Tiger, Tiger

by Philip Caveney

  Bob nodded. “I’ve about come to that conclusion myself,” he muttered.

  “To kill him, it will be necessary to follow on foot across his own terrain. It will require great courage and even greater skill, but only this way will he be laid finally to rest.” The bomoh turned away and picked up a small leather pouch that lay at his side. He untied a thong that bound its neck. “Now, hold out your hand,” he instructed.

  “What for?”

  “Don’t worry, there’s no trick involved. Trust me.”

  Hesitantly, Bob held out one arm and the bomoh upended the bag, dropping several small brownish bones into Bob’s open palm.

  “I want you to cast these onto the floor in one throw,” explained the bomoh. “With them I can foretell your future.”

  “More mumbo jumbo,” chuckled Bob. But he threw down the bones and watched in amusement as the bomoh puzzled over them for several moments in silence. Then abruptly, he began to talk quickly in a low toneless voice, hardly pausing to take breath.

  “There are more deaths to come. One who dies has skin of white. The tiger will be found on a day when the sun is unobscured. There are two tigers. The first shall not die till the second has looked him in the eyes. The gun … the gun.…” The bomoh paused for a moment, his fingers twitching on empty air. Then he leaned quickly across the low fire, snatched Bob’s rifle from his shoulder and held it against his chest, his fingers moving slowly up and down the length of the barrel. “This gun,” he crooned rapturously. “Ahh yes, this gun will bring the tiger low … but there will be a terrible price to pay … a terrible price—” He glanced suddenly up at Bob. “You will fire this gun once more!” he cried. “Then never again. Never!”

  Bob stared at the bomoh for a moment, shocked, despite his lack of belief in the man’s magical powers. He leaned across the fire and snatched the rifle back.

  “Yeah, well thanks, Doc! Is that all for now, or do I get a long-range weather forecast, too?”

  The bomoh gazed at Bob blankly for a moment as though still lost momentarily in some kind of trance. In the flickering firelight, his face looked gaunt and alien.

  Then he said softly, “Did my words not please you?”

  “Well, you got one bit right. This is the gun that will bring the tiger low. But I’m not so keen on the rest of it. What did you mean when you said I’ll fire this gun once more and never again? And who’s the man with white skin that’s going to die?”

  The bomoh shrugged.

  “I speak the words of prediction many times. But it does not mean that I understand them.”

  Bob nodded.

  “That’s very convenient for you,” he observed drily.

  “Perhaps. Sometimes, it is better not to have the burden of knowing the truth.” The bomoh seemed to suddenly tire of his audience with Bob. “It is getting late. You had better go now. I wish to prepare myself for tonight’s hunt.”

  Bob smiled maliciously.

  “But I wouldn’t dream of going now,” he replied. “Don’t you remember, I said I wanted to stick around and catch the act?”

  The bomoh nodded.

  “Yes, I remember, Mr. Beresford. And do you not remember that I told you that you would most assuredly not enjoy what you saw?”

  “Sounds like a poor excuse to me, Doc.”

  “Perhaps I am worried that you will forget yourself and in the excitement, you will use your rifle and attempt to make a trophy out of me.”

  “Well now, Doc, I’d hardly do that after what you’ve told me, would I? Use up my one and only shot on you, when its reserved for the man-eater? I should say not!”

  The bomoh stared at Bob for several long moments in silence. Then he said quietly, “You are indeed a most obstinate man, Mr. Beresford. But you may do as you think best.” And he closed his eyes.

  A silence settled inside the hut, broken only by the crackling of twigs in the fire. The bomoh sat stock-still, but his chin sank gradually downwards to his chest. Only the slow rise and fall of his breathing indicated that he was alive. Bob sat sweating uncomfortably in the thick, incensed atmosphere of the hut. He was fascinated that the bomoh was actually going to go ahead with the “transformation.” No doubt he’d just sit like that for hours until Bob got bored and went home. It was funny how these magical devices never worked under close scrutiny. Still, Bob didn’t feel inclined to let the bomoh off the hook that easily. The Australian reached into his shirt pocket, took out a cigarette, and lit it in the embers of the fire.

