP: Our messenger.

BROTHER PEARSON: You must know something, Perch, Carp. Your father spoke to me shortly before his death. It was just after the Ministerial School. I remember watching you two and your mother walking away in the rain. You were always such faithful Witnesses. Brother Fishcutter, your father, repented his sins, his sins of the flesh. Do you not repent also?

PERCH: She is not our mother.

CARP: Our mother awaits us.

I look down from above. The three in the cell. Two close together. One apart. I see the basin and bed. And there in the corner by the door, I see myself, as a small boy. Oscar, I call out, but there is no sound to my voice. The small boy looks up to me. He is scaling a fish. The small blade is bloody. He calls to me, but there are no words.

PERCH: He prayed for us.

CARP: His face so radiant.

PERCH: As he turned, our angel.

CARP: And looked at us.

PERCH: Blessing us in that moment.

CARP: Telling us.

PERCH: Like the Archangel Gabriel.

CARP: Mary.

PERCH: Mother of Jesus.

CARP: Telling us of our calling.

PERCH: To the Remnant.

Am I time travelling? Is this the past? Is this the future?

BROTHER PEARSON: Enter ye in at the straight gate: for wide is the gate, and broad is the way that leadeth to destruction, and many there be that find it. Because straight is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few be there that find it. Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.