Tiger, Tiger

The penghulu’s eyes lit up.

‘Now, the next time you or any of your people hear of a tiger killing a cow anywhere in Trengganu, you come and let me know, understand? So you see, it’s in your interest to help me out.’ He reached into his pocket, drew out his wallet and handed a twenty-dollar bill to the penghulu, who accepted it eagerly. ‘Another thing, you got any friends who can work with wood? Savvy? A carpenter, you know …?’ He mimed the action of sawing and hammering wood, and the penghulu nodded.

‘My cousin,’ he said with conviction.

‘Alright, let’s go and see your cousin. I want him to make me a special seat that I can rope up into the trees, a seat I can shoot from, you understand? I’ll meet his price, whatever it is! And look, I’m going to need men to help me later on, and they all get paid too. You’ll be able to buy a lot of cigarettes before we’re through. I’m a good man, chief, I always look after my friends. What do you say, are you going to help me out?’

The penghulu crumpled the twenty-dollar bill in his hand.

‘I good man too, Tuan! You not worry, I keep ears open, all over. I hear something, I send word, never fear!’ And he grinned, a wide golden grin. ‘Now, you come talk my cousin. He best woodman in all kampong. He make you good shooting seat, you will see.’ And he led Bob back in the direction of the village.

On the way back, to seal the bargain, they smoked the last two cigarettes.

Chapter 8

It was a little after eight o’clock and Harry had already been up for something like three hours. He sat in his favourite rattan chair on the verandah remembering how, when he was younger, he had possessed the ability to sleep like a proverbial log. But as a man got older, his capacity for sleep seemed to dwindle. Now, the advent of the night was no longer a pleasure to him, but an irksome task that had to be endured in a seemingly endless fit of tossing and turning. More often than not, he would arise with the dawn and pace about his home, searching for little jobs to occupy himself while the hours slowly creaked past.

It was with a feeling of elation that he heard the metal garden gate clang open, telling him that Pawn had arrived to make the breakfast and, what was more important, today was the day she always brought Ché with her. They advanced slowly up the drive, an incongruous couple, she small and creaking in her sarong, he, a spindly hyperactive twelve-year-old, dressed in shorts and a torn T-shirt. He bounded up onto the porch ahead of his grandmother, his dark eyes flashing in merry greeting.

‘Good morning, Tuan!’ Like most young Malay boys, his English was excellent, and he had long ago lost any bashfulness that he might originally have possessed.

‘Good morning, Ché … Pawn …’ The old woman clambered up the stairs, grinning as always.

‘I am late, Tuan?’ she enquired fearfully.

‘Oh, I hardly think so! Anyway, I think we’ll leave breakfast for an hour or so. I haven’t much of an appetite yet.’

‘Yes, Tuan.’ She bowed very slightly and moved on into the house.

‘Ché, come and sit with me,’ suggested Harry. ‘Tell me all the news!’

Ché pulled up the spare seat and sat himself down on it, lifting his bare legs up so that he could rest his chin on his knees. Then he sat regarding Harry with a good-natured grin on his face.

‘The Tuan is well today?’ he enquired.

‘Oh, well enough, Ché, well enough. A little old, but there’s not much I can do about that is there? Now then, what’s been happening over in Kampong Panjang?

Ché’s face became very animated.

‘Well, Tuan, such excitement in the kampong two nights ago! A great tok belang killed a cow on the road just beyond the village. The cow belonged to my best friend, Majid, and he stood as close to the beast as I am to you!’

Harry smiled. He noted that like many Malays, Ché had a terrible reluctance to say the word ‘tiger.’ This stemmed from the old superstition that the very mention of the creature’s name was enough to bring its wrath down on one’s head. In most areas of Malaya, the superstition had faded except amongst the very old, but here in Trengganu it persisted amongst many of the inhabitants and may well have been passed on to Ché by his parents or grandparents.

‘A big tiger, you say? How big?’

‘Majid described him to me. He was fifteen feet long and stood as high as a fully grown deer. His eyes blazed like hot coals and his teeth were like great white daggers, this long!’ Ché held the palms of his hands six inches apart. ‘A truly terrible beast, Tuan. Poor Majid was fixed to the spot for a moment, but of course the beast did not attack him, for he was facing it.’