  “I’ve got all night,” he told himself.

  Time passed. Bob found himself considering the bomoh’s words. They had been pretty much the usual sort of mystical bullshit: sketchy things that could be interpreted in a variety of ways. “There are two tigers. The first shall not die till the second has looked him in the eyes.” What was that supposed to mean, for Christ’s sake? Still, Bob had to admit that the bomoh had laid on a very good show on his behalf. The only really baffling thing, of course, was the dream. How could the bomoh know about that…?

  Bob glanced up abruptly, aware of a sudden change in the atmosphere of the hut. It was an inexplicable thing, a tingling against the flesh, as though the very air had become imbued with a subtle charge of electricity. And then a powerful smell filled the room, a musky, animallike odour, the sort that might be associated with caged creatures at zoos. Bob was intrigued. Now that was impressive! He felt like applauding, but as he turned his gaze back to the bomoh, he saw that the man’s eyes were opening again; and that now there was a new quality in those already disturbing eyes. They were staring fixedly at Bob, but the light of reason had vanished from them and seemed to have been replaced by a bestial cunning that was badly out of place on a human being. The bomoh was breathing very heavily now, his sweat-beaded chest rising and falling, his mouth gaping open to reveal the sharply chiselled teeth. Bob felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to rise and a terrible shiver convulsed his body. He tried to tell himself that this was just another device designed to play upon his imagination, but though his reason assured him that this was the case, his other senses did not seem able to agree with him.

  For now, the bomoh’s face was changing, dissolving upon itself, the features rearranging, horribly, inexplicably. The shape of the head became squat, rounded, the ears drew themselves upwards into curious points. The already open mouth hinged downwards as though the jaws were composed of pliable elastic and a long slavering tongue lolled out to drip threads of saliva into the bomoh’s lap. The nose broadened outwards into a thick dark snout and the top lip sprouted upward on either side of it to form the unmistakable shape of a tiger’s cheeks, white and furred.

  “No…” The word was barely a whisper. Bob shook his head from side to side, trying to dispel the image that hovered before his terrified eyes but it remained, growing ever more hideous. The cigarette dropped forgotten from his shaking fingers and he stumbled back, away from the fire, until his shoulders connected with the wall of the hut.

  “No!” he screamed more forcibly. “It’s a trick!”

  A deep, guttural boom of laughter exploded from the mouth of the changeling.

  “But you have seen this before,” croaked the voice of the bomoh, hideously altered by the new body, that even now, was shaping itself. “Once in the dream … and now again.”

  “No!” Bob’s nerve broke completely. In an instant, he had grabbed his rifle and was scrambling for the door, scattering ashes and sparks from the fire in his headlong panic, while behind him another burst of laughter exploded in the confines of the hut. His head reeling, Bob struggled through the screen of sacking into the world beyond. He began to run, blind in the heat of his own panic. He tripped over something lying in the grass and sprawled down on top of it. It was the bomoh’s assistant. The man was lying down on his back, mumbling incoherently. A thick white foam was oozing from his lips and his hands came up to grab at Bob’s wrists, as if to hold him fast.

  “Let me go!” Desperately, Bob struck ou
t with his knees, wrenched his arms free and tumbled away. He was on his feet in an instant and racing back through the jungle, ducking beneath outspread limbs and branches. There came to him the intense conviction that something silent and unseen was racing along on his heels and he blundered through the dark undergrowth in a direction that he prayed would lead him back to the Land Rover. Vines and thick ferns clung to his legs, and he became exhausted very quickly. He was forced to rest for a few moments with his back up against the trunk of a tall tree. Out in the clear air, away from the incense and hashish of the bomoh’s hut, he was able to gain control of himself more readily. He unslung the rifle and waited to see, if indeed, anything was following him along the trail. Nothing emerged from the bushes and he had to concede that that part of it, at least, had been his imagination. But what of the rest of it? Here, in the cool light of reason, the misadventure seemed already unlikely, a fable, a product of his overwrought imagination; but there, in that claustrophobic hut, for an instant he had believed—really believed that …

