In Search of the Blue Tiger (41 page)

CARP: Our angel

PERCH: Our messenger.

The door of the cell opens.

I look up and down the corridor.

The corridor is as long and dark as eternity.

Empty.

From somewhere way in the distance the strains of an accordion.

And then, close by, the sound of a woman crying.

The shadow of Great Aunt Margaret appears in the hallway. Her back against the cold wall, the tears of longing on her cheeks.

She sees me. Her stare is one of sadness and grief.

She turns and runs back along the darkened passageway.

I follow her. I follow the sound of her footsteps and the loud panting of her breath. It gets louder and louder like a wild animal.

Up stairs we go, passing windows on landings.

Outside one I see Mr April looking up at me from under a street lamp, his speckled scarf a venomous serpent.

We are in an attic room. I look out of the tiny window.

There below, in the midnight garden, are Carp and Perch, behind dark veils that reach to the ground.

They look up at me, lifting their arms in silent prayer.

Back inside the room, a couple are asleep in a huge four-poster bed.

Great Aunt Margaret watches them come and go, the man and the woman who have lived in the coach-house these long years since her death. Sometimes they brush past her, turning on their way to the bathroom. Or else they hear her sobs and wonder where the sounds come from. When the pain is too much, Great Aunt Margaret rages through the corridors and passageways screaming out loud. Then the couple notice and talk about her in hushed tones, almost afraid to mention her name. Then the man and woman huddle together in their bed and try to separate out the noises of the house. Once or twice, they tell others of her shenanigans. They make light of the tearing at bedcovers, the prodding and poking. They tell jokes about ghosts, old houses and things that go bump in the night. But mostly they try to pretend she is never there.

Yet every now and then, just as they had done all those years ago, the flames lick around the coach-house. The cries of Margaret's baby are barely audible beneath the terrified screams of the horses in the stables below. Margaret sobs so deeply no one can ignore her. On these nights she races around the house from room to room, trying to find a way to save her daughter. Just as it happened back then, when it was all too real, the falling beams block her way, the clouds of blinding smoke, the walls of fire, smother her senses. The stables she set alight, to get back at the Master. To roast his horses. His pride and joy. Not she, his pride and joy. Nor the baby girl he turned his back on, pretending she was not his very own flesh and blood. He, who had come each night to take Margaret downstairs to the coach-house to whisper in her ear as he lifted up her nightdress. But the flames, so out of control. Not only the thoroughbreds in danger, but her sleeping baby. Defenceless and innocent.

‘Please God, please sweet baby and manhood of Jesus,' she begs of me, clinging to my shirt, as the horses crash in the stalls, flaying their skin in panic. Explosions of heat crack saddle and harness, wheel-hoop and leather.

When the night is done, on these nights, exhausted and spent, she climbs the stairs to the bedroom to find some comfort.

‘All in cinders. All in cinders. The horses, the coaches, the baby and all.'

Sometimes, the young couple sense her coming up the stairs to where they sleep, wrapped in each other's arms. They even feel the tug on the bedclothes as she pleads for an end to her suffering.

‘Spare my baby, cradle my baby,' she weeps. Her tears fill the room. Her sorrow is the air. Maybe they wake and maybe they sleep. But in the morning they remember the cries in the night, the lick of the flames, the tug on the sheets, and the heavy sadness of loss.

Then just we two: myself and Great Aunt Margaret in the empty room. The couple and four-poster bed have disappeared. She wears a wedding dress that trails forever. She holds the baby lovingly to her chest. Her daughter. The tiniest of bejewelled crowns on her baby head and a sceptre of purest gold nestling in her arms.

‘You can't save me, Oscar,' says Great Aunt, as the flames engulf her and her baby, ‘save yourself.' And through the flames she smiles and through her smile I feel light and free.

I have wings. Huge wings of a condor, an angel. Icarus. The roof opens out to the sky and I soar upwards and away.

