THE TIGER IN THE BOTTLE
A FICTIONAL STORY OF FANTASY AND HORROR
by Daryl G. Kruse

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Westerners have long regarded China as a land of complexities and conspiracies unlike any other region of the world. Its history extends back to the very dawning of civilization, a history complete with fevered passions, dramatic intrigue and a deep seated mysticism that still exists to this day. For that reason, my story may seem remarkable, even unbelievable, but I will write down the facts as they happened and you can draw your own conclusions.
. . On a recent sweltering summer afternoon, I found myself at the door of a nondescript Chinese antiquities and novelty shop -- the same shop which later would prove to be my undoing. I was in Hong Kong and I was lost. It was all my fault, of course. After a pleasant luncheon and drinks in the home of a friend, he offered to summon a taxi for me, but I decided that a walk would help ward off the drowsy feeling I get after a heavy mid-day meal. I declined his offer and stepped out into the smothering August heat and humidity of the Hong Kong area. Within a short distance my clothing clung to my body as I dripped with perspiration. The heat emanating from the sidewalk became a bed of glowing embers that burned my feet through thin-soled shoes. In my haste to return to the comfort of my hotel suite, I had taken what I thought was a short cut and but soon became lost on a mystifying thoroughfare, a strange street that twisted and turned with no discernible clue as to direction. It was only when I began looking for someone to assist me that I noticed the street was deserted. Absent were the usual crowds looking for bargains on duty-free Chinese goods. Nor were any shop keepers or merchants in sight. I assumed the broiling heat had forced everyone indoors until the cooler nighttime temperatures returned. Only an eerie quiet remained.
. . I stepped into a doorway to momentarily escape the blazing sun and, with a handerchief, mopped the perspiration from my face and neck while I considered my next move. It was then that I noticed I was standing in the door way of the Chinese antiquities shop. A sign overhead simply announced "Rare Specialty Items." Out of curiousity, I checked the window display but saw only the usual array of cheap toys, trinkets and statuary that foreigners find so appealing.
. . My gaze then moved farther into the shop's dim interior and came to a halt as I noticed a table draped with handsome Chinese arts and crafts. The faint light made it difficult to see clearly, but the table appeared to contain a nice grouping of authentic Chinese bronze and stoneware pieces, but nothing of real interest. I was about to turn away when a quick flash of light caught my eye. In the very center of the display a most singularly stunning glassware item was seated alone on a polished dark teakwood stand. Even in the darkness of the shop, it stood resplendent, gathering meager rays of sunlight onto its surface and transforming it into a centerpiece of graceful elegance.
. . At first I assumed it was an old Chinese snuff bottle of transprent glass, but this object was larger, perhaps three or four inches more in height. The bottle had an elaborate design on its side, the sort of tableau that art collectors and museums covet for their beauty and value. I shaded my eyes from the glare of the sunlight and leaned toward the window for a better view. I was too far away to discern the intricate detail of the design, but the lustrous enamel colors of the glass bottle proclaimed that this was an object of great importance and unusual quality.
. . I am regarded by many as a modest but avid collector of ‘sthetic Chinese antiques. The superb skill and delicacy of oriental workmanship has long been a passion of mine. My private collection contains noteworthy pieces of bronze and jade statuary as well as a handful of decorated enamelware dating from the Ming and T'ang dynasties. But I had never come upon a bottle as unique as this one.
. . My quest to seek the comfort of my hotel was put aside for the moment. I felt a compelling need to examine this striking work of art more closely. As I entered the murky atmosphere of the shop, a string of silver bells overhead welcomed my arrival with a soft, pleasant musical tone. I waited a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light, then moved toward the silk-draped table. I leaned over the display carefully so as not to disturb the symmetry of the artful setting. I could now tell that the snuff bottle, if indeed it was a snuff bottle, was quite an amazing work of art, certainly authentic and undoubtedly very old. An exceptionally skilled master had painted a beautiful scene on the inside of the bottle using a process called "back painting." But, considering the apparent age of the bottle, this simply could not be. Back painting was discovered only toward the late nineteenth century by European artists then adopted successfully by the Chinese in the eighteen eighties and ninties. But I was almost certain that this bottle predated that era by as much as three or four hundred years.
