When the Tiger Came Down the Mountain (The Singing Hills Cycle, #2)

by Nghi Vo

“Listen,” said Dieu more softly, and she locked eyes with the tiger, always a dangerous thing to do. “Only listen. My love has gone from me, and I will never again laugh. My love has gone from me and she has taken all light with her.” The tiger was silent, glaring from the cage, and the sailors looked skeptical. “I sit in the moon-viewing pavilion, the hem of my sleeves wet from tears, and I cannot see for the grief has stolen my eyes, and I cannot speak for the grief has stolen my tongue.” The tiger growled, a deep and resonant sound, and Dieu went closer. She was aware of the sailors on the dock, of the clangor of the city behind her, but nothing mattered more than the caged beast in front of her. “I sit, weeping, eyeless, tongueless, without laughter and absent from light. I sit, and I wait for the answer that only my wife could give.” Finally, the tiger spoke, and her words were soft as a summer wind, as gentle and smooth as Dieu’s own. “I am yours, and so I will be your light and your laughter. I am yours, so open your eyes to look at me, and open your mouth so that I may kiss it. I am yours, I am yours, and nevermore will I leave.”