by Jon Berkeley
“Oh, there’s one other thing,” said Cortado casually. “I fear those robbers I warned you about have some inkling of the value of the Egg, and they will almost certainly trace us here to make another attempt on it.”
“You leave that to me,” said Nura. “If they come here it will be the end of their careers; you may be sure of that.”
“Excellent!” said the Great Cortado. He scooped the money back into his purse. “So, when do we start?”
“I will have to take a look at the key first.”
“The key?” said Cortado. He turned the flawless Egg over in his fingers and shrugged. “It didn’t come with a key.”
“A Tiger’s Egg must have a key,” said Nura. “That is how it can be opened, and how a soul can be locked inside.”
“What would this key look like?” asked Cortado, shaking another cigar from his silver case.
Nura laughed. “I can see why you need my help,” she said. “It’s not a physical key. It’s usually a verse or a riddle of some kind. It was created with the Egg, and the Egg can’t be altered without it.”
“Tau-Tau?” said the Great Cortado sharply, without turning his head. His voice echoed through the courtyard, and was followed by the huffing and panting sound of the fortune-teller climbing the stairs.
“All’s well with the camels,” said Tau-Tau in a breezy tone.
“Never mind that,” said Cortado. “Did you find in that notebook a verse of any kind? Something that might unlock this Egg?”
“There was one written in pencil,” said Tau-Tau, “on the last page of the book.”
Miles sucked in his breath, and felt Little’s hand on his wrist. He cursed himself for copying the inscription from his mother’s grave into her diary. If only he had committed it to memory instead.
“I don’t suppose you copied it down,” said the Great Cortado.
“Not at all,” said Doctor Tau-Tau. “We clairvoyants are expert in memorizing incantations. They are our bread and—”
“Out with it,” barked Cortado.
“Yes, of course,” said Tau-Tau. He put on his reading glasses in a fluster, as though they would help him with his memory. “What time has stolen, Let it be . . . um . . . Power something, something three . . . er . . .”
Nura laughed. She had a deep chuckle, rich with tobacco smoke. “I don’t think ‘something something’ is going to get us very far,” she said.
The Great Cortado put his head in his hands, and his turban slid forward over his fingertips. He pushed it back and spoke with that air of patience that usually means someone is just about to lose theirs in a big way. “Stop . . . right . . . there,” he said. He looked up at the fortune-teller with eyes that were red-rimmed from sand and fatigue. “Do you know this, or do you not?”
“I think so,” mumbled Tau-Tau, shuffling his feet like an overgrown schoolboy.
Cortado sat back and smiled. “That’s good news,” he said, “because if you don’t get it right this time I will tie you to your camel by the ankles for the return journey. Can you foresee the result of that, Tau-Tau?”
“‘What time has stolen let it be power grows from two to three embrace the fear and set soul free to drink the sun in place of me’ do you think I could use the bathroom?” said Doctor Tau-Tau all in one breath.
The Great Cortado turned to Nura. “Did you get all that?”
“Of course,” said Nura. “Out through the arch and first on the right,” she said to Doctor Tau-Tau.
“Thank you,” squeaked the fortune-teller, and he made another hasty exit through the foliage.
“Well?” said Cortado. “Now can you do it?”
“You are an impatient man, Cortado.”
“Very,” said the ringmaster.
“I must study the key in more detail,” said Nura, “and we will have to find the resting place of the Egg’s maker. I hope your talk of money was not an idle boast.”
“The maker’s resting place?” said Cortado, an edge of anger in his voice. “I want to use the thing, not give thanks to some Voodoo Vinnie for making it.”
Nura’s face remained impassive. “The Tiger’s Egg is not a toy,” she said. “The shaman who created this Egg put his soul into its making. Only by evicting his soul can you make space in the Egg for your own, and that can be done only at the place where he is buried.”
“Evicting him?” said Cortado, barely above a whisper.
“He has gained immortality in the Tiger’s Egg. Now he will die,” said Nura, “and you will drink the sun in his place.”
