In Search of the Blue Tiger (35 page)

‘The truth or what really happened?' she whispers softly to herself, as she slides from the bed and leaves the room. Out in the corridor all is still and as strangely unfamiliar as the predawn can be. She shivers, her thin nightdress doing little to keep out the cold.

The long window at the end of the passage is full of the moon, low in the sky, still and resolute, ignoring the billowing clouds that race across its surface.

‘Moon, moon, moon,' she sings. ‘True moon, you saw me standing alone, without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own.'

And then the dream in her heart sets her a-dancing, her arms swaying softly above her head, her feet shifting on the polished wooden floor.

Once again she is the prima ballerina, the fulsome moon the spotlight high above the stage of the Marinsky Theatre in Saint Petersburg. There, leaning over the footlights, is the Baron, in full evening dress, top hat and tails. He throws the bunch of blood-red roses on to the stage and blows her kisses of wild admiration and devotion.

Somewhere across the bay the thunder claps. She turns and bows, taking in the applause, enjoying the moment. Coming to a stop, she rests her face on the cold glass of the windowpane, watching her breath as it creeps and mists around her on the smooth surface of the window.

‘The truth or what really happened?' she whispers, breathing the words onto the pane, seeing their imprint settling on the glass.

A single dart of lightning shatters the sky. She remembers a night at the circus and a tiger leaping through a hoop of fire. Sitting next to her husband and son, a tear in the corner of her eye: a tear for lost opportunity. A glance from her little boy, confused as to why his mother can be sad with so much excitement in the ring.

Then a scene from her own girlhood.

Her mother is just back from the hospital, where her father said she needed to be to rest her nerves. ‘Your mama is still not well,' he had said, ‘but Dr Fox thought she should spend a few days with us, to help her get better.'

High up in the old oak tree, the thick rope dangling from the ancient bough.

‘Look at me, Mama, look at me,' she shouts to her mother, way below. ‘I'm on the trapeze, the one and only Anastasia, newly arrived from Volgograd.' And she swings from up high, curving an arc against the brightest blue of summer skies.

Then walking back to the house, her Mama's arm around her shoulder, the sun beating down on her back, the grass soft and yielding under her bare feet. ‘I want to run away to the circus, Mama. That's all I want. To swing on the trapeze and live in a caravan.'

Her mother laughs and squeezes her tight.

‘It won't happen. Not to you,' says her mother, with a tone to her voice that is unfamiliar, a roughness to her touch that is alarming.

And she doesn't know why, but something wells up inside her and she digs her fingernails into her mother's arm and scratches her as hard as she can. And her mother shrieks and slaps her across the face. How quickly things can change. And there she is, in a heap on the lawn, covering her face with her hands, the sounds of her mother's voice battering her from one side to the other. A voice and words she does not recognise.

‘You animal … disgusting child … deserve nothing … look what you've done … to your own mother … blood on my blouse … there's blood on my blouse …'

And she is alone. A door slams somewhere. And the sun is too hot and the grass prickles her legs, and there's a fly trying to drink the tears from her cheek that burns from the hand of her mother.

‘Do you want to know the truth, or shall I tell you what really happened?' she mouths silently, the moon picking out a solitary bird heading out to sea.

During autumn storms are caused by an angry tiger on the lookout for a mate. This tiger is the reincarnation of the star Alpha, a tiger star. After five hundred years, this tiger, now called Hu, becomes a part of the Milky Way. A few more centuries pass by and he becomes the white tiger, Pai Hu. A thousand years later Pai Hu becomes immortal and lives on the moon (‘the silver stream of heaven') from where he protects the earth and her creatures. When we see an eclipse of the moon, this is because the tiger is trying to eat it.

Today Brother Moses organised a short story competition to encourage the Brothers to use the library more. Here are the rules:

1. It must be in English. No Latin is allowed, as the younger monks can no longer read Latin.

2. It must be 350 words or less.

3. All entries must be written by two monks writing together. We encourage an older monk to pair with a younger monk for a joint entry.

4. It must be a conversation with a famous historical figure of your choice.

5. It must contain the following words in the order they appear in this list: icons; travel; angel; tea-cozy.

6. The title, names of the entrants and word count must be written on the front sheet, though this will not be seen by the judges.

7. It must be delivered to Brother Moses by Friday 23
^rd
at 5pm at the latest.

Brother Saviour and I paired up. We wrote the story in our heads during two sessions in the fields. Then I wrote it down in the library and we did a final edit before supper today. We spent most of the time finding a way to include the word ‘tea-cozy' without it having anything to do with a teapot. We thought this would help our entry to stand out. Here is a copy of our entry.

‘A WALK AND TALK ON THE BEACH.'

