In Search of the Blue Tiger (26 page)

Every since that day the animal people have had fire, and the Water Spider still has her little bowl on her back.

Ahead is the old village hall where our play rehearsal is to take place. This is our secret.

It is early in the morning; the frost is brittle underfoot as I walk up the grassy verge at the far end of town. Stigir stalks close behind me. His breath curls up in front of his face. He looks like a small purple steam train. In the distance the hills rise and fall, reaching up and then missing the hems of the clouds. A squirrel spins around the trunk of a birch tree, a pair of crows cut a black line across the sky. The gate is cold to the touch and squeaks an objection to being opened. The gravel of the pathway crunches and scrapes as we make our way to the double wooden door of the hall. Ever since the new hall was built down by the village green this old hall has hardly been used.

Inside it is dark and unloved. A broken tennis racquet lies in the middle of the parquet floor. Old gymnasium mats are piled high in one corner. Curtains hang forlorn and musty around the skirt of the wooden stage. Stigir is quiet, sitting on the mat in the doorway. There are spirits here of the past or future who do not appeal to his sensitivities.

Outside footsteps approach. It is the Twins and their father.

‘Hello, young man,' he says.

The girls say nothing. Perch holds a folder in one hand and an oil lamp in the other. Carp has a large coil of rope slung over one shoulder. Under her arm she carries a bundle of twigs. Each wears a dark green smock, navy blue woollen tights and identical tartan berets.

‘I'm the stand-in Isaac,' jokes Mr Fishcutter. ‘I see you've brought your dog. More like a wolf than a ram, eh?' he says poking me in the ribs.

I don't understand what he means. Neither does Stigir.

‘Anyway, be easy on me, Pops,' he says to me, then adds in a whispered aside, ‘Has the dog read the script? Does he know the ending?'

His face is big and open and smiling. He's expecting me to react. To laugh. To joke. To be his friend. I don't know how to do this, Mr Fishcutter. I only know you from a distance. From across the street, behind a closed door. As the fishmonger cutting eels on a chopping board. Adults wielding knives. That's how I know you. Kissing Mrs April under a streetlamp. A speckled scarf hanging from a hook on the back of a door. Setting the trap under the cover of night. A silent howl to the moon. You don't fool me with this smile and hello, this daytime disguise. Demon and were-wolf, that is how I know you.

There is a clatter behind us, pulling us away from each other. Perch and Carp are setting up the props. Centre stage they have placed a small bench to be the sacrificial altar. The pile of twigs is arranged underneath; the coil of rope rests on top. An overgrown plant, in an even bigger pot, has been hauled upstage from where it was abandoned in the wings. In its new incarnation it will represent the bush.

‘Perch will have the oil lamp to show she is the light and word of Jehovah God,' announces Carp.

Perch holds up the lit lamp, casting their identical faces in a swathe of bright light. She waves the lamp from side to side, the smuggler luring the unsuspecting ship onto the treacherous, rocky terrain.

Mr Fishcutter has taken on a serious, sombre look.

‘But,' he says in a reverential tone. ‘I hope Jehovah's words come direct from the Bible. There can be no substitute, absolutely none.'

‘Of course not, Father, what Jehovah has said stands for all time,' replies Perch, momentarily stepping out of character.

We three – the father, the boy and the dog – are beckoned to the stage. Carp hands us our scripts. Not Stigir. His is a silent part. I've already explained to him his role. When I show him the plant he realises he is to wait there until I give him his cue. I'm not sure he understands the bit about being a ram, but he does nibble at the leaves of the plant in a most undog-like way.

So this is the play. The play we rehearse in the derelict old village hall. A guillemot cries overhead, reminding us this is not the Middle East. We take up our positions, as directed by Carp. There is no light, but Perch's lamp. For atmosphere, says Carp. We can just about see our scripts; all the better when the sweep of God's light illuminates the pages.

JEHOVAH GOD stands behind the altar to give commands. ABRAHAM is sitting on the ground to begin with, tending sheep or something of that sort. The RAM must stay still and out of sight behind the bush. The RAM must not move.

CURTAINS OPEN.

JEHOVAH GOD: Abraham. Behold, here I am.

ABRAHAM looks up to the skies.

JEHOVAH GOD: Take now thy son, thine only son, Isaac, whom thou lovest, and get thee into the land of Moriah; and offer him there for a burnt offering upon one of the mountains which I will tell thee of.

ABRAHAM lies down on the ground and sleeps. In a little while he wakes up and stretches.

ABRAHAM goes to the wood and picks up the twigs and finds the coil of rope.

ISAAC comes on to the stage.

ABRAHAM: Listen, my only son. I have to go to Moriah and I need you to come along to help.

ISAAC: Of course, Father, whatever you say, I will do.

ABRAHAM and ISAAC walk across the stage three times.

ABRAHAM: Now we are in Moriah. We must go and worship Jehovah God. Isaac, you carry the wood. I will bring the fire.

ABRAHAM must light a candle from GOD'S flame (the oil lamp) and carry the fire before him.

From my pocket I take the candle Carp has given me. Perch-God opens the little window from her oil lamp, tilts it and offers me the flame. I touch its flickering blue-orange centre with the wick, which fizzes alight. Perch looks approvingly down at me.

ISAAC: Father. Behold the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for the burnt offering?

ABRAHAM: My son, Jehovah God will provide himself a lamb for a burnt offering.

ABRAHAM and ISAAC walk twice across the stage.

ABRAHAM: This is the place of offering to Jehovah God.

ABRAHAM and ISAAC lay the twigs under the altar.

