Lynne Banks - Tiger, Tiger

*

Now she rose languidly and walked slowly through the heat to the fountain in the centre of the courtyard of her apartment. Its constant music and the cooler air around it always soothed her. In the pool at the fountain’s foot there were water lilies, and in their shadow exotic fish, brought from afar. She crouched beside the parapet and trailed her hot hand in the limpid water, letting the tinkle and splash of the fountain make her mind a harmless blank.

A large orange-coloured fish came to nose her fingers inquisitively.

She did her trick, something she’d discovered for herself. She let her fingers move gently in the water, and the fish glided in between them and held itself there with lazy motions of its tail while she very delicately stroked its slippery sides. She concentrated intently. She knew that if she moved her hand quickly enough she could stick her forefinger and thumb into the fish’s gills and, in a swift movement, lift it out of the water. She could capture it and end its life if she chose to. She knew this because she’d done it once, held a trapped fish firmly out of the water, felt it struggling in her hands, felt its struggles cease… Afterwards she’d felt sick. She’d thrown the dead thing back in the pond, where it turned on its side and floated until a servant came and cleared it away.

Now she tickled the fish for a few minutes and then lifted her hand suddenly and watched it flash away amid the bright drops from her fingers.

That was power. To have a life in your hand. Even a fish’s. She felt the thrill of it. But something told her it was an evil power – to kill because you could, without reason, for pleasure. She felt dimly that the true power was to withhold the death-stroke, to let the creature go when you could have killed it.

Such deep thoughts tired her. She sighed and went back to her day bed.

She had hardly settled on it when one of her maids came soft-footedly across the marble tiles to her side. She was breathing fast and her face was flushed.

‘My lady, someone is here to see you. He – he has brought a gift.’ She looked strange, as if she were torn between hysterical laughter, and fear.

Aurelia sat up sharply.

‘Who is it?’

‘I don’t know. But he says your honourable father sent him.’

‘Well, send him in!’

‘No – no, I can’t, my lady! You must come out and see what he’s brought. He can’t bring it in here!’ She let out a high-pitched giggle of excitement.

Aurelia pulled the girl down beside her. ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Tell me at once what it is.’

‘It’s – it’s a…’

‘Yes, go on! What’s the matter with you?’

‘It’s a tiger , my lady!’

Aurelia was silent for a moment, puzzled.

‘You mean, a tiger-skin rug.’

‘No.’

‘A stuffed tiger.’

‘No, my lady! A real, live one! Oh, please come and see it!’

Aurelia pushed her away, threw her long dark curling hair back over her shoulders, and stood up. Her heart was throbbing behind her ribs. A real , live tiger? But that was impossible! Of all the beasts brought from far-off countries to please the crowds with their ferocity, the tiger was one of the most formidable. Also, because it came, not from Africa, but from some far eastern land, it was the rarest, and most terrible, somehow. There could be no one bold enough to introduce one into Caesar’s palace! But the girl had said Aurelia’s father had sent it. As a gift .

She ran swiftly across the cool floor to the double doorway and flung the doors open.

There it was, indeed. Safely in a cage on wheels. And very young. And very, very – oh, there were no words for what it was! Beautiful, sweet, adorable. Fabulous.

Aurelia didn’t even notice the person who had brought it. She crouched down, a safe distance from the cage, and stared into the yellow eyes of the cub.

‘Hello,’ she breathed.

The cub stared back for about five seconds. Then it turned its face aside.

One paw, seemingly too large for its body, stuck through the bars of its cage. Not the whole paw, of course – the bars were too close together. Just the tip of it. Aurelia, greatly daring, crept forward and touched the golden fur with one finger. The cub pulled the paw back and then swiped the bars of the cage. Aurelia saw its claws spread themselves and jerked her hand away.

‘He wants to scratch me!’

‘It’s his instinct, Princess. But don’t fear. His claws will be seen to.’

She looked up swiftly. He was young and brown with smooth, round, muscled arms. A slave from the menagerie. He wore an animal skin over his tunic as a sign of his profession.

‘‘Seen to’? How, seen to?’

‘His claws will be drawn.’

She frowned. ‘What do you mean, drawn?’

‘Pulled out, Princess.’

For a second she felt faint. She clenched her hands as a sympathetic pain struck her fingernails.

‘You mean – someone will pull out all his claws?’

‘Of course. You couldn’t play with him if he had sharp claws.’

‘How? How will they do it?’

‘You need not trouble yourself—’

She raised her voice to one of command. ‘Tell me immediately how they will… draw his claws?’

‘With pliers, my lady. They will pull them out as teeth are pulled out.’

She stood up. ‘You will not do that to him. You will cut his claws instead, the way my finger and toenails are cut by my maid, straight across so they have no sharp points.’

‘He could still—’

‘There is no more to be said. He is to be mine, isn’t that so? I will say what shall be done with him.’

The young keeper bowed his head. But still, he muttered something.

‘Speak louder!’

‘I said, Princess, that you may keep him in his cage, just as he is, but if you want to let him out and play with him, you must let us protect you. He’s only a baby now, but like a cat he can already bite and scratch.’ He showed her several deep red scratches on his arm. She drew in her breath. ‘And when he grows a little bigger he may be dangerous to you unless you let us draw his claws. His fangs,’ he added boldly, ‘have already been removed.’

‘What!’ she shouted. ‘You’ve started pulling his teeth out too! How will he eat?’

‘Our concern,’ said the youth, with a touch of humour, ‘is that he shall not eat you .’

She looked back at the cub. He was looking at her again.

‘Will he try to bite me if I put my hand into his cage?’

‘No. I have handled him and gentled him. Also he’s not feeling very fierce just now because of the long journey he’s had, and the operation. Do you like him?’

‘Oh, yes ,’ she breathed, gazing at the fabulous creature. Her own. Her very own. She glanced again at the scratches on the young man’s smooth, brown arm, and quailed for a moment. But then she stiffened herself. Cautiously she stretched her small hand, sideways to be narrow enough, between two bars towards the animal’s bicoloured head. Its ears moved, flattened. It growled deep in its throat. She snatched her hand out again.

The young keeper laughed. He unfastened the lid at the top of the cage and raised it. Then he reached in fearlessly and scratched the cub behind the ears. It looked up at him trustingly.

‘How can he like you and trust you when you’ve hurt him? It must have hurt terribly to have his fangs pulled out!’

‘I didn’t do it, Princess. I was the one who comforted him afterwards, rubbed oil of cloves on the wounds and gave him warm milk in a bottle to remind him of his mother.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Who knows? Far away in the jungle he came from. He won’t see her again.’ He was petting and stroking the tiger’s head, working his hand under its jaw. The cub’s eyes closed in bliss. There was a different sound from him now – a rumble of pleasure.