by Tony Black
“Damn it … God damn it!” the men cried out.
I prayed my tiger would not return. I prayed he would leave this place and keep far from the doings of the station.
“Tilly, he’s made it … he’s made it.” Together we jumped into the air. Tilly’s smile was the greatest sight I had ever seen as she screamed her happiness for all to hear. But then, suddenly, she became still.
Tilly froze before me; the wind caught a curl of her hair and sent it into her eyes but she did not remove it, she merely stared on, set still. “Myko … look,” she said.
I followed the tip of Tilly’s finger to where she pointed. As I watched my tiger nearing the coastal run and the dunes thick with heavy grasslands where his freedom lay, my blood ran cold.
“No!” I yelled.
I felt my heart begin to weaken and my knees sag beneath me. My eyes could not comprehend the sight unfolding before us. I felt all hope leave me instantly.
“No! No!” I called out.
As I wailed, I watched my father rise from beyond the horizon’s thin line and break the sun’s rays with his powerful frame. Where I watched my father stand he was granite-spined. He raised up a repeater rifle, turning down his head to place an eye upon the scope mount, and then he dropped my tiger with one shot.
Tilly screamed out as my tiger lost his stride and fell.
My knees folded up beneath me. I saw my tiger, where he lay, had only a few more of his great bounds to take to find his freedom again. But now he rested in the shadow of the dune; the sunlight which had filled him, fled.
He struggled, not quite dead, raising up his large head, but he fell again and again.
“No, Father … no, no, no,” I cried.
I closed my eyes tightly and felt a heavy scarring grow upon my heart. And then I heard the rifle shot with which my tiger ceased to be.
I did not dare to put my eyes upon my father below.
Chapter Nine
The storekeeper took off his boater and threw it in the air.
Many hats were raised aloft, but I could not share in their carousing, I knew a great evil had been done this day. As the station’s men started towards my father with cheers I felt like I carried my heart within a glass jar, sealed fast to the world outside.
“Myko,” said Tilly, “your father has killed a tiger.”
I wished to leave this place, to be far from the island.
“I know … I saw it,” I cursed and spat, “he has killed my tiger.”
The blood pounded in my temples and I could not stay any longer. I hurled myself back toward the forest.
“Myko, Myko,” I heard Tilly call out at my back, but I was running hard; I was already beyond the distance where Tilly could catch me.
Smoke still lingered like thick fog in the forest, but a mist now crept around me. I ran on, spitting out the sooty air as it gathered in my throat. I stumbled and found myself fallen, my hands and knees scratched upon the forest floor.
Ash and charcoal surrounded the gnarled roots of the hardy trees; they resisted the burning beneath them as no more an inconvenience than a bird resting upon their high branches. Quickly I picked myself up, and ran on. The green and blue half-tones of the country became a blur to me as I rushed through the wattles and mud-holes. The smell of burnt eucalypts sailed high on the heavy sea breeze that raked the air and sent the branches twitching. Beneath the desolate sky was an eerie calm as the sun crawled away to hide. I wished I too had somewhere to curl up and extinguish the flames burning inside of me, but I could only run on and on.
By nightfall I grew weary. I did not know how far I had travelled. Feverish new chills passed over me in the cold of the night. I wandered along a tree-bordered road that led I knew not where as the moon rose up like a phantom.
The hazy stars threw down dim lights that landed upon the sag of the road and tethered themselves to each silver beam’s fall. In the low humming of the night I watched the island’s landscape break up like a mosaic, and then I was suddenly startled to see the bright lights of a motor truck wending its way towards me on the dirt track.
Whistle screams rose from the noisy engine and tore through the silence like a cleaver. The truck was fast approaching as I stepped into the road’s culvert, but the lights’ shine pinned me where I stood. It did not take long for the cracked and broken earth to be illuminated in the truck’s lights, which chased away the darkest of the lurking shadows.