ABRAHAM: My son, Jehovah God commands you be the burnt offering.

ISAAC: Father, we must obey the word of Jehovah God.

ISAAC is to be bound by the hands as he lies on the altar; the rope is coiled around his body to prevent his escape.

I loop the rope around Mr Fishcutter's hands while he stands and tie a loose knot.

‘No,' says Carp, coming on from the wings, clipboard in hand. ‘It must be realistic. Isaac must lie on the bench, ready for sacrifice, and then be tied up.'

‘Please, Father,' she adds.

With a little shuffling and awkwardness, Mr Fishcutter takes his place on the bench, his long legs dangling over the edge.

Carp takes one end of the rope and winds it back and forth between his wrists, binding them tightly together. The wax from the candle has been dripping onto the back of my hand. Slowly it changes from hot and watery to cool and firm, constricting and tantalising my skin. I look up at Perch. She is holding the flame of God to help lighten her sister's task. The rope is now being wound around Mr Fishcutter's torso and under the bench. When the ends meet, Perch ties the packer's knot with a twist and tug, sending a short gasp from her trapped father. Satisfied and restored to her directorial role, she picks up her clipboard and walks offstage.

Stigir the ram is peering around the broad, copious leaves of the plant. His ears are upright. He senses something is amiss.

I feel the warmth and power of the flame in my hand. I hold it under my chin like a buttercup, to feel its glow. I blow across the flame and watch it flicker. I blow again and the flame whistles a note. I am the Pied Piper. I take a step forward. Gathering around me are the ghosts and hordes of all the children that ever were sacrificed, summoned from their resting places, each dressed in a fresh white smock. A choir and cast of souls. Stigir sees them, for he pokes his head through the foliage and pants a hello.

There in front of me, the man, the father, the were-wolf in human clothing, lies tied and bound on the sacrificial altar. The demon in him breathes heavily, dangerously.

For the first time ever, Perch and Carp are really looking at me. Directly at me. I see their eyes glittering, reflecting in the light of God's flame, which Perch holds up high. They don't need to tell me. They don't need to say anything. Either Jehovah God, or Perch, or Carp. They think I don't know what is expected of me. They believe it is they who have made this scene, set these events in trail. But I know what I know. I am who I am, as I walk towards the altar. In my mind's eye I see Great Aunt Margaret and her baby. All in cinders. The Cinderella Baby. And all those children, sacrificed and laid in the arms of a golden statue, then tossed into the fire. I think of Mother lying in a crumpled heap in a wardrobe, splinters of wood all around her: a bloodied marionette cast into a corner. And Mrs April. Mrs April flying a kite. Mrs April under the street lamp, looking furtively up and down a street, held tight in the arms of a man with jet-black hair and a speckled scarf. A snake around his own neck. I will save her from the wolf.

Carp and Perch are standing together, their eyes alight.

‘Do it,' says one.

‘Do it now,' says the other.

But I need no encouragement. Mr Fishcutter looks alarmed as I walk towards him, the candlewax dripping down my forearm, the flame leaping and quivering with each step. He struggles with the ropes, which only tighten against his efforts. He shouts ‘No' and ‘Don't'. His face contorts as he realises what is about to befall him. There is desperation in his face. I see it. I see this is not his choice. Not like Jesus. Not like the bishop and the pawn. Like all the sheep and fattened children lost in the woods, he does not choose this. Like Mr April on the deck of the sinking ship, this is not how Mr Fishcutter expected his day to end. The ghost-world of children draw close. A chorus of cherubs. They gather around this father in his distress. They understand his sadness. One wipes the tears from his eyes. Others stroke his hair and whisper happiness to him.

‘Now,' hisses Perch.

‘Make the sacrifice,' spits Carp.

I let the lighted candle drop from my hand to fall onto the pile of dry twigs.

‘Forgive us father, Jehovah God,' implores Carp.

‘In the sure hope of the resurrection,' says Perch, as the wood crackles and sparks, the flames licking at the base of the altar.

‘Your sins will be cleansed.'

‘And we will meet you in the heaven of Jesus' thousand-year reign.'

‘A family reunited. Our father and our mother. When the graves open and you and mother can join us to walk in the Truth. When the beast will be destroyed.'

I hear a whimper, but not from within the flames. It is Stigir, awaiting his cue. I pat my knee and he scurries over to me, arcing past the bonfire, skidding to a panting halt between my feet.

We stand and watch as Carp reaches into the pocket of her smock. The flames light up the sharp edge of the fishmonger's knife, the blade filed and honed to a razor-edged sliver. She stands over the altar, the flames all but parting in her wake. She lunges forward and then retraces her steps, the spilt blood of her father, the sacrifice, spitting and bubbling in the fire, dripping a trail across the stage.

The fire is taking hold. The light of God grows and bellows; it heats our faces. The altar is a blazing ball, the wood and blood, flesh and rope, burning to an orange glow. One flame jumps an arc into the air, catching the old velvet curtain hanging above the stage.

I feel a gust of wind. I look over my shoulder to see Perch and Carp standing in the open doorway. The two smile a joined-up smile. They hold the pose momentarily, then turn and walk away, back down the gravel path to the rickety gate. I feel Stigir shivering between my legs. The fire is hot, but he shakes and shivers, looking up at me for a sign. It, too, is time for us to leave.

The curtains fall in a ball of flame, engulfing the remnants of the altar. I think of the baby in the coach-house, how helpless she must have been, no one to turn to, no one to comfort her and let her know that even in the depths of the fire there is purity, there is hope of salvation.