Harry nodded. He knew all about the fervent Malay belief that every good man had a verse from the Koran written on his forehead that proclaimed mankind’s superiority over the beasts of the jungle. Whenever confronted with this, a tiger is incapable of attacking its intended victim; and that was why, of course, nine times out of ten, a tiger would attack a man from behind. Beliefs like this were indelibly printed in the Malay consciousness and no amount of reasoning could shake that kind of faith. Harry could quite easily explain that Majid had probably been in no danger whatsoever; that a tiger only ever attacks a human being if it is very old or badly wounded, unable to catch its usual prey; moreover, that it would be quite natural for a tiger to attack from the rear, simply to maintain an element of surprise, but none of these arguments would make Ché cast off his own beliefs. So Harry simply asked, ‘Where do you think this tiger came from?’

The question was more complicated than it might seem to Western ears. To a Malay’s way of thinking, no tiger could just be there, a native cat wandering out of its jungle home. Ché thought for a moment before replying.

‘Some people in the village say that it might be a weretiger. There is an old bomoh who lives along near Kampong Machis and he claims to have the power of turning into a h – tok belang. But more likely, it goes the other way about. A beast from Kandong Balok has been living amongst us for some time and now is seeking his old ways.’

Harry nodded, knowing better than to laugh and cause offence. He knew all about Kandong Balok, the mythical kingdom of tigers that lay far beneath the earth in a secret place. There ruled Dato Uban, the king of all tigers, in a home made of human bones and thatched with human hair. From time to time, one of Dato’s subjects would yearn to live as a human and then this particular tiger would leave Kandong Balok by means of a secret tunnel. En route, a mysterious transformation would occur, the tiger would take human form and would go to live in some kampong, the other inhabitants never dreaming that such a creature dwelled amongst them. Sometimes, the changeling would become homesick and would visit Kandong Balock occasionally, reverting to its original form as it moved through the tunnel. Other times, the beast would simply hunger for raw flesh and, like the troublesome weretigers, would change its shape and kill cattle or even human beings.

The kampongs were rife with stories about weretigers, which were usually told to a huddled family audience late at night, in the glow of a solitary oil lamp. Details varied, but the basis was always more or less the same. A woman would be married happily for years to a man who was a good provider, a gentle sensitive husband. A tiger would start to prey on luckless villagers at night and the poor woman would never suspect a thing, until she awoke early one morning to see her husband’s head coming up the short ladder into the house, a head that was supported by the crouching body of a tiger! This was her husband, caught in mid-transformation. What happened to the marriage at this point was generally left as a matter of conjecture. Another popular story involved a brave man, lying beneath the slain body of his wife with a kris in each hand and stabbing the tiger when it came to eat. In the morning, a well-respected villager would be found with two daggers stuck in his ribs. There were countless other stories of course, all so similar that it was a wonder the Malays believed in them as faithfully as they did. Harry had his own particular favourite and he now asked Ché to recount it for him, for he loved to observe the boy’s excitement whenever he told such a tale.

‘Well Tuan, since you like the story so much, I will tell you it again. In the days before the tok belang looked as he does now, he was nothing more than a wild little boy, wandering in the jungle. One day, he was befriended by a strange old man who lived in a hut alone. The old man was very kind to the boy and taught him the ways of man, how to eat properly, how to speak and wear clothes, for, of course, up to this time, the boy had been quite naked. Well, the people in the nearest kampong soon came to hear about all this and they sent a man to insist that the wild boy must go to school. The old man was sad to lose his friend, but at last he agreed and the boy was sent to the kampong school. Now, the teacher there was a very stern man and he quickly lost patience with the wild boy, for he was always fighting with the others, biting, and scratching them most cruelly. The teacher had a strong cane which he used to punish bad boys, and he warned the wild one that he must be quiet or he would suffer. But after a little while, the wild boy began to fight again and the teacher snatched up the cane, shouting, “Now I shall beat you, for you are truly nothing but a wild animal!” And he hit the boy very hard with the cane. At this instant, the boy dropped onto his hands and knees. The teacher hit him again and the boy growled. He hit him a third time and whiskers grew from his cheeks. A fourth time and a tail grew between his legs. The teacher was in a rage and he kept striking the boy, so hard that the cane scarred his body with black stripes and then, suddenly, the creature leapt to the door and ran away to the jungle, where it has remained ever since. And to this day, he carries the stripes on his back to remind him of that terrible beating.’