. . The smaller, palm-sized snuff bottles were fairly common and highly prized by collectors. But this bottle was similar to those which contained curatives and magic potions and used by court physicians who tended to the health of China's ruling emperors. This bottle was, of course, empty of any medicinal elements.
. . Regardless of origination, the artwork on the bottle certainly surpassed any known to exist. There was a soft olive and cream-colored glaze over the entire bottle, giving it a luminous tint of opalescence while remaining entirely transparent. Its top was copper-rimmed and fitted to an exquisitely carved glass stopper. The most striking feature, however, was the remarkable scene painted on the inside of the glass.
. . With startling clarity it depicted the figure of a powerful tiger stalking through a clump of willowy reeds in a fog- enshrouded wilderness area on a rocky coastline near the sea. Lustrous enamel colors of red, orange and green were tempered by subtle blacks and whites and faint strokes of gray. The tiger was poised with its muscular body stretched horizontally across one side of the bottle. The animal's head was turned directly toward me as though I had surprised it in mid-stride. The beast's mouth was opened wide and threatening, its large, sharp fangs bared in a show of defiance and anger. It was so life-like that I had the disconcerted feeling that I was witness to an actual terror- stricken event that occurred in a brief moment of time in the past. A premonition of danger and treachery rippled through my body like a convulsive chill.
. . A voice then spoke from just behind me.
. . "Exquisite, is it not?"
. . Startled, I turned around and saw a diminutive, wizened old man dressed in a striking robe called a mangpao. These voluminous robes were once worn by court officials who served the Chinese emporers during the mid-seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Through tiny glasses perched on the end of his nose, the old man peered at me with fathomless eyes rounded like marbles of black obsidian. My first impression was that of an enigmatic old oriental mystic, yet his face was open and wise, his countenance friendly. His hands remained hidden within the sleeves of his garment. Upon his chin sprouted a long but nearly non-existent whispy beard. He spoke with impeccable English.
. . "It is a most remarkable bottle, do you not agree? I have watched with great interest and conclude that you have a fine eye for oriental art. Am I correct?"
. . I admitted that I had studied Chinese antiquities and managed to accumulate a modest collection of my own. I told him how, while standing on the sidewalk, a flash of sunlight from the object had caught my eye and convinced me it deserved a closer inspection. I inquired whether the piece may have been crafted during the Ming dynasty of the fourteenth or fifteenth century.
. . "You are close," he replied, "but it actually pre-dates the Ming era by about one hundred years. It originates from the Yuan dynasty of the thirteenth century which, as you probably know, was the time of Marco Polo's adventures and, I am pained to admit, also during the devasting regime of the marauding Mongols."
. . As he spoke these words, the old man's face seemed to harden into a piece of gray chiseled jade. It was agonizing for him to inwardly relive the terrifying events that took place during China's greatest torment and bloodshed. The savage, pitiless Genghis Khan was leading his murderous hordes across the deserts of central Asia. The buffer state of Chin and its capital, Peking, were completely destroyed. Even after the death of Genghis Khan, the slaughter continued. During the ensuing fifty years of senseless warfare, China's death toll was estimated to be in excess of 40 million people.
. . The old man then shook off his memories of China's devasting era and a radiant smile was again restored to his face.
. . "Ah so, those were regrettable times, but I beg your pardon. I have allowed bitter feelings to cloud my manners. Please allow me to introduce myself. I am called Chou Wei," he said, bowing graciously. "I welcome you to my humble shop."
. . Mr. Wei extended his open palm in greeting. I introduced myself and, as we shook hands, I was surprised by the feeling of hidden strength that belied his appearance.
. . "I am named after a long departed ancestor who served in the courts of the Khan's Yuan dynasty, the same time period as that of the bottle you so greatly admire. The name has been handed down through dozens of generations in our family. I am fortunate, however, to not have suffered the unfortunate fate which befell my namesake. Mr. Wei was what they called a "gentleman painter", one of many artists who served under Khubilai Khan. Due to slanderous comments of a colleague, my ancestor was unjustly executed in his late twenties, accused of insulting the Emperor in a wall painting of his own design.
