In Search of the Blue Tiger (24 page)

In ancient Carthage there was a sacred area called Tophet where parents buried their children who had been sacrificed there. Parents got fed up with sacrificing their own children and began buying them or using servants' children instead. But if things were terrible, like war or drought or famine, then the priests insisted children of powerful and rich families should be sacrificed to please the Gods. Once, during a political crisis in 310 BC, over 500 children were sacrificed to the Gods. After each child was killed, the body was placed on the arms of a huge statue of their God, where it rolled into the fire pit. Archaeologists have discovered evidence of child sacrifice also in Sardinia and Sicily. The ritual of burning was called ‘the act of laughing', because when the flames consumed the body the limbs contracted and the open mouth seemed almost to be laughing. In Egypt, a ritual was performed on the dead called the ‘opening of the mouth' by which it was thought the soul was finally freed of the body. This reminds me of Great Aunt Margaret, when she sleeps in front of the fire, though I never think of her laughing. I don't think I've ever seen her laugh.

‘How do you know when to make a sacrifice?' I ask Mrs April, my black bishop pinning her white pawn in front of her king.

‘Ah …' she ponders, her expression deepening, the lines around her eyes smiling.

‘Like we've discussed before, sacrifice is complex. You must be prepared to lose something to improve your position. To give, in the hope something better will evolve,' she says, pointing at the chessboard. ‘If you sacrifice your bishop for a mere pawn, then you hope your position will improve. Sacrifice is all about taking a chance for a better future. It is a risk. Sacrifice is a risk born of hope.'

We are alone in the library. The door has been closed and I have stayed behind with Mrs April to help her shelve the returns. As a treat she suggested a game of chess. The set we are using comes from the children's library; the pieces come from Alice in Wonderland. My bishop is the walrus; her pawns are Cheshire cats.

‘The time has come, the walrus said, to speak of other things, of ships and shoes and sealing wax and cabbages …' she laughs as she recites the verse, ‘and whether Oscar sacrifices me for Cheshire cats and kings.'

‘What was Jehovah hoping for when he told Abraham to sacrifice Isaac?' I ask.

Mrs April looks at me. She is getting used to the things I say. Like the walrus and his talk of cabbages.

She thinks for a minute, her finger stroking the head of the griffin who masquerades as her white knight.

‘God,' she says in a measured tone, ‘wanted Abraham to show him how much he trusted, and to make life better for all his people.'

‘Trusted what?' I ask.

‘Trusted that he was doing the right thing and that the world would turn out better as a result of his actions.'

‘So sometimes it's right to sacrifice,' I say, looking for an answer.

‘Yes, sometimes it's right to sacrifice. At times we all have to sacrifice something of ourselves. It's part of growing up.'

Outside it's getting dark. The church clock chimes the half-hour.

I lift my walrus from the sanctity of its square and take Mrs April's smiling Cheshire cat from the board.

‘Now,' says Mrs April, tapping her fingers on the table. ‘That opens up a whole new world of possibilities. Just like Alice through the looking glass.'

Maybe I can be part of two worlds, like a kindly type of were-person. One world with me, Stigir, Blue Monkey and Mrs April. And another with me, Perch, Carp and Jehovah. Maybe a blue were-tiger with Stigir and Blue Monkey and Mrs April; and a boy called Oscar with Perch and Carp and Jehovah.

‘Upon such sacrifices the gods themselves throw incense.' Shakespeare

‘It just won't do.'

‘It just won't do.'

They sing to each other between mouthfuls of scrambled egg.

‘And what won't do?' says their stepmother, standing behind Perch, teapot in one hand, plate of toast in the other. She speaks lightly, with a lilt, trying to break in between them, trying, as always, to be a part of their world. The Twins, as always, pay her no heed. Mrs Fishcutter puts the hot toast on the plate in the middle of the table. The blue-and-white checks of the gingham tablecloth swim in front of her eyes. Her stepdaughters giggle.

‘The shoe,' says Perch, as much to her twin as to Mrs Fishcutter.

‘The shoe won't do,' giggles Carp, a hand over her mouth.

Then they both laugh hysterically, remembering the incident from the English lesson. Mrs Fishcutter grips the handle of the brown teapot so hard she can feel the skin stretch over her knuckles. An image flashes through her mind of pouring the steaming tea onto their heads. To dampen their collusion, to wrench them apart, to get them to notice her. She puts the teapot next to the toast and goes back to the kitchen. There she sits by the window, listening to the laughter subside in the next room, watching the grey blanket of clouds smother the skyline. Not a glimpse of blue to be had.

‘This piece of toast looks like father,' whispers Carp, biting and shaping the edge of the bread. She puts it back on her side plate. It has arms, legs, a torso and a raggedy head.

‘He's running. The demon in him runs,' says Carp.

