The Classic Morpurgo Collection (six novels) by Michael Morpurgo
I was expecting they’d come back for me any moment, but it seemed like hours later, hours during which I tried all I could to banish the fears inside me. I tried to think of home, of Mum and Dad, of the farm, tried to see everyone and everything clear in my head, tried to imagine I was there with them, with Grandpa on his tractor, with Dad going to the football. If I was going to die, then I wanted these to be my last living thoughts. I had my eyes closed, and was trying to stay deep in my thoughts, when I heard them coming for me.
Strong arms hauled me out, holding me fast by the elbows on either side. The little orang-utans clung on tight to me wherever they could, as the men frogmarched me away. Terrified though I was, it felt good to be upright again, and moving, not cooped up. A crowd was following us, wild with excitement, jeering and whooping, more and more of them all the time.
I could see ahead of me now what they had in store for us. One of the hunters, the one with the red bandana again, was standing there beside the cookhouse ready with a hosepipe, beckoning them to bring us closer. The crowd was all around us, encircling us. I wasn’t that worried when they first turned on the hosepipe – it looked harmless enough. In a way I was even looking forward to it. It was going to be humiliating, being hosed down like this in public, but at least it would be cooling, refreshing. Then I saw that there was a smile on the hunter’s face and I remember wondering why he was smiling.
I realised what was going to happen too late. The jet of water hit me full in the chest with terrific force, sending me reeling back across the circle. I bent myself double, cradling the orang-utans close to me, turning my back on the water, protecting them and me as best I could. But there was no escape for them or for me, however much I tried to turn away from it, to dodge or duck or run. There was nowhere to run to. In the end there was only one thing I could do. I dropped to my knees, and cowered there trying to use my body to shield the screeching orang-utans from the full blast of the water. This stinging torture seemed to go on for ever, pummelling every part of me, all to the raucous delight of the crowd, until at last, mercifully, there was an end to it.
I was dragged to my feet. Determined not to cry, not to betray any sign of fear, I faced down my grinning tormentor, pursing my lips, clenching my teeth to hold back the sobs that were rising inside me. Hysterical in their pain and fear, the little orang-utans squealed pitifully. I did what I could to comfort them, whispering to them all the while as I was led away. But they were beyond consoling.
Dressed in an immaculate white suit, Mr Anthony sat there in his chair, waiting for me at the top of the veranda steps, his dark glasses glinting in the sun. At his feet lay the skin of the tiger, my tiger, Oona’s tiger. There were two large hunting dogs one on either side of him, eyeing me from the top of the steps. Mister Anthony waved his stick, and at once the guards let go of my arms. I looked around. There must have been hundreds of people standing there, hushed now to silence, watching and waiting. I saw Kaya outside his kitchen, wiping his hands on a cloth. Our eyes met for a moment, and I recognised the sympathy there. It reminded me that at least I had one friend in this place of horrors. That was something. It gave me hope. It gave me courage.
“So, my little monkey boy,” Mister Anthony began, pointing his stick at me. He was making sure he was talking loud enough for everyone to hear. “You see what I did with this tiger. And I know what I’m going to do with those orang-utans. But I’m still trying to work out what I’m going to do with you. Maybe I’ll let you go, give you a head start, and then set my dogs on you. How would you like that? All I have to do is say the word, and they’d hunt you down and tear you into little pieces. That would be a whole lot of fun to watch.” The crowd laughed at this, and I could see he liked that. He leaned forward. “Where did you come from, eh? How d’you get here? You got a mum and a dad, or are you just a little Pommy bastard?” He chuckled at that. “You even got a name, Monkey Boy?”
I did not answer. Mister Anthony was enjoying himself. This was a performance, a power game for the benefit of the crowd. This man was toying with me, showing me and reminding everyone there who the master was, that as Kaya had told me, Mister Anthony was God here. I screwed myself up inside. I would be fearless, as fearless as a tiger. I would make my voice sound out strong. I glanced at the dead tiger, and suddenly there was no room any more for fear. The anger raging inside me drove all that away. It was my anger that was speaking out, not my courage. “I won’t tell you my name. And I don’t care what you do with me,” I said. “You can’t do me any more harm than you’ve done the tiger, can you? And it was you, wasn’t it? Everyone here does what you tell them. The hunters killed the orang-utans, I saw them. They killed the tiger. But you’re the real killer. Everyone here is afraid of you, but I’m not.”
