The Tiger's Egg (24 page)

M
iles Wednesday, thief-rumbler and Egg-successor, sat by the square hole in the floor of Lady Partridge's tree house with his feet dangling out through the trapdoor. He had time to kill before the circus show, and had climbed the rope ladder to the tree house with his mother's diaries in the pocket of his jacket. Now he was searching through them for any mention of the Fir Bolg, or indeed for anything he could make sense of at all. He was sure that some pages had been lost during the Fir Bolg's search of Doctor Tau-Tau's pockets, and he hoped that none of them were vital.

He turned the thin pages carefully, but he could not concentrate on the dense writing and overlapping pictures, and eventually he gave up and put the diaries back in his pocket. He felt Tangerine cling onto his fingers, and he lifted the bear out carefully and placed him on the carpet, well away from the square hole and the fifteen-foot drop to the ground below. Miles leaned back on his elbow and watched Tangerine as he wandered about the uneven floor of the tree house, kicking at things in his path like a half-stuffed hooligan. The bear wandered back to the boy and flopped down on the carpet, leaning his head against Miles's chest.

“So,” said Miles, “there's more to you than meets the eye, after all.” Tangerine kept a modest silence.

Miles could feel his own heart beating, and he tried to picture the Tiger's Egg inside Tangerine's head. He closed his eyes and listened to the creaking of the twin beech trunks as the tree swayed gently. A picture of the tiger came into his mind's eye. The magnificent animal was pacing in the distance, appearing and disappearing by turns, as though he were passing through a fog. Miles concentrated hard on the tiger's image. Several times he had dreamed of performing with the tiger in the
ring of the Circus Bolsillo, and he always awoke with the feeling that his dream could be pulled into the light and made real, if only he could learn how.

The tiger in his picture turned away and began to fade into the grayness beyond. A sinking feeling caught hold of Miles. He felt as though he would never come close to mastering the Tiger's Egg. He remembered when he and Little had watched the Council of Cats in the moonlit garden the year before, and how he had struggled to understand their speech. “You must stop trying to listen before you can hear,” Little had said to him. Maybe, he thought, catching hold of a tiger's soul is a little like grasping a language that seems to have no meaning. He held on to the picture of the fading tiger, but he stopped trying to pull it toward him, and instead he opened his senses and waited.

The heartbeat in his ears grew louder, and suddenly he was no longer sure if it was his heartbeat or that of the tiger. His nose filled with a musky odor, and all at once the tiger was rushing toward him, his mighty paws flashing white and his fearsome teeth bared. Miles gave a yelp of fright and opened his eyes, half expecting to find the mighty animal leaping at him across the tree house. The tree house was silent, however, and except for
Tangerine he was alone. The wind had dropped and a stillness lay on the air. Miles's heart thumped like a frightened rabbit. He picked up the little bear and slipped him into his jacket pocket, then he turned and put his foot on the top rung of the rope ladder. Excitement gripped his stomach as he descended into the garden. He was sure that the tiger would be waiting for him among the trees. He dropped the last few feet and turned to look. The trees around him stood as still as if they were painted onto the sky, and the stern rectangle of the manor house watched over the grounds. Over by the pond a small group of children launched a boat they had made, which left a perfect V behind it in the mirror-smooth water. There was not so much as the whisker of a tiger to be seen.

Miles felt himself deflate as he turned and began to scuff his way through the fallen leaves toward the gate of Partridge Manor. He felt a fool for imagining that he could master the tiger's soul all at once, just because he now knew that it lived in the stuffed head of a small bear in his pocket. He also felt a little relieved. He had certainly not felt in control of the charging tiger that still burned bright in his mind's eye, and it was a sobering reminder that he was playing with fire trying to
summon up such a powerful beast. “Maybe,” he said quietly to Tangerine, “I'll never have the strength that my mother had. Maybe . . .”

A deep voice sounded in his ear, making him jump. “So it is you, tub boy,” said the tiger. “I almost didn't recognize you, since you weren't bleating for help over something.”

Miles turned as he walked, a broad smile spreading across his face and warmth rising through him as though the sun had just come out. “Why would I need your help?” he asked. “I've found my father—sort of—and helped to capture a pair of serial burglars since I saw you last.” He almost added, “And learned the whereabouts of a tiger's soul,” but he bit his tongue in time. He had a feeling that the tiger was no more aware of the Tiger's Egg than a shadow is aware of the tree that casts it.

