Tiger, Tiger

*this story is now complete. the one published here is the story in its entirety.

as always, let me know what you think in the comments section.

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Rosman ended the telephone call he had just received. It was from an 'agent', asking for his services. A businessman wanted the pelt and gonads of a tiger. These businessmen amused him. Who would have thought that a rich, successful person still put faith on traditional medicine and potions? Witchcraft, it would seem. But Rosman supposed it did not matter. After all, he was being paid for what he does best.

Rosman is a hunter of wild game. Throughout his 45 years of life, he has hunted them all within the lush tropical jungles of the Malaysian Peninsular: elephant, rhinoceros, leopard, wild oxen, tapir; and his favorite quarry: the tiger. He did not fear these animals. In fact he downright looked down upon them.

To him, man was the supreme creature on Earth. Everything else just fell in line.

By now one could reason he was more of a poacher than a hunter, and one would not be wrong. Rosman hunted illegally. He kills whatever animals he can for fun, and also for profit. His day-job is a coffee-shop owner, in the sleepy town of Grik in Northern Malaysia. As it is, Grik borders the untouched Belum Rainforest reserve.

Poaching is a dangerous game. The reserve is patrolled by the military. And it is for this reason that Rosman always hunts alone, despite the inherent risks. To him, the more people trod into the jungle, the more likely they are to get caught. Besides, it was not as if he needed help. He was good at what he does. Very good.

He once shot a leopard that was charging straight at him directly between the eyes, and he did so without flinching. He has managed to kill an angry male gaur, no easy feat, with a hand-pistol. Rosman attributed this to his calm and composure when faced with these beasts. His customers relied on him to deliver. And they paid handsomely. One tiger pelt and carcass was worth hundreds of thousands of ringgit to the right buyer. Rosman rarely kept trophies of his kills; usually a claw, a tooth, a patch of skin. No, no. Those are evidence. Evidence gets you caught.

His buyers find him through agents, who always keep him anonymous. So far, these agents have been really good at not getting caught. Rosman did not worry. They only know him by name. All payments he received were by mail drops, or anonymous middlemen. He had put many layers of insulation between himself and the agents and buyers. For the most part, the agents did not care. They got their share of the payment. The buyers get what they asked for.

Rosman went to his shed where he kept his guns and weapons and tools. There were several .22 rifles; a .45 caliber automatic pistol, several large caliber revolvers, machetes, concertina wire of which he used to make snares, and boxes of ammunition. There were also rations, survival kits and other necessities. Often he'd be in the jungle for days on end. He knows how to live off the land, but all the same, he always carries some measure of survival kit: a knife, lighter, pliers, some rations, salt tablets, water purifying tablets etc.

He set to work, checking his equipment, choosing what rifle would he be carrying. He settled for on of the .22s, and decided to bring the .45, a machete and several loops of concertina wire and pegs to set up traps. This time the target was a tiger. And tigers are one of the most difficult animals to hunt, especially alone. They are cunning animals; often behind you when you think they're in front. Sometimes you could feel the big cat watching you. But Rosman has killed one before; and he was very certain he could kill one again. The money was too good.

As he cleaned and oiled his equipment in his shed, a small boy walked in. It was his son, seven year old Rosmi.

"Daddy, you're going into the jungle again?" the little boy asked, his eyes fixated on the oiled steel of the rifle Rosman was handling.

Rosman smiled, always charmed by his sons innocence. He loved the boy with all his heart. "Yes Mimi," he said. "Daddy is going into the jungle to find a big cat."

"Meow?" Rosmi said, and did his best cat impression. Rosman laughed and shook his head. He put down the rifle (as far away from Rosmi as he can) and playfully lunged after his son.

"Groowwll!!!" Rosman said whilst tickling the boy’s belly. Rosmi giggled. The father and son fooled around for a while outside the shed until Rosman's wife, Waheeda, called them inside for dinner. Over dinner Rosman told Waheeda that he was going out hunting tomorrow, and would not be back for a few days.

"If anyone asks," Rosman said over a plate of rice with fish curry and steamed fern shoots. "I'm at Kuala Lumpur, meeting up with a friend."

Waheeda, an obedient and quiet woman, just nodded her compliance. Rosmi ate energetically opposite Rosman. He smiled at his father, showing a large gap between his two front teeth.

That night, as always before a hunt, Rosman slept early. Tomorrow was the beginning of long days ahead.


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He was already out before the crack of dawn, at about 0400hrs. Before he left, he had kissed his beloved son gently on the forehead. He will miss the boy, even if he was only going for a few days. But he needed to be focused for his task ahead. He took his 4WD vehicle and followed a rough trail that ended at the foot of a hill. He parked his car beneath a shady tree and disguised it with fronds and foliage. From there, he trekked for roughly four hours. He carried with him one rifle, one handgun, a machete, equipment to set traps, and supplies in a bag-pack.

