The Night Tiger(21)
Lydia’s voice recalls him to the present. “Did you solve your puzzle, then?”
“No. I wasn’t home at the time.”
He has nothing against her. In fact, she’s proven both diligent and practical, campaigning for powdered milk to be distributed to local children. But for some reason, she always makes him feel guilty. Perhaps it’s her coloring. She has the same light hair, the same fine skin as Iris, though Iris’s eyes were grey, and Lydia’s a bright, frenetic blue.
“But I actually saw you this morning, walking in the rubber estate. You seemed to be looking for someone.”
Blood rises, a hot guilty brand on William’s neck. She couldn’t have seen anything. Not this morning, anyway. He hopes Lydia will finish her tea and go away, but she says, “I hear you have a new houseboy—the one from Dr. MacFarlane’s household.” Seeing she’s piqued his interest, Lydia continues. “Apparently the old doctor took him in because the locals thought he was cursed.”
“Cursed?”
“Some superstition or other. And then there were all those deaths afterwards in Kamunting.”
“What sort of deaths?”
“In the past year, at least three people were killed by tigers. Though some people were saying it must have been the same animal.”
“A man-eater.” William leans back in his chair. He’s not sure whether Lydia is really interested in him, or simply finds him a challenge. Sometimes her flirting seems almost malicious.
“They say it’s a ghost tiger, which can’t be killed by bullets and vanishes like a spirit. All the victims were women. Young women, with long hair.” Aware of William’s scrutiny, two spots of color appear on her cheeks, an unexpectedly girlish blush. “You must think I’m very silly,” she says. “It’s all superstition anyway.”
“There are no such things as ghosts, Lydia.”
As I should know, he thinks to himself.
* * *
The next morning is Saturday, and William calls Ren into his study. Nervous, Ren carries in the midmorning tray with a bone china teacup and a plate of Marie biscuits.
“Ren,” says William. “Would you mind sorting this for me?”
With dread, Ren sees that the medical kit he used yesterday is spread out upon the desk. Rolls of bandages, bottles of iodine, chlorodyne, and tinctures, and a mess of metal implements. The half-empty bottle of hydrogen peroxide stands reproachfully to one side. Quickly, he rolls up the dressings and sorts the bottles by usage, as Dr. MacFarlane taught him. Poisons and emetics in the inner compartment, to reduce accidents. Scalpels and scissors that need frequent sterilization in another. The thick hollow needles are already in a vial of alcohol. His hand trembles as he picks up the glass syringe he boiled the other day.
When he’s almost done, William says, “I see you know what you’re doing.”
Ren lifts his eyes, but as usual, the doctor’s face is hard to read. He doesn’t seem angry, however.
“Were you the one who treated that woman yesterday?”
“Yes, Tuan.”
“You did a remarkably good job. I think she’ll keep the leg.”
Ren shifts uncomfortably.
“Was there already a tourniquet?”
“Yes, but it was too tight and close to the wound.”
“So what did you do?”
Ren describes his actions, forgetting his nervousness as William listens intently. It’s a rare feeling that he hasn’t experienced since the old doctor died.
“Next time,” says William, “you must tell me if you treat anyone. And I think I’d better oversee you. Can you read?”
Ren nods.
William raises an eyebrow. “Is that so? Tomorrow is Sunday. If you want to spend your half-day off going over basics, I shall be free in the afternoon.”
* * *
After the boy has gone, William walks out and leans on the wooden veranda railing. Branches shiver as a troop of monkeys passes, their whoops piercing the still morning. A flash of black and white as an indignant hornbill takes flight. William slings his binoculars around his neck and walks down the steps, over the clipped lawn that’s the gardener’s pride, and farther into the undergrowth. He recalls MacFarlane’s letter, the trembling handwriting promising he’d find the boy interesting, and wonders what else there is to discover about Ren.
Although William could have found a house closer to the European quarter in Changkat, he doesn’t mind the bungalow’s isolated location. There’s an old elephant trail not too far from the house though he’s never seen any elephants. It rained the night before and the red clay is soft underfoot.
William halts abruptly. There in the mud is a tiger pugmark. He’s never seen one so close to the house before. It’s so fresh that a blade of grass, trodden into the print, is still green. Tigers are rare near town, though there are still many in the deep jungle. A skillful tracker could probably estimate the animal’s age and physical health, but from the size and squareness, William guesses it was a male.
A surveyor for the Federated Malay States Railways once told him how a tiger had carried off one of his best coolies. The workers slept twelve men to a camp house, their bedding laid out on the floor. This particular man, strong and well-built for a native, was sleeping in the middle of the row. The door was left open to let in the breeze. In the morning, he was missing. Tiger prints were discovered and tracking them for a quarter of a mile led to the recovery of his head, left arm, and legs. The torso and entrails had been devoured. In the night, the tiger had silently entered, picked its way over the sleepers, and selected the best specimen.