To Journey in the Year of the Tiger

by H. Leighton Dickson

  “These men will see to the horses. We have other things awaiting us.”

  “Ooh, yes, ‘amenities’,” grinned Fallon as she dismounted. “Oh wouldn’t a good scrub be nice? A good scrub, fresh clothes and warm slippers. I feel scratchy all over.”

  Sherah smiled at her.

  “Then a nice soft bed, full of feathers and tea. Not – not tea in the bed, mind you. Just with it. Beside it, you know. Beside the bed.”

  “You are very amusing, Scholar.”

  The tigress passed over the reins and staggered on wobbly legs into the tower.

  “And a book, a big fat book, and supper. Wow, look at that Wall...”

  Kerris fell in between them, catching both women by the elbows.

  “Did you say supper?”

  The screech of a falcon drifted down the stairwell and Sireth paused before entering. He glared the leopard.

  “You shouldn’t tie her like that. She’s hungry.”

  “She’s always hungry,” growled Ursa behind him.

  The guard did not react, unsure if the man speaking was priest or prisoner.

  “She bit several of my men. Sidi.”

  “Good.”

  Ursa shoved him and together they disappeared through the doorway. Kirin shook his head and followed.

  ***

  A high-heeled white boot hit the stone floor.

  “Ursa, how um, how exactly do you walk in those things?”

  “Very well.”

  “Heh. That was funny.”

  Fallon Waterford wrinkled her nose and looked around the room. It was not large, to be certain, but it was cozy. A wood stove burned in one corner, casting golden shadows across the bricks and toasting the linens at its hearth. The ‘amenities’ had been most satisfactory, in her estimation. Fresh, hot tea had been provided and a guard stood outside their door for their clothing, which would be taken to the garrison town and cleaned and fire-dried by morning. Curried lamb and dumplings, noodles and cabbage awaited them up the winding stone stairs that led to the very top of the tower. The very roof of the Wall.

  She pulled off her own suede boot and stretched her toes, enjoying the feel as her claws stretched as well. In the jungle, back at her father’s farm near Parnum’bah Falls, she was barefoot most of the time and she preferred it that way. In fact, back home she would most often be found in one of her father’s old tunics and little else, for because of her penchant for tree-climbing, experiments and dissections, it was impossible to keep her own clothes in good repair. Life at the University had changed many things.

  She watched as the Major peeled her uniform of white doe-skin and threw it to the floor. Fallon shook her head in amazement. Even such simple motions caused the muscles to ripple across the snow leopard’s back. The marbled pelt was striking to behold, much more elaborate than tigers, she thought. Bars and bands and rosettes of silver in glorious patterns, like snow-ripe clouds on a moonlit lake. Yes, much better than tigers.

  Sherah had also stripped from her cat-suit of black and the vestments made tinkling sounds as they struck the stone. Fallon studied her markings as well, the cheetah pelt of butter-cream, the spots tiny and regular, accentuating her narrow waist and the swell of her hips and the long, thick curve of her tail. Her throat and belly were milk-white, her chest full. A woman’s chest. Fallon frowned as she looked down at her own.

  “Good thing I don’t have kittens. They would die of starvation.”

  Turning, Sherah smiled.

  “They grow bigger.”

  “Oh, no I don’t think they will.”

  “Pah. Who wants kittens,” growled Ursa as she grabbed a brush of hog bristles and began to scrub the fur of her arms. “Better to be dead than to have kittens.”

  “Well, I would love to have kittens, but I wouldn’t want them to die of starvation.”

  “They would not starve,” said Sherah as she too began to brush her long spotted legs.

  “So? How do you know?”

  “I have had kittens. They grow bigger.”

  “What?” Fallon’s head shot up. “You’re married?”

  “No.”

  “Pah.” Ursa rolled her eyes. “Bastard kittens. Better to be dead.”

  “How many kittens?”

  “Four.”

  The cheetah did not bother to look up but she smiled as the bristles ruffled the smooth hair of her feet. Elegant feet, thought Fallon. Not like my flat skinny stripey ones.

