the night of the funeral
2am or thereabouts
All I know may not be worth knowing. That is for you to decide. I was reluctant to speak of what I know, and I should add that the telling of it may not have happened if not for a tiger. What I was to say exactly, or even how – well, of that I was not informed. The creature, straining with self-control and clearly keener to eat me than impart wisdom, simply offered a hazy roar from a blur of teeth and red tongue.
Before me, a sheen of gold spine rippled and twisted and writhed until, from amidst its gaping jaw, a word finally formed, Tiger.
What about a tiger, I asked the beast.
It came closer, up to my face, its eyes flashing like gold diamonds as it roared, “YOU! Tiger!”
I’m the tiger?
It strained, raged, bridled and I sensed it had tired of my interrogation. So, I left the beast inside. Shut the door on it. Stepped out of the red wooden door, down the green planked steps and down the sandy path strewn with pine needles. When I reached the bank of the lake, I stepped calf-high into the water, looked across it as I always did and allowed my senses to savour the sparkle of it, the transparent coolness of it. The salve of it. On the horizon was the bank of fir trees, dark green and thick. I knew the sandy beach was just below it. And so, I sank into the coolness and began my swim.
As I swam, I thought hard and a long way back; it took only a few seconds because I’d perfected the art and knew the summary. The anger was in me, that I knew. I’d recognised the burning veins and eyeballs and could list at a moment’s notice every reason for it. In fact, the reasons seeped from me, acid drop by acid drop, spilling, escaping unwittingly, as I spat and bit, clawed and glared at everyone in my path.
The creature roared behind me from its place across the lake, from beyond time – the tiger that was me, straining at the bit, all teeth and tongue.
J March 