The crowd were becoming unsettled. Clearly many of them had understood enough of the tone of what I’d been saying to sense my defiance. Emboldened by this, I went on, in full flow now. “Why do you do this? What for? Just for the fun of it, is it?”
Mister Anthony stood up, took off his dark glasses slowly, menacingly, and then tucked them very deliberately into the top pocket of his jacket. He seemed to me more and more like a snake in human form, from his slicked-down hair, to his shining shoes, everything was smooth and slithery. He even moved like a snake, as he walked slowly up and down the veranda glaring at me. I could feel his fury rising. I knew he was about to strike. I could feel the knot of terror growing in the pit of my stomach. I determined to try to keep it there, not to waver, but to stand tall and look this vile man in the eye and face him down, no matter what he said, no matter what he did. The little orang-utans clung to me as tight as ever. I could feel their need, I knew how much they were relying on me now, and that helped to keep me strong.
“Quite the little firecracker, aren’t we?” I’d caught Mister Anthony off guard, and that really bucked me up. I could tell he was trying to laugh it off. But it was a poor attempt. Anyone could see that he was seething with fury. “You’re right, Monkey Boy. Everyone here does exactly what I tell them. And it’s true. I killed the tiger, killed the orang-utans, and I kidnapped those cutey looking little orang-utans you’ve got wrapped round you. I’ve killed dozens of tigers, kidnapped hundreds of little orang-utans. And I’ll tell you why, sunshine, shall I?” With every word he spoke, he was becoming more worked up, more enraged.
“Money, Monkey Boy. Do you know how much they pay me in Dubai or California for a tiger skin like that? Ten thousand US dollars. That’s right, ten thousand. And the Chinese, they pay a fortune for their insides, all their bits and pieces. Tiger medicine. They swear by it. The Chinese have lots of money these days, believe you me. As for those little orang-utans of yours, I’ll be selling every one of those blighters back in Jakarta. Five thousand US a piece, just like that. They buy them as pets for their kids. Police officials, government officials, business people, anyone. I sell, they buy. It’s what makes the world go round, sunshine.” He brandished his stick. “You see that forest? You see it?”
“I see it,” I said. “So what?”
“It’s mine,” he went on. “I own everything in it. I own all the trees, every leaf on every one of them. I cut them down whenever I feel like it. Trust me, they make very nice kitchen cabinets, and the finest floors, the finest doors all over the world. I sell them in Japan, in England too, in Pommieland, which is where I reckon you come from by the sound of you. And I sell them back in good old Oz too – that’s home territory for me. But that’s not the half of it. Thing is, I got so many trees out there I don’t know what to do with them, and when I don’t know what to do with them, d’you know what I do? I’ll tell you, Sunshine, shall I? I burn them down, make a ruddy great bonfire of the forest. And then what have I got? Land, lots of it. And what do I do with the land? I plant more trees, thousands of them, millions of them. Not the big fellows, no they take hundreds of years to grow. I want my money fast. So I grow palm trees, to make palm oil. They grow fast, fast as grass. I can’t grow en
He didn’t wait for an answer. He was ranting now, his eyes blazing at me. “Palm Oil. You like biscuits, Monkey Boy? Palm oil. You like chips. They cook them in palm oil. And it gets better too, Sunshine. Heard of global warming, have you? Well, I like it. Yeah, I like it a whole lot. You see, on account of all this global warming they want to save the planet, don’t they? So now they’re after palm oil to run their cars, instead of petrol and diesel. All I do, Monkey Boy, is provide what the world wants. I’m just saving the planet. Oh yeah, and I’m saving the people too. I pay them. I feed them. I house them. They come from poor villages where there’s no work. They cut down the trees for me, burn the forests, plant the palm trees. They look for gold for me too, dig it out, and I sell it, like I sell everything else. That’s why I’m just about the richest man in Jakarta. I’ve got four houses, two Ferraris, and a garden bigger than a flaming football pitch. Not bad, eh? And you know what money is, Monkey Boy? I’ll tell you. Money is power.”
