“Paul?” said the tiger.
A grin split Paul’s face, and instantly he felt all the tension seeping out of him. “You remember me?”
“Of course I remember you. I didn’t recognize you at first because you had a scent. I’m not used to you having a scent because usually you’re dreaming when we’re together, and dreams have no scents…except to pixies. They can smell anything, anywhere.”
The Boy was looking from one to the other, his brow furrowed. “Are you talking to him? Is he talking to you?”
“Yes. Can’t you tell?”
“I can tell what you’re saying. He just sounds like growling to me.”
“But you taught me to talk to animals!”
“I taught you how you could talk to animals. I can’t do it myself.”
Paul didn’t understand the difference, but The Boy did; and as always, that was all that mattered to the Boy. “What did he just say?”
“There’s no scents in dreams.”
“Well, I could have told you that.” The Boy sounded a trifle put out, and I think you know the reason quite readily: An individual with such a monumental ego as The Boy could scarcely tolerate the notion that there was someone in the Anyplace who could do something he himself couldn’t do. And Paul’s facility at talking to animals certainly fell under that category. The Boy was just going to have to deal with it as best he could, which is to say, not particularly well. He was, in fact, so annoyed that he forgot to fly and moments later his feet were resting on the ground. He waited for the snow tiger to notice this and make a run at him. But no: The tiger was too busy chatting with Paul. This meant that The Boy was no longer the center of attention, and this galled him deeply.
Paul was oblivious to all this. He was too busy speaking with his tiger. He walked cautiously toward the great beast and ran his fingers through his fur. He was amazed at the totally different sensation when he was awake. The texture was the same, but there was also the warmth from the pulsing blood that flowed through the beast’s hide. The snow tiger felt so much more alive, rather than just a fantasy construct.
“How came you here?” said the snow tiger.
Paul summarized it as best he could. The Boy, who already knew this and might even have forgotten it by now, yawned loudly. The tiger nodded thoughtfully, taking it in, while Paul scratched the tiger’s chin.
“A worthy goal,” the tiger said finally. “A worthy quest, finding a new sister. I hope you don’t turn away from it, or that death doesn’t overtake you in your pursuit, leaving your quest unfulfilled.”
This was a startling notion to Paul. “I didn’t think that was possible. I mean…don’t quests always succeed? Isn’t that the nature of quests?”
“Oh, not at all,” said the snow tiger. Looking utterly unthreatening, he had curled himself up on the ground and was resting his great head upon his fearsome paws. Paul had shifted to scratching the top of the cat’s head just behind his ears, and they flattened in response. “Most quests end in failure.”
“Are—are you sure? I mean, in every quest I read about, good triumphs over evil.”
“Those are the rarities. The exceptions. Why else do you think those are the ones that are written about? No one wants to write about the failed quests. There’s far too many of them, and all they do is reinforce what everyone already knows deep in their heart: Evil tends to triumph over good, and a hero is someone who rushes headlong to death while singing hosannahs.” The tiger looked up at him, puzzled. “You stopped scratching my head. Why?”
“I just…I was surprised, that’s all. All the times I’ve run with you, all the times I’ve known your strength…when I was with you, I always felt like there wasn’t anything I couldn’t do. And now the things you’re saying—”
“You’ve seen me in dreams,” the tiger reminded him. “Dreams are for the sleeping mind to tell lies to itself. To make of the world what it wants. Now you’re awake, and I am still your friend and devoted tiger. But I will not lie to you. Not ever. That’s how you know I’m your friend.”
“This is boring,” The Boy said, not having understood anything the tiger said. “Remind him that I’m here to kill him, and the night is not getting any younger.”
“You’re not going to have to kill him,” Paul said, and then turned back to his tiger. “The Boy thinks he’s going to have to kill you.”
“Why would he think that?” said the snow tiger.
“Because the Piccas believe that you’ve been hunting down their braves and killing them.”
“Oh. Yes. That’s right.”
The tiger replied so matter-of-factly that Paul didn’t comprehend at first. “What do you mean…?”