“I'm pleased to hear you're learning to stand on your own two feet,” said the tiger.

“Still, I was glad you turned up when you did, back in the forest,” said Miles.

The tiger turned his head away, almost as though he were flinching from a blow. His reaction took Miles by surprise.

“We did get The Null back safely, in the end,” he
said cautiously. “It lives in Lady Partridge's gazebo.”

The tiger turned his gaze back to the boy, and there was something haunted in his expression. When he spoke it seemed to cost him a great effort.

“There is a blackness in that—thing—that has no place in nature,” he said.

“I know,” said Miles, “but . . . it's important that it knows it has a friend.”

The tiger was silent for a moment. “There is nothing in that darkness that could recognize a friendship,” he said at length. “My advice is to steer well clear of it, and a tiger's advice is not something to be discarded lightly.”

Miles had no wish to argue with the tiger on that point, so he hastily changed the subject. He was curious to know whether the tiger was even aware of any influence Miles might have over his comings and goings. “What brings you here anyway?” he asked, kicking at a pile of leaves and making his voice as casual as he could.

“I was passing through on the lookout for a snack,” said the tiger. “I thought an orphan or two might serve the purpose, if I could find something better than pond water to wash them down with.”

Miles looked at the tiger for a clue to what lay behind his answer, but the tiger's face gave nothing
away. They stopped short of the wrought-iron gates that led onto the road. “I do have a favor to ask you, as it happens,” said Miles.

“Now there's a surprise,” said the tiger.

Miles searched for the words he needed. “Remember you told me once that you smelled the circus in me?”

“Vaguely,” said the tiger.

“You were right,” said Miles. His words came out all in a rush. “Both my parents were circus people and it's a sort of family tradition to show a tiger, and the last performance of the season is tonight and I wondered if you would perform with me, together I mean, in the Circus Bolsillo, tonight, I mean.”

The tiger stood in the warm light of the evening sun and fixed Miles with his amber gaze. He said nothing for some time, and the dying light seemed to turn the world to fire as Miles held the mighty animal's stare. He knew somehow that if he looked away he would lose all the ground he had made since first they met, on the side of a hill on a blustery October night.

“I have told you how I feel about the circus,” said the tiger.

“You were talking about the Circus Oscuro,” said
Miles. He was holding his breath. The tiger had not said no.

“The Circus Bolsillo is different,” Miles continued. “It's more like I would imagine Barty Fumble's Big Top to be.”

“And why would that make me more inclined to put myself on the playbill?” asked the tiger. His tail flicked behind him.

“I think you used to perform in Barty Fumble's Big Top,” said Miles, “as Varippuli.”

“Varippuli was shot by the Great Cortado,” said the tiger.

“His body was never found,” said Miles. “Maybe he just lost his memory. Maybe he just chose to be someone else.”

A rumbling growl came from deep within the tiger. “Maybe he just had enough of performing before ranks of people he would rather have found on a bed of lettuce.”

Miles laughed. “He used to perform with Barty Fumble. You said so yourself.”

“Barty Fumble is dead and gone,” said the tiger sadly.

“Not completely,” said Miles, quietly glad that he had chosen not to mention The Null's true nature.
“Barty Fumble was my father, and I'm still here.”

The tiger stepped closer until his nose was inches from Miles's face. His whiskers lifted as his nostrils flared. Miles stood as still as he did when Stranski was throwing knives at him. “I have no reason to doubt that,” said the tiger at last. “But you never had the privilege of being his pupil. Have you ever performed with a tiger?”

Miles shook his head. “I've watched Countess Fontainbleau show her lions, and I hoped you might be able to give me some direction if I need it. I don't think anyone would notice. I'll have to clear it with the Bolsillo brothers, of course.”

“Very well,” said the tiger. “I will perform with you, just this once, and only because you are Barty Fumble's boy.”

Miles felt himself glow like a lightbulb. “Thank you,” he said. He opened the gate and turned back to the tiger. “Can I call you Varippuli?” he asked.

“You can call me the queen of Sheba for all the difference it will make,” said the tiger.

Miles stood back to let the tiger pass. A trickle of people was already passing the gate on the way to the big top, hoping to arrive before the best seats had sold out. The tiger stayed where he was. “I'm
not well suited to mingling with the peasantry,” he said. “All that running and screaming makes me want to bite something.”