Ché sat back with a smile of satisfaction, for he felt that he had told the story well. Harry applauded him gently and thought to himself, ‘Lord, how I’d miss this boy if I ever decided to go back to England.’ He sighed gently.

‘You are sad, Tuan?’ asked Ché, ever sensitive to the old man’s moods.

‘Why do you ask that?’

‘Oh … suddenly your face changed, as though a cloud had passed over the sun.’

Harry chuckled. ‘You don’t miss much,’ he observed. ‘I was just thinking that many of my friends … will be going away soon.’

Ché looked alarmed.

‘You will go with them?’ he cried.

‘No. I don’t think so.’

‘Good. There are many of your friends here, too. You belong here.’ Ché said this with conviction and seemed to dismiss the idea completely. Of course, the Tuan would stay. The thought of him going anywhere else was unthinkable.

‘I … went into Kuala Trengganu yesterday,’ announced Harry slyly.

‘Oh …?’ Ché tried to sound casual, but he knew that the Tuan was leading up to something. ‘It is a fine place. I have been there myself, twice.’

‘Yes indeed. Many fine shops …’

Harry took a small leather box out of his pocket. Ché’s eyes lit up.

‘What have you there, Tuan?’ he enquired.

‘Oh … just something I bought.’

‘For yourself?’

‘No. For a friend of mine. I wonder if he’ll like it.’ He opened the box, removed the watch, and let it dangle on its leather fob before Ché’s eyes.

‘Oh, Tuan! It shines like the sun! I think your friend will like it very much.’ He gazed at Harry suspiciously for a moment. ‘Who is this friend you speak of?’ he demanded.

‘A very special friend of mine. A friend who tells me marvellous stories.’

‘Me? It is for me, Tuan? Oh, thank you!’ Ché stretched out his hand for the gift, but a sudden rush of perversity took Harry and he moved it away a little. ‘But I cannot give it to my friend yet,’ he continued.

‘Why not?’

‘First, he would have to say something else for me.’

Ché laughed merrily. ‘What must I say, Tuan? Another story?’

Harry shook his head.

‘Just one word. Just to prove to me that he has his wits about him. I want him to say “tiger.”’

Ché’s face fell.

‘But Tuan, I cannot! It is unlucky …’

‘Oh well.’ Harry feigned disappointment. ‘If you can’t say that one word …’

‘But Tuan …’ Ché glanced at his feet. ‘You don’t understand. It is an unlucky word. It brings down the t – the creature’s curse onto your head. Of course, I don’t really believe the old stories, but …’

‘You mean … I’ll have to take this marvellous watch back to the shop?’

‘No, I … uh … I …’ Ché fixed his gaze stubbornly to the floor, then glanced up at the glittering silver watch in Harry’s grasp. ‘Tiger …’ he mumbled, in a voice that was barely a whisper.

‘Oh, you’ll have to say it louder than that,’ chided Harry.

‘Tiger! There, Tuan, I’ve said it.’

‘So you have,’ admitted Harry. And he gave the watch to the boy. Ché’s misgivings were swept aside by the rush of his delight as he held the watch to his ear and listened to its ticking.

‘Oh, Tuan, it is a beautiful watch, the most wonderful watch ever! I can hear it ticking so loudly! Thank you, Tuan, thank you!’ He rushed to hug Harry, tears of gratitude in his eyes. ‘May I take it to show my grandmother?’

‘Of course!’ Harry was every bit as delighted as the boy was. Perhaps more so. Ché rushed into the house, yelling for Pawn to come and witness for herself the incredible watch. But once he was gone, Harry felt vaguely annoyed with himself. Why had he taxed the poor little devil so cruelly? Surely, in all the years he’d lived here, he’d learned that the one thing you shouldn’t fool around with were the beliefs that people held dear, no matter how ridiculous they might seem. He had enjoyed giving the present and he had simply wanted to prolong the enjoyment, but it had been a rather thoughtless method of doing so. Still, there was no harm done, he was sure of that. He settled back in his chair and closed his eyes, feeling a deep contentment settle over him. Perhaps he might manage a little nap before breakfast. Yes, why ever not? It had been a good day, so far.

