Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
Summers in Primorye Territory can still be cool. Misha had put the Americans off until June for their “trip of a lifetime,” hunting trophy taimen on the Khedun. But a recent storm left the day bitter cold. Now, they all stood around stomping their feet and blowing into their hands. The boats were packed, but the expedition was waiting for Ivan, the camp helper, to show. Even Misha, with his unflappable, Russian “things will happen when they do” attitude, was irked. Ivan was making him look bad.
“He’ll be here, Mr. Gaskell,” he said to the big-boned American with hair as red as his nose. The American turned from his huddled friend.
“We’ve practically lost the whole day!” He looked past Misha towards the cluster of Soviet-era buildings that was optimistically called a town. A town that wouldn’t exist if the Soviets hadn’t built a road 500km into the taiga to mine its natural resources and paid people to live there. Now that the Union had fallen, the only people left were those too poor to leave, surviving on the one remaining lumber mill. “Not even a bar to pass the time,” he grumbled.
With the shortening daylight, they would be lucky to make First Camp, meaning no fishing today. Misha decided to act as if that was the plan all along. There was so much more to being a guide than catching fish, especially when guiding entitled Americans, who constituted most of his business. More prismotr za det’mi, babysitting, than rybalka, fishing. This was why they established camps with canvas-walled tents and cots. Nobody, Gaskell had warned him, wants to spend $15,000 to travel half way around the world and sleep in the dirt. Nobody who can afford it, anyway. And wasn’t he targeting the high rollers?
The sun was nearing its zenith when Ivan trotted up. He slung his pack and carbine into the last raft and looked at the group. “So, let’s go,” he said in heavily accented English, his grin at odds with his darting eyes. Misha shook his head and muttered under his breath and then, shrugging at the Americans with his palms up, gestured towards the rafts. Everybody clambered into a boat, and then Misha’s dog Nera, a 45lb laika mix with the head of Anubis and a curly upturned tail, launched into the bow of the lead boat without getting her feet wet, taking point.
Misha wondered if Ivan’s carbine was registered. That’s all he needed, getting harassed by the Inspection Tiger unit in front of his clients. Times were tough enough, trying to build a business half a world away from civilization either east or west without getting a reputation as a fly-by-night outfit. He decided that distance was the best way to avoid such a confrontation.
On reflection, it mattered not what he wanted, only what was. One trip was a year’s wages at the mill. But if the business failed, he’d never have enough to leave, barely enough for food and some vodka.
As he rowed, he looked back at Ivan in the second boat glancing furtively from bank-to-bank. What had he been up to? It certainly wasn’t gathering pine nuts like he said. And where was Piotr? Whenever there was trouble, he was not far from the epicenter.
The water was too loud to talk over, so except for shouting answers to shouted questions, Misha was left with his own troubled thoughts. The run to First Camp was too steep to hold fish, with often violent whitewater, and the Americans grimly grasped the ropes along the raft. Nera held her perch, only occasionally hunkering down like a superhero landing from a great height. Frequently, she let out a string of barks, as if Misha should understand what she saw or smelled or sensed, but today she was as opaque to him as Ivan.
Hours rolled by and eventually the river calmed. Sometimes taimen staged here before running upstream and it was always a good omen to catch a fish before First Camp. Tonight, there was no time. He looked at Ivan who pulled abreast, but Ivan would not meet his eye. He was clearly exhausted. Normally Ivan could row all day, make camp, cook supper, and entertain the guests. Misha did not foresee that happening tonight.
Thankfully, in the Primorye, the winter’s short days were balanced by long summer evenings. It was still light when they rounded the bend to First Camp. His sports could fish the run in front of camp while the guides unloaded the gear and made dinner. Hopefully that would stop their complaining, at least until he could get them some vodka into them and tuck them in.
Nera started barking. Something was wrong. Misha leaned on his oars and Ivan began back-rowing. Until he determined what was happening, he didn’t want to give the Americans more to worry about. Rising smoke indicated somebody had been here, but many people used the camps when they had business in the forest. Besides Nera, everything was dead silent, not even a crow cawing. “Nera, shush!” She looked over her shoulder and switched to a steady whining. Slowly, he eased the craft onto the beach’s softball-sized rocks.
Nera launched herself from the bow and landed ashore, a fifteen-foot standing broad jump. She began running circles through the camp, stopping just out of sight behind a tent where she resumed barking. Misha shot a look at Ivan, who was white as a Siberian ghost. Was he trembling? Misha was trying to piece everything together, but the pieces didn’t fit. How could Ivan know what was downriver?
Misha got out of the boat. Before he could think of an excuse to keep them in the boat, the Americans, senseless and boorish as usual, exclaimed loudly and began debarking. They climbed awkwardly off the raft in waist deep water and dragged it to shore despite Ivan’s efforts to stop them.