“It's all right,” said Miles. “You'll be with me. I'm sort of well-known in this town.”

Miles stepped out through the gates, and after a moment the tiger followed. They set off down the road toward the glowing lights of the circus. “I hope you're not thinking of asking to ride on my back,” said the tiger.

“Of course not,” said Miles. He placed his hand on the tiger's shoulder and they walked along in silence. The Lardespeople stared at them as they passed. Some jumped back in fear, but most seemed to have reached the point where they would not be surprised to hear that the Boy from the Barrel had brought the dinosaurs back from extinction and taught them table manners. They whispered to each other about the capture of The Null and the discovery of the Pinchbuckets' hoard, and Miles smiled quietly to himself, marching through his home-town with a walking, dancing bear in a secret pocket and a Bengal tiger by his side.

They approached the circus gate with its brightly painted signs lit by strings of red and yellow bulbs.
“A word to the wise,” said the tiger.

“Yes?” said Miles.

“Remember what I just said about calling me the queen of Sheba?”

Miles nodded.

“I wouldn't put it to the test, if I were you,” said the tiger.

M
iles Wednesday, sparkle-suited and spotlight-blinded, climbed into the star-painted box and lay down while Stranski the Magician closed and locked the lid. A murmur rippled through the crowd as Stranski rummaged in his box of tricks and produced a saw with a long gleaming blade. The magician seemed more taciturn than ever, and Miles wondered whether it was because Fabio had shortened his act to allow an extra slot on the playbill for Miles Wednesday and the Lord of the Monsoon. The tiger had allowed himself to be placed in a cage for dramatic effect, and the knife-throwing part had been dropped from Stranski's act
to make time. The mute magician flexed his saw blade, which sang under the lights. The audience held its breath.

Miles readied himself to curl up into a ball. He reached for the lever that operated the flaps and hinges inside the box. The lever seemed to be jammed. He pulled again, but it wouldn't budge. He was still laid out flat, and there was no room for him to bend his legs. “It's not working,” he whispered to Stranski. Stranski leaned over the box and positioned the saw to begin cutting. He let out a little giggle. Miles started in surprise. He had never heard a sound of any kind escape the dour magician. He squinted his eyes against the glaring spotlight, trying to make out Stranski's face. The blade began to rasp its way through the box. Something was very wrong. Stranski seemed to have changed somehow, like people in a dream will change into someone else without warning. His face was rounder, and what's more, the badger's bum smell had been replaced by a cloud of cheap cologne. “Stop!” hissed Miles. “The box is jammed. You'll cut me in half.”

“What a pity,” whispered the Stranski who wasn't Stranski, and he giggled again, a jerky laugh like a machine wound too tight. He wiped his brow with
his sleeve, and his face caught the light for a moment. A moment was enough. From this close Miles had no trouble recognizing the impostor in Stranski's suit, mustache or no mustache. It was the Great Cortado, and he was sawing for all he was worth.

“Surprised to see me, instead of that half-wit bell-with-no-clapper?” whispered the Great Cortado. “He's on sick leave.” The saw bit deeper. Miles opened his mouth to shout for help, but the Great Cortado was ready for him. Quick as a lizard he tipped the contents of a small bottle into Miles's open mouth and pinched his nose. Miles swallowed involuntarily, and a sour liquid burned in his throat. He tried again to shout, but his voice seemed to have deserted him. His tongue felt thick and numb, like a marshmallow. He sucked in his stomach. “No good trying to make yourself thinner, Selim,” said Cortado. “Of course, I do know your real name, but Selim will do fine for me. A backward name”—he giggled—“for a backward child. Who would have thought Barty and Celeste would produce such a snot-nosed little runt?” He paused again to mop the sweat from his forehead.

Miles turned his head with difficulty, trying to see if there was anyone who might recognize the
danger he was in. The audience stared openmouthed, confident that he would be miraculously made whole after he had been halved. Fabio, he knew, was backstage making hasty preparations for Miles's act with the tiger, and Umor and Gila would be settling the elephants for the night. There was never anyone in the ring with Stranski and Miles, so his heart leaped with surprise when he saw someone sitting on a stool beside Stranski's box of tricks. Miles tried desperately to summon up a shout. Whoever it was sat only a tiger's leap away, but his face—or hers—seemed to be surrounded by a shadow of its own. Miles could not make out who it was, nor could he make a sound. He found it difficult to keep his eyes open.