  He shook his head. The sheer impregnable logic of his strict Western upbringing asserted itself, prevented him from believing in what he had seen, or thought he had seen. It had been a trick, brilliantly orchestrated perhaps, but a trick all the same. If he were to go back to the hut now, he would find the bomoh and his assistant laughing with each other over the way they had put the fear of the devil into the nonbelieving white man. Or was he really supposed to accept that the bomoh was out in the jungle somewhere, prowling on four legs instead of two?

  All the same, he didn’t feel much inclined to actually go back. Instead, he slung the rifle back over his shoulder and moved away at a more leisurely pace in search of his vehicle. He took the flashlight out of his shirt pocket and directed a beam of light onto the narrow track ahead of him. He had taken no more than a dozen steps, when he stood stock-still with an exclamation of shock. For an instant, caught in the beam and framed amidst a tangle of bushes, was the surprised and scowling face of a large tiger. But by the time Bob had unslung his gun again, the creature had slipped away into the undergrowth.

  * * *

  HAJI GAVE a long low rumbling growl of discontent.

  He had only followed the Upright for a short distance, attracted by the noisy headlong flight of him as he raced through the jungle. Haji had overtaken him and dropped down to lie in ambush at the far end of a narrow cattle trail. But instead of blundering right into Haji’s hungry jaws, the silly creature had come to an abrupt halt and rested for a while with his back to a tree. He had taken out the dreaded black stick, as though expecting some kind of attack; and then, most alarming of all, there had been the blinding, unnatural river of light, rushing straight into Haji’s eyes and then and there, the tiger had promptly given up all thought of eating this troublesome Upright and had gone off in search of more predictable prey.

  Now, here he was some considerable distance away from the scene of the incident, heading for the nearest kampong and quite unaware of the fantastic notions he had stirred in the mind of his would-be victim.

  Off to the east, an argus pheasant called several times, a lonely haunting “Cuau-Cuau!” that faded gradually into distance as Haji slipped like a scarred shadow through the silent trees.

  CHAPTER 22

  THE SOUND of a car horn intruded upon Harry’s midday nap, with all the delicacy of a brick thrown through a plate-glass window. He blinked owlishly, sat up in his rattan chair and gave a brief exclamation of irritation, tilting his sun hat back on his head so that he might search out the source of the noise.

  Paarp! Paarp! PAAAAARP!

  “What the bloody…?” Harry got up out of his chair and leaned over the rail of the verandah. There was a bright blue Volkswagen parked by the garden gate, a vehicle he had never seen before, but the sun’s reflection on the windscreen prevented him from seeing the driver. Harry strode quickly down the pathway, with every intention of punching the inconsiderate fellow on the nose.

  “Making a damned bloody row in the middle of the afternoon,” Harry muttered to himself. “Don’t know what this place is coming to—” He broke off in surprise as the car door opened and the driver got out.

  It was a middle-aged woman, rather stout but with fine striking features. She was dressed in a shapeless green khaki shirt and a skirt of the same material, while on her head she wore a crumpled faded hat of the kind favoured by the Gurkhas for jungle warfare. Some wisps of iron-grey hair emerged from the back of the hat, and, most incongruous of all to Harry’s mind, she appeared to be smoking a cigar. His intentions quite forgotten in his rush of surprise, Harry just stood by the gate, staring open-mouthed at the woman.

  She fixed him with a glance from a pair of steely blue-grey eyes.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Sullivan?” she enquired hopefully.

  “Retired,” he added. “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Ah excellent!” There was the faintest trace of a Scottish accent in her voice. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “Er … no, not at all.”

  She stepped up to the gate and stretched out a hand to him.

  “The name’s Burns. Marion Burns. I’ve had quite a time looking for you—er … now look here, I can’t go on calling you Lieutenant Colonel Retired, now can I? It’s far too time-consuming! What’s your first name?”

