The Somewhat Invisible Tiger

April 2020. Short story.

A bolt of lightning far above lit up the mansion as Professor Hudson and I stepped out of the taxi into the rain. As usual, the Professor had brought no umbrella, and mine was too small to fit both of us underneath; by the time we arrived at the door only a few yards away, we were already soaked.

Just as I was about to knock, the door flung open and Mr. Wood practically ran over us.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, “Your timing is impeccable as always, Mr. Scott!”

“Thank you,” I replied, no match for his excitement.

“Professor,” he said, shaking Hudson’s hand.

Mr. Wood strolled into the pouring night without an umbrella, his lanky strides far outdoing ours. Against the pitch black, his black suit and black skin melted away.

“Come, come,” he said, “I have something to show you!”

I called to him, wondering if we could perhaps get another umbrella so as to not get any more wet than we already were.

“What’s he up to this time, I wonder?” Hudson asked.

Two headlights pierced the night as a car pulled up, briefly illuminating the tall Mr Wood standing at the curb, rubbing his hands.

“Most likely another addition to his collection,” I supposed.

After a few minutes, the giddy Mr. Wood and some not very giddy workers staggered inside under the weight of an enormous crate. I and Hudson stepped up to help. With the additional help of some butlers, we deposited the crate in the north wing, Mr. Wood’s museum.

What a museum it was turning out to be! Mr. Wood’s earliest trophies were his first hunting rifle and moose head. There they were over the mantlepiece in the foyer, humble compared to the skeletons, stuffed bears, lions, and rhinoceros hides mingling with Ming vases and ancient tapestries in the museum wing.

A few months ago he had bought a suit of knight armor complete with a sword and had gone clanking around the mansion challenging to a duel every flower bowl and doorknob he encountered – until the sword broke. He told his guests afterward that the sword had already been broken (with nary a word of his little spree). He said it was Alexander the Great’s, who had fought with the sword until it broke and then decided his empire was big enough.

I was there the day it broke in his hands against the furnace, but who am I to dampen the wonder of Mr. Wood’s stories? Besides, he has a whole museum-full of other true tall tales.

When I was first invited to be a guest at his mansion, I hadn’t believed a word out of his mouth. Riding giraffes or clambering atop a charging elephant? Poppycock!

However, after going on only one trip with him to Africa, I gained a whole new respect for the man.

I watched, with my own two eyes, Mr. Wood wrestle a hippo in the Nile.

You can guess who won.

“My newest addition,” said Mr. Wood, breaking me from my train of thought. “A tiger skeleton! Gifted to me by an anonymous guest. Shall we open it now?”

My rumbling stomach decided for me. “I’d rather have dinner first, Mr. Wood.”

Professor Hudson agreed.

“Splendid! The longer we wait, the more mysterious it will be, my friends!”

With a click of his heels he spun around and we chased after him to the south wing and into the dining room.

Delicious meaty scents wavered in the air as we drank our Champagne.

Hudson leaned forward. “A tiger skeleton, you say? Haven’t you already got one?”

Mr. Wood grinned. “Can’t have too many, Professor! Besides, I have a rug, not a skeleton.”

“Next you’ll get the meat,” I joked, meaning to say that he’d make a whole new tiger.

Instead, Mr. Wood looked at me like I had said something astounding. “A brilliant idea, Mr Scott! For my next party, a tiger stew!”

It certainly sounded unusual. As a butler walked past, I had him pour me a glass of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc. Mr. Wood gives his guests extremely shallow glasses, I think to keep them from imbibing too much at once.

“Tigers,” Mr. Wood said casually, his eyes twinkling. When those eyes go off, you know he was about to tell a tale.

“Have I ever told you about an invisible tiger?”

“Invisible?” Hudson asked. “What do you mean?”

“Well, somewhat invisible,” Mr. Wood conceded with mischief in his voice.

“Somewhat invisible?” I repeated with a chuckle. So, he was going to tell us a legend, probably something —

“I heard of it while hunting in the Himalayas.”

— as I thought. Would it be monks this time? Or a lost tribe?

“Whilst hunting an elusive Bengal tiger, I came upon a lost tribe of monks.”

Both! Even better.

“When I told them about my hunt, they informed me of the greatest tiger of them all: in their language, she was called, ‘Garanadon Dahani’, the Somewhat Invisible Tiger.”

“Invisible?” Hudson asked again. “You must mean this tiger hides so well that she can’t be found.”

Mr. Wood did not suppress his grin. “I mean what I said.”

“But one cannot just ignore physics,” Hudson countered. “I hope you disbelieved them.”

“Of course not!” Mr. Wood laughed. “Why should I?”

“Tell us more about the Ranadoni,” I urged.

“Garanadon Dahani is fabled to be stronger than an ox, faster than a swordfish, and more cunning than Man himself. When someone makes a – why, the food is here!”