“I mean, yes, that’s right, I’ve been hunting down and killing Picca braves. And then eating them,” he added as an afterthought. “I wouldn’t want you to think that I was just doing it for sport.”
Paul started to feel short of breath, and there was a pain in his chest that he realized with some amazement was his heart breaking. “But—but I don’t understand! Why? Why would you do such a thing?”
“Because I am a hunter. I do what I’m created to do. Just as you do.”
“But the Piccas are afraid of you! They sent us to kill you!”
“I cannot blame them,” the snow tiger said, sounding unconscionably reasonable about the whole matter. “If I were the Piccas, I’d probably want to do something about me.”
“What’s going on?” The Boy said. “Is he the one we want or isn’t he?”
“He’s not,” Paul said immediately, instinctively, but his inability to meet The Boy’s level gaze betrayed his pathetic attempt to dissemble. “Okay, yes, he is…but he doesn’t understand—”
“What is there to understand?” The Boy once again had his sword at the ready. Noticing the gesture, the snow tiger turned to face the threat that The Boy represented. “He’s a killer, Paul. A man-eater. However…there may be another way. A way that will not involve killing him.”
“Truly?”
“No, not truly. I am tricking you, for I am grandnephew of Loki and cannot help myself. The truth is that his death will be a brave and magnificent one at my hands, but die he must. There’s nothing else for it.”
“Shut up, Boy!” Paul said as he darted around, placing his fragile body between the crouching form of the tiger and The Boy who was preparing to do battle with him. “I don’t accept that!” He pivoted and faced the snow tiger. “Look…maybe…maybe we can still fix this. You can go with us to see the Piccas…. I can help you explain that you won’t do it anymore.”
The tiger pondered this, and then said, “Tell me, Paul: Know you the tale of the scorpion and the frog?”
“Yes, yes,” Paul said impatiently. “But this isn’t the time—”
“Tell me.”
“But you can’t—”
“Tell me,” repeated the tiger, this time with such force that it caused Paul to jump slightly.
Paul gulped once, feeling as if there was a great blockage in his throat. “There was a scorpion, stranded by a rising river. He asked a passing frog for help. For a ride to the shore. The frog was naturally worried that the scorpion would sting him. But the scorpion pointed out that he’d be foolish to do so, because he was depending on the frog to save him. So the frog, convinced, allowed the scorpion to ride on his back. As the frog swam the river, halfway across, the scorpion stung him. The frog, drowning and dying, asked the scorpion why he had done such a foolish thing, since he had doomed them both. And the scorpion said, ‘I couldn’t help it. It’s my nature.’”
“Well told. Very well told,” said the snow tiger approvingly. “It’s the same with me, Paul. I would never hurt you because I belong to you. But it is my nature to hunt and kill. I could tell you that I will never chase down Picca braves again. Perhaps I would even mean it at the time. But I know myself and my nature, and sooner or later—probably sooner—I would do as my nature commands me to. So I know now that I would be lying to you, and I won’t d
o that anymore.”
The Boy, meanwhile, was at the end of his tether. His body was practically vibrating with anticipation over the pending battle, and watching an ongoing conversation—only half of which he could comprehend—was more than he could handle. “Enough!” he finally said, and stood defiantly with his sword pointed straight at the tiger. “Have at you, beast!”
“My pardons, Paul,” said the tiger politely. “I have to go kill your friend.”
And then, with no hesitation between word and action, the snow tiger spun and lunged directly at The Boy.
Fortunately The Boy was ready for it, or he would have been done for right there. Instead he leaped skyward, laughing and delighting in his own cleverness, as the tiger’s lunge came up short. The fearsome claws raked the air, missing The Boy clean. The Boy then returned the thrust, jabbing with his sword, hoping to get a clean stroke at the tiger that wasn’t impeded by teeth or talons.
But The Boy missed the tiger as well, and that initial encounter set the pace for much of the battle that followed. Jab and thrust, bob and weave, attack and retreat—a cruel dance between boy and beast, each trying to seek out the slightest weakness or hesitation that they could quickly, fatally exploit.