By Brother Oscar and Brother Saviour.

Three hundred and fifty words exactly.

I am 104 years old and am Abbot of the monastery. Every day I take a solitary walk along the beach at Open Bay. Today I met another very old man walking towards me. Like me, he is dressed in a monk's cassock, but his is blue, not brown. He raises his hand in greeting. We stop to talk.

‘Good morning,' says I.

‘Good morning to you,' says he.

‘My name in Brother Oscar.'

‘Mine is Saint Augustine.'

My eyesight is poor, but I see in his face the image I recognise from statues and icons.

‘Do not be alarmed.'

Does he not know that nothing alarms me?

‘You see, I am from the past. It is my duty to travel through time to help people understand the world they live in. There are many of us. Some people see us as guardian angels. To help and guide. And that is true.'

‘Have you seen Blue Monkey on your travels? He is my guardian angel, but I haven't seen him in a while.'

‘No, I haven't, but I'll let you know if I do.'

He puts his hand on my shoulder.

I wait for his wise words. He looks me directly in the eye and smiles.

‘I have seen many things and learned many lessons. This life is abundant and unfathomable and should be worn like a loose garment. You will only find true happiness when you see sadness and joy as one and the same, divested of their identity.'

He turns to walk away, his words on my mind.

‘But before I go,' he says solemnly, ‘one further piece of advice that has held me in good stead down the centuries. Never trust a man, who upon entering an empty room and seeing a tea-cozy on the table, does not try it on as a hat.'

With that he disappears, leaving me alone on the beach, to recall the last time I put a tea-cozy on my head, happy to be able to trust myself.

I walk back up the hill, my cassock flapping in the cool breeze.

There are rumours of a wave. The bowsain said he could smell it on the wind, had noticed the smaller waves sweeping together from east and west, pushing up the sea in their wake.

It is the Father who stands on watch, scouring the sea for any signs to heed. For now it is inky blue, shining and shifting like fractured glass that can't make its mind up whether to crack or not. The huge moon bounces off the sea's surface: a visitor not wanting to get its toes wet.

The Father scans the horizon. He is a real man of the sea, cutting a fine figure against the night sky. Tall and wide shouldered, his thick black hair and full beard shield him from the cold and wet. He pulls the collar of his heavy wool coat around his neck, his deep brown eyes set firmly on the shifts and swells of the water below.

He hears footsteps to tell him he is no longer alone.

‘You been long at sea, sailor?' asks the voice in the near dark.

The Father turns. He feels as if he's heard the voice before. The figure emerging from the night, the new deck hand who arrived from nowhere on the day the trawler readied to set sail, is little more than a boy swamped in a huge coat.

The Father spits overboard, adding another drop to the ocean.

‘You been long on this boat?' tries the youngster again, standing closer now.

The Father can see his face now he is nearby. His skin is smooth and there's something about his profile that stirs a memory. Is it myself, the young man fresh on the deck? he thinks. A sudden spat of wind steals the thought away.

‘Long enough,' says the Father, eyes fixed back on the sea.

‘So is the wave coming?'

‘It's always coming,' replies the Father, never more contented than when there's the promise of adventure, danger, and the risk to life. ‘It'll come from the south, so we need to keep our course straight into its path.'

‘Do you mind if I stay here awhile?' asks the boy.

‘That's your choice,' says the Father, turning and facing the boy, remembering himself on his first watch, eager to do right, fearing nothing or no one.

‘You want a cigarette, lad?'

‘Thanks.'

The Father lights two cigarettes and passes one to the boy, noticing the shiver in his hand as he takes it.

‘It's my first voyage away from home,' says the boy. ‘I've watched the ships come and go all my life and at last a captain said yes when I asked if I could come aboard. He said he'd seen me waiting and my time had come.'

‘He's a fair man, is the captain,' says the Father, drawing deeply on his cigarette.

A huge gust of wind shakes the boat and the two on deck are pelted with hailstones. The boy grabs the Father's arm to regain his balance.

‘You okay?' says the Father.

‘I'm fine,' he says. ‘Just happy to be here. On the boat, I mean.'

A wave thuds against the bow, spraying the two with a wash of cold saltwater.

‘It's a good place to be. You know you're alive out here,' says the Father, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

‘This is what I want. To be alive. Father always said the sea makes a man of the boy.'

‘So it does. So it will. Listen to your father. I listened to mine.'

There's silence for a moment or two.

‘What did he say that you listened to?'

‘Not words,' replies the Father, still looking far out to sea. ‘It was always the look in his eyes. He never needed to say words. I listened to the mood on his face ever since the day he pushed me back into the street to stand up for myself.'

Some more silence, as if there is no more to be said. As if being silent is better than words.