The Great Cortado resumed his sawing, and Miles felt the shining teeth of the saw begin to snag his sparkly jacket. “I know about your stripy little secret, Selim,” Cortado whispered to him. “That bug-eyed fool Tau-Tau finally tracked it down for me, though it took him long enough. And once I've carved you up like a Sunday roast, I'll just reach into the box and see what the tiger has laid. I can wash the cotton candy off it later, or whatever it was you last ate.”

Miles's head was swimming with the hot lights
and the numbing concoction he had been forced to drink. It was obvious that the Great Cortado also believed the Tiger's Egg was in his stomach, but he could no more tell him otherwise than he could shout for help, and what chance was there that Cortado would believe him anyway? He turned again to see the figure on the stool. It was a Sleep Angel, he realized now, sitting patiently while the Great Cortado sweated at his villainous work, waiting to take Miles's last breath from him and release it on the wind. A wave of sadness washed Miles's fear away. He felt sad that his life would end just as it seemed to be beginning, sad for Little who would be left alone again, sad that he would never get the chance to say good-bye to his friends, or to follow in his father's footsteps and perform with . . . perform with . . . 

“Varippuli!” said Miles, although his tongue said something more like “Owahooie.” The saw blade ripped through his clothing and scraped painfully against his skin. He sucked his stomach in even further, and scrabbled in his pocket for Tangerine. He grasped the saggy bear gently and closed his eyes.

“Forgot the tinfoil,” giggled the Great Cortado as he sawed. “Forgot the gravy. Forgot the ketchup. Didn't even preheat the oven to four hundred degrees.”

Miles tried to block out the crazed ringmaster's voice and the stinging pain in his side. He made himself picture Varippuli, waiting in his cage behind the star-strewn curtain at the back of the ring. He listened for the tiger's heartbeat, and tried to turn the smell of Cortado's cheap cologne into the musty odor of the tiger. He opened his ears and waited for the roar. “Now,” he said to himself. “Make it now.”

The tiger's roar thundered through the big top like tropical rain on a tin roof. The audience shrieked, and those nearest the curtain scrambled for safer seats. The sawing stopped. Miles opened his eyes and saw that even the nebulous figure of the Sleep Angel had twisted on his stool and was looking over his shoulder. The Great Cortado's eyes widened, but he did not turn around. He mopped his brow again, and grasped the saw handle. “Even ghost tigers can be caged,” he said, “and you seem to have lost the knack of your disappearing act. Goodbye, Selim.” He pulled the saw through the box again, but Miles scarcely felt the bite of the blade. He heard a crash from behind the curtain and the terrified whinny of Delia Zipplethorpe's piebald mare, heard Fabio shout for the beast men, and heard the screams of the audience as the panicked
mare burst like a comet through the silver stars, followed seconds later by the tiger.

The horse began to gallop around the ring, which was what she knew best, but the tiger crossed the sawdust in a couple of mighty bounds, heading straight for the Great Cortado. He leaped straight through the Sleep Angel, who vanished like smoke, and Cortado dived under the box just as the tiger landed. The mighty cat's weight slammed against the box, almost knocking it over, and waking Miles from his stupor in an instant.

There was a ripple of applause from the audience, who were unsure whether the entire act had been rehearsed, but thought it would be safer to clap in any case. The piebald mare's hooves thundered around the ring. The tiger had recovered himself and was creeping around the box, his belly slung low to the sawdust, while on the other side the Great Cortado struggled to his feet. His mustacheless face was shiny with sweat. He scuttled like a crab around the far end of the box, where Miles momentarily lost sight of him, and appeared by Stranski's box of tricks. He grasped two of the long knives that Stranski liked to throw right across the width of the ring. The blades were polished to a dazzling shine, and Miles knew just how keen the
edges were, because he had sharpened them himself. Some of the swagger had returned to Cortado's step. “Knives, Selim!” he said. “I wrote the book on 'em.” He swished the two blades around his head in a flurry of glinting steel, and the audience cheered. “Who do you think taught Stranski, eh?” He began to circle the box again, as the tiger rounded the other end. “Heere, pussy pussy,” he sang quietly. “No more pussycat, no more Barty's brat.”