  “Wow. What are their names?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Pah! Bastards.”

  “Sherah, don’t you know your own children?”

  “They were taken as newborn, to monasteries other than Agara’tha.” She paused as golden eyes slid up to meet emerald.

  “Alchemy begets alchemy,” she purred. “My skills are strong. They breed true. It is a great honor.”

  “And the sires - all cheetahs?” asked Ursa.

  “Two.”

  “Bastard mongrel alchemist kittens. That should not be allowed.”

  “Wow.” Fallon sat back on her stool, arms draped across her knees. She let out a deep breath. “Wow.”

  “Bad enough to be a Pure-born child, let alone a mongrel. This very thing is the cause of all the problems in the Kingdom.” Ursa pulled a rough linen tunic over her head. “It is a weakness.”

  “Children?” Fallon frowned again, thinking of her own family, happy parents who had welcomed as many daughters as the jungle would give them. “Children are a weakness?”

  “Stupid girl! What did I say? Bastard. Mongrel. Alchemist. Kittens. What don’t you understand?”

  Fallon shrugged. “You.”

  “Pah.” Ursa snorted and tossed her head, her hair whipping across her back. The conversation was ended.

  “Pay her no heed, Scholar,” Sherah said, her eyes gleaming. “Perhps she needs a cup of tea.”

  ***

  In the Upper Kingdom, there are a great many rituals and ceremonies. Ceremonies for taking tea, ceremonies for taking a wife, ceremonies for writing letters to people in faraway lands. So, then, for a people graced with such glorious pelts, pelts that are the envy of all other Nations, it is not unusual for there to be a ceremony involved with the art of brushing. All is taken into consideration - the correct brush with the correct bristles, the correct pattern for brushing first against the hairs, then with, and most of all, the consideration to help a friend when brushing the back. The back is difficult, most difficult to reach with claw or comb, and it is a great gift to offer one’s service in this very deed. Brushing is a fastidious business and cats are, after all, a fastidious people.

  “Lower, lower, now in the middle, there! That’s it, Kirin, aaahhhh...”

  “Kerris, your foot.”

  “Sorry.”

  The Captain could not help but smile. His brother so loved to have his pelt brushed. As a child, he had spent hours letting their mother brush and brush and brush. When other kittens were anxious to get about their studies, or dash outside for a game of sham’Rai or Chicken-poke, Kerris was just as happy to let himself be brushed. Feed him and brush him and Kerris would purr well into the night.

  “Your wounds are healing well, brother.”

  “They itch like mad warthogs.”

  “The stitches will have to come out soon.” Kirin tapped the bristle brush into his palm and laid it on the stool beside him. “There. You are done.”

  “Oh please, just a few minutes more.”

  “No. I wish to go over the maps before supper.”

  Kerris straightened and stretched, rolling his grey head ‘til his neck popped.

  “Ah, maps and supper. Can’t say which I’m looking forward to most. What about him?”

  He inclined his chin towards a corner of the small chamber where the Seer was sitting, slowly folding a long orange sash seven times.

  “Make the offer if you wish. I have no time.”

  “Right. Go then. We’ll be up soon.”

  He gat
hered his uniform, snatched the rough wool cloak that completed the tunic, wide trousers and warm hide slippers he now wore, and strode swiftly from the room, closing the door behind.

  Kerris glanced back to the Seer. For the most part, he was still clothed in loose dark linens, remnants of life in the Cliffs of Thousand Eyes. He had taken great pains to remove the leather robe and the wide sash that had wrapped him at shoulder and hip, and folded them both as if they were the Queen’s very bedclothes. Likewise, gloves and boots had been placed at right angles to each other, symbols of higher, loftier things. Such concentration on trivial matters seemed a waste of time to Kerris, especially when a pot of curried lamb lay waiting upstairs but he knew that most people relished their rituals, needed them almost, to keep the shoots of their lives contained. It was the way of things.

  So, with a puff of breath, he pulled his new tunic overhead, grabbed the bristle brush and crossed the room.