I float high above Tidetown. In the distance is a huge blue kite. I follow its trail as it dives and then nestles in the treetops.

In the clearing is the house in the woods. The Twins are standing by the front door, stock-still, awaiting the flash of the bulb from the hooded camera, steadied on its tripod.

It is a still day. There is a thin film of cloud in the early morning sky, but it is warm. Hives hum with the sounds of the bees shaping the perfect honeycomb cells, secreting the wax to form the impervious walls. Perch and Carp wear the black veils of the beekeeper. Perch holds the smoke-gun she uses to dull the bees so she can take the honey from the hives. Each twin performs her task expertly, taciturnly. Carp lifts the lid from the chosen hive; Perch sprays clouds of smoke into its interior. The bees quieten, the rhythmic humming decreases.

Through their veils Perch and Carp exchange smiles.

‘No smoke without fire,' says Perch.

‘Little striped beasties,' says Carp.

‘Anaesthetised.'

‘Subdued.'

‘Their duty performed.'

Like a trophy, a prized capture, Perch lifts the shiny panel of honeycombed syrup from the hive. It glistens in the breaking sunlight, dripping and bleeding. Licking the honey from the back of her hand, she stretches out her arm, offering her honey-laden fingers to her twin. Like a wolf cub at her mother's teats, Carp sucks each finger, one by one.

I wake, my head awash with images. I look around to acquaint myself with the here and now, to anchor myself in something that is real. I turn towards the light from the window and my altar.

The wax from the candle has melted and solidified at the base of the photo. The two women, veiled once more, stare out at me from behind their masks. The pocket watch hands are silent at two and five. I lie still, the smell of my dream on the pillow. Snatches, no more. The sun streams through the window. I hear the voices of the monks in the gardens.

‘The ship,' says one. ‘It's in the bay.'

‘Tell the others. Gather up the honey pots, the fruit, the vegetables. There'll be trade for us today.'

I get up and look out the window. Monks are running hither and thither, excited at the news.

It's a beautiful pink dawn. The light is crisp and clear with a delicious taste of the sea on the breeze.

There's a knock at my door.

It is Mrs April. She is dressed in a crisp white blouse and a floral skirt. She wears a huge floppy hat and carries a canvas parasol on her arm. Her snow-white gloves reach to her elbows and she has a silver bracelet on her wrist. Slung over her shoulder is a buckled satchel.

‘Look, Oscar, the boat is waiting for you,' pointing to the huge galleon anchored in Open Bay, its snow-white sails billowing in readiness.

‘Do you remember when you first came to the library?' she asks.

‘Of course,' I say, how could I forget.

‘Back then I told you the story of how the Himalayas were formed. That once upon a time in Nepal all the mountains had wings and they could fly. Well, I've had a lifetime of reading stories and I know all things are possible, if we believe they can happen. We can find meaning and purpose in our lives and we can live happily ever after. If only we are not afraid to move on, and, instead of being stuck to the ground, we turn our faces to the sun and spread our wings.'

What is it she is offering me? Is it the message from the Father: the words I couldn't hear in my dream, even though he repeated them over and over again as he hammered the board to the mast of the ship?

‘But what of Mother?' I say. ‘And the Great Aunt?'

‘Oscar,' she says quietly, placing her hands gently on my shoulders, looking straight into my eyes, ‘they will be okay. You saw them yourselves. They have each other. You need worry no longer.'

‘But my things. My scrapbooks? My altar?'

‘Don't you worry about them. I promise you I will pack them away and store them in the library here. The monks will take good care of them. You know that. Carpe diem! Carpe diem! Seize the day!'

With that she takes me by the hand. We walk past the strawberry patch. And there are the new plants, free and verdant. She leads me to a bench overlooking the bay.

Something deep and barely knowable inside me tells me my time has come and that I should trust the day to unfold. That, small and young as I am, I, like Haydn on his way to Vienna, can allow myself to leave this place of my childhood and make my way into the world.

