The Tiger's Egg (13 page)

Below them the hills swept down to the clear blue waters, and there nestled the port of Fuera like a handful of sugar cubes emptied into the curve of the bay. In the port Miles could see the rust-colored
sails of the schooners that came from the east, and the funnels of the steamships with their cargoes of coal and sugar and diamonds and silk. As the wagon started down the winding road that led toward the port, Miles looked at Little. Her sewing was forgotten and a smile lit her face as she gazed out on the ocean, and although the sky was no longer hers he thought he could see some of its boundless freedom reflected in her eyes.

M
iles Wednesday, salt-lipped and sea-struck, drank in the smells and the sights of faraway places as he wandered with Little through the crowded market of Fuera. The tops of the schooner masts swayed gently above the surrounding roofs, and the palm-shaded square was packed with stalls selling goods that had arrived by sail or steam from every point of the compass. There were silks and spices, turtles and tea chests, macaws, monkeys and incense and pearls, rope, sailcloth and brass chandlery, coffee and cinnamon, oils and unctions and strange carvings of grimacing faces, knives and pots and enormous seashells that nature had decorated
with the colors of a tropical sunrise. From the surrounding countryside, too, there were eggs, geese, buckets and barrels, salt meat and vegetables, and fresh fish landed that morning from the trawlers whose masters lived by the water's edge.

They passed a stall selling rough woven robes in white and cream, with embroidered cuffs and collars, and from the back of the stall a flash of red caught Miles's eye. A single crimson fez stood at the table's edge, and the stall holder, following Miles's eye, picked it up and placed it with a flourish on Miles's head. The hat sank slowly over his eyes. “It is big, young sheikh, but you will grow. Thirty shillings, my special price for you,” said the man, his pointed beard wagging as he spoke.

“It's not for me,” said Miles, “and I don't have nearly that much.”

“It is of superior quality, and will last you a lifetime,” said the stall holder, and he leaned forward as though imparting a valuable secret. His breath smelled of something sweet and spicy. “Because I like you, for you I give it for twenty shillings.”

Miles removed the hat and shook his head. “I'll have to leave it, thank you,” he said.

The stall holder threw up his hands. “Eighteen shillings, and I am robbing myself. Tell no one!” he
said at the top of his voice.

Little took the hat from Miles and turned it in her hands. “It is a beautiful hat,” she said as she handed it to the man. “You must be as clever as you are generous, but we really can't take it. It would not be right to give you so little money for this.”

The stall holder looked at Little and his dark eyes softened. “You are right, little princess,” he said at last. “It is too small a price, so instead I will make to you a present. Please take the fez. It is yours.” He dropped a handful of sugar-dusted sweets into the hat, and handed it back to her with a bow.

“Thank you,” said Little, and she popped a sweet into her cheek and handed one to Miles.

As they wandered on through the crowd they came across the Bolsillo brothers, arguing loudly with a bony man who sat in the center of a miniature city of wicker birdcages. The cages were filled with a screeching, scratching rainbow of brightly colored birds. There were parrots and macaws and cockatoos and budgerigars, and between them they kept up a riot of conversation in the borrowed tongues of men and birds, punctuated now and then by a deafening screech or a cackle of laughter.

“You bare-faced brigand!” Umor was saying to the man as they approached.

“That's five times what they are worth,” said Fabio.

“And they're half starved,” said Gila.

“We'll take them off your hands for four shillings apiece,” said Fabio.

“You'll have five less beaks to feed,” said Umor.

The bird seller threw back his head and laughed. No more than half his teeth remained in his head, and most of those were gold. “No no, my little friends,” he chortled. “These magnificent birds were bred by the emperors of the Indus themselves. Each is more precious than the finest jewels, and they will talk like a harem on holiday.”

While Gila and Umor haggled on over the birds, Fabio winked over his shoulder at Miles and Little. “All the animals fed and watered?” he asked. Miles nodded. “Time to feed ourselves, so,” said Fabio.