Now he was shaking his stick at me, a crazed look on his face, and screaming at me. “I could have you killed right now, and no one would ever know. These people wouldn’t say a dicky-bird, not a word, because they know what would happen to them if they did. You see, I own them body and soul, and they know it. They do what I say. If I told them to jump through hoops of fire, they’d do it. If I—” Suddenly he paused. “Now there’s a thought, Monkey Boy,” he said.
He was coming down the veranda steps now. Then he was right up close to me, calmer now, but still breathless from all his ranting. He was so close that I could see the spittle on his lips. “Talking of jumping through hoops of fire, I don’t reckon I need to kill you after all, Monkey Boy. Aren’t you the lucky one? No, I’ve suddenly had a much better idea, and the best kind of idea too, a moneymaking idea. I’ll sell you, and I’ve thought of just the right place for you. I know somewhere they’d pay good money for a monkey boy like you, no questions asked. There are circuses all over India where you could be quite the little star – I’ve sold orang-utans to them before. I can see it now, up there in lights. ‘Monkey Boy, the only all singing, all dancing monkey boy in the whole wide world!’ Can you do a few tricks, cartwheels, handstands? Can you jump through hoops of fire? No? Well, can you dance? Can you sing? Go on, give us a song, sunshine; do a little dance for us.”
I said nothing. Mister Anthony leaned forward and whispered in my ear. “You will dance, Monkey Boy, you will sing, or I will have those cutey little orang-utans killed right now, right in front of your eyes. Don’t think I won’t. There’s plenty more where they come from, I promise you.” He stepped back. “You hear me, Monkey Boy? Dance!”
I knew without a shadow of doubt that this man meant every word he said, that I had to do what he said. I had no choice. So I closed my eyes and began to dance, shuffling awkwardly at first from foot to foot.
“Dance, you little bastard, dance!” he yelled. I tried to let my body go looser, so that I was swaying as well as shuffling, humming all the while now to the little orang-utans, humming to help me dance. “That’s better, Monkey Boy, that’s better. Give us a little turn.” Mister Anthony was laughing at me now, and when moments later he began to clap, the whole crowd joined in, cheering and whooping as I danced about, keeping my eyes closed tight, to shut out the humiliation of it all. I just wanted to get it over with. But Mister Anthony wasn’t finished with me yet. He was shouting at me. “Now I want you to sing, Monkey Boy.”
I sang the first song that came into my head, sang it out as loud as I could, like I always did with Dad. I sang it with my eyes open, glaring up at him, looking him full in the face, unflinching. It turned out to be just the right song to have chosen, because it kept me brave, and because I could sing it with real passion. And it was a song that transported me at once to another place, another time, so that I could become another person altogether, so that I could make believe I was not there, that it was not me that this was happening to.
“Blue is the colour, Football is the game,
We’re all together, and winning is our aim …”
Soon the whole crowd had fallen quiet. I could sense every one of them listening. This seemed to unnerve Mister Anthony. He had suddenly had enough. He waved his stick to silence me. “So,” he said, his smile thin-lipped and triumphant, “so now you see how it is, Monkey Boy. You’re just the same as them. They do what I say. You do what I say. You all jump through my hoops. It wasn’t so bad, was it? I think you’ll do very well in that circus in India. More to the point, you’ll fetch me a mighty good price too.” Then he turned on his heel and walked back up the steps, wiping his feet on the tiger skin on the veranda.
If he hadn’t done that, and if I hadn’t been so angered by it, I don’t think I would ever have had the nerve to do it. I didn’t think about it. I just began reciting the tiger poem at the top of my voice, very slowly, very deliberately, so that everyone there in the crowd could hear every word, so that those who could understand the words would understand, and those who couldn’t would understand their meaning and my meaning from the tone of my voice.