We sit together and watch in wonder as the ship prepares for its voyage. Crates of oranges, apples and pears, beautifully coloured blankets, barrels of wine and water, tables and chairs, are loaded onboard by sailors in blue-and-white hooped tops, their gloriously glittering earrings shining in the sun. Cows and sheep, chickens and rabbits, are led to their pens by deckhands who cajole and chivvy them, just like Noah and his wife of old.

Suddenly, the wind picks up and the water in the bay waves a ripple of applause. In the wake, the galleon, magnificent and solid, turns its prow towards me and I see the figurehead. It is the torso and head of a tiger, painted brilliant shades of blue to match the decoration and gilding of the ship's hulk. I can barely believe my eyes: the ship's figurehead is a blue tiger! The wind swirls and the boat shifts again on its anchor, the tiger's eyes set on the open sea.

‘The time is nearly here for you to set off on your journey,' says Mrs April, holding my hand in her lap.

‘You see, Oscar,' she says, looking back down to the galleon, ‘you can run away to sea, after all. It's never too late. You can be the cabin boy, the first mate. You can be the captain, if that's how it turns out. Oscar, you don't have to stay here, living out other people's lives, other people's ideas. Here's a secret: there are no demons or were-wolves or time travel, but there is chess and kites and goodness and hope. Little Oscar,' she says, squeezing my hand. ‘We all deserve a life of our own. You do, too. Reach out and grasp it. You know, Oscar, and here's a really big secret: nightmares can turn into fairytales.'

We look deep into each other's eyes, this beautiful woman and I.

The last case of pickled cabbages and onions is packed safe and snug in the hold. The sails are full with wind, yearning for the open seas. The captain checks his charts as the flying fish leap a course to the mouth of the bay. The sun reflects a smile on the face of the clear blue waters as the ship strains on its anchor, eager for its maiden voyage.

‘All ashore that's going ashore,' shouts the first mate, an old sea dog, grizzly white beard and earring the size of a door ring.

Mrs April smiles at me.

‘Oscar, are you ashore or aboard, the past or the future?'

The gang plank is still down.

‘Hop aboard, young fellow me lad,' chimes the old sea dog. ‘If you're up for adventure … we need help in the galley.'

He looks down at Stigir.

‘And if he's game, we need a ship's dog, so he comes along too.'

Mrs April opens her satchel.

‘I have something I would like you to have,' she says.

She hands me a beautiful book.

‘Take a look at the first page,' she says.

And this, in Mrs April's immaculate handwriting, in luscious blue ink, is what I read.

While in south-eastern China, an American missionary, the Reverend H. R. Caldwell, described a clear sighting of a tiger coloured deep shades of Maltese blue. At the turn of the century, Caldwell was in the Fujian Province watching a goat. One of the Chinese guides noticed a tiger. At first glance Caldwell thought it was a crouching man dressed in a blue cloak. A second look told him otherwise, ‘I saw the huge head of the tiger above the blue which had appeared to me to be the clothes of a man. What I had been looking at was the chest and belly of the tiger.'

The man of God raised his gun to fire, but several children were playing between him and the tiger. By the time he had altered his position, the blue tiger vanished. Caldwell described the tiger as having a Maltese base colour that changed to deep blue on the undersides. Although he never saw the tiger again, villagers confirmed the presence of blue tigers roaming the lush forests and deep valleys of the area.

(H.R. Caldwell. ‘Blue Tiger: a memoir.')

‘A blue tiger!'

‘Yes, Oscar, so there are blue tigers in the world.'

I turn the rest of the pages. They are blank.

‘For you to record your future,' says Mrs April with a smile. ‘Come back to Tidetown when your book is full. When I'm an old lady and you're a tall strong young man. You can sit by my fireside and read to me of pirates and the Azores, of love and exotic places. And we will eat buttered toast and drink tea.'