“No consideration will induce a (native) to catch or wound a tiger except in self-defense or immediately after a tiger has destroyed a friend or relation…The inhabitants of the hills near Rajamahall, in Bengal, are very averse to killing a tiger, unless one of their kinsfolk has been carried off by one of the beasts.” Sir James Fraser, The Golden Bough

Sometimes it is very inconvenient to be an inhabitant of Rajamahall. Take the tiger situation, for example. A huge, mad, male of the species mauled my brother, Dyak. Away in the far region of Bengal , I hurriedly trekked back to my village. Still, it took three months to return, and according to local custom, it was too late to exact retribution. The gods would be angry with me and with the whole village if I destroyed the tiger now.

Faces are often difficult to read in flickering torch light. But that night, neither uneven illumination nor my ravaging grief obscured the closed expressions of the council elders as I pleaded for revenge. “You know it cannot be done,” they intoned. “Vengeance can only be invoked within three suns. After that, affliction will befall the man who kills a tiger, and catastrophe to his village.” The matter was closed. My brother's death would not be avenged.

Anguish and agitation tormented me. My relatives shunned me by day, and my ancestors haunted my night. “Vengeance! Retaliation! Our line is cursed if you do not avenge!” they shrieked in my dreams. I was caught between tiger and ghost, between catastrophe and curse.

Jagged shards of light and shadow crept across my wall, a tiger-like illusion born of the flickering lamp I kept by my bed. My empyreal adversary bared its teeth in triumph over my impotence. I stared at the specter for hours. Who was this foe that alienated me from my kin and rose wraithlike to mock even my solitude? A notion grew slowly inside me.

I stalked the beast by day and by night. I learned its hiding spot, deep in the jungle, near the flaxen thicket. I tracked it to its favorite hunting ground, and to the shallow, muddy water hole. Soon, I could anticipate its movements. I slept when he slept, stalked when he stalked, mated when he mated. I practiced running as silently as the big cat, until I could sneak up on him and escape.

Over time, I reconciled with the elders. I never revealed my true intentions; I presented myself only as a humbled young man seeking wisdom. I slowly won their trust, becoming a favored disciple in the ancient secrets. Finally, I ferreted out the knowledge I so circuitously sought. Thought became plan, and plan became revenge.

Vengeance is an interesting emotion. We often place it incorrectly, as I did initially. Still, I learned. And now I am the village elder. The only elder, because I am the only one left alive. My remaining family members have fled in terror. But no ancestors dare haunt my dreams now. It was the ancient wisdom of the village that taught me how to wreak my revenge without harming a single tiger stripe. But tigers have mighty appetites.

He circles me, not bothering to hiss or roar. I watch my cat walk around my kitchen one more time, and I think about my life.

---(c) 2004 Cherie Renae - may not be reproduced without permission