WHAT HAND DARE SEIZE THE FIRE

By Janet Baldey

A coughing roar echoed through the trees and the myriad sounds of the forest ceased as nocturnal animals froze in mid scuttle. The tigress stepped into the clearing and stood motionless as the moonlight turned her into an etching. She roared again but there was no answering call. Frustrated, she twitched her tail. For the third season in a row, she had not mated and there was an ache deep in her loins. She lapped at the brackish water of the waterhole, turned and padded back into the dark, pulsating heart of the jungle. 

***

         Ashera Khan, Goddess of all tigers, looked down as the serene, pot bellied moon floated over the inky vastness of the land. She had kept watch for countless eons but never with such a feeling of foreboding.  She had seen the persecution of her tribe and beheld their shrinking numbers. Now, there was a greater threat. Her glowing orbs expanded until they encompassed the whole world. She saw pillars of flame devouring great tracts of forest and countless industrial landscapes pumping out noxious smoke. Glaciers groaned as they toppled into seas, themselves choked by plastic. She heard the screaming of countless beasts and she mourned.  Anger consumed her. She hated Man, that ugly, stunted creature with its crafty brain and grasping hands. She knew it was only a matter of time before its greed annihilated her breed but now the whole of the natural world was threatened.  She sensed it was almost too late; the earth was tired and more fragile than Man realised. Her talons extended, gleaming like scimitars.  She rose and felt the stiffness in her bones. Another must bear the flame.  Sheba.  The wind took the name and whirled it towards the earth. As it sank through the trees, the tigress stilled catching the wind’s breath, then she turned, threading her way out of the forest.  

***

         As the limousine slid through the rain-swept streets, Cleeton sat, cushioned in leather, looking at the waterfall of paper spiralling from the towering buildings. A grin expanded his lips.

         “Holy shit, I’ve done it!”

         Cleeton Powell, was on his way to take the Oath of Allegiance to the most prestigious office in the world.  He glanced at his companion, seated as impassive as an oriental carving.

         Sheba felt his eyes upon her, sensed his excitement, and her heart quailed. She didn’t care for the exultant tone of his voice.

         She had singled him out from the score of Presidential hopefuls. Although not strictly handsome, his face was open and honest and when he smiled the sun broke through the clouds. Most telling, he had a voice both mellow and carrying.  When he spoke, people listened.

         Having made her choice, she stalked him and it wasn’t long before her sinuous figure and mane of hair caught his attention.  Soon, his eyes searched for her and she knew he was hers.

         Cleeton’s eyes lingered on Sheba’s face, marvelling at its perfection.  He’d never met a woman like her before. He remembered their first meeting.  He’d been caught up in the jostling throng of a cocktail party.  His face flushed with wine, he’d lifted his glass when suddenly he caught sight of a shining mass of ebony hair. The glass froze, tilted towards his mouth.

         “My God. It’s that woman again. I see her everywhere. Who is she?”

Ignoring his friend’s puzzlement, he’d weaved his way towards her and when he looked into her tawny eyes, he realised his life had changed.  

As they grew closer, she never failed to amaze him with her wisdom. With unerring insight, she guided him through the pitfalls of public life.  Her intuition was uncanny, she instinctively knew who to cultivate and who to avoid.

 “Arrange a meeting” or “No, he’ll be trouble.”  

Eventually, he’d just raise an eyebrow and she’d nod, or shake, her head.  In that way, he swiftly climbed the ladder.

The first night they slept together was after he’d been selected as the presidential nominee. Afterwards, as they lay staring into darkness punctuated by flashing neon, she started to talk.

“You realise Cleeton, the world must change.”

Surprised, he shifted his head to look at her.

“To survive, mankind must be prepared to make great sacrifices. Our planet’s resources are finite and can no longer sustain our demands.”

“Sure,” he said. “I know that. We’re all becoming uneasy about the increasing number of natural disasters. We can pull in our belts a little and live off our fat for a while.”

Sheba moved so fast she was a pale blur in the darkness. She twisted herself away from his side and straddled him, her body slick with sweat and love, and stared into his eyes with an intensity that startled him. The moonlight, washing through the window, reflected on her curves and turned her into an etching.

“Pulling in our belts a little is not enough!  For too long man has plundered the earth. This must stop. Draconian measures are needed.  People are selfish and greedy, cushioned by soft living; they close their eyes to the catastrophe ahead. Think, Cleeton. Two thirds of earth’s creatures will perish. No more tigers, no more elephants, no more bears. And Man won’t escape. Melting ice caps will swell the oceans, some countries will drown. Others will fry. There will be famine and billions will perish. This will be the future.  But you can break the cycle. You have the power if you dare to be unpopular. Cleeton, will you risk your career for the sake of the planet?” 

She lowered her body until he felt the hard points of her nipples pressing into his chest.  For the next hour, her breath brushed against his cheek as she whispered into his ear outlining her plans. As he held her throbbing body close to his, he knew that she was right; it was the only way.

 

After the inauguration, Cleeton was swept into a maelstrom. It seemed the entire world clamoured for his attention.  His days were crammed with meetings and in the evenings he mingled with the glitterati. The constant attention was suffocating but as the weeks passed, his old life faded. Soon, it seemed natural that whenever he lifted a hand, a pen was placed within it and he grew used to the fawning adulation of the grey suited young men who flitted about him. Soon it seemed natural.  He was adored but he’d worked hard for it. Sheba had helped a little but even without her, he would have made it,

Now, he was so busy he barely remembered her.  Whenever thoughts of her did creep into his mind, he locked away the promise he’d made and turned the key. His advisors would be appalled at her proposals. The populace would not countenance such radical policies. She’d obviously misread the situation and over-reacted. Pessimism had always been a barrier to progress. All too soon, he even forgot her name.

***

As she watched from her lofty pediment, Ashera Khan’s anger grew. She growled the sound echoing like a thousand thunderclaps and her breath sent a mass of clouds boiling across the skies.  She thrashed her tail and tornadoes swept the land. The fury in her eyes scorched towards the earth and the sea boiled, shooting sulphurous, yellow tipped waves high into the air. 

Although she well knew it was Man’s nature to be devious, this man would send countless creatures to their doom.  He must be punished.  Again, she spoke to the wind and again her words were swept across the land to where a lonely Sheba paced the floor of her city apartment. As the curtains billowed, Sheba paused and her eyes widened. Crossing over to the telephone, she picked up the receiver and dialled a special number.

“Cleeton’, she said.  ‘I’m coming.”

***

The mystery of the President’s death was never solved.  His drained corpse was found, with its throat torn out, lying on a blood-soaked tiger-skin rug, his lifeless eyes staring into those of the long dead animal.  The room was locked from the inside; there were no fingerprints and DNA samples showed only matches belonging to the President himself and those of a tiger, presumed by the experts to have come from the rug on which he lay.

On the day of the funeral, the sidewalks were lined four deep as the Presidential hearse rolled by.  Heads bowed, people stood in silence under a grey sky, matching the nations’ mood. 

Hiram had driven hundreds of miles to witness the spectacle. He turned towards his wife. 

“Makes you proud, don’t it?   Only the US can put on a show like this.”

His wife shivered as a thin wind funneled through the cold stone towers of the skyscrapers and thought of her house, throbbing with heat. She peered at her wristwatch wondering if they’d be home in time to watch some TV.  There was a new wildlife program starting. She always liked those.   

 

Copyright Janet Baldey