Read Online In Search of the Blue Tiger by Robert Power - Free Book Online

were-tigers. These villagers are easy to spot. In their human form they all lack the groove in the upper lip. These were-tigers live in houses, acting just like ordinary human beings. But if you look closer you can see the rafters are made from human bones and human skin is used for the walls. Several of these villages exist in the Malay Peninsula, the chief of which is Gunung Ledang. Similarly, in Sumatra, Pasummah is the ‘capital’ of the were-tiger villages.
    As well as were-tigers, people can become were-elephants, were-horses and many other animals. The leyaks in Bali were people who could change themselves into animals to cause trouble for others. In West Java, especially around the town of Kuningan, there are lots of reports of people changing into pigs. Through the process of babi ngepet or babi jadi-jadian, someone could sell their soul, or the soul of one of their children, in order to become a were-pig. This would enable them to go into the homes of other villagers, stealing from them without being recognised.
    In Borneo, accounts of were-crocodiles are common. One famously describes a Dayak chief who suffered from a rare skin disease. Each day he would bathe in the river to gain some relief. Some villagers noted their chief talking with a large crocodile that had joined him for his bath. Then they noticed the chief’s skin changed to crocodile scales. One day, the chief disappeared after bathing. He had become a were-crocodile.

    The moon is full. There’s a crow on the branch of a leafless tree. Given the time of night, it should be an owl. But this is no ordinary scene.
    The sharp eye of the crow spies the two figures below. They are placing twigs, dry grass and pinecones around a neat pile of coloured paper. Each sheet has a carefully scripted symbol drawn in thick black ink. There are crescents and stars, mystical serpents and maze-like knots.
    Perch strikes a match and it lights up the grin on Carp’s face. For a moment she holds it in front of her mouth, almost kissing the flame with her moistened lips. The sisters gaze at each other and laugh, setting the flame abobbing to and fro.
    Then Perch throws the match on the bonfire and the flames leap into life.
    Carp reaches into the pocket of her coat and from her clenched fist casts a handful of powder into the fire. Blues and greens shoot up from its midst as the sheets of paper twist and curl, sending thick scraps of ash dancing upwards, spiralling and coiling into the cold and dark beyond.
    Perch takes two worn library tickets from her pocket. They belonged to their dearly departed Mother and have her name neatly written in the tell-tale hand of Mrs April, the librarian. Perch licks her thumb and scratches and smears the ink to a smudge. Then each sister spits on the cards and Perch crumples them into a mulch. When tossed on the fire they sizzle and coil, and the sisters throw back their heads, raising their arms to the blackened sky.
    In the branch above, the crow shudders and shakes his feathers, surprising himself with an action normally reserved for the dawn.
    The sisters join hands. In perfect unison (their exquisite and special skill) they bend and swirl in a dance with the flames.
    â€˜Pain and suffering to the Jezebel, the Harlot, the Tidetown whore,’ chants Perch.
    â€˜Until we meet again, Mother dearest,’ howls Carp.
    â€˜After the fearful and mighty Day of Judgement,’ shrieks Perch.
    Then, in harmony, they sing the song of the psalmist:
    â€˜ O wherefore the flames,
On who the wrath of Jehovah will fall.
O wherefore the flames,
Beware the flames of Hades, all.’

    Across town, Mrs April turns awkwardly in her sleep as a sharp pain stabs her spine. She groans and stretches, finding herself more awake than she expects to be. She opens her eyes wide to let in the dark. The shapes and shadows dance about the room and she fancies she hears the paws of a cat in the corridor.
    â€˜Silly, old bat,’ she