He slept and dreamed of tigers.

Melissa gazed critically at her reflection in the hand mirror, as she methodically ran a brush through her long dark hair. She had been sunbathing on the lawn with her mother for most of the morning and had become bored to distraction. Nothing ever happened here. Sometimes she felt moved to screaming, such was her dissatisfaction. It was ridiculous, here she was, a free agent, able to do just whatever took her fancy; yet what use was such freedom when life consisted of nothing but interminable bouts of boredom? Social life in Malaya tended to consist of long periods of lounging. Of course, the background varied from time to time. One could lounge on an idyllic beach, or beside the glittering waters of the local swimming pool … well, for that matter, one could simply lounge in the back garden and have done with it.

For the more athletically inclined, there was always tennis or squash … good wholesome exercise, nobody could argue with that, but offering little in the way of frivolity. There was really no ‘action’ here. Melissa glanced thoughtfully at a couple of newspaper articles pinned to the wall beside her desk, both of them torn from British periodicals, which were widely available here, but typically several weeks out-of-date. The first cutting showed a photograph of a hippie girl dancing stark naked at an English pop festival. THE GIRL WHO LET IT ALL HANG OUT! blared the headline, while the editorial ran on to describe an orgy of rock music and hallucinogenic drugs outraging the inhabitants of a little village near Glastonbury. The other cutting had a similar theme: TOP POP GROUP IN DRUG ORGY ARREST! and a couple of very familiar faces were pictured being escorted from the doorway of a country house by a pair of burly policemen. Melissa sighed. Britain sounded like a much more interesting place than Malaya and she could hardly wait to experience it for herself. She put down the hand mirror, got up, and strolled to the slatted bedroom window. Peering out, she could see her mother stretched out on a sun-bed, apparently asleep. She lay in the midst of a large empty garden and beyond that lay the silent, sun-baked street and not a soul moved along it in the heat of the afternoon.

Melissa felt a great silent wave of emotion welling up inside her, but as she had on numerous occasions before, she willed herself to take control of it. There was at least one area of hope on the horizon: the shooting contest in two days’ time. Of course, she had not the remotest interest in shooting, but Bob Beresford would be there, and that particular young man was beginning to receive more and more of her attention as time went by. She constantly found herself thinking about him; worse still, in bed during the long hot sleepless nights, her thoughts turned into the most torrid fantasies, in which he figured prominently. She began to wonder if she was not becoming a little obsessed with him. Her concept of men was still surprisingly girlish, nurtured by the overprotective lifestyle she had experienced in the girls’ boarding school in which she had but lately resided. The fact that she was still a virgin at eighteen was frankly not from choice. She had simply not been given the opportunity of being with boys, right from the age when she was first interested in them, and now that she had ‘done her time,’ that was one matter she intended putting right at the earliest opportunity. At boarding school, nobody would ever admit to being a virgin so great was the shame of it. Free time was often spent recounting lewd adventures with the opposite sex, and though eighty percent of them were undoubtedly pure fiction it was not done to accuse the author of being a liar.

As a consequence of all this, sex, to Melissa, had taken on the form of a terrifying hurdle over which she must scramble before she could ever hope to enjoy herself. She was not so hardened that sex with just anybody would suffice; but Bob Beresford was lean, attractive, and very manly. She could quite easily visualize herself going to bed with him.

She felt suddenly ashamed by the openness of her own thoughts and she blushed, glancing around nervously, as though afraid that somebody might be observing her. She moved back to her desk, sat down again, and picked up the hand mirror. She was pretty, there was no doubt of that … but Bob did not seem to be very forthright. It might be up to her to make the first move …

‘Melissa? Aren’t you coming out again? It’s beautiful out here.’ Her mother’s voice shrilled from the garden.