A delicious roast goose was carried in on a silver platter. The smell electrified the air. We served ourselves generous slices and a 20-year-old Bordeaux. With the very first bite, I closed my eyes and savored the flavor, as delicious as I imagine the Himalayas are beautiful.

“Yingtai!” I called to the chef, “You’ve done it again!”

“Indeed!” Mr. Wood boomed, eating with the ferocity of his fabled tigers. Mouth full, he shouted, “A meal mit mor a ming, mingmai!”

This made me chuckle, but Hudson did not look pleased. I don’t think he could ever enjoy a good old fashioned tall tale, not meant to be really believed, but meant to fill one with that sense of wonder that comes with exploration of the unknown.

After we had eaten enough and bites came infrequently, Mr. Wood went back to his tale.

“They said that this tiger will hunt down whoever calls her name three times.”

“Well, did you?”

“Absolutely! I went outside into the snowstorm and screamed it, like this.”

He stood on the table, cupped his hands around his mouth, and roared, “Garanadon Dahani! Garanadon Dahani! Garanadon Dahani! You have met your match, Somewhat Invisible Tiger!”

I had my hands over my ears, but after he was finished, I began to clap – I don’t know why. Perhaps it was because, when I imagined him standing over a soaring mountainous valley, he looked truly majestic.

Or I was a little tipsy; the glasses weren’t as shallow as I thought.

“Unfortunately, no tiger appeared,” he said, getting off the table.

Professor Hudson sat deep in his chair with his arms crossed. After Mr. Wood sat back down, he excused himself to the bathroom gruffly.

“The monks told me the beast was smart. It’d wait until I least expected it, and then bam!” Mr. Wood scoffed. “I didn’t even see the original beast I had been hunting after that, much less a somewhat invisible one.”

Then I and Mr. Wood talked of less exciting matters – business and such – but those I will skip over.

With the final sip of a vintage port, the maids came in to clear the table.

“This has been a most enjoyable evening, Mr. Scott,” said Mr. Wood, shaking my hand wildly.

There was a loud scraping like a dingy dragged across a rocky shore.

“What was that?” I asked.

Mr. Wood furrowed his brow. “It came from the museum.”

We hurried to the foyer, where Mr. Wood grabbed a rifle from the mantle. He opened the doors to the museum. It was dark. The pounding rain broke the stillness. A bolt of lightning illuminated the room through the tall museum windows for an instant.

The box we had carried in earlier looked as if it had been smashed apart.

“The box we carried in earlier looks as if it has been smashed apart!” I exclaimed.

Lighting an oil lamp from the wall, Mr. Wood went to inspect the damage. With as much care as if he were a surgeon, he studied and felt the box. At last he made his conclusion.

“The box was ripped apart – from within.”

I shuddered.

Mr. Wood turned to me and smiled. “Mr. Scott, do not worry.”

“Didn’t you say there was a t-tiger in there?” I asked.

“Only a skeleton,” Mr. Wood assured me. “Besides, look at this scratch here.”

He pointed to some imperceptible marking. “This shows that someone used a crowbar. It was attacked from the inside later, to make it look like our skeleton had escaped. Besides – did you notice that the Professor has been in the bathroom for an awfully long time?”

I gasped. “You’re right. Is the Professor trying to pull a prank on us?”

Mr. Wood giggled. He stood and shouted, “Beware, beast, for we shall find you!”

“A hunting game!” I realized. “I didn’t know our Professor had that kind of creativity.”

We explained this to the staff, and began to search the house. Instead of guns, I held a broomstick and he an umbrella. Room by room, floor by floor, we must have spent an hour searching, and I have to admit, I felt a little thrilled by the game.

Towards the middle we had split up to cover more ground. At long last I thought about checking the bathroom.

“It’s likely,” I said to myself, “That he’s been in there the whole time waiting to startle us.”

I knocked on the door first. Pretending to walk in, I pushed it open then jumped with my broom extended.

Instead of jumping back at me, Professor Hudson lay on the floor. His clothing was torn and bloodied. Clinging to the notion that it was a prank, I went to check him.

He was dead.

With a wavering voice I called out, “Mr. Wood!”

My tall host came hurrying down the hall, all signs of merriment gone from his face.

“Run,” he warned. “Garanadon Dahani was far smarter than I thought.”

We headed down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Yingtai and the other chefs were laughing. When they saw Mr. Wood’s face, they silenced.

“What’s the matter?” asked Yingtai.

“No time to explain,” said Mr. Wood.

Together we ran to the front of the house, hoping to make a straightforward escape. The tiger skeleton stood in the foyer, blocking the door.

Mr. Wood gasped. A growl like thunder echoed through the foyer. The rest of us stood confused.

It was at that point I realized which parts of Garanadon Dahani were invisible.