They reached a price with the bird man and left him shaking his head with a woebegone expression, as though he had just sold his grandmother for a handful of seed. Gila carried a cage almost as large as himself, in which five bedraggled cockatoos shifted nervously on their perches. They found a sunlit courtyard filled with café tables, and Gila set the birds down in a shaded corner. The waiter seemed to know the Bolsillo brothers, and soon
their table was filled with an assortment of rich spicy foods, clustered around a tall silver coffeepot.

The Bolsillo brothers were in a buoyant mood. There was to be no show that evening, and the three off-duty ringmasters became progressively merrier as Umor tipped brandy from a small hip flask into their thick black coffees. Gila produced his harmonica and played a tune that made everyone laugh. A pale moon rose in the evening sky, not content to wait until the sun had gone.

“You're very quiet, Master Miles,” said Umor.

Fabio showed his pointed teeth in a smile. “Still chasing ghosts, I think,” he said.

“Whose goats?” said Umor.

“Ghosts,” said Fabio, pouring Miles a coffee. “He's chasing the ghost of his father.”

“Ah, that ghost,” said Umor.

“Bigger than most,” said Gila. He had stopped playing his harmonica, though his tune seemed still to echo from the courtyard walls.

“That, and the ghost of a Tiger's Egg,” said Fabio quietly.

“Does it really exist, the Tiger's Egg?” asked Miles.

“Who knows?” said Fabio. “Your mother brought with her a fine tiger when she joined Barty Fumble's Big Top, and rumor grows in the circus
like mushrooms in a basement.”

“My mother had a tiger too?” said Miles in surprise.

Fabio shook his head. “There was only one tiger,” he said.

“Varippuli,” said Gila, and Miles thought he saw him shudder slightly.

“The tiger joined the circus with Celeste,” said Umor, “but it was Barty Fumble who showed him in the ring, and they gained a certain respect for each other.”

“Where did my mother come from?” asked Miles. He had never known the Bolsillo brothers so willing to talk, and he wanted to learn as much as he could while their tongues were loosened.

“Celeste came from across the sea to the south,” said Fabio.

“With a wagon full of books,” said Umor.

“And the far eyes.”

“And the healing hands.”

“Too many gifts for one person to carry, perhaps,” said Fabio.

The three men sat in silence for a while. A gecko crept up the wall behind Gila's head, and froze at the edge of a circle of lamplight, waiting for his dinner to land.

“She joined Barty Fumble the same month that we did,” said Gila.

“And before long she had won his heart.”

“Yeurgh!” said Umor.

“I'd rather win a gold watch,” said Gila.

“Or a set of copper-bottomed saucepans,” said Umor.

“People whispered that she had a Tiger's Egg,” said Fabio, “but it was just a story.”

“A tall story,” said Gila.

“Not one of ours,” said Umor.

“We only do short stories.”

“The Fir Bolg believed in it,” said Miles cautiously. “And Doctor Tau-Tau thought I had one because—” He paused, glanced at Little and took a deep breath. “Because I meet a tiger now and then, and he said that usually only happens when you own a Tiger's Egg.”

The Bolsillo brothers fell silent, and Fabio's eyes narrowed.

“You meet a tiger?” he said.

Miles nodded. “I've spoken to him several times. We've even ridden on his back,” he said. “Me and Little.”

Fabio looked at Umor and raised his eyebrows. “A tiger that talks?” he said.

Umor shrugged. “Never heard of such a thing.”

“Stressful thing, meeting a tiger,” said Gila.

“Makes your imagination work overtime,” said Umor.

Fabio stroked his chin. “Who else have you told about this?” he asked.

“Only Doctor Tau-Tau. It sort of slipped out, but I didn't think he would believe me anyway.”

“Better you keep it to yourself, from now on, Master Miles,” said Fabio.

“Button your lip,” said Umor.

“Tie a knot in your tongue,” added Gila.