The truck came to rest and from the window leaned a shearer. He eyed me with alarm, tipping back his stockman’s hat and staring down upon me. “You’re a long way from home,” he said; as his crooked front teeth pressed on his taut little mouth his words greeted me like mule kicks.
I did not answer and merely restarted my steps upon the road. There was a bitter taste in my mouth. I believed it to be the words I dared not speak for fear of unleashing torrents which I had no power to control. I did not want to pass time with any of Tasmania’s bushmen or fools.
“The name’s Ben, I come from Trowutta,” said the shearer, opening the truck’s door and leaning out to face me.
I stared on for a moment, then returned to the road.
“I can take you to the billet at Woolnorth,” he said, “it’s where I’m headed.”
When the shearer spoke of the billet I suddenly thought of my mother. I knew I must not leave her to face these days alone; she suffered when I was far from her. I wanted to run away but I knew that the absence of another son might be the ending of my mother. I could not have her fragile spirit weakened still more by the island’s brutes.
“I’ll travel with you,” I told the shearer; I hoped my passions would cool.
“What’s your name, boy?” he said, once I had settled in the cab.
“Myko.”
The shearer looked at me with his red-edged eyes. “What you doing way out here, boy?”
I did not feel like talking to anyone; my words came to my mouth as crisp as new apples. “I was just walking.”
“You want to be careful where you walk.” As he spoke to me the shearer lowered his voice to a faint hiss and I could see dark pencil lines drawn around the furrows of his face. “There’s tigers hereabouts, y’know!”
To hear the shearer speak of tigers made my spine straighten. As I snatched at my reply I felt my lips start to quiver. “What do you know of tigers?”
The shearer took his hand from the wheel for an instant and drew back a dusty tarpaulin which lay between us on the cab’s seat. Below, was a crude picture-box. I saw the glass and shining metal of the lens, there was a little bone-coloured handle and three folded wooden legs with brass pintle fasteners.
“You know what this is?” he said.
I nodded. I had seen hawkers carry picture-boxes to the station many times and I saw the settlers pay to have their images captured.
He seemed irritated by my knowledge. “Well, do you know what it’s for, boy?” he hollered.
I found the question an odd one; his talk was chipping at my nerves. “For taking pictures,” I stated flatly.
Suddenly the shearer brought the truck to a halt; the smell of the engine’s smoke came quickly into the cab. “Boy,” he addressed me, turning in the cab seat and bringing his face to within a few short inches of my own, “I am on my way to take a picture of the Woolnorth Tiger!”
I watched as a smile played on the corners of the shearer’s mouth, his eyes opened wide before me.
“But the tiger is dead,” I said.
“Huh?” the shearer blurted. His smile lowered and his lips became as thin as rice-papers.
“The tiger is dead,” I said again.
“Well, I know that, boy. Who’d pay money for a picture of it alive? No, sir, I’m going to take a picture, many pictures, dang it, of the tiger and the men who hunted it down.” The shearer smiled again. “I hope to make a pretty penny, I can assure you of that.”
As he engaged the truck once more, the shearer twitched with excitement, slapping down his h
ot palm on the steering wheel. “News of the tiger chase spread to Trowutta faster than any bushfire,” he said, “when I got word of that shooting I snatched up my picture-box here and headed straight for the truck. Yes, boy, them settlers should earn me a pretty penny!”
The shearer was filled with excitement, he clapped his open palm on the wheel again and seemed dizzy with his prospects. I did not understand his venture: dead, to me my tiger’s value was nothing.
As the road wended on, to the tune of overhanging branches tapping on the window, I clamped my jaws tightly. I was determined to hold in the emotion that the shearer’s words stoked in me.
He spoke constantly of the tigers. “You know, boy them dang tigers were once abundant in these parts, just about trip over them, you would.”