  He bowed deeply, enjoying the form, if not the formality.

  “Might I have the honor?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Ah.” He frowned, looked around the chamber, rocked back and forth on the pads of his feet. Finally, he sat down on a wooden bench. “You see, there you have me. What am I supposed to say to that?”

  “I don’t know.” Sireth shrugged. “But I do not wish you to brush my back.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Didn’t you brush each other’s backs in Sha’Hadin?”

  “Yes.”

  “So? What’s the difference?”

  “You are not from Sha’Hadin.”

  Kerris leaned back against the cool brick wall, laced his hands behind his neck. He grinned.

  “Shame on you.”

  Now, the man did look up, tilting his head like a falcon hearing a faraway sound. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Can you see out of that other eye? The good one?”

  “Of course.”

  “And can you see color with it?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And what color am I?”

  benAramis sighed. “Grey.”

  “And how many grey lions are there in the Kingdom?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Two. Exactly two, although I do believe Robin neeCornWallace’s mother may have dabbled once or twice with a certain white tiger. No stripes mind you. He’s as grey as quarried stone. But even still that makes only two grey lions in all of the Upper Kingdom. Far less than the number of mongrels, I’d wager.”

  He sat forward, still grinning.

  “So then, what makes you think I care whether you have spots or stripes or for that matter, purple monkeys tattooed on your back? Am I such a typical lion that I should care?”

  “You are far from a typical lion,” said Sireth quietly.

  “And you are the highest ranking mongrel in the history of the Upper Kingdom. So let’s call it even, shall we?”

  The Seer smiled. “You are very different from your brother, Kerris Wynegarde-Grey.”

  “I am indeed.” Kerris smiled back. “But don’t think to poorly of Kirin, sidi. He has a hard job and he prides himself on doing it well. Offence is a small price to pay for peace.”

  “Yes. Thank you for your counsel.”

  “But you still don’t want me brushing your back.”

  “No.”

  “Fair enough then. Do you still want to know about Ancestors?”

  Sireth almost fell off his stool. This man was sharp, sharper than he let on.

  “Yes,” he said, forcing himself to breathe evenly. “Yes I do.”

  “Well, what do you want to know? It is a rather broad subject.”

  His hands, gloveless and spotted, were shaking.

  “What did they look like?”

  “Well, that depends. The glyphs in Aegyp are far different than the glyphs in the Land of the Chi’Chen. The statues in the jungles of Hindaya not at all like the ones in Shiam. Can’t tell about the ones in Hiran or Hirak. They have most of their heads smashed off.”

  He leaned back again, began chewing on a thumb claw.

  “For the most part, I think they looked rather like us. Two legs, two arms - for the most part I say again, for some of the statues, seemed to have many arms, like Khali.” He shuddered at the thought. “Now where was I? Oh yes, two arms, short noses, like us, not like dogs. Um, no tails, two eyes—”

  “Brown eyes?”

  “No offence, sidi, but brown eyes are unnatural.”

  “Yes, of course. Please continue.”

  “Dogs have brown eyes. Are you certain there isn’t any dog in your particular mix?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “No matter. I found an odd book once. The pages were stiff and clear, save for paintings of red and blue, and they looked to me like paintings of like paintings of innards.”

  “Innards?”

  “Yes. Blood paths and hearts and lungs and stomachs and the like. It was gruesome. I think they were a gruesome people.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Kerris leaned forward. “Have you ever been to Calcah’thah?”

  Sireth leaned forward. “I grew up in Calcah’thah.”

  “There are still parts of the city that none of us can reclaim. It is devastated.”

  “I know.”

  “There are areas in Hiran and Shyria that even still nothing grows. Cats who pass through become sick within a fortnight. I think they were a powerful, gruesome, warrior people who killed themselves off in a great war. Or many great wars.” He shrugged, as if catching himself in a blasphemy. “I think.”

  Sireth sat very still. These were not things he wanted to know.

  “But they were marvelous, as well. Here. Look at this.”