The Great Cortado struck a match and put it to his cigar. He puffed slowly for a while. “That explains why the tiger can talk,” he said at last.
Behind the screen Miles stared open-mouthed from Cortado to Nura. He saw her hesitate for just a fraction before answering, but still her dark eyes gave nothing away. “That’s why the tiger can talk,” she said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A PACK OF LIES
Doctor Tau-Tau, flake-skinned and sweat-salted, sat on a pallet of straw and scratched himself furiously. His sunburn had become unbearably itchy, the clothes he had bought in the last village appeared to be infested with lice, and he was sure he had picked up food poisoning from that terrible breakfast. His guts still churned at the thought of it, making a sound like a trombone player sinking in a swamp. He looked at the torn curtain that served as a door to their hostel room and belched in disgust. If Cortado had all that stolen money, how come they always had to stay in the most rancid flea pit in town? It was hardly fit accommodation for a clairvoyant of his status.
And that was another thing. They had been sent to this dump by that rude sister of Celeste’s, after she and Cortado had left him standing like a door-to-door salesman while they talked business. He had tried to draw attention to this oversight, but the sister’s striking resemblance to his dead mentor had unnerved him, and instead he had found himself babbling something inane about Celeste’s face, as though an idiot had taken over his tongue. He was unaware even now that he was muttering his grievances aloud, much to the annoyance of the Great Cortado. It seemed the idiot was still in charge.
The Great Cortado, meanwhile, sat on his own straw bed, his back against the lumpy wall and whip-thin lizards darting now and then across his feet. There was not even a chair in this hovel that he could occupy in order to lord it over his accomplice. He mulled over Nura’s words. The news was not good. It seemed he would have to find the grave of the Egg’s maker and evict his soul from the Egg in order to occupy it himself. It was not what he wanted to hear, but Nura’s reading of this so-called key seemed to make as much sense as any of this mumbo jumbo did.
He glared at Tau-Tau, hopping and twitching on the other bed. If it turned out that they had made this expensive trip in vain because the fez-topped fool had failed to understand a little ditty he had carried in his head all along, there would be hell to pay.
He wondered if the blind man and the brats had turned up yet at Nura’s door. They were in for a surprise when they did, he told himself with a snigger. Celeste had been fiery enough, but that Nura was a flinty-hard version of her dead sister, and he had no doubt she would have them put to the sword without hesitation. He rubbed his hands together and giggled with glee. Soon he might have the boy’s head on a pole after all, and he wouldn’t even have to get his hands dirty.
Miles Wednesday, thirst-quenched and Egg-restored, sat at the table with his explorer friend, his adopted sister and his newly found aunt, having emerged from the stuffy laundry with some relief. As they sat at the table Miles took every opportunity he could to examine Nura’s face without appearing to stare. She did not look quite so formidable as she spooned a variety of aromatic foods onto their plates, and she smiled at him as she placed his meal in front of him. “You have never seen a picture of your mother, have you?”
Miles shook his head. “Cameras didn’t agree with her,” he said.
Nura laughed. “We were very alike,” she said.
“You must miss her,” said Little.
Nura looked at her in mild surprise. It evidently seemed strange to her that a spirit could feel concern for anyone. “I am still waiting for her to come home,” she said, the sadness returning to her dark eyes. “I was not with her when she died, though I knew at once that something terrible had happened to her. Sometimes I still feel that she’s across the ocean waiting for my visit, or that someday she will walk through this door when she is least expected.”
“What Cortado said was all lies, wasn’t it?” said Miles. “I mean about my father?”
“A truthful word would choke that man like a fish bone,” said Nura. “It was he who told me that Celeste’s baby had died when I visited the circus shortly after her death. He sounded almost happy about it, but he was twisted and feverish from the tiger attack and I could not detect any lie in what he said. It must have been the grief that clouded my eye.”