The Americans were finally cluing in to the odd behavior. “Wait here,” instructed Misha walking toward Nera. When he came around the tent, everything froze in his mind. It all made sense. He walked slowly forward, scanning the line where the Taiga met the clearing, the dark shadows menacing. He scanned the tree line and didn’t look down. He knew what he would see. Nera was barking at the tree line, as focused as if she could see through the shadows.
When he looked down, Misha’s stomach roiled. He tried to swallow it, but his bile came up, burning his throat, putting him on his hands and knees until the spasms stopped. “Body” was euphemistic for what was in front of him. There was a shoe with a foot still in it, like a crumb left on a plate after a feast. He could not see any other body parts. There was no skull, no spine, no femurs. Not even a pelvis. Blood was everywhere. There was a smoothbore, but the stock was chewed off. There were parts of two dogs, and he only knew that because he recognized the gun, an antique double-barrel that Piotr illegally owned and went everywhere with him. Just like his two dogs.
“Oh my god,” Gaskell sobbed, slipping up behind Misha. “What happened here?”
Misha unleashed his fury directly on the American. He spun and growled, “I told you to stay by the boat!”
Gaskell and Carmody stood there as shocked by the outrage as by the scene.
Misha returned to scanning the tree line. The side of the tent was torn open the way a greedy child would tear a cereal box to get at the prize. “Not happened. Happening. We just ambushed a tiger during a kill.”
Carmody was gawking about. “How do you know it’s still here?”
Misha pointed to the dog. “That tiger is less than fifty yards away, watching.”
Gaskell was now swivel-eyeing the forest, too. “What is the play here?”
“We get back in the boats and get to Second Camp, as fast as humanly possible.”
Gaskell gestured at the foot. “And him?”
“When we are safely away, I will call the Tiger team on the sat phone. They are responsible for tiger poaching and for killing problem tigers.” Misha met Gaskell’s eye. “I think here, the first leads to the second.”
“What do you mean?” whispered Carmody.
Misha walked towards the trees. “She came in here.” He pointed at tracks in the sand. “She was already bleeding and limping.” He pointed to where Nera was barking. “She’s resting right over there,” he waved his hand, “somewhere nearby, guarding her kill.”’
“What will the inspectors do?”
Misha laughed darkly. “They are in Vladivostok. Even if they drove all night, they couldn’t get here for 24 hours, then they would have to assess the situation before calling Moscow, eight time zones away, for permission to hunt the tiger. It’s Friday. The apparatchiks will be in bed with their mistresses sleeping off their vodka.” He turned to the American. “Do? Not much. Certainly nothing for us. We are on our own.”
Gaskell and Carmody were now as white as Ivan. Misha was starting to shake the way he had once when he lit a gas stove and it blew up, turning his exposed skin and hair to ash. His concerns about the future of his business evaporated as he realized that they would be lucky to survive the retreat to the boats. Even a wounded tiger could kill three unarmed men and a dog in a matter of seconds. Only Nera, a daughter of the taiga her own right, stood any chance of survival.
“Back to the raft. Don’t run. Don’t turn around, just back …” Carmody took off running, yelling like an idiot. Things happened fast. The tiger wasn’t there, and then she was. A magnificent orange and black she-devil, a perfect distillation of form from function. One swat and Carmody went down. Nera, whose reactions shamed the men’s, heeled the injured tiger by snapping at her haunches, jumping back as the tiger whirled to the attack. Nera yelped, but instantly returned to offense, turning the tiger from the men.
Misha moved like a statue slowly coming to life. Without thought, he went to Carmody, Gaskell reluctantly following his lead. They each grabbed an arm of the face-down body and began dragging him to the rafts. Misha’s skin wanted to crawl off his spine, and the only thing that kept him going was the barks and snarls of the primal exchange behind him.
Ivan was still immobile in the raft when Misha’s screams finally roused him into action. He scrambled forward and helped drag Carmody into the boat, a task made more difficult by their hands slipping in the copious blood. Gaskell got in after, and Misha pushed the boat with one last panic-fueled burst of strength. “Get to Second Camp, Ivan. If I don’t show up, don’t stay. Row all night you bastard.” He still didn’t know what part Ivan played in this, but Misha was sure Ivan knew exactly what had happened here.
He looked over at Gaskell as the raft floated into the current. “How is he?” Gaskell was bent over the body, his answer lost in the current. Misha stared dumbly after him. Then turning to his own boat, dragged it into the water.
“Nera!” He got into position and shipped the oars, unwilling to leave the dog if she could make it to the boat. It wasn’t just her heroics. Nera was the only advantage they had, and with the trip unravelling, he didn’t think they would make it without her.
Just as he was about to give up, Nera came around the tent in a blur of copper, like a lenok shooting away from a clumsy angler. Without breaking stride, she cleared the water and landed in the boat. For a moment, Misha thought the tiger would do the same. The thought of sharing his raft with an enraged tiger was more than he could bear, but as the current took his bow, the last thing he saw was the tiger watching from the beach, twitching her tail.