  He pulled the sleeve from his wrist. Something flashed in the firelight.

  “What is it?”

  “Not sure, entirely. The Scholar thinks it’s a sundial. But you know her. Actually, I bought it for her, but she didn’t want it. Threw it back right in my face. She’s a puzzle, that one is...”

  He slipped it off and passed the bangle over into Sireth’s eager hand melting flesh melting heat blasting blinding light fire consuming death death lungs burning burning blood bursting eyes mouths ears bursting death dying earthshake shake and collapse wailing kittens six kittens cool water spray oceans lion tiger man

  Sireth gasped for air as Kerris finally managed to wrench the bangle from his iron grip.

  “Are you alright? Sidi?”

  He couldn’t yet speak for his head was still pounding, the power of the Vision strong in his soul.

  “What happened? You weren’t breathing.”

  He nodded.

  “Did you see something?”

  “Devastation,” he whispered.

  “Right.” Kerris slipped the bangle back on his wrist and rose to his feet. “Well, I um, I should go up. Kirin has maps, and all. And supper. Are you coming for supper? I’m quite hungry, aren’t you?”

  “Hunger is simply a matter of perspective.”

  “Yes, well from where I’m standing, the perspective smells quite good. Are you sure you’re alright?”

  The Seer nodded again.

  Kerris took several steps toward the door, paused before leaving.

  “Be sure not to mention this to Kirin, will you? He has enough to think about.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Right then, I’m off.”

  And with a snatch of his wool cloak, he disappeared out the chamber. Sireth sat for some time longer before he slipped his own tunic over his head, revealing not only spots and stripes but a tapestry of horrid black, white and blistered scars that would have paled even the greyest of lions.

  ***

  Fallon filled her chest with cold air as if this action might bypass the necessity for kitten-bearing. Her belly was similarly inclined, filled full with lamb and dumplings. The curry had be
en too mild for her tastes. Her father’s had always made her tongue tingle for days afterward and again, she found herself smiling at the memory of family.

  She sighed. She had always assumed everyone felt the same about family.

  She had left the brothers in the battle tower, poring over map after map and speaking together in quiet voices. In this rough linen clothing, it was almost difficult to tell them apart from behind, save for the occasional swat of a tufted grey tail, and yet, they were so different. Hard to believe they were twins. Ursa and Sherah had disappeared shortly after the evening meal, and Sireth had not taken supper at all. She worried about him and his sullen ways. Such solitude could not possibly be good for the soul.

  She leaned out over the parapet, between the rectangular rises and dips in the cornice. The north wind plucked at her hair and she leaned out even further, imagining what it might be like to be the first to see an approaching army, to dash to the great oil lamp in the tower and light it ablaze so that all of the Kingdom would know by daybreak. She imagined hundreds of troops marching in unison down the length of the Wall, the Imperial Standard waving over their head. Harder to imagine, however, was the ensuing battle, the hooks and cables flying upwards, spears raining down, blood seeping between the stones like mortar. No, this she could not imagine at all.

  It did not look so different, she thought as her eyes scanned the borders of the Lower Kingdom. These were still the Great Mountains, Mother to cats of all Races. And yet it seemed she belonged to dogs as well, her peaks as rugged and bountiful as those in DharamShallah. Perhaps dogs had jungles as well and fertile valleys and dry plains and perhaps not all was desert and desolate wasteland. Perhaps dogs were as proud of their Mother as cats and just perhaps, she was Good Mother to both.

  “Ah, there you are. Hot cocoa?”

  She turned to see Kerris standing directly behind her, holding up two steaming mugs of foam. Her eyes grew round.

  “I love hot cocoa. My father used to make it all the time.” She took a big gulp, wincing as the bitter brown milk scorched her tongue. “Yep, forgot the honey. Just like father.”

  Kerris grinned and leaned out next to her, cupping the mug in both hands for warmth. She tried not to watch him out of the corner of her eye, cursed the maddening pace of her heart, the sudden unwelcome loss of thought.