Carnivorous Nights_ On the Trail of the Tasmanian Tiger - Margaret Mittelbach [101]
We pondered the pseudoscorpion's genus name: Pseudotyrannochthonius. (Pseudo = false, tyranno = fierce. And chthonius?) Chthonius had several lives in Greek mythology. In one story, Chthonius was one of the black steeds that powered Pluto's chariot from the underworld and back. In another, he was a warrior that sprang from the earth and attacked anyone in his path.
When one thought about it, these caves were the perfect retreat for an outlaw species. What if Tasmanian tigers had gone underground when they were being hunted for the bounty? We conjured up a blind, longwhiskered, albino tiger living in Tasmania's unexplored depths. This was the kind of animal Alexis specialized in painting: mutant, cryptic, and improbable …We glanced back at the doomsday hole as we climbed out of the cave, covering ourselves in mud.
“Do you have any feelings about the Tasmanian tiger?” Alexis asked Brooke after we had all emerged, blinking into daylight. “Do you think it's still out there?”
She looked pained—the same look she had when she picked the dead devil off the road. “I hope so,” she said, not sounding very hopeful. “I hope the tiger's out there somewhere. And if it is, I wouldn't say a word.”
20. DRINKING IN THE TIGER BAR
After our trip down the cave hole, we decided it was time for some refreshment. On the map a place called Mole Creek was the nearest town, so we headed that way. We left the forests and entered a more pastoral landscape: paddocks dotted with sheep, a farm stand selling Tasmanian leatherwood honey, a tabby cat sitting in some-one's front yard. We rolled to a stop on Mole Creek's tiny main street.
Alexis climbed out of the Pajero. “You mind if I do some stretching?” he asked. Before we could answer, he had folded his body over on the sidewalk and begun executing a sequence of yogalike moves. Salutation to the Sun. Downward-facing Dog. Grasshopper Waggling Hindquarters. “You should do this, too,” he said, looking at us critically. “You're not getting any younger.” He stood up and leaned to the left. “Come on, you guys. Stretch !”
We looked around. The street was deserted and we figured what the heck. Creakily, we stretched toward the pavement.
“Thaaat's it. Look! There's money on the ground. Reach for it. Reach ! You want that money. There you go.”
After Alexis put us through our paces, we began looking around and spotted a red-brick building with a Tasmanian tiger painted in the window. Around the tiger, “Tassie Tiger Research Centre” was painted in black letters. We peeked in. It didn't look like much research was going on anymore. Boxes of files and papers were strewn across the floor. Whoever had been looking for the tiger must have given up—or left town fast.
A sign in a neighboring window read “Tiger's Lair Café Bar.” We halted just outside of the door. Our pants and boots were still covered with cave mud …We brushed ourselves off as best we could.
Alexis strode into the bar—and then froze in his tracks. “I—oh— wow …”
We were surrounded. They plastered the walls, loomed over tables, intermingled with bottles of liquor on the bar. It was frightening. A lifesized Tasmanian tiger hovered over the green felt of a pool table, its mouth open in a toothy, papier-mâché snarl. A cuddly tiger toy sat inside a habitat diorama next to a bottle of rum on tap. There were tiger paintings, drawings, cartoons, photographs, newspaper clippings, even tigers set into stained glass.
“It's like the Louvre for tiger freaks,” Alexis said in a hushed voice.
We had been in theme bars