Miles nodded. The gecko on the wall had caught a crane fly, whose trailing legs twitched as the lizard munched it with a pop-eyed stare that reminded Miles of Doctor Tau-Tau himself. The evening air was becoming chilly, and he thought about his warm bed, and the prospect of his first early night since leaving Partridge Manor.

“Maybe Celeste really did have a Tiger's Egg,” said Little, “and that has something to do with Miles meeting this tiger.”

Fabio shrugged. “Beats me,” he said.

“It's not the kind of thing you ask of a lady,” said Umor.

“Maybe it's just a big, furry pussycat,” said Gila.

“In that case,” said Miles, “I'll bring him to meet you next time, and you can give him a tin of cat food.”

Gila showed his pointy teeth and chuckled, but his smile did not quite hide an anxious look as he poured another round of coffee.

T
he Circus Bolsillo, steel-boned and canvas-skinned, remained in the port of Fuera for almost a week, filling the big top to bursting point every night, and twice on Saturday. It seemed that everyone from miles around saw the performance at least once, and some of them came two or three times. Miles and Little worked even harder than usual so that they could complete their tasks by midday and spend the afternoons exploring whitewashed alleyways and shady courtyards, ending up at the bustling docks where whistling seamen trotted up and down gangplanks with bales and barrels on their shoulders, the weight bending the planks
beneath their feet. By the week's end Miles and Little knew every corner of the town, and still they felt there were a thousand stories waiting to be told.

The weather broke as the circus packed to leave on the Sunday morning. Miles had been up since before daybreak, helping Gila to prepare the animals for the road, and lending a hand to the tent boys wherever he could. They could see the thunderclouds roll in as the deflated canvas lay flattened on the ground, and they worked with redoubled speed to pack the tent away before the rain. The first fat drops began to fall as the last of the folded canvas panels was stowed away in the truck and the circus people scurried about like ants over the vacated ground, checking that nothing had been overlooked.

Overhead the seagulls cried forlornly, wheeling like slender ghosts against the heavy clouds. Miles stood tall on the back of the tent truck and looked down toward the port. The schooner masts were swaying wildly in the gathering storm, and he could see the agile figures of the sailors who clambered around the rigging, making sure that every line was fast and the sails properly secured. He felt a sudden urge to grab Little's hand and run straight to the docks and up the gangplank of one of those stately
schooners, just to see where chance and the restless winds would take them.

“Time to go, Master Miles,” called Fabio, and Miles turned and jumped down from the truck.

“Someday we'll go sailing on one of those. What do you think?” he said to Tangerine, but what Tangerine thought we will never know, as he was hiding in Miles's pocket from the summer storm.

The Circus Bolsillo wound out of the port of Fuera like a multicolored snake, as the skies above split with blue lightning and a deafening downpour hammered on the wagon roofs and streamed from the broad backs of the cart horses, who lowered their heads and plodded at their usual steady pace along the muddy road.

Miles and Little sat with Umor and Gila in the Bolsillo brothers' wagon. The rain flung itself like gravel against the small windows and the china rattled in the cupboards as they jolted and swayed along the potholed highway. Gila played quietly on his harmonica, and something about his tune reminded Miles of the song that Fuat had sung as they made their way through the great cavern to see the Shriveled Fella. He thought of the Fir Bolg, scratching a living in the darkness and yearning for the return of the Tiger's Egg that his own mother
had borrowed from them.

“Did the Fir Bolg always live underground?” he asked Little. He leaned close to her to be heard over the din of the rain and the ceaseless rumble of thunder.

“I don't know,” said Little. “I didn't ask them that sort of thing. I was mainly trying to find out where they were keeping you, and when they would sleep.”

“The stories say that the Fir Bolg once ruled this land from sea to ocean,” shouted Umor, whose sharp ears could hear a gnat's burp in a bell factory.

“They fought a great battle with the people who came from the east, and most were killed or driven into the sea.”

“But some took to the hills and hid in the caves there.”

“The smaller fellas fared better.”

“And the hairier ones stayed warmer.”

“And the smallest, hairiest ones were the badger's bootlaces altogether.”

