Of Tigers and Lambs

Simon, sweat-drenched and all of five feet high, was perched high on the bough of a tree and gripping onto its green parasite, those hanging, creeping tentacles - a decade long death. He peered into the gloomy, moonlit night and jewels of light were winking at him; dew droplets scattered on the jungle canopy. Simon wondered at their beauty, that a million gems could form in this harsh, unforgiving place.

He looked down, seeking the base of the trunk that promised him safety, wondering if he would see those flashing eyes again. Oh, those eyes! They tormented him so, hunted him in mind and body, mocked him from afar in some deep recess of imagination before springing, leaping, pouncing to grip his heart with all the ferocious terror of that whiskered beast, that orange beast.

He groaned and clutched at his head and felt the warm, sticky breath against his cheek. His head snapped right, then left. Nothing. She could not catch him up here. No... a Tiger cannot climb this high.




Can it?

"He will save me. He will save me." Simon tried so desperately to believe those words his throat released, hoarse and scratchy and full of thirst and fear. In the morning he could go down to the stream and drink, but only in the morning. Tigers don't hunt at dawn - that's what his Uncle Roger always said.

"So when do they hunt, Uncle Roger?" Simon had asked.

"At dusk or at night, Simon."

"Why, Uncle Roger?"

"'Tis easier to catch prey that is tired and fatigued, my boy, and the night makes for excellent cover."

"But a Tiger is already camoflauged! It is striped, Uncle Roger."

"Ah, but to be nearly invisible in the dark, Simon, that is a true weapon. A Tiger, she stays downwind, creeping through foliage, like a ghost, like a nightmare."

Like a nightmare. Except Simon could no longer sleep at nights. He was being hunted and he must maintain full alertness. He must. He could drink in the morning. But could he? That morning he had not. The morning before he had not. The Tiger could be anywhere! What did Uncle Roger know?

"What does Uncle Roger know? She could be waiting for me."

He checked himself.

"She is waiting for me. I knew that yesterday and the day before."

How many days without water? The third day today? He'd get water in the morning. He had to. He must.

"I must. He will save me."

He. He who?

"He. God!" Simon's eyes were welled and red and swollen and his head grew heavy and he grew dizzy.

God? Who do you think created the tiger, young Simon?

"What? No. I don't know, but God created the lamb. God created softness and love."

And who created the Tiger, Simon?

"Not God! I don't know who, but not God! The Tiger has fire in her eyes! The fire of hell! No God would create that."

Are you sure, Simon? Are you sure, Simon?

"What hammer or anvil could craft such a beast?" Simon's voice was intermittently punctured by sobs and gasps. "In what furnace was the Tiger forged? Whose dreadful hands and dreadful feet could make such a beast? Whose art is it, such horrible, horrible art?"

You know the answer, Simon, you know it.

"No!" Simon lashed out at the trunk before turning palms on his own head and slapping as hard and heavily as he could. "No! No! No! Get out of there! Stop talking to me!" Sweat dripped from his shivering body and his eyes grew redder. At the corners of his mouth there formed a froth and Simon began to splutter before a piercing pain shot through his brain and he screamed out in agony.

You know the answer, Simon! Who else could frame that fearful symmetry? Who else could fill those eyes with such mighty fire?

"The Devil!"

Ha! The Devil? You're only fooling yourself, Simon. He who made the lamb made the Tiger. He who made good made evil. He who made beauty made repulsiveness.

"But... the Tiger... the tiger is - "

The Tiger is beauty and fear! Created by Him.

Simon wretched and clutched at his stomach. It was empty of anything to vacate. He looked up toward the moon while it swirled in his vision. He could not see clearly and could not think clearly. He felt hot and was sweating and it cooled his body so that he shivered. His face turned red in patches and his limbs went numb and flopped to his side. He screamed out, hoping He would hear his prayers.

"Please, I just want to go back home. I should never have gone exploring. Please, show Father the way to me! I want to be back with Father!"

But the moon seemed to shine brighter, a dreadful irony that Simon couldn't understand but felt penetrate him just the same; violate him. He sobbed and moaned and wailed at the moon for what it had come to symbolize.

He would not listen, no, not as long as the moon hung in His path and stole His sky.

And all through the night Simon wept for the end of innocence, and his head continued to pound and he lost all feeling in his body.