Symbiosis

Humid muggy air sits still, as though it is holding its own breath, or perhaps trying to suffocate those who breathe it in. The sun beams down relentlessly, baking those who dare to stand in its rays. The hunter stepped out of his vehicle, rifle slung over his shoulder, his beady eyes slowly looking over the small huts that housed the villagers. Made of twigs and leaves, he doubted it did much to protect them from the horrors of nature–no wonder the villagers needed him. Around the edge of the village towered trees, seemingly extending infinitely into the heavens, their deep green foliage contrasting against the clear, baby-blue sky. The ground is littered in ferns and bushes that hide any visible pathway–perfect for any predator.

His boots slid in the mud slightly as they continued looking for the man who hired him. Dark hair, he’d been told. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Of course, you couldn’t blame the villagers–a tiger had been picking them off one by one. Their weapons did little against this beast, rumored to be larger than a fishing boat, and it’s pelt indestructible. He was told that spears, rocks, arrows, and knives simply bounced off the pelt, leading some villagers to believe it was perhaps an ancient god resurrected to punish them for their sins. Others, of course, simply thought it was a monster. 

Monster or no monster–it would fall to a bullet, of that the hunter was certain. A door slowly creaked open and a man with dark hair stepped out, the door revealing dozens of pairs of peering eyes. The building looked like some sort of school. There were a few windows–boarded up now–a porch that wrapped around the building, and a cubby full of children sized sandals. The hunter took large strides towards the man, the rifle gently bouncing on their back, likely a welcome sight for the villagers. He moved out onto the porch, his skin darkened by the sun, and his eyes sunken in from nights of guard duty. 

The hunter’s boots echoed on the wood porch, which creaked beneath his weight. The man held out his hand tentatively, as though uncertain of what the hunter would do. The hunter shook his weathered hand, rough with calluses from years of pulling fishing nets. 

“You’re the hunter?” he asked, his voice thick with an accent. The hunter’s eyes glanced through the cracked doors where women crouched holding their children, while several men stood armed with various weapons. 

“That’s me,” he said gruffly, their eyes sliding slowly back to the man. His tired coffee-brown eyes glanced behind the hunter for just a moment. 

“Follow me,” he said. 

The hunter and the man walked past the fields whose crops were nearly overgrown, with only the edges having been harvested, undoubtedly from necessity. They walked behind the village buildings into a large clearing where there sat six freshly dug graves. 

“Each night, the beast takes another one,” the man said, his voice sick with grief and hot with anger. “First, it was a hunter, then later that night, my wife. Then a child, an elder, fisherman, and another woman. This beast is bloodthirsty, and wishes to devour us all–there were hardly any remains for us to bury,” he said, his voice trailing off, quivering as he spoke. 

The hunter lacked sympathy for the village. It wasn’t that he didn't care–no that wasn’t it at all–it was simply that he could not muster the energy to feel sorry for the villagers. Then again, this was a story he heard nearly every job, perhaps he was just desensitized to it. Nonetheless, his eyes did not move from the graves. 

“Can you describe the creature?” he asked bluntly. The man was silent before answering. 

“It looks like a tiger–but not like any I’ve ever seen. It is as long, perhaps longer, as our longest fishing boat, it’s eyes glow red like hot coals, it’s fangs are larger than my knife. It smells of death, and the ground shakes with its footsteps. 

“Weapons cannot harm it–our spears simply slide off, our knives bounce back, and rocks never land. It moves faster than the eye can see, and hunts with an insatiable hunger.”

The apathetic hunter resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It wasn’t uncommon for villagers to attempt to explain something they couldn’t understand in a nearly mythical way. Odds were it was simply a territorial male, nothing uncommon, and certainly not mythical. 

“Noted–nothing a bullet can’t stop,” the hunter said, offering a slightly crooked smile. The village man looked at him wearily, as though he doubted the words the hunter said. The hunter held out a callused and rough hand. “Half now, half when the job is done,” he said firmly. The man looked at the hunter for a moment before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pouch with money. 

The hunter’s eyes quickly counted the money. It was an unimpressive sum for a creature rumored to be so fearsome, yet it was enough to convince him to get the job done. 

“Give me three days,” he said, “and I’ll return with its pelt.”

As the hunter shouldered his supplies and waded into the depths of the jungle, the villagers watched him, their eyes boring into his back, teeming with uncertainty–or rather, the certainty of failure. 