He pulled down the windowpane and spat out into the open air. “Takes a keen tracker and a steady hand to catch them now, though, but them dang tigers roam the whole island and there could be a shifting come our way.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean, boy, is you just never know when you’re gonna be lucky and spot one.”
The shearer pointed to the back of the cab, “Look up there.”
There was a Marlin rifle above the luggage box. “Just in case I get lucky,” he said.
The shearer smiled down on me as I looked at the rifle. “I’d let you take it down for a look, boy, but I keep it loaded.”
I remained silent where I sat and I kept my eyes on the road before us; I hoped no tiger presented itself.
“The tiger man at Mount Cameron must have claimed a pretty bounty in his time,” said the shearer, bristling with excitement again. “Yes, God damn it, I think the tigers are coming less and less now.”
He raised a finger above his head, towards the rifle. “But the bounty paid makes for a handsome billfold. If there is any more on the Van Diemen’s Company’s ground you can be assured of more hunts raised.”
As we travelled my thoughts seemed to gallop before me. I sat as quiet as a stunned quoll; the shearer must have thought me struck dumb by his words.
I watched my worst imaginings play out as the wind slapped at the truck’s sides and the night drew on.
I held no end of fears for the tigers now, but as we reached Woolnorth the reality I dreaded most confronted me, worse than any of my imaginings.
Chapter Ten
When the Czar’s soldiers were done with our house in the Sakiai, done tearing rugs and curtains and linen, when they were done spearing mattresses with their swords and sending feathers whirling into the air, they surveyed the courtyard where they found Aras, harnessed obediently to Father’s cart.
An iron-faced man in uniform took long, heavy strides around the cart. He pulled at the jute ropes securing our possessions.
“Whose cart is this?” said the man. He pulled again at the ropes; they were tied tightly for the long journey ahead of us and the load did not move.
“Whose cart is this?” said the man once more.
My mother sobbed uncontrollably, her shoulders trembled and her eyes grew to look like those of a captive animal. Mother’s glance darted between us boys and my father, then, as if struck by palsy, she was still. My mother stood unmoving as she followed my father’s approach to the cart and the soldiers.
“Petras,” Mother called in a low whisper.
I did not know what to expect as I watched Father’s steps. The whole night seemed unreal to me. It was as though I lay awake in my bed, unable to move, trapped in the grip of some terrible nightmare.
Aras raised up his head and my father touched the flash of white that ran along the packhorse’s nose, as was their usual greeting.
“This is my cart,” said Father.
The iron-faced man said nothing, he merely watched as my father gently stroked Aras. Father and his horse appeared calm, but agitation soon grew on the soldier’s face.
“Get me a knife,” he called out, “a knife, a knife quickly!”
Heavy soldiers’ boots pounded across the courtyard, cracking loudly on the darkened sets beneath.
“Sir,” said a young boy in the Czar’s uniform; he presented the blade’s handle on his arm and lowered his head graciously.
The iron-faced man snatched the knife and quickly cut into the jute ropes. At once Aras raised up his head and pressed into the harness.
“Whoa, now,” said Father as the cart rocked, “whoa, whoa.”
Suddenly, with a loud noise, our possessions crashed onto the courtyard. The sound of breaking glass startled Aras and he jerked forward, forcing my father to drop the harness and leap to the side.
The iron-faced man laughed loudly and the soldiers followed his lead; the entire mob seemed amused. The riotous laughter startled Aras, his ears twitched nervously as he fetched up his legs and brayed out.
“Down. Down,” called the iron-faced man.
As fast as it appeared the laughter stopped, and the man called out again, “Down. Down,” he said.
Aras did not respond, and the soldier drew his pistol.
“No,” said Father, “no, no.” He leapt before the gun and shielded Aras.
“Get out of my way,” yelled the soldier; he raised up his arm, and struck Father across the face with the gun’s barrel.
“Petras!” yelled my mother. I felt her fingers tighten around my arm as we watched Father fall to the ground. “Petras, no.” I turned to see Mother close her eyes tightly, and then we heard the loud ringing of the gun’s discharge.