‘The beast in our father makes him run,' says Perch.

‘Where to?'

‘To the brook by the barn.'

‘Where the owl hoots at night.'

‘He turns his head, while he runs away in terror.'

Perch twists the head of the toast, so it looks over its bready shoulder.

‘He is pursued by his past.'

‘A banshee. A ghoul.'

‘A hobgoblin. An elf.'

‘A spectre. A sprite.'

‘He wades through the brook, stumbles on the rocks hidden below the water.'

Carp bends the legs, pushes forward the body.

Perch pours tea from on high onto the mangled toast.

‘He is wet and he is ragged.'

‘The owl winks an eye and hoots from high up in the rafters of the barn at the top of the hill.'

‘Hoot, hoot.'

‘Hoot, hoot.'

‘The demon scrambles up the bank, he slips, he is exhausted.'

‘He'll not make it to the barn, not to safety.'

‘A rushing sound, a presence, from behind.'

‘He falls to his knees and looks back.'

‘And sees the spectre, the full weight of his sins.'

‘His sins of the past.'

Carp and Perch take their butter knives. They dig and stab and slash into the toast. It crumbles and breaks. A leg swimming in the tea; a shattered head dissolving in the grease from the butter.

‘It will not do.'

‘It will not do.'

They look deep into each other's eyes, seeing themselves. Then they leap up from their chairs and scurry up the stairs to their bedroom, leaving their stepmother to clear away the mess.

People have always sacrificed animals, but they also sacrifice people. God wanted us to sacrifice his own son and told Abraham to sacrifice his. But if the Old Testament is a sign for the New, why didn't God tell the Romans to let Jesus free and take a ram instead? In chess you can sacrifice a horse for a bishop, but never for a Queen.

It must be nearly morning. I hear murmurings of birdsong and see a milky light enter my bedroom. Turning my head on the pillow I realise there's something in my mouth. I curl my tongue around it, sit up and dribble it onto my hand. It's my baby molar tooth, finally given up trying to hold its big cousin at bay. Placing it carefully on the night table, I get up, slip on my clothes, then wrap the tooth in a clean white handkerchief and beckon Stigir to follow me downstairs.

The sunbeams peering through the small window light up the corner of the cellar as I take the photo from the trunk. Grandfather is still offering Grandmother some candy from the paper bag in his hand and still she looks down, her elegant hat covering her eyes. I place the photo on the pile of soft white shirts and reach to the ledge for the little posy of sweet williams that yesterday we plucked from the garden. Arranging the colourful petals around the photo I imagine the smell of the hedgerow where my grandparents stand and the feel of the gravel of the country lane under their Sunday-best leather shoes. What is it about this scene that makes me sad and happy at the same time? Does she take a sweet? Does she look up from under her hat and smile? Where do they walk to?

I unravel the handkerchief to reveal my snowy-white tooth. Holding it delicately between my finger and thumb I place it on Grandfather's outstretched hand, take one last long look at the photo, and then close the lid of the trunk.

‘The play's the thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.' Shakespeare

They all sit at the dinner table. Perch opposite Carp, Mr across from Mrs.

Mr Fishcutter speaks, surprising and dispersing the steam with his sudden words.

‘How was school, girls?'

Glances are exchanged between sister and sister.

The Twins nod the secret nod.

Two nights previous they had spoken of this moment. It was shortly after the psalm singing and cat dressing-up ceremony. The adult's bedroom light had long gone out and the two sisters breathed in the silence of the night-air. They had held hands across the narrow divide of bed between them, fingers intertwining like anemones under water.

‘He can be Isaac,' whispered Carp across the divide. Her twin turned on her side to face her sister.

She could feel the cool breath on her face.

‘No ram in sight,' replied Perch.

‘A gentle sacrifice.'

‘Only sleeping, Daddy dear.'

‘To be awakened for Jesus' glorious new world.'

‘To join us and mother.'

‘Together again.'

‘Our real mother.'

‘Our one and only.'

‘A real family.'

‘Together again.'

‘Forever and ever, amen.'

Back at the dinner table, still awaiting a response, the father looks at his wife. He tries again, while helping himself to a mackerel. Its skin shines like a placenta.

‘So school, how was it?'

One more quick glance is passed between the girls.

‘Everyone has been asked to present a play,' begins Perch.

‘In our English class,' adds Carp.

‘We want to do the story of Abraham and Isaac.'

The adults exchange satisfied smiles.

‘What a lovely idea,' says Mrs Fishcutter. ‘You'll be able to Witness at the same time.'

‘Witness to the whole school,' adds Mr Fishcutter. ‘A wonderful opportunity to pass on the Truth.'

The door is pushed open and the cat sleeks into the room, attracted by the conversation and the smell of oily fish. She twines herself first around Perch's leg, then Carp's. A fellow conspirator.