Tiger, Tiger. Philip Caveney

turned back and raised his eyes briefly heavenwards, an expression that said, ‘Ah, these children! What can a man do with them?’ Then he enquired politely, ‘Will the Tuan take some tea?’

      ‘Ah … no, thanks very much. But I could use some help. I came about the tiger …’

      The penghulu looked puzzled. Evidently, he had not come across the word before.

      ‘Harimau,’ prompted Bob, who had taken the trouble of finding out a few easy terms from some of his pupils.

      ‘Ah!’ The penghulu nodded gravely. He eyed Bob’s rifle curiously. ‘You want shoot him?’ he murmured.

      ‘If I can. Can you show me the place where he took the cow?’

      The penghulu smiled, nodded. He turned back to the house and shouted something in his native tongue. After a moment’s silence, the sound of a scolding woman’s voice emerged from within, a long stream of words that seemed to contain not one pause for breath. The penghulu grimaced, winked slyly at Bob, and then chuckled.

      ‘Women,’ he murmured. ‘Why do we marry them? Come!’ He led Bob away from the house, ignoring the barrage of invective that was still emerging from there. They could hear the woman’s complaining voice for some distance.

      Bob took out a packet of English cigarettes, offered one to the old man, who accepted it gratefully, and then put one between his own lips. He lit both cigarettes with his silver Ronson. The penghulu gazed at this admiringly and then strolled happily beside the Australian, puffing ostentatiously on his cigarette, aware that people in the surrounding houses were observing him. He was a curious-looking fellow. No more than five feet, three inches high, his legs were quite short in proportion to his body and rather bandy, emphasizing the apishness of his appearance. As well as the sarong, he was wearing a grubby white short-sleeved shirt and a pair of blue rubber flip-flops. His large, rather discoloured teeth were liberally dotted with bright gold fillings that tended to reflect the sunlight whenever he grinned. It was impossible to guess at his age. His tiny, excessively lined face suggested an octogenarian but he was as agile and wiry as a gibbon as he trotted along through the village.

      ‘Is it far away?’ enquired Bob.

      ‘Not far, Tuan. Si-Pudong take cow on road, out by kampong. Then he carry ’way. No man know where to. Herd-boy very frighted, but Si-Pudong not touch him. He read words on boy here!’ The penghulu tapped his own forehead and smiled. ‘So, Si-Pudong ’fraid to eat boy. Take cow ’stead.’

      Bob did not understand this at all and resolved to ask somebody else to explain it to him in the near future. The two of them moved out of the outskirts of the village and onto the road. Several children ventured to follow them, but the penghulu shouted for them to stay put, which they did, rather reluctantly, staring glumly after the two men as they strode away.

      They walked for some distance in silence, glancing occasionally into the thick jungle that flanked the road. It was oppressively hot at the moment, and Bob felt the tickle of sweat as it ran down his neck, beneath his khaki shirt. After a surprisingly short distance, the penghulu announced, ‘Cow killed here!’ He pointed to some scrape-marks in the hard dirt surface of the road and, peering closer, Bob could see some patches of dried blood. Now the penghulu pointed to the right, where behind a screen of ferns and scrub, the ground declined sharply into a monsoon ditch. ‘Ha – Si-Pudong, he come up out of ditch, attack from behind,’ explained the penghulu. Bob glanced at him suspiciously. He had the distinct impression that the old man had been about to say harimau, the normal Malay word for tiger, but he had stopped himself, almost as though he was afraid to say it. Just exactly what Si-Pudong meant, he would have to check up later. Bob moved over to the ditch and slid down into it, closely followed by the penghulu. The ground was comparatively moist here, and after some searching about they found a series of pugmarks.

      ‘Ai!’ exclaimed the penghulu, pointing. ‘There were two of them! See, Tuan.’ He indicated a pair of large, squarish prints. ‘Man-cat stand here. Go up bank to kill.’ Now he pointed out some smaller tracks, a little distance back. ‘His woman wait here, while he do all work.’ He thought to himself for a moment, then added, ‘Just like my wife.’

      Bob smiled, scratched his head. He certainly hadn’t expected two tigers. He moved along the ditch a little way until he reached the place where the cow had been dropped down the bank. The grass was visibly crushed and flattened and there was a long deep furrow, presumably where one of the creature’s horns had gouged deep into the soil. There was a little dried blood matted into some tufts of grass, and from here a distinct trail led off through the undergrowth. Bob gazed after it for a moment, then turned to the penghulu and indicated that he intended to follow. The old man looked far from eager, so Bob took out his cigarettes and lighter, handed them to the penghulu and suggested that he should wait up on the road. With a grateful nod, the penghulu scrambled up over the bank and Bob set off into the jungle.

      It was as though somebody had switched off the sun.

      The instant he passed into the shadow of the trees, it seemed that the heat had simply evaporated, and he was immersed in a chilly world of green-dappled mystery. As he moved further onwards, the trees high above his head formed a thick dark canopy through which the rays of sunlight could only occasionally stab. But the trail he was following was easy enough to find. The drag marks led through the midst of lush ferns and tangled vines, around the gnarled roots of balau trees, along winding cattle trails, and deep through the heart of seemingly impenetrable bamboo thickets. Bob followed silently, glancing nervously this way and that. It was his first experience of entering real jungle and the dank humidity of it made him feel very claustrophobic. He started once when a pig-tailed monkey scuttled away from his advance with a shrill shriek of alarm, but he kept doggedly onwards, even when the trail stretched on much further than he would have believed possible. He marvelled at the sheer brute strength of the tiger. From time to time, he came across the chafed roots of trees and bushes, where the horns of the cow had evidently lodged for a time. The torn shredded bark suggested that the cat had exercised prodigious power in pulling the carcass free, and Bob began to wonder if the penghulu had been right about the second tiger. Surely it must have taken two strong animals to move the body this far.

      Bob had no impression of time. He had forgotten to put on his wristwatch that morning and now it seemed like hours that he had been walking in this way. The trail led on through green shadow. Bob’s nerves began to get the better of him. On two distinct occasions, he had the vivid impression that something was gliding intently along behind him. Each time, he snapped fearfully around, his rifle ready to fire, only to find nothing but the empty jungle mocking him. He was on the verge of giving up and retracing his steps, when unexpectedly, the trail culminated at the edge of a sluggish-looking stream of water. It was a disappointing end to his search, for there was nothing here but a sorry-looking pile of bones and offal. It was obvious that no tiger would bother to return to this particular meal.

      Bob came to a halt, mopped at his brow, which was sweating profusely despite the comparative cool of the jungle. Instinctively, he reached into his pocket for cigarettes and then remembered that he had given them to the penghulu. He swore vividly, shrugged his broad shoulders and turned back, retracing his steps.

      If it had taken him a long time to come this far, the return journey seemed to take twice the time. He saw not a living thing on the way back, save for a brilliantly coloured tree snake hanging from an overhead limb. It had a glossy black body marked with a series of green and red spots, and he gave the creature a wide berth, not being sure whether it was poisonous or not. After what seemed like an uneventful eternity of trekking, he emerged into sunlight again.

      The penghulu was sitting beside the road, smoking a cigarette and humming happily to himself. He glanced up in surprise as the Australian’s head appeared above the bank. Then he smiled, his gold teeth throwing out a dazzling welcome.

      ‘Ah, Tuan! You find Si-Pudong, yes?’

      ‘No.’ Bob clambered up onto the road and flopped down to rest for a moment. He