  “It’s uh … Harry.”

  “Well then, Harry it will be! I trust you’ll forgive the familiarity?” She opened the gate and stepped through onto the drive. “What a lovely little house you have here!” Perhaps we could sit on the verandah for a while. It’s damned hot today.”

  “Uh … yes … of course.” Harry was confused and beginning to wonder if this, in fact, was some mystifying dream that he was having. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of…”

  “No, of course not. Forgive me dropping out of the blue like this, Harry.” She was already heading towards the verandah and Harry trailed along beside her. “Let me explain. I’m a feature writer for the Straits Times and I’ve been sent down here to put together an article on the man-eating tiger that’s giving you so much trouble at the moment. Of course, so far we’ve given it the usual news coverage, but the fellow’s arousing so much interest, it’s been decided to give him the full-page spread treatment. Goodness, what lovely chairs!” She settled herself into the seat where Harry had just been sleeping. “You see,” she continued, “this is the first major man-eater the country’s had since the mid-fifties. Oh, we’ve had them carry off the odd one or two rubber tappers, but they generally get caught before they can take matters any further. This fellow has reached seven, and we seem to be no nearer to catching him than before.”

  “I see … but—”

  “There’s a certain fascination in the subject, this is the thing. Of course, we all know the popular view of the man-eater as some kind of rampaging, blood-lusting demon on four legs, but I’d like to try another angle. I want to get at the truth behind the myths, more or less present the tiger’s side of it, you know? I’d also like to tie it in from a conservationist angle. I find it rather ironic that the tiger is our national emblem and yet, the way we’re going, he’s liable to be extinct before very many years have gone by.”

  A coin dropped in Harry’s memory.

  “Well then, you must be M. Burns!” he exclaimed. “Why I’ve read many of your articles … but I always assumed you were a man!”

  Marion smiled good-naturedly. “Sorry to disappoint,” she chuckled.

  “Good heavens, not at all. I— Would you like some tea … er … Marion?”

  “Indeed I would!”

  “Right. Pawn! Pawn, are you in there?”

  Pawn bustled to the door, wiping her hands on a tea-towel.

  “Yes Tuan?”

  “Some tea for the Missy and myself, please.”

  Pawn gazed at Marion for a moment and grinned excitedly.

  “Oh, yes indeed, Tuan! Right away!” And she hurried away in the dir
ection of the kitchen. Harry turned back to his guest.

  “So … where were we?” he enquired.

  “I think you were bewailing the fact that I’m not a man,” she chuckled.

  “No, no, not a bit of it, really! One makes assumptions, that’s all. So you intend to write an article on the man-eating tiger, eh? Well I think it will make splendid reading, particularly if you do er … get the right angle, as you call it. But the question is, what’s all this got to do with me?”

  “What indeed!” Marion reached in to her shirt pocket and pulled out a folded, crumpled sheet of paper. She handed it to Harry. “Remember this?” she enquired.

  He took it from her and opened it out carefully. He was amazed to see that it was an old article he had written for the barracks magazine, Parade Ground. The title of the piece was, “Hunting in Tiger Country.”

  “Good heavens!” exclaimed Harry. “This is years old. Where on earth did you get a copy of this?”

  “You may well ask! Well, naturally enough, when I got to Trengganu, the first place I headed for was the Game Department, telling myself that if I was going to find a tiger expert anywhere, that would be the place.”

  “Seems like a fair assumption.”

  “Right. But there, I talked to a nice chap called Mike Kirby.”

  “Ah, Mike! Yes, I know him well. I would have thought that if anybody could have helped you out…”

  Marion shook her head.

  “He told me that I would not find a more informed source of information anywhere in Trengganu than his old friend Harry Sullivan. And then he produced this article, which he himself has used as a textbook on the subject for several years. So, naturally enough, here I am.”

  Harry smiled fondly.

  “Mike said that, did he? Well, that’s most kind of him, I must say.”

  “Then you’ll help?”

  “Well, of course, if you think I can be of any use, I’ll be glad to.”