The bullet went into Aras’s thick neck, but did not slow him. He reared up higher, he seemed only to be angered by the shot.
The packhorse gathered his pace and raised gallop in the courtyard. The soldier fired again and again. Spouts of dark blood sprayed from Aras’s neck and belly, but he did not fall.
When more shots were fired the cart overturned throwing out the last of our possessions and Aras lost ground. But still it did not stop our packhorse.
Aras spat breath from his nostrils; it rent the air like steam powering from a locomotive as he turned and charged, loosing himself on the soldier.
In my mind I imagined Aras was able to save us all, but it was not to be.
“Fire. Fire,” yelled the iron-faced man.
His soldiers were still as he stood red-faced and butted his pistol to his thigh. “I command you, fire,” he yelled once more. As he gave the order to fire a second time his soldiers, in their green uniforms with their rifles raised, brought down our beloved packhorse.
Where he fell, Aras lay, breathing deeply, his huge ribcage rising and subsiding like a distant mountain glimpsed beyond the horizon.
I tried to run to him, but my mother held me back, her nails digging deep white crescents into my arms.
“Aras,” I cried, “Aras. Aras. Aras.”
I watched Father remove his hat and twist it in his hands; he too wanted to run to Aras, but the soldiers held him back with their rifles and swords.
“Take him,” yelled out the iron-faced man, swiping the air with his pistol, and Father was led away, bundled into a large carriage. I looked to my mother to see where the soldiers were taking him, but I could tell she did not know either.
“Petras,” screamed my mother as the soldiers closed the carriage doors, “Petras, wait … please, no.”
My mother still held me tightly until, of a sudden, all three of us were lifted up and carried far from our home.
“Quickly, this is no place for you now,” said one of the farm women as she bundled us along the path to the forest, away from the soldiers and away from my father.
We walked deep into the forest; our legs ached after crossing such a great distance. By nightfall we slept outside with the women and children from our village.
Our people were too scared to return to their homes. The Czar’s army took all the young men. My young brother, Jurgis, sobbed as he clung to my mother, but she spoke little. It seemed as if she, too, was taken, and only a small portion of our mother
remained.
We picked mushrooms together in the morning and drank clear, sweet water from a brook. All around us the forest was filled with the wails of women for their husbands and sons.
“What has become of us?” said one woman, “what will we do?”
“We have nothing, they have taken everything,” said another, “oh, why, why did they come here now? Why did they not stay in the towns where they can have comfort, where they can take from the wealthy?”
Mother caught me watching the women, she saw me wondering, trying to make sense of their words, and then she covered my ears with her hands and led my brother and me from the forest.
“Where are we going, Mama?” I asked.
“We are going home,” said Mother.
I jumped to my feet. I longed to go home, there were many questions which I hoped would be answered on our return.
As we walked, I spoke: “Mama, why did they take Papa?”
Mother raised a hand to her mouth, as if trying to hold something back. She raised her hand to her head and swept back her long black hair, which she neatly put behind her ear, then continued in her stride. She had no words for me.
A little further down the trail I tried again. “Will he come back to us?” I asked. But again, my mother did not answer.
Once we returned home my mother laid out food for my brother and I and then she left us alone. We ate quietly together. Neither of us dared to mention what we had seen, but I knew Jurgis shared my fears.
“We should find Mama,” said my brother when we were finished eating our food.
We left the table and set about the house looking for our mother. When we found her, she was in her bedroom, lain upon the floor. Our father’s clothes were strewn about her, her face beneath a favourite shirt of his. There was a photograph, taken on their wedding day, clasped in her hands.
My brother looked searchingly at me for an answer, but I shrugged back at him. We both knew not to speak, so I crouched down beside Mother and gently touched the back of her head. There was no movement from her. She was so still, like a felled tree.