‘Coming,’ she replied wearily. She put the mirror down on the desk and stood up; but the mirror, dangerously close to the edge of the wood, overbalanced, and fell with a crash onto the tiled floor. With an exclamation of anger, Melissa stooped and retrieved it. There was a wide diagonal crack running across its surface. When Melissa examined her reflection, the two halves of her face did not fit together properly, giving the impression that she was horribly deformed.

‘Just what I needed,’ she muttered darkly. ‘Seven years’ bad luck.’

She dropped the mirror into the litter bin on her way out of the room.

Haji hugged the darkness to him like a second skin as he advanced cautiously on the sleeping kampong. He was wise enough to know that what had worked before would work again. He was also clever enough to realize that he must not strike in the same place. So, through the early evening, he had haunted the roads and secondary jungle nearer to Kampong Wau, and as the hours passed by he had moved progressively nearer to the buildings, taking breaks to listen and watch. Now, the very last lamps had been extinguished for over an hour and the only movements came from within a flimsy wooden stockade, where several skinny cows had been herded for the night. They were quite settled at the moment, but occasionally one would stamp a foot or rub an irritating itch against the stockade, and at such times Haji would freeze, hugging the ground and gazing all around to ensure that no Upright had come out of his home to investigate.

The moon was full and he could see quite plainly every detail of the village before him. Somewhere, hidden from his view, a dog yapped briefly and Haji licked his lips, for he had eaten dogs on several occasions and knew what tender morsels they were. But tonight he had fixed his sights on one of the occupants of the stockade, and nothing would dissuade him from his choice at this late stage. He crept nearer, placing his feet with delicate precision. His wounded forepaw had passed the point of pain and had lapsed into a semi-numbness, which he found even more irritating because it might cause him to act clumsily at a critical moment. Earlier that same day, it had caused him to stumble as he began to run at an unsuspecting wild pig. Haji had recovered quickly, but the mistake cost him precious moments and the pig had escaped by a hair’s breadth, plunging into the jungle with nothing more than a few claw marks across its rump.

It was necessary now to cross a stretch of open ground flanked by houses, and he moved over it as fleet and silent as a shadow, until he was no more than a few yards from the stockade. Abruptly, the cows became aware that something was wrong. They snorted, began to mill around uncertainly in the centre of the small pen. There was little room for them to move and certainly nowhere for them to run to. Haji closed the final distance and took the five-foot fence in a single bound, coming over the top of it like a terrible striped shadow. He came down in the midst of the cattle and then all hell broke loose. Their eyes bulging in fear and lowing at the tops of their voices, the cows reeled away from him, their combined weight connecting with the flimsy fencing and shattering the roughly nailed wood. In the same instant, Haji selected his kill, a large leggy calf that was bawling frantically for its mother, and with one, well-aimed spring he had dragged the luckless infant into the dirt and was tearing at its throat. In a confusion of dust and legs and noise, the calf was slaughtered and then Haji was dragging it to the breach in the wall that the other cows were now spilling out of. In the kampong, oil lamps were being lit and the voices of nearby Uprights were shouting out in anger and surprise. For some reason, the cows’ panicked senses made them whirl around and come thundering back at Haji, whereupon he relinquished his hold on the calf’s throat and let out a blood-chilling roar that halted them in their tracks. They milled about again and lit out in another direction. Haji grabbed the still-quivering calf, jerked it around the edge of the stockade, but its legs became entangled in some lengths of fallen wood and wire and he was stuck for the moment. He became aware of Uprights emerging into the night, jabbering excitedly. With a snarl of rage, he took a firmer grip on the calf and heaved it with all his strength, tearing the carcass away and leaving one of its rear legs behind, neatly torn off at the knee. Then with a prodigious effort, he hefted the creature just clear of the ground and raced across the clearing.

The kampong was now in pandemonium, shouts and curses spilling from every house. But to the bleary eyes of people stumbling from their beds, Haji was little more than a shadow, disappearing into the secondary jungle that bordered the village. The man who owned the calf quickly discovered his loss and began to exhort his friends into forming a rescue party. Hardly surprisingly, nobody seemed very keen on the idea of following the tiger into the jungle and anyway, they were more concerned with rounding up the other cattle and repairing the stockade. By the time anybody was organized enough to think of doing anything, Haji was half a mile away in the deepest jungle, enjoying a late but very satisfactory supper.