The Last Tiger

Chapter 2

In the distance beyond Father’s bowed head, below the river’s swell and past the trees, there were people, waiting.

“Why do they come, Mama?” I asked.

“They come to wait for the ship, Myko.”

My mother peered to the skies. The hot sun drew all the colour from the land. “They come and we will all meet them together, here, where we will make our new home.”

Mother paused, then stooped before me. For a moment I caught sight of her tears. I had seen so many of her tears on our voyage that I did not know what to say or do. I turned to see if my brother, younger than me by one year, had an answer but it was just an instinct. He was gone from us.

My mother held me tightly but I did not struggle. She wanted to hide her distress from me as I rested my face on her shoulder.

I saw the grassy plains and the river valleys, the dense woods and the impassable rainforests. And as we came closer to the island, the button grass plains and the distant mountain ranges stretched as far as my gaze carried into this new land.

At first sight of the island my father bent over and laid his head upon the gunwale. “Van Diemen’s Land,” he sighed.

A shiver passed through Father and he touched his heart, as if to check its beat. I had never before seen weakness in my father – even when he returned broken and wounded from battle – he always held his head high.

The bosun approached, laying the flat of his hand upon Father’s back. “You know, that name has not been used for fifty years.” The sun cut creases in the bosun’s face as he stood in its glare and chopped the air with his hand, motioning me to relay his words in the old language. I tried to do as he said but my father merely made a cross of his brows, straightened his broad back, and walked away to stand gazing into the clouds.

“What name does the island use?” I said.

The bosun opened his oily black fingers and pointed to the green land we approached. “Well,” he said, “in the last century, the mighty British Empire sent ships full of convicts to this island.”

I did not know the word he used, much of this new language was still strange to me. “What are convicts?”

“Thieves, mainly,” he said, “but rougher yet, all manner of lawbreakers and dogs.” He slapped his hands together. “They came here held in chains, in their thousands, dumped like England’s refuse. Upon this island, my boy, the wild sons of convicts roam.” He laughed and ruffled my hair. “The island’s fathers wanted to hide this past so they shed the name of Van Diemen’s Land and now they call it, Tasmania.”

“Tasmania,” I said, testing the new word.

The ship drew close to the island’s shores and green paddocks showed their dark wrinkles and rust-coloured tracks cut by the flocks and herds. The treetops reflected the sunlight landing on the highest points, where seabirds soared.

“Are there still convicts here?” I asked.

“No, my boy, not in the year 1910. But these are still wild lands, Tasmania has its tigers.”

“Tigers!” The word jabbed me. I’d only seen tigers in picture books. Would we be attacked? What other strange beasts roamed the island?

The bosun stooped before me, his high forehead loomed over his round eyes. “Yes, there are tigers,” he said, dark tones rising in his voice, “terrifying beasts – fangs bigger than any shark’s, they have.”

The tale came as steadily as the plink of raindrops. My mouth drooped with every word. I wanted to be back in the Sakiai, where we were once happy, as a family.

The bosun sat on his heels, his belly protruding like a stuffed grain sack above his belt. “Not a corner of this island is untouched by the tigers, my boy, they roam everywhere. See, it’s their island, they know it’s no place for a man.”

“Why?” I asked, my voice weakening, twitches and tremors passing through me.

“I could tell you a hundred stories, maybe even a thousand, all reasons why those beasts and man were never meant to live side by side.” He drew me closer and whispered, “Once I heard there was a tiger snatched a babe from its mother’s arms – devoured it whole, right before the poor woman.”

I tried to force out the b****y picture but it stayed, until I heard my mother calling me. “Come here, Myko, we must prepare.”

The bosun removed his hat and clutched it to his chest. He fixed on me for a moment then lunged, “Rarrr!”

I flinched from him and the bosun laughed, waving me off to my mother.

The sun shone brightly and a strong breeze sprayed the deck and all upon it. The sea scent came sharply to my nostrils as my mother reached for my coat buttons, rummaging to fasten them. At twelve years of age I was too old for her attentions. I wanted to push away her delicate fingers, but as she wrapped me up tightly I knew my brother was in her thoughts.

I thought of Jurgis too. At the start of our journey we dreamt of all the motor cars and tall buildings we would see. But as we neared port I knew this was not a place like the America we had set sail for.

I looked to my father, still crouched upon the gunwale. His head was clutched tightly in his hands, like he tried to keep it from bursting open. I stared at him for a moment and, as though I willed it, his gaze fell upon me.

I pulled away from my mother. “Leave me be,” I said. My words were harsh and I regretted how they sounded. Mother went to Father’s side. She stroked his neck, whispering to keep her words from me, but I was still close enough to hear, “How can we live in this place?”

Father lowered his hands and looked up at my mother; his eyelids were white and heavy. “I have no idea,” he said.

I stood alone, wanting to run to my parents, but something held me where I was. I did not move as the passengers crowded on deck and the ship sailed into port. The sea breeze was crisp and fresh, alive with a strange tang carried from the approaching island. Soon more people surged around me, their fingers clutching at blanket rolls and tightly-packed market baskets.

“Myko,” Mother called out to me. “Come here, we must stay together.”

“What is that smell, Mama?”

“The smell?”

“Yes, out there.” I pointed over the blue of the sea to the island.

My mother followed my fingertip and lifted her head to the breeze. “That is, I think, the eucalyptus trees, Myko. Do you like it?”

“No,” I said. My reply was firm.

“But why, Myko? It is such a sweet smell.”

I shook my head. “I don’t like it.”

The faces of the crowd removed their hats and let them fly in the air. Bodies packed tightly around me and clammy hands touched my face as people pulled themselves forward, trying to see the land. I struggled to move as a man appeared from high above us and called out, “Hobart.”

The deck applauded when the port was hailed, but neither my parents nor I joined in with the crowd’s cheers.