I was aiming every word at Mister Anthony’s back, and every word was an arrow of defiance. I had nothing to lose, and I wanted him to know just how much I despised him, and everything he did. By the end of the first verse, Mister Anthony had turned to face me. The whole camp, the forest itself seemed still and silent. I went on, right through the poem, word perfect, my gaze on Mister Anthony never wavering, until the last verse, when I looked away, because I felt the tears coming into my eyes then, and I did not want him to see them. I had eyes now only for the tiger. I spoke the last lines to him, for him, and for him alone.
“‘Tyger, Tyger burning bright
In the forests of the night.
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?’”
When I had finished, the crowd stayed hushed. I saw that same flicker of uncertainty on Mister Anthony’s face. It was a victory of sorts – for me, for the little orang-utans, for the tiger. I knew, after all that had happened, and with all that was going to happen to us, that it was only a little victory, but it meant a great deal to me all the same. It meant I had not surrendered, that I could at least hold my head high as I was led away through the crowd, back to our cage behind the cookhouse.
I sat there all day long in the cage with the orang-utans, trying to comfort them as best I could. There were always dozens of curious miners and their families around the cage, pushing and shoving to get a better look at us. And although most of them came only to mock, there were a few families, often those with small children, who just squatted there gazing at us, fascinated, it seemed, as much by me as by the orang-utans.
When they dared – and they dared more when I smiled at them, I discovered – some of the smaller children in particular would reach in and touch my hair, and would even let the little orang-utans hold on to their fingers. They would giggle then, and I loved to hear that. There was a curiosity and a gentleness in their eyes that gave me new heart, and as the day wore on I needed that more and more. I could feel my spirits sinking fast, as the heat and the hunger and the thirst got to me, and to the orang-utans too. Thankfully they slept a lot, but when they woke they would be looking incessantly and urgently for food, begging for it, and I had none to give them. All I could do was hug them, talk to them, stroke them. But it was never enough.
It was some comfort to me that I could see Kaya chopping his vegetables, stirring over his stove all day, and ladling out endless meals for the miners and their families. It was fast becoming clear to me that in this place, everyone was expected to work – men, women, and the older children too. They worked long hours, from dawn to dusk, with little time off for rest or for meal breaks. They had to scoff their food down in a great hurry, and were always oversee
I sat there trying to ignore the delicious smell of cooking food wafting across from Kaya’s kitchen. It kept reminding me just how hungry I was. The orang-utans could smell it too, which was a relief to me, because after a while they stopped pestering me for food, and hung on to the bars, looking longingly across to the cookhouse. One or two of the children did try to feed them scraps through the bars of the cage, but the foremen soon shouted at them and shooed them away.
All this time Kaya never once even glanced in our direction, and I began to wonder if he had forgotten about us altogether. As it turned out, he did come again, but it wasn’t until darkness fell that evening. The familiar night chorus from the jungle started up, and that was a great comfort to me, to know it was so close. But it was soon drowned out by the sound of music pulsating from Mister Anthony’s house, and there was raucous laughter and wild whooping going on inside. I was sitting there thinking about how it would be for me in the circus in India, whether there’d be elephants. I was hoping there would be, then I got to thinking about Oona again, longing for her to come for us, praying she would. And that’s when I saw Kaya coming running through the darkness towards us, from the now deserted cookhouse. He had a basket with him. He crouched down beside the cage, and put his finger to his lips.
He had brought us more fruit, but it was a different sort of fruit this time, with a coarse, prickly skin that he cut and opened up for us. The orang-utans fell on it at once, and gorged themselves. I wasn’t quick enough, and was quickly reduced to picking up their scraps, so I was over the moon when Kaya took a small bowl from his basket and handed it to me through the bars. It was rice! I put my back to the orang-utans and shovelled it into my mouth before they even noticed I had it. Luckily for me they were still intensely occupied eating their fruit. Kaya had brought us bottles of water too, enough for all of us. I helped each one of them drink it down, then I drank the rest myself, until there wasn’t a drop left. Kaya waited until I had finished drinking before he said anything.