This story is a continuation of the story from February 10th. Catch up by reading The Sound of Animals Fighting, then read on below.

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http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/photo-of-the-day/tiger-cubs-india/

Two hooded figures walked down a dirt road shortly after dawn. Although the term “road” was generous. In reality it was little more than a strip of grass and dirt that had been flattened underfoot. It led mostly north from the small village. A few miles away, it intersected another, equally small village. But the two hooded figures weren’t going that far. They stopped in a clearing just a few minutes after they had set out.

Two teenagers, locals wearing three-quarter length pants and no shirts, watched a pair of tiger cubs circle each other. The orange-and-black cats growled and swished their tails, all potential energy and malice. At a word from one of the teenagers, the larger of the two leapt, paws up and out. The defending tiger responded with the same move, and for a moment they appeared as mirror images of one another. If his business hadn’t been so serious, the shorter of the hooded figures would have found the reaction comical.

“It’s going well?” he asked.

“It is,” answered a man’s voice from beneath the cowl. “The rockiest stages are behind us.”

“He’ll follow commands? Maintain loyalty?”

“Yes.” With a stressed sigh, the man pulled down his hood and inhale the already sticky air. “I can’t do it. It’s hot enough out here without running around like the Illuminati.”

“I don’t care what you wear,” came the reply. “You’re a trainer. Train the cat, get your payment, turn him over to me. And, of course-”

“Tell no one,” the trainer finished. “I understand.”

In the clearing, the tigers leapt at each other again. Again the smaller one made a defensive maneuver, but this time the larger one overwhelmed him. A few swipes, a failed bite and a series of awful snarls later, they separated once more. Each went stock still, ears pinned down and backs arched.

“They aren’t like lions,” the trainer said with some trepidation. He’d made this point before, but couldn’t stop himself making it a few more times. He didn’t want any future hiccups coming back on him. “Tigers are not social creatures. Without our training, they’d grow out of their kitten playfulness. They’re majestic, yes, but they’re also violent loners.”

“Very soon, they will not be the only ones labeled as such,” Mani answered, the ominous words enhanced as they came from his barely seen mouth in the shadow of his hood.

“And the payment is still in order?” the trainer asked.

Mani nodded and reach into his pocket. He extracted two envelopes.

“One is your indulgence, payable upon delivery of a trained and loyal tiger. The other will cover your debts with the Persians,” Mani rattled off.

“Sin for the Church, be paid in forgiveness. The trainer shook his head and chuckled. “That’s some kind of system you guys got.”

Mani said nothing in reply. He watched the larger tiger pounce again. He wore down the smaller sparring partner. Once he had pinned his opponent, he dug his maw into the other cub’s throat. The teenagers leapt into the fray, clicking strange little devices in their hands and shouting commands. Both tigers rolled away from one another, cowed by their instructors.

The trainer’s curiosity got the better of him. “Rumor is the Church is now in the lion business with the Africans.”

“Yes,” Mani answered.

The trained nodded, then asked, “So why go through the trouble and expense for a tiger when lions are so much easier and already in your employ?”

“Tigers are bigger.”

That hung between them for a long moment. In silence, they watched the teenagers inspect the suddenly docile cubs. Each had small cuts, and the boys dabbed them with a salve to aid in quick healing. Infection in the wet and the heat of the Indian backwater was certain death for man and beast alike.

“Does your boss at the Church expect to need non-thaumaturgical protection from a lion?”

“I don’t think so,” Mani replied.

“So why does he need a tiger at all?” the trainer asked.

Mani shook his head, and answered in a tone that was laced with a profound sadness. “It’s not for him.”

His plan was audacious. Which, he thought, was the nice way of calling it insane. As far as he knew, no thaumaturge had ever gone in direct, open opposition against the church. Grimly, he thought he would be the last, irrespective of his success.

“How long until he’s ready?” Mani asked.

“Couple of days,” the trainer said, then added, “Maybe a week?”

“I can wait in town?”

“Sure.”

Mani nodded and turned to the west, toward the Vatican and St Peter’s. He bent his head.

“Come. Pray with me.” It was an instruction. Despite being devoutly unreligious, the trainer bowed his head anyway.

Mani spoke quietly and earnestly. “Bless us, Father, for we have sinned and will surely sin again…”