“Nera,” was all he could say to the dog who stood on point, growling at the receding beast. When they went around the first slow sweeper, Nera made her way to him and licked his face. He dropped the oars and hugged her, then ran his hands over her looking for wounds. She was trembling, but otherwise seemed fine. Jubilant, even.
The near-solstice sun was a welcome blessing. Misha was too drained from adrenal burnout to pull downstream and let the boat float in the laminar current. Nera curled up between his feet and he marveled at this animal, attacking a beast ten times her size, like a bi-plane harassing a MiG. He dozed a little at the oars, unconcerned that they were floating over, as the Americans say, “the money water.” Aside from the whispering river, it was silent. No birds or other animal sounds. Mother Taiga was holding her breath.
Second Camp was not far downstream, just far enough for a good day’s fishing. In the fading light, he saw Ivan’s boat, and light in the two tents. With the last of his energy, he beached his raft. Even Nera plodded to the front of the boat and merely hopped out as Ivan met them.
“Carmody?” croaked Misha, realizing he hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since breakfast, and that he had thrown up.
“Some deep cuts. I stitched him. His coat saved him, although he’ll be sleeping on his stomach for a while.” Ivan shrugged. “If he was Russian, he could fish.”
“Tell me what that was, and do not tell me you do not know. You almost got us all killed.”
Gaskell walked up. “In English, please. Idiomatic Russian is beyond my grasp, and I need to know what’s going on.”
“It’s over. We made it,” said Ivan attempting a disarming grin.
“Is it? You went pine nut gathering with Piotr yesterday. You came back scared. What happened?”
Ivan looked from one to the other. “We came upon the tiger. She had just killed a deer. Piotr said this was our chance, that he knew people who smuggle tigers into China. That we could make a year’s wages in an instant.”
“So, he shot a tiger?” Misha was stunned. Everybody knew that Piotr lived off the taiga, harvesting things both legal and illegal, but shooting a tiger with a smoothbore was unthinkable.
Ivan shrugged. “By the time you see a tiger, she has sensed your presence for a long time. Even if she is lying on a kill, you are being hunted. What would you do?”
Misha’s rage faded. All of this was just bad, dumb luck, compounded by greed. “I would not anger Mother Taiga.”
Gaskell had been swinging his head back and forth as the Russians talked. “Are we out of the woods?”
“Nyet,” answered Misha.
“Surely, a wounded tiger isn’t going to follow us fifteen klicks downstream after two kills.”
“We are not being hunted by a tiger. We are being hunted by Mother Taiga. She does not feel pain. She does not sleep. She will not stop until she has vengeance.”
“But I didn’t shoot her!” complained Ivan.
“Didn’t you?” Misha looked at the tent. As long as Ivan was with them, the tiger did not need the scent of blood to track them. It was only a matter of time until she arrived. “I’ll call this in. Let’s eat. Build a big fire. We’ll take turns feeding it until dawn, then we leave.”
“If you call it in, can’t we get rescued?” asked the American. “I can pay.”
Misha laughed, “By who? We are at earth’s end. Even if there were helicopters in range, it would take days of red tape to get help. We are on our own.”
They went about the business of making camp. Misha took first shift, but nobody could sleep. Carmody’s moans were a constant reminder of their danger. Misha dug in his pack, producing two bottles of vodka, and handed one to Gaskell. “For the patient.” Gaskell grumbled, took a long swig, and headed into the tent.
Ivan sat down beside him with the thud of bones too tired to carry even his slight weight. Misha stared into the fire, took a pull, and passed Ivan the bottle. “To my dreams.”
“Misha, even if your business survives, you could never leave. You need to stay here, where the money is.”
“I could hire people to build a lodge and work there. Make real money for the town.”
“We both know that would draw the Organizatsya, like blood draws a tiger. Even out here. We would start off working for you, and then everybody would be working for them.” He handed the bottle back. “Piotr was right about one thing. The only good money is money people can’t track. Otherwise, you are somebody’s serf. The Party’s or the Organizatsya’s, what difference?” Misha had no answer to that, but merely took another pull.
That was the last thing he remembered before Nera’s barking woke him from a fitful slumber at dawn. The fire was low, the wood pile exhausted, and Ivan was gone. Gaskell came out of the tent. “Where’s Ivan?”
Misha wanted to say he went for wood, but that would imply he was coming back. He looked up at Gaskell and levered himself to his feet using the log at his back, stretching. The sun broke over the trees and warmed his face. For the first time in a day, there was sound in the taiga. Crows were flocking in.
Misha looked over at Ivan’s empty boat. “Justice is done. We are safe. I need to make some calls. Would you like to line up a rod?” He looked out at Mother Taiga, stern as always, but no longer menacing. “Hush, Nera.”
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