Paul tried to shout to both of them, but neither was paying attention. They both knew what Paul had yet to admit to himself: The time for talking was past, if it had ever existed at all.
Down came The Boy, and he would thrust quickly, pinking the tiger’s hindquarters or outthrust paw before bounding upward again. He never strayed far; part of the amusement for him was staying as close as possible to his prey, just out of reach, thus frustrating and angering him all the more.
There was nothing in the snow tiger’s bearing or actions that remotely reflected the calm, discerning creature that had spoken so eloquently to Paul. Nor did he even resemble the occasional tiger that Paul had seen when his parents had taken him to a zoo, lying docile and bored and wondering when its next meal was going to be served. This was pure, undiluted ferocity that shook Paul to his core. He felt a swell of pity for the Picca braves who had been faced with this fearsome creature and gone to their deaths beneath his claws. At the same time, unaccountably, Paul also felt a tinge of pride. This was, after all, his tiger, and was he not magnificent in his ferocity?
He ceased his efforts to talk the two opponents away from each other, and instead simply stood there and watched the delicate dueling ballet. He lost track of how long it went on. Minutes, hours, all much the same in such a struggle; and over that period of time The Boy made some mistakes, and so did the tiger…an increasing number as their fatigue grew. The tiger was bleeding from a dozen small wounds, and was visibly slowing. The Boy had claw marks on his legs, and the upper portion of his tunic was badly shredded from a moment when he had gotten too close to his opponent.
The moon—the only possible measure of time—continued to climb in the night sky. It reached its zenith, midnight, the witching hour; and it was at that exact moment that the snow tiger apparently decided to run away.
The Boy’s breath was ragged in his chest, and the snow tiger sounded as if he had a locomotive straining in his torso. In all the battle, though, the two of them had never dropped their gaze one from the other. Their eyes had remained locked in a struggle that was as much mental as it was physical. Suddenly the tiger broke that locked gaze, turned tail, and ran as hard as he could for the outer rim of the clearing.
“Coward!” said The Boy, startled for a moment, but only a moment, and then he flew in pursuit of the snow tiger.
Paul had no idea what to make of this sudden turn of events. If there was one thing upon which he would have staked his life, it was that his tiger was incapable of pusillanimity and would never flee a battle save as some sort of trick.
As it so happened, Paul was absolutely correct.
The tiger reached the edge of the clearing at full speed, but he did not exit it as The Boy had expected. Rather than running between the trees to escape, the snow tiger instead ran about halfway up the nearest tree. The tree bent back, elastic like a palm tree rather than rigid like an oak. The tiger, using both his own momentum and the tree’s flexibility, catapulted himself backward, twisting in midair and angling upward.
The Boy, meantime, had headed downward, anticipating having to get below the tops of the trees in order to keep an eye on the snow tiger. Consequently, he was caught completely by surprise when he found himself looking straight at the oncoming teeth and outstretched claws of the snow tiger. The Boy hesitated a split instant, not sure which direction to go, and that was all the opportunity the snow tiger needed. He collided with The Boy in midair. The Boy, knowing he was in dire straits, thrust hard and true with his sword. The point glanced off one of the tiger’s ribs, leaving a cut and a trail of blood, but otherwise doing the tiger no serious harm.
The tiger thudded to the ground, The Boy directly beneath his paws. The impact was so bone jarring that Paul felt it from where he was standing a short distance away.
The tiger roared in triumph. The Boy tried to bring his sword around again, to drive it into the tiger’s throat. But the tiger whipped his head around, catching the flat of the blade and sending the sword tumbling from The Boy’s hand. The Boy tried to squirm out from under the tiger and grab for his weapon; but he had no chance. The tiger brought his left forepaw down hard on The Boy’s chest, immobilizing him. The Boy looked straight up into the wide-open mouth of the tiger, the mouth that would—within seconds—close upon his face and likely tear his head from his shoulders. Not once did The Boy cry out, and there wasn’t a hint of fear in him. Instead he seemed almost fascinated, as if he were wondering what it would feel like to be eaten alive by a raging tiger.