. . The old man laughed lightly. "We must give thanks that our current rule is somewhat more tolerant today when judging works of art."
. . As he paused, I turned to the table and pointed at the glass bottle with the tiger scene. As diplomatically as possible, I inquired as to whether the object was for sale. I now dearly wanted to add it to my collection, but was unsure whether I would even be able to afford it.
. . The shopkeeper patted me gently on the shoulder. "I'm terribly sorry, sir, but this piece apart from all others you see here, is not for sale. It shall never pass from my ownership. The bottle is of inestimable value and of such personal importance that I can never be persuaded to part from it. However," Chou Wei continued, "I can allow you to examinhe it more closely. I only ask that you take special care in handling the object and that you do not remove the glass stopper."
. . With profuse thanks I gingerly removed the bottle from its place of honor on the handsome teakwood stand and began my examination in earnest. The precious relic seemed to exude a living warmth that felt pleasant and soothing to my hand. Up close, the object was even more beautiful than I had imagined. Again the old man spoke.
. . "It is the detailed artistry of the tiger beast that amazes those who look upon it. If you peer closely, you can even discern the artist's individual brush strokes in painting each hair of the tiger's striped coat."
. . I brought the bottle closer and could, indeed, see the meticulous workmanship. I examined the rest of the majestic animal. The beast's head was faced toward me. I must admit that I was somewhat unnerved by the life-like depiction of the tiger's ferocity. I could fancy seeing the capacious mouth with its glinting teeth salivating as it tensed its body for a kill. No matter how I turned the bottle it was evident that the eyes of the tiger were focused singly on me alone. Even when observed from the far side of the glass, the image simply reversed its position and was now poised mid-stride in the opposite direction. Yet his eyes remained on mine. With an instinct born through ancestral lineage, the tiger would always keep his quarry in sight.
. . Mr. Wei pointed out that the animal was a Begal tiger, a man-eater. "The beast is a legendary subject of many Asian artists who tire of painting the ubiquitous dragons and lesser animals. I, myself, have come across similar designs, but none as extroadinary as this particular piece from the Yuan dynasty. The tiger in the bottle is very precious and I am privileged to keep it under my ownership."
. . When the shopkeeper mentioned the era from which the bottle evidently originated, I was reminded of a fact that puzzled me greatly. I pointed out that the process of back painting was not known to exist in the thirteenth century. So how, I asked, was it possible for this bottle to have been painted hundreds of years earlier utilizing this identical technique.
. . Chou Wei replied, "Let us just say that the process was re-discovered by European artists in the late eighteen hundreds. The painting process certainly existed both before and during the Yuan dynasty of Khubilai Khan. But you must remember that the almost continuous wars that raged over China decimated a great number of our people, including our finest artists. The process was irretrievably lost for centuries until recovered in the late nineteenth century."
. . The old man spoke the truth about the great losses incurred during the warring years. Who could guess at the number of artists and thousands of works of art that were senselessly destroyed in the name of conquest. Only through fortunate happenstance and careful guardianship can we appreciate today the remarkable artist accomplishments of past Chinese empires.
. . Chou Wei's voice suddenly interrupted my thoughts. "I was wondering, sir, whether you have completed your examination of the bottle?"
. . I apologized for taking his time so selfishly and with great reluctance returned the bottle to his care. I couldn't help but marvel how this valuable object had managed to survive through the tempest and torment of China's past.
. . The old man reverently restored the tiger bottle to its rightful place of honor upon the polished teakwood base. I ventured to suggest to Chou Wei that such a valuable artifact surely deserved to be seen by a much larger and appreciative audience than what his small shop could offer. But he shook his head dismissing the thought. After smoothing out a few wrinkled imperfections on the expensive silks that graced the table, the old man turned to face me again. He seemed to be measuring the extent of my interest in Chinese art lore. He reached out for my hand.
. . "Perhaps," he said, "you might wish to hear an old tale that involves the tiger in the bottle. It's a fascinating story, but, alas, also has a rather tragic ending."
. . I was intrigued by what the old Chinese could tell me about the object's past. I eagerly nodded my acceptance. Thoughts of returning to my hotel were quickly dismissed. The shopkeeper walked to the front door, locking it tightly, then returned to my side.