***

The chirping of birds echoed in the air, the birds themselves cloaked by a thousand layers of foliage. Bugs croaked quietly and softly, as though they were afraid to be heard, the sounds barely distinguishable from the birds. Leaves, sticks, and ferns crunched beneath his feet, his heavy boots leaving deep footprints in the jungle floor. The sound of a nearby running river carried through the jungle, and that was where the hunter headed. 

One of the first attacks had happened on the river bed, or so he had been told. With any luck, he’d find some prints he could track. As he followed the noise of the river, he made note of other signs the tiger–or another predator–had been in the area: broken twigs, crumpled ferns, and marks that looked like something–or someone–had been dragged.

He emerged from the depths of the jungle, kicking away the ferns and bushes that lined the treeline. He began to slowly walk the riverbed, looking for any signs of the tiger. He searched for about an hour before the sun began to set. While the sky was streaked with orange and purple, he decided to pitch his tent. He finished by the time night had fallen. 

All sorts of creatures come out at night, some scary and some not so scary. Most came out to avoid the heat of the day, while some came out because their predators were asleep. Nonetheless, the jungle was teeming with life after the sun settled behind the horizon. Rodents scurried across the jungle floor, snakes followed suit and climbed in trees, certain bugs came out to hunt, and of course, tigers. 

The hunter sat quietly in his tent, rifle in lap, waiting. He waited, watching the moonlight shadows of animals through the cloth of his tent as they danced through the night. He watched and waited, but a tiger was never in sight. Eventually, he dozed off, with his rifle clasped firmly in his hands, resting on his lap. 

When he came to mid morning and darted outside his tent, he found dozens of prints detailing the night life of the jungle. Prints large and small lined the river bed. He could see the gentle paw prints of the hesitant jaguar, anxious to swim across the river. He could see hoofprints near the water’s edge that led into drag marks, where it had undoubtedly fallen to a cleverly disguised crocodile, whose predatory eyes likely watched him as he walked the river bed. 

He walked the embankment, growing more and more frustrated, until he came across a single print near the edge of the water, quite some way from his tent. The print itself was much larger than his own hand–perhaps nearly as large as his face. Undoubtedly this was a large male tiger, and there was little doubt now that the tiger was simply territorial. 

After collecting his tent–by now it was early afternoon–he rushed back to the sight of the tiger print. He searched the remaining area, until he found one more print near the edge of the treeline. His heart raced excitedly as he rushed into the jungle, bending over and closely following the few prints he could see. 

Sweat dripped down his temples, soaking his clothes, and his legs itched from the various leaves that tickled his legs and bugs that feasted on him. But he pressed on, ready to find this tiger. He prided himself on being timely, and he would–even if it meant searching all night–deliver the tiger’s pelt by the third day. 

He followed the prints, but halted suddenly. He knelt down, confused. Beside these giant prints were prints much smaller. They were undoubtedly another tiger’s, but they weren’t even the size of his hand. 

A female? At this size? Impossible, he thought. 

The jungle floor cleared, revealing more mystical footprints. Though the sun was starting to set, he pressed forward, desperate for answers. 

Just as dusk set in, streaking the sky with orange, and the chirping of crickets began to fill the air, he was led to a clearing. And there she was–the mythical beast. 

She laid on her side, ribs showing, fur dull, eyes glossy.. Nursing from her stomach was a fat cub. The hunter watched for just a moment, before the mother leapt to her feet, a deep fearful growl crawling from the depths of her throat. The cub ran into the bushes and ferns, hiding, watching, waiting to see what would happen. 

The tigress crouched down, and the hunter shouldered his rifle. He brought the butt to his shoulder and took his aim, his finger hovering over the trigger. As he began to pull, he looked at the cub in the bushes. He looked at the mother’s ribs and the cub’s fat rolls. He looked at her dull orange pelt, wiry fur, sunken eyes. 

He adjusted his aim. 

He watched as her shoulder bones protruded excessively from her back. He looked at her sharp, boney hips, and he looked at her yellowed chipped fangs. He listened to her growl, and her cub’s whimpers. 

His finger hovered over the trigger, desperately waiting to pull it, waiting for her to make the wrong move. His hand began to shake as he and the tigress stared at one another unmoving. He stared into her hungry, tired, sad eyes. He failed to see the aggressive god resurrected to punish the villagers. He failed to see the red hot glow of her eyes. He failed to see her herculean pelt, impervious to weapons. 

