Saturday Storytime: Tiger Stripes

Sometimes destruction is a catalyst for more destruction. Sometimes it’s an opportunity to build something new and unique, as in this story by Nghi Vo.

All night, Thanh started at shadows and dreamed of her son singing her old song, but the morning showed the paper lantern burnt out and his pallet undisturbed. She ate the portion of rice that she had set aside for him and slipped on her grass sandals, walking down the steep path to the water.

The other fishermen had not seen him, and neither had the women who planted new sprouts in the rice paddies. Thanh was not as young as she once was, but she moved slowly and steadily, her eyes open and searching.

The sun was beginning to set when she saw the blue of a jacket she had recently mended through the tall cane, and then she could see what was left of Danh’s fishing boat as well. It was splintered and scattered, crushed past use. Taking her courage in both hands, she ventured further into the swaying stalks.

She saw her son first, and the tiger second. There was a great deal of mud stirred up, and it hid the blood, and though she first wanted to hide her face, she forced herself to look. Fear hollowed her like a gourd, but behind the terror was a sadness that was much worse. She knelt in the mud to straighten his arms and legs and to cover his face with a broad banana leaf.

Thanh ignored the tiger, who sat with all four feet underneath him like a statue in a temple, but no temple statue had ever had a muzzle so red. He rose to four feet, as if he meant to leave, and then he pressed his belly to the ground as if he meant to pounce. Finally he sat back down, staring at her with his round face tilted to one side.

“You are not afraid,” he said uncertainly.

“Everything that I should be afraid of has already happened,” she said to the tiger, “and what I have to fear does not come from tigers any more.”

The tiger made a chuffing sound through his stiff whiskers. He was still young, but in those days, tigers were bigger, and when he stood, his back was nearly level with her shoulder.

“What scares you more than tigers?” he asked her.

“Growing old alone,” she said. “Growing hungry, which tigers understand better.”

The tiger understood hunger at least, and as he watched her move her son’s limbs and straighten his torn clothing, he began to feel something like shame.

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Saturday Storytime: Tiger Stripes
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