Page 2 of 3

"There was a young lady from Riga," squawked the parrot, from high in the rafters, "who went for a ride on a tiger. They came back from the ride with the lady inside and a smile on the face of the tiger." (Although, in the interests of historical and literary accuracy, I am obliged to point out here that the parrot actually quoted another poem, much older, and a little longer, with, ultimately, a similar message.)

"There," said the Rani's aunt. "Even the bird knows."

"Leave me with the girl," said the tiger.

And, reluctantly, the Rajah and the Rani and the Rani's aunt and the palace staff left the beast with Cinnamon. She pushed her fingers into its fur, and felt its hot breath on her face.

The tiger put Cinnamon's hand into his.

"Pain," said the tiger, and it extended one needle-sharp claw into Cinnamon's palm. It pierced her soft brown skin, and a bead of bright blood welled up.

Cinnamon whimpered.

"Fear," said the tiger, and it began to roar, starting so quietly you could scarcely hear it, working its way up to a purr, then a quiet roar, like a distant volcano, then to a roar so loud that the palace walls shook.

Cinnamon trembled.

"Love," said the tiger, and with its rough red tongue it licked the blood from Cinnamon's palm, and licked her soft brown face.

"Love?" whispered Cinnamon, in a voice wild and dark from disuse.

And the tiger opened its mouth and grinned like a hungry god; which is how tigers grin.

The moon was full that night.

It was bright morning when the child and the tiger walked out of the room together. Cymbals crashed, and bright birds sang, and Cinnamon and the tiger walked towards the Rani and the Rajah, who sat at one end of the throne room, being fanned with palm fronds by elderly retainers. The Rani's aunt sat in a corner of the room, drinking tea disapprovingly.

"Can she talk yet?" asked the Rani.

"Why don't you ask her?" growled the tiger.

"Can you talk?" the Rajah asked Cinnamon.
The girl nodded

next page