. . "I already have a pot of tea simmering on a burner in the rear of my shop. Also some wonderful pastries prepared especially for me by a long time friend. I would be honored if you would share a small repast with me."
. . I accepted the invitation and the old man took my arm and led me toward the rear of his shop. His living quarters were cleverly hidden behind an attractive screen of bamboo. Candles were lit and places on several small elegant tables throughout the apartment. The flickering light glowed and softened the far shadows on the walls, lending an air of mystery to the scene.
. . "Make yourself comfortable," he said, "while I prepare the tea and cakes."
. . My host indicated a handsomely carved setee in red lacquer upon which sat an embroidered pillow decorated with oriental patterns of yellow, red and black. As he attended to the refreshment I sat down and glanced around his apartment. Everywhere I looked, I saw a rich variety of Chinese artwork, each piece carefully placed with the Asian's artful sense of balance, design and color. Valuable draperies hung on the walls. To my left in one corner of the room stood a large incense burner, its legs fashioned in the form of three cranes and decorated in cloisonne enamels. There were also two large cloisonne jars with domed lids depicting virorous dragons among the clouds. My eyes wandered over stunning arrays of small porcelain, carved ivory scrimshows and pudding stone figurines. To my right stood an unusual bronze sculpture; a group of figures on a mountain showing Shou Zing, the god of longevity, surrounded by his legendry Eight Immortals. It was, undoubtedly, a rare and priceless piece.
. . As the old man went about preparing the ceremonial tea, I asked how he had amassed such an outstanding treasure trove.
. . Mr. Wei beamed with pride at my appreciation of his collection, then shrugged his shoulders.
. . "Again, I must ask for your indulgence," he replied. "My methods of collecting must also remain a secret that is mine alone."
. . On a small table, he placed a delicate cup of golden aromatic brew alongside a tiny tray of gaily decorated sweetmeats. He then continued with his thoughts.
. . "If one employs a great deal of patience and listens carefully for rumors of new discoveries from colleagues, it is possible to find many valuable items that become available. I cannot reveal my methods but I can disclose this much: many of the art pieces you see here, including the tiger bottle, have been passed down from one generation of my family to another for centuries. Of course there are occasions when I find I must sell or trade one of my prized possessions, but in every case my acquisition is for something of far greater value that pleases me."
. . With the grace of an accomplished dancer, the shopkeeper settled himself onto a wide, low chair and began sipping his tea while taking small bites of a dainty confection.
. . "Now, sir, if you are quite comfortable, I shall begin our story of the tiger in the bottle. Only by word of mouth has this story passed down through the generations and you are one of the very few outside our family to whom it will be told. The details have never been recorded in any permanent record --nor shall they ever dare be written. As the story unfolds it will become apparent to you as to why. In any case, for all anyone knows, it may simply be a fanciful but interesting fable."
. . Chou Wei paused a moment and regarded me, "Or, he added, "there may actually be a grain of truth in the details. I shall leave it entirely up to you as to the story's veracity."
. . My host settled himself comfortably on his low-seated chair. "Like all good stories," he said, "we must begin at the beginning. And, in this case, our story of the tiger in the bottle begins in the kingdom of Khubilai Kahn during the Yuan dynasty."
. . Mr. Wei leaned forward as though to underscore the importance of his words. "As you no doubt recall, Khubilai was the grandson of the dreaded Mongol leader, Genghis Kahn. Thirty years after Genghis died, Khubilai established himself as ruler of the eastern Great Kahnate. It was he who actually completed the conquest of China by defeating the Southern Song dynasty in the year 1279. He was the first to rule as Emperor under the dynastic title of Yuan. In 1274, Khubilai had transferred the winter capital to what is now present-day Beijing, but he kept a magnificent summer palace at Shang-tu. Marco Polo referred to it as "Ciandu" but is probably best known today as "Xanadu." Are you acquainted with the famous work of Samuel Taylor Coleridge?"
. . I was indeed familiar with the famous poem, one of many committed to memory while still in public school. The verse describing the riches of the Mongol Khan's empire evidently came to Coleridge in a dream one night after reading the journals of Marco Polo. I listened intently as the old man began his centuries-old tale.

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(to go to Part Two.)

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