“At least that's what the stories tell us.”

“But how did Celeste come to borrow the Tiger's Egg from them?” asked Miles.

“Speaking of eggs,” shouted Umor, “it's way past breakfast time.”

“My guts are rumbling like thunder,” said Gila.

“I suppose you're making all that lightning too,” said Umor, taking down a frying pan from its hook on the ceiling. “Carve up some of that bread, Master Miles, and don't lose hold of any fingers.”

Miles carved thick slices from a loaf of bread while a clutch of eggs sizzled and spat in Umor's frying pan.

“Did my mother ever mention the Tiger's Egg to you?” asked Miles.

Gila took down a stack of plates and dealt them onto the table with a clatter, like round playing cards. Umor deftly flipped an egg onto each one, and Little piled the bread that Miles had cut into the basket in the center of the table.

“Celeste had great powers of healing,” said Umor.

“And she could read the future like the morning papers,” said Gila.

“Some said that her powers were greatly enhanced by a Tiger's Egg.”

“She never told us, Master Miles.”

“And we never asked.”

“She did say that her grandmother had the far eye.”

“And her mother could heal the knots out of wood.”

“Are they still alive?” asked Miles. Finding out about his parents was something that had occupied his mind a great deal in the months since he had first met the Bolsillo brothers, but he had not even begun to think about the possibility that he might also have grandparents, aunts and uncles.

“Nobody knows, Master Miles.”

“Celeste never returned to her home.”

“There was a falling out, I think,” said Umor, “though I only heard her speak of it once.”

“She did have a twin sister who used to visit once a year,” said Gila.

“But after Celeste died she never came again,” said Umor.

“A twin sister? How come you never told me that?” asked Miles, though he knew what the answer would be before the question had left his mouth.

“You never asked,” said Umor simply.

Miles sat down to his breakfast, his mind racing. Somewhere in the world there was a woman who could help fill in the blank space in Celeste's photograph, who might share her laugh or the gleam in her eye, and who knew her heart perhaps better than anyone. He did not think to wonder why his mother's relatives had never returned to rescue
him from Pinchbucket House. He had grown up there with many other orphans who had been forgotten or abandoned by their families, and as far as Miles was concerned there was nothing unusual about that.

He thought over the things he knew and tried to fit them together in a way that made sense, and if you have ever tried to assemble a jigsaw puzzle wearing mittens, with half of the pieces missing and your head in a paper bag, you will have some idea of how frustrating a task it was. He knew that his mother had died and that his father had left soon afterward. He also knew that Celeste was rumored to have borrowed a Tiger's Egg from the Fir Bolg, and that this stone, if it had ever existed, had not been seen since Barty Fumble's disappearance. His parents had had the friendship of a tiger named Varippuli, who had been shot by the Great Cortado after Barty left, and a tiger had walked uninvited into Miles's own life less than a year before. But why had his father left him behind? Had he taken the Tiger's Egg with him, and if so, why had he not returned it to the Fir Bolg? What was the deal that his mother had struck with the hairy little people?

“If I can find the Tiger's Egg,” he said aloud,
“then maybe I can find my father. Or if I can find my father, maybe I will find the Egg.”

“What you might call a father and egg situation,” said Gila.

Umor shook his head sadly. “You heard what Fabio said. Your father is dead and gone, Master Miles, and you have a life to live.”

“Your shoes are pointing forward and your face to the past,” said Gila.

“You need to turn around,” shouted Umor, “before we tie your shoelaces together.”

“That's all very well,” said Miles, “but the past kept me in a cave for two days, and still thinks I owe it a tiger's soul.”

A deafening crash of thunder sounded overhead, and the inside of the wagon was lit with a blinding light. The Bolsillo brothers winced, and Little got up to look out of the window. “There's trouble in the Realm,” she said, and she shook her head. “I hope Silverpoint isn't at the hard end of it.”

“I hope he puts a sock in it soon,” muttered Gila, but his words were lost in the noise of the storm.