“I don’t think so,” said Miles. “Cortado himself believed that I was dead. The Bolsillo brothers told him so for my protection.”
“Those three little clowns?” said Nura.
Miles nodded. “They brought me to the orphanage, and they hid the Tiger’s Egg in my stuffed bear. They were afraid Cortado would find that too.”
Nura poured sweet mint tea into small glasses and handed them to her guests. “Then they did you a great service,” she said.
“They did,” agreed Miles, “but I often wonder . . .” He hesitated with sudden shyness.
“ . . . why they didn’t send me to find you?” finished Nura. Miles nodded.
“They were away when I visited the circus, as far as I know,” said Nura. “I came as soon as I realized that something had happened to Celeste. When I arrived she was already buried, Barty had disappeared without a trace and you were apparently dead. It seemed to me that fate had covered Celeste’s life like blown sand, and after taking the few keepsakes I could find there was no reason for me to stay, and I returned home.”
Miles thought about Nura’s lonely journey back to her home village, a handful of Celeste’s trinkets packed in her case, while unbeknownst to her the orphanage closed around her sister’s child like a gray cloud of cruelty and graft.
“Barty didn’t exactly disappear,” he said.
“You have traced him?” asked Nura.
“Sort of,” said Miles. “Doctor Tau-Tau tried to cure him of his grief after Celeste died, but he messed it up. He made the potion far too strong, and it turned my father into a sort of hollow shell. All that’s left is a hairy giant of a thing that people call The Null. It lives with us now at Partridge Manor.”
“A hollow shell?” said Nura.
Miles nodded. “I’ve looked into its eyes from closer than I wanted to, and I can see only emptiness inside. I only know it was once my father because Tau-Tau admitted what he’d done. I thought that if I could learn to use the Tiger’s Egg I might be able to bring him back.”
“I’m afraid that might be impossible,” said Nura. “A Tiger’s Egg is hard enough to master, but if it’s true that the tiger can talk then there’s something even stranger going on. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“I’ve spoken with him often,” said Miles. “At least, I did until Tau-Tau and Cortado stole the Egg from me. That’s when I fell out with the tiger.”
“You said the Egg that Cortado has is a fake,” said Nura, pouring more tea.
“That’s right. We managed to swap a fake Egg for the real one yesterday,” said Miles. He pictured Temzi handing the Tiger’s Egg to him with a secretive smile. He remembered the feel of her warm fingers brushing his hand and for a moment he forgot what he was saying.
“The fake Egg is mine,” said Baltinglass through a mouthful of food. “A little curiosity that I bought in the Far East. Not a spark of life in it, of course.”
“You told Cortado that the tiger can speak because the creator of the Egg put his own soul into it,” said Miles. “Wasn’t that the truth?”
“Not at all,” said Nura. “I told Cortado a pack of lies. You asked me to send him back to his own country, so I told him he would have to find the shaman’s grave. It seemed as good an excuse as any, and it’s up to us where we say the grave lies. I can tell him it’s in the middle of a pig farm if you like.”
“Or in the gardens of the asylum he escaped from,” said Miles.
Nura laughed aloud, and Miles could see a light of happiness break through her melancholy. “If only that would work!” she said. Her bracelets jangled as she wiped the tears from her eyes; then she sighed deeply. “Perhaps you’d better let me take a look at the real Tiger’s Egg,” she said.
Miles took Tangerine from his pocket and placed him on the table. The bear keeled slowly over.
Nura looked at Tangerine in surprise. “It’s still inside the toy?” she said.
“Little stitched it back inside for me,” said Miles. “I’ve talked to Tangerine all my life, and I think that’s how I got the hang of the Egg without realizing it.”
Nura picked Tangerine up and examined him closely. Suddenly she twitched as though an electrical current had passed through her, and she put Tangerine down quickly. “There is more than just a tiger’s soul in there,” she said. She sucked her finger thoughtfully, as though she had just burned it. “I think,” she said, “that it’s time you met your grandmother.”
