Tigerheart (13 page)

“You think he made a mistake?”

“Either that or he simply doesn’t care.”

Paul barely had time to take in that bit of information. Suddenly the underbrush crashed apart in either direction, and the snow tiger fairly exploded into the clearing. It was not a huge clearing, perhaps ten feet by twenty, with tall trees lining the edges. To Paul it seemed microscopic, barely enough room for the tiger himself, much less for the tiger, Paul, and The Boy.

The snow tiger landed in a crouch, his head whipping back and forth, his tail snapping around. His teeth were bared, and a rumble like a thousand freight trains emerged from his throat. It was at that moment that Paul realized just what a degree of safety his dreaming had provided him when it came to encounters with the snow tiger. After all, if anything had gone wrong, he would simply have woken up. That was not an option this time.

“Ho, creature!” said The Boy. He was not on the ground any longer but instead floating several feet in the air. His sword was at the ready, and he looked prepared to make short work of his growling opponent. “Now thou shalt pay for thy murderous pursuits! At least take some solace in that you are to be killed by the finest hunter in the land!”

If the tiger understood anything of what The Boy had said, he certainly gave no hint of it. Instead he pitched his head back and roared defiance. It was so loud that Paul thought he might go deaf if the tiger did it too much. It was so powerful that the sheer blast of it caused The Boy to bounce about like a cork bobbing in the ocean. He recovered quickly, though, and swept his sword down. It nicked the tiger’s right ear, and the tiger lunged upward at the levitating Boy. The Boy barely got out of the way in time, but Paul quickly realized that that was the entire point. The Boy was trying to stay as near the tiger as possible, to court death, to stay just that far out of reach but no farther. It was either to give the beast a sporting chance, or else to display his own wonderfulness by providing the tiger every opportunity to catch him and then fall short.

The Boy ricocheted from one side of the clearing to the other, and the tiger pursued him. It was amazing to watch the pure white tiger in action, sharing so many similarities to small cats that Paul had seen wandering about the streets of home any number of times. But the snow tiger was so much larger, so much more dangerous, that despite the resemblance, it was hard to credit that they were part of the same biological family.

The tiger pivoted, getting closer to The Boy with each thrust, but The Boy continued to jab at him and remain just out of reach, laughing the entire time. His laughter infuriated the beast all the more, and finally Paul said,
“Leave him alone, Boy! Let me talk to him!”

Paul’s outcry stopped the tiger in mid-lunge. He fell back to all fours and his eyes narrowed, studying Paul with a curious tilt to his head that made him almost look like a large canine. His tail, which had been sweeping about with such force that it was almost a weapon on its own, promptly dropped to a lazy, slowly swishing manner that suggested polite curiosity on the part of its owner.

“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 do 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.