But if The Boy was mute, Paul was far more vocal. “Get away from him!” he screamed at the tiger. Acting completely from instinct, with no other goal than to get the tiger’s attention, Paul threw his sword as hard as he could toward the tiger’s head. His intent was to bounce the weapon off the beast’s skull, in the increasingly vain hope that he could distract him. Perhaps even talk sense into the beast and salvage the situation.
His aim was both terrible and providential.
The blade came nowhere near the tiger’s skull, nor to striking it with the flat of the blade as had been Paul’s admittedly meager plan. Instead, the sword pinwheeled through the air and, with the blind luck that had not been accorded The Boy’s more seasoned thrust, embedded itself in the snow tiger’s side. It slid between the third and fourth ribs and skewered the mighty creature’s heart.
Never in the whole history of the animal kingdom had any creature looked quite as surprised as did the snow tiger. He lifted his paws clear of The Boy, who lay on the ground and appeared as stunned as the snow tiger himself over the turn of events.
The tiger looked up at Paul, who was stricken by what he had done. “I’m—I’m sorry,” said Paul softly. He had read any number of times that one should never get near a wounded animal; that that was when they were the most dangerous. That didn’t stop him from approaching the snow tiger. “I—I was just…”
“You’ve killed me,” rumbled the snow tiger, sounding hurt and confused but also somehow resigned to the fact. He slumped over. “I’ve run with you…since before you remember. You’ve killed your childhood.”
“I didn’t mean to….”
There was a low noise in the tiger’s throat that sounded almost like a laugh. “No one ever means to. That’s usually how it happens…by accident.”
Paul reached for the tiger’s great muzzle, and there were tears rolling down the lad’s face. The tiger’s head was heavy and Paul sank to the ground. The tiger rested his head in Paul’s lap, and Paul started scratching him behind the ears. “You were a good tiger,” he whispered.
“You were a good friend,” said the tiger, and then he closed his eyes.
The Boy was about to airily inform Paul that he had never truly been in any danger. That he had a handle on the situ
ation and was simply trying to lure the tiger into a false sense of security so that he could make the decisive strike at exactly the moment when the tiger was certain of his triumph. In short, in order to salve his ego, The Boy was prepared to lie through his pearly white teeth.
But he did not do so. Instead he simply stood there in silence.
Nothing stirred in the Anyplace for some time, and the only sound to be heard in the entirety of the island was the soft sobbing of Paul Dear.
Chapter 13
Slash on the Rocks
In order to accord Paul a respectful mourning period, let us draw a curtain upon the previous scene and instead shift our attentions to the schemes of Captain Slash and her tormenting of Fiddlefix.
Pity poor Fiddle. The torment resulted in her betrayal of The Boy, but we must not upbraid her overmuch for this. All of us like to believe that—were we to have torment inflicted upon us in order to encourage our turning upon those whom we love or are loyal to—we would remain steadfast in our convictions. Everyone is the hero of his own personal story. But I think we are all honestly aware that no man (or pixie or sprite, for that matter) knows his true measure until confronted with the reality. To that end, we again ask that you extend some degree of compassion to Fiddle rather than judge her harshly, since you never know when you might find yourself in a similar situation and crave the indulgence of others after the fact.
Fiddlefix had been through an emotional roller coaster. First she had thought that The Boy had betrayed her. Then she had been restored to the land of the living, burning for revenge against he whom she had loved more than herself. Then she had learned that the betrayal was a false one and that he himself had been a dupe…only to be left behind when The Boy, Paul, and his companions fled the Skull n’ Bones.
Now we know that the others were unaware that Fiddlefix had been captured by the evil Slash. Had they known, they would have returned for her straightaway. But as you saw, there was a great deal of hugger-mugger involved in the retreat (a word that, even now, The Boy bristles over) and, well…the Anyplace tends to play tricks with the memory of its residents. Consequently, The Boy, Paul, Gwenny, and the others were so caught up in their immediate need and their involvement with the Picca Indian tribe that Fiddlefix had—temporarily—slipped through the cracks of their attention.