The Tiger Rising
Page 7
Rob nodded.
“And on Monday,” his father continued, “I aim to call that principal and tell him you’re going back to school. I ain’t messing around with taking you to more doctors. You’re going back and that’s that.”
“Yes, sir,” said Rob. He didn’t mind the thought of going back to school. School was where Sistine would be.
His father cleared his throat. “It’s hard for me to talk about your mama. I wouldn’t never have believed that I could miss somebody the way I miss her. Saying her name pains me.” He bent his head and concentrated on putting the cap on the tube of medicine. “But I’ll say it for you,” he said. “I’ll try on account of you.”
Rob looked at his father’s hands. They were the hands that had held the gun that shot the tiger. They were the hands that put the medicine on his legs. They were the hands that had held him when he cried. They were complicated hands, Rob thought.
“You want some macaroni and cheese for dinner?” his father asked, looking back up at Rob.
“That sounds all right,” said Rob. “Macaroni and cheese sounds real good.”
That night, Rob dreamed he and Sistine were standing at the grave of the tiger. They were watching and waiting. He didn’t know for what. But then he saw a flutter of green wings and he understood. It was the wooden bird, only he wasn’t made of wood, he was real. And he flew up out of the tiger’s grave, and they chased him, laughing and bumping into each other. They tried to catch him. But they couldn’t. The bird flew higher and higher until he disappeared into a sky that looked just like the Sistine ceiling. In his dream, Rob stood and stared up at the sky, admiring all the figures and the colors, watching as the bird disappeared into them.
“See?” said Sistine in his dream. “I told you it was like fireworks.”
He woke up smiling, staring at the ceiling of the motel room.
“Guess what?” his father called to him from outside.
“What?” said Rob back.
“There ain’t a cloud in the sky,” said his father, “that’s what.”
Rob nodded. He lay in bed and watched the sun poke its way through his curtain. He thought about Sistine and the tiger he wanted to make for her. He thought about what kind of wood he would use and how big he would make the tiger. He thought about how happy Sistine would be when she saw it.
He lay in bed and considered the future, and outside his window, the tiny neon Kentucky Star rose and fell and rose and fell, competing bravely with the light of the morning sun.
Peter stood in the small patch of light making its sullen way through the open flap of the tent. He let the fortuneteller take his hand. She examined it closely, moving her eyes back and forth and back and forth, as if there were a whole host of very small words inscribed there, an entire book about Peter Augustus Duchene composed atop his palm.
“Huh,” she said at last. She dropped his hand and squinted up at his face. “But, of course, you are just a boy.”
“I am ten years old,” said Peter. He took the hat from his head and stood as straight and tall as he was able. “And I am training to become a soldier, brave and true. But it does not matter how old I am. You took the florit, so now you must give me my answer.”
“A soldier brave and true?” said the fortuneteller. She laughed and spat on the ground. “Very well, soldier brave and true, if you say it is so, then it is so. Ask me your question.”
Peter felt a small stab of fear. What if, after all this time, he could not bear the truth? What if he did not really want to know?
“Speak,” said the fortuneteller. “Ask.”
“My parents,” said Peter.
“That is your question?” said the fortuneteller. “They are dead.”
Peter’s hands trembled. “That is not my question,” he said. “I know that already. You must tell me something that I do not know. You must tell me of another — you must tell me . . .”
The fortuneteller narrowed her eyes. “Ah,” she said. “Her? Your sister? That is your question? Very well. She lives.”
Peter’s heart seized upon the words. She lives. She lives!
“No, please,” said Peter. He closed his eyes. He concentrated. “If she lives, then I must find her, so my question is, how do I make my way there, to where she is?”
He kept his eyes closed; he waited.
“The elephant,” said the fortuneteller.
“What?” he said. He opened his eyes, certain that he had misunderstood.
“You must follow the elephant,” said the fortuneteller. “She will lead you there.”
Copyright © 2009 by Kate DiCamillo
Kate DiCamillo is the author of many beloved books for young readers, including The Tale of Despereaux, which received a Newbery Medal; Because of Winn-Dixie, which received a Newbery Honor; The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane, which won a Boston Globe–Horn Book Award; the best-selling Mercy Watson series; and The Magician’s Elephant. About The Tiger Rising, she says, “Rob Horton first showed up in a short story I was writing. I finished the story, but apparently Rob wasn’t finished with me. He hung around for weeks afterward, haunting the other stories I was working on. Finally, I said to him ‘What in the world do you want?’ And he said, ‘I know where there’s a tiger.’ Like Sistine, I said one word back to him: ‘Where?’” Kate DiCamillo lives in Minneapolis.