He lowered his rifle, and stepped back slowly, until the tigress’ growls were no longer audible. 

He couldn’t kill her. He didn’t know why, but it wasn’t right, and he couldn’t do it. She was starving, so of course she made her way to the village. He could not kill her, but someone else could, and with that in mind, he embarked towards the river. 

The sun had now set, and he didn’t need to wait long for a capybara to emerge for a drink. He shouldered his rifle, took his aim, and it fell to the bullet. He dragged it by the back legs to the clearing. The tigress, not yet forgetful of their encounter, growled, her fur raising. 

He tossed the still-warm body in front of her, sending her back at first. He stepped back slowly as she hesitantly approached. She did not want to trust him, but the hunger was too intense, and he watched as she devoured the animal, leaving nearly nothing left. 

She looked at him, growling still. And so he made his way to the river and killed a second. She was just as hesitant, but she again devoured the food. 

He went back to the river and pitched his tent, exhausted from the day's events. When he woke up in the morning, there she lurked in the treeline, watching and waiting. So he waded into the river, fishing spear in hand, and caught two fish–one for him and one for her. He tossed it to her, crouching down to do so. She scarfed it down. 

As he sat enjoying his food and the natural sounds of the jungle, the air was disturbed by loud crashing and cracking noises. The tigress ran into the depths of the jungle, frightened. Intrigued, he followed the noises, and he did not need to go far to see why the tigress was starving. 

He stepped out into a clearing, where trees were cut down by machines, where men with guns and axes stood, waiting. He watched from the treeline as more trees fell, the birds that remained scattering into the air, squawking in fear. The smell of smoke and gasoline filled his nostrils. 

The tigress appeared next to him, close enough he could feel her warmth. She looked at him, her tired yellow eyes no longer fearsome. 

You see? Now you know why I cannot eat. 

***

The villagers assumed the hunter dead when he did not return in seven days. They remained fearful of the mythical beast that lurked in their jungle, and yet they were confused on why it had not returned. They slowly came out from their huts, though they did not remain out any longer than they needed to. 

When, on the eighth day, the hunter emerged from the jungle, his clothes stained and smelling rank, they were more than surprised. They came out of their huts one by one, ready to see the promised pelt. 

“Here,” the hunter said, tossing the pouch of money back to the man, “I don’t need it.”

“Did you kill the tiger?” he asked, his accent thick. 

“I’m hungry,” the hunter said with a small smile, “do you think you could spare a fish?”

The villagers of course did, they prepared a large meal for the raggard hunter. 

They watched as he ate slowly and politely and then they watched as he grabbed a fish and made his way to the edge of the jungle. He set it down, and the tigress, much healthier now, emerged, and ate the fish slowly. The villagers gasped and screamed, falling back at the sight of the beast. When she finished, she walked up to the hunter, and rubbed against him. His fingers scratched behind her ears and her tail wagged happily. Her cub followed behind her, fat and healthy, rubbing against his ankles. 

“What is this?” the man demanded. 

“This is no beast! She is no god sent to punish you! She is simply a mother trying to provide for her child, the same as many of you. Her home–which is your home too–was destroyed. I found her nearly dead, and yet she had the strength to stand to defend her child. After I fed her, she followed me around for days.

“I’m sure you’ve seen the trees that have fallen, or noticed less fish in the rivers. Unlike you, she cannot farm, and so she did what she must to ensure your child survived. She means you no harm, if you’re willing to give her half a chance.”

The village elder broke through the crowd. 

“I dreamt last night a god would come to us in disguise to bless the village–perhaps this is it.”

***

After another week, the tiger cub became a village pet, the children playing with it too often–it hardly got to rest. The tigress hunted with the village hunters, capturing prey which was then shared with her–though of course they also gave her lots of fish. And at night she patrolled the village, fending off snakes that slithered in, crocodiles emerging from the river, and even the occasional hungry jaguar. 

When the elders became cold, she slept next to them. When the villagers held a feast, she had a seat at their tables. When the village was threatened, she defended them. When she was hungry, they fed her. 

Within months, the tigress became a mythical beast–her warm yellow eyes glowed hot with ferocity, her muscles brimmed with an impossible strength, her footsteps shaking the earth. Her orange and black coat was shiny and smooth, impenetrable. The tigress had resumed her place as the queen of the jungle, and she lived among the people who once feared her–but they lived not as subjects, not as consorts–they lived together as one.