Miles could see Fabio crouched at the curtain, watching intently. Two of the beast men appeared beside him with a net, and Fabio motioned them to wait as the mare galloped by. Miles could not tell if Fabio had realized that Stranski was not Stranski, and whether the net was for the tiger or for the Great Cortado. Miles tried to call out to him, but his tongue was still not cooperating. He could feel warm blood trickling down his side. The Great Cortado was circling more slowly now, waiting for the tiger to get close enough. The audience held its breath, and the drummer in the circus band—who had drumming in his blood and couldn't help it—began a long roll on the snare drum.

Suddenly Cortado lunged forward and aimed a swipe at the tiger with his blade. The tiger pounced at the same moment, and the blade glanced off his
foreleg as the tiger bowled Cortado over. A cymbal crashed, and the little man somersaulted backward, dropping both knives and fetching up against Stranski's box of tricks. He scrambled to his feet as the tiger turned and launched himself again. Miles watched in dismay as the the Great Cortado reached deep into the box for another knife. If he got it out in time there would be no way the tiger could avoid being skewered on the blade.

Cortado was already withdrawing his hand as the tiger soared through the air toward him, but it seemed that fate was not on his side this time. His hand gripped only a pair of long white ears, and he dropped the struggling rabbit in fright as the tiger's mighty paws met his chest and sent him crashing again to the floor. The tiger reared to strike and Miles closed his eyes tightly. “Don't kill him,” he said silently. There was a roar from the tiger and a cry of pain from the Great Cortado. Miles opened his eyes despite himself. The audience was panicking now, and those nearest the exit were beating a hasty retreat while others scrambled backward and crowded onto the higher benches.

The tiger had backed off and the Great Cortado was crawling toward the banked seats, a trail of blood staining the sawdust behind him. Fabio and
the beast men were advancing across the ring, holding the net wide, but it was still not clear who their intended target was. Suddenly Cortado stumbled to his feet. Fabio and his boys broke into a run, but the Great Cortado was too quick for them. He reached up and grasped the piebald mare's saddle as she thundered past, and swung himself up onto her back like . . . well, like a lifelong circus performer. Miles saw a streak of red and gold as Hector the monkey leaped from somewhere in the crowd and clung to the Great Cortado's shoulder, beating at his head with tiny fists. Cortado tore him free, and the monkey scrabbled at his jacket for a moment before losing his grip and somersaulting backward into the sawdust. The Great Cortado grabbed the reins with one hand, holding the other to his bleeding face, and before anyone could stop him he had galloped out through the fleeing spectators, who dived to either side to avoid the terrified horse and her wounded rider.

Fabio and the beast men ran after the mare, and the audience broke into a cheer, no longer concerned whether the act was elaborately staged or totally out of hand. It seemed as though only the villain had suffered any real damage, and it was certainly the most riveting show that any of them
could remember seeing. Miles realized he was still holding his breath, and he let the air from his lungs in a long sigh, the blood pounding in his head.

“Miles,” said Little's voice, “are you all right?” He could hear her snapping open the clips that held down the lid, but he couldn't twist his head to see her. She sounded out of breath. “Wiggle your toes, Miles,” she said. Miles wiggled, and for a moment he had the strange sensation that the other half of the box was on the far side of the ring with his feet poking from the end of it. He wanted to say “I'm fine,” but his tongue had now gone entirely to sleep, and he gave up trying. Little hauled the box lid open, and took Miles's arm as he climbed unsteadily out.

“You're hurt,” said Little. “Sit down and I'll get Gila.” She set Stranski's stool upright, but Miles shook his head. His legs felt they would buckle at any moment, but he was not ready to sit down yet. He walked shakily to where the tiger stood in the bloodied sawdust, a steady rumbling growl coming from his heaving ribs, and placed his hand on the magnificent beast's shoulder.

The tiger turned and gazed into Miles's pale face. “Your father would be proud,” he said. The audience cheered wildly, and despite the dizziness in his
head and the stinging pain in his side Miles felt a wave of pride and happiness sweep through him. He was where he belonged, in the center of a circus ring with a tiger by his side. He took a deep bow, and the audience stood in their seats as the applause grew into a deafening roar.

As he straightened up, beaming through the pain, Miles felt a tug at the end of his jacket. He looked down to see Hector's little white face looking up at him, chattering excitedly. The monkey reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out what looked like a slim wallet. Miles laughed. He reached down to take it, and realized that it was not a wallet at all. It was a leather-bound notebook, the third of Celeste's diaries, still smelling faintly of the Great Cortado's cheap cologne.