She stood up abruptly and handed Tangerine to Miles. “It’s better that we go alone,” she said. She took his hand and they swept from the room and along a cool corridor, Miles taking long strides so that he didn’t have to run to keep up.
“Will she . . . will my grandmother know more about the Tiger’s Egg?” he asked.
“It was your grandmother who first told us stories of the Tiger’s Egg,” said Nura in a loud whisper. “Celeste and I would sit at her knee when we were children, and she would tell us how it could build cities of power and beauty, or bring terrible destruction on entire peoples. Of all the stories she told us, those were the ones that captivated us most.”
“Is that why . . .,” began Miles, but they had arrived at a tall arched door, and Nura put her finger to her lips. They stepped inside and found themselves in a cool, dim room with a large four-poster bed taking up most of the floor. The old lady who had passed them earlier in the courtyard sat upright in the bed, supported by pillows and apparently fully dressed. She had her eyes closed, and her hands were clasped loosely in her lap.
Nura motioned Miles to stay at the door. “Mother,” she said, approaching the bed. The old lady’s papery eyelids snapped open. “I’ve brought a guest to meet you,” said Nura.
The old lady beckoned for Miles to come closer. She struggled to a more upright position, reached out and grasped Miles’s chin. She turned his head from side to side and pulled downward on his cheek to get a better look at the whites of his eyes. “Can’t see much wrong with him,” she croaked. “Bad teeth, might have worms. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“He’s not here for a cure. He has something to show you,” said Nura.
Miles looked at her uncertainly, the feel of his grandmother’s hard fingertips still printed on his cheeks. He reached into his pocket and produced Tangerine, holding him out for the old lady to see.
“What’s this?” said his grandmother, her fierce eyes flicking from Tangerine to Miles and back again.
“Take it, Mother,” said Nura. She watched the old lady take the bear in her age-knotted hands with an expression that Miles could not even begin to read.
The old lady held Tangerine for a while; then suddenly she took in a deep breath, and she looked at her daughter with wide eyes. “A Tiger’s Egg!” she said. “So rare! Where did it come from?”
“It belongs to the boy,” said Nura.
The old lady clutched the bear tightly, as though she could draw from it enough strength for another eighty years. A look of puzzlement grew on her face. “This is not pure,” she said. “What is in there with the ti
ger?” She looked at Miles accusingly.
“I think it’s more of a ‘who’ than a ‘what,’” said Miles.
The old woman held Tangerine to her nose and closed her eyes. She put him up to her ear and shook him, and she held him against her skinny rib cage to measure him with her heartbeat.
“It’s no one I know,” she said, handing Tangerine back to Miles. He took the bear with a sigh of relief, and an involuntary smile spread across his face. The old lady was watching him closely. “It’s someone very close to you, though,” she said. “Who have you lost, boy?”
Miles opened his mouth to answer, but found he was unable to speak. Tangerine had been his lifelong companion, and he had never looked for any other explanation for the closeness he felt to the bear. Now he realized that what his grandmother said made perfect sense. He had lost two people in his life, and if it was not someone the old lady knew, then it must be . . . His knees felt suddenly weak and he sat down quickly on the end of the bed.
“My father,” he said when his voice returned to him. “It must be my father.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A GHOST IN A STONE
Miles’s grandmother, knife-eyed and pillow-throned, looked at the young stranger who sat shakily on the end of her bed. It was not like Nura to interrupt her siesta, and it troubled her. She turned to her daughter and raised a bony finger in warning. “Don’t get mixed up in this,” she said. “That Egg will bring nothing but trouble and heartache.”
Nura’s dark eyes flashed. “It was you who told us stories of the Tiger’s Egg when we were children, Mother,” she reminded her.
“The stories of your childhood do not make a path for your life,” said the old woman.
“Is that what you think?” said Nura. “What of Celeste?”
The old woman seemed to shrink visibly. “Celeste always went her own way,” she said. “She was as restless as you are stubborn, and look where it brought her.”
