I, Tiger No More (Fiction)

I used to be the talk of this school, once. This may be hard for you to believe, having seen me as I am now, flea-bitten and dusty eyed in my display cabinet that still sits in the great hall, but I can assure you that it is true. Years ago, back when this great pile of towers and minarets was a stately home of the slightly aristocratic the mighty Queen Victoria trampled around the earth with her gunship diplomacy, giving to the natives of captured lands all that is British… Afternoon Tea, Cricket, English … She took in exchange, me…

“Oh, it’s a Tiger” stately women would exclaim upon my arrival in this building, covering their mouths with dainty hands in white gloves, capitalizing my species and giving me undue importance

“How terrifying.”
And indeed I was. My glass eyes were bright then, fiery with a look of malice that I never remember possessing in life; my teeth bared as if I, the stuffed animal in a glass case, would at any moment SPRING to life and with a crash of glass come hurling at those who had slain me. Of course, no such thing happened and soon enough I was regarded as a mere oddity, an expensive bauble that frightened children but left others unperturbed.

This last was deeply ironic, the fact that my countenance provoked such feelings in the pre-pubescent members of the human race only, for one day this house with its graceful ladies and pompous gentlemen became a school. Oh, how I remember being terribly agitated as bags were packed and heavy furniture carted out past my vantage point. Would I be left behind? I asked myself, and as the master of the house closed the doors behind him and left the empty shell of the building for the last time, I realized that the answer was of course, YES.

Much later I remember faces staring at me, some with noses covered in snot, and others pushing bifocals up to their eyes so they could see me better. They were small faces, pink, round and plump with youth and I realized with a pang of discomfort that as I had lain in sullen depression over my family’s departure, many of these small people had arrived to live in their place. As masters in dark robes bustled past to scare the children who had been regarding me with such rapt attention into activity I exulted in this new found fame. I was king of a boarding school.

True, the times have not always been good, but I have guarded my flock with care. As the First World War began I watched the older boys leave for the front, showing off their uniforms to the younger ones, wishing more than anything that I could leave this glass box and journey out with them to France. What a sight that would have been, a majestic tiger bounding at full speed towards the Bosh trenches, dodging artillery and machine gun fire to finally reach those who would hurt my children. What a sight that would have been…
By the time the Second World War ended over twenty five later I was no longer of this simplistic mindset. A plaque they placed next to me gave the body counts from the twin conflicts, many many fine names printed there. OH, how sad I was at their passing. I comforted the smaller boys you know, they would appear late at night in pajamas and press their noses as close to mine as they could, praying that they could be as brave as I appeared. I would try to give them this courage, will my thoughts to reach their brains and make their fears and worries disappear. Perhaps it worked, I would like to think that it did.

My biggest contribution however, was stopping the thief. He came in at night, dressed in black and with a crow-bar forced the door wide open. Armed with an electric torch he looked about the room nervously, searching for objects to steal. Instead the beam of light caught my face and he screamed, terrified at my presence. His shout, though not horribly loud, awakened masters whose ears were ready for such noises from their students. Lights went on and he fled, forced away from the school by me.

Finally, there is the matter of the gift my boys gave me. I remember hearing it for the first time long ago, in the time when all the children wore scratchy gray shorts, scratchy red socks, and a scratchy hat, shirt, tie and blazer. A figure approached me, one of my favorite children, Sam if I remember rightly. He stopped for a second, and looked at me with compassion. He was dressed in a smart black suit and I understood from this that his time was up, that he would be leaving to join the real world.

“Thanks Henry” he whispered, looking straight at me, “Thanks for everything.”
I have a name I realized, and as clarification I began hearing it again and again as more students filed past over the preceding decades. I had become their talisman I realized, but more than that, I had become more loved and respected than any live tiger could hope to have been. I, Tiger no more. Please call me Henry.