Now, at just about 0800 in the morning, he found himself deep within the jungle, where it was already getting humid. His brow was slick with sweat. He took a swig of water from the canteen hanging by his belt. His eyes, keen at 45, were always on the lookout for any sign of wildlife. So far, nothing major. He had crossed paths with a civet earlier, and some wild boar (of which he steered clear of; wild boar were extremely dangerous, especially if the herd had piglets), but nothing else.

The jungle was abuzz with noise, from every angle. He could hear the incessant buzzing of millions of birds and insects, the crackling of leaves and twigs made by unseen feet on the forest floor, and distantly, the gurgling of a small stream. He searched for signs of prey animal: deer, pigs, and tapirs. Prey animals were indicators of their predators. So far he had seen none.

He took a short rest and decided to walk deeper into the jungle. His cellphone had lost its signal hours ago. He was relying solely on his experience and instinct, and an old trusty compass. He was confident he would get his tiger within this three-day limit he set himself. He only needed to pay attention to the details.

Rosman walked deeper and deeper into the jungle. He came across a stream, and startled a lone monkey having a drink. The monkey bared its teeth at him, but he paid not much attention to it.

"I'll leave you for the Orang Asli," he said. Sometimes he would come across some of the Orang Asli. They mostly minded their own business.

Rosman decided to stop by the stream and have a quick lunch. He chanced a cigarette, seeing as he has not yet seen a sign of any significant wildlife so far. Smoke usually attracted unwanted animals. But it also repelled insects. It was a calculated risk, but he was feeling edgy and needed the smoke.

A lot of people think that the moment you step into the rainforest, you'd bump into all sorts of wildlife all the time. The converse was true; although rainforests are densely populated by all sorts of creatures, you'd only ever see them if you knew where to look. And in the daytime, most animals chose to remain out of view. So Rosman took his time a bit and enjoyed his cigarette. It was past noon. He relaxed for a few more minutes and began trekking again.


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"Hello, what have we here?" he said to himself an hour later, as he peered to the ground below him. There, on the damp jungle soil, was a small imprint made by a five-toed creature. It looked remarkably like a cats, but Rosman knew better. It was a pugmark, made by a baby leopard... or tiger, the big cat he came looking for. The pugmark was about 3cm wide. So it must be from a very young cub. Squatting, Rosman glanced at his surroundings.

His mind was on extra alert now. He was not yet sure what kind of big cat cub had made the pugmark; but where there are cubs, there will be the parent... or parents. So he was extra-vigilant now. He paid close attention the sounds and the smells around him. His eyes were tuning in to the slightest movement. Big cats are remarkably adapted at concealing themselves. And they almost always attacked prey from behind.

The jungle was still abuzz with noise; birds, insects, monkeys. That was a sign there were no predators around. Rosman followed the pugmarks, and realized it followed a game-trail. Reading signs a normal person would be unaware of, Rosman quickly established that a herd of prey animal, probably deer and wild boar, regularly passed this way. He ascertained this through subtle abrasions on tree-trunks made by boar tusks, dried stool, and faint cloven hoof-marks. Searching more thoroughly, he found what he was looking for: an adult big cat pugmark.

This one looked exactly the same as the little pugmark, except it was bigger. Much bigger. It must have been 20cm across. Only one big cat in Malaysian rainforests would make pug-marks that big, and it wasn't the leopard.

"Good old Pak Belang," Rosman said, and smirked. He couldn't believe his luck. He expected to take longer to encounter signs of his quarry. "Or rather, Mak Belang," he said, noting the close proximity of the cubs marks. He walked along the game-trail, judging its width and length, and he tried to triangulate where the predator would stalk its prey. Rosman paid attention to these things because, as good and cool a marksman he is, he also knew that traps are hugely effective, especially when set up along a game-trail such as this.

He would set up three traps, and he would have to do so before nightfall. He would use the concertina wire to make a simple snare. The snare would loop around the limb of the animal, and using concertina wire would effective disable it. Wounded animals are very dangerous, but Rosman knew that the concertina wire would take at least half the fight from a snared animal. And it would make the kill easier. If he could catch one in a snare, he’d only have to wait a few hours until the animal got tired of struggling. Then he’d walk in to deliver the coup de grace.

Rosman set up his traps. He also rubbed mud and soil on his bare skin to disguise his foreign smell. He hacked of bits of fronds and branches and made himself a makeshift ‘hut’. He set up his spot so everything was in easy reach. It was almost like a military sniper. He was now well camouflaged, and if luck goes his way, he thought he’d get his prey very soon. All he had to do now was wait.


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When nightfall came, the rainforest seemed to double in activity. The noises seemed louder. From a short distance, Rosman could hear the trumpeting of elephants. Right now, in front of him, lumbered a herd of gaur, the alpha animal massive, easily one tonne in weight. On any other day Rosman would not have hesitated to bring home one of these majestic wild oxen.

But not today.

“Pukul berapa Datuk Harimau…?” he mused in his hiding place.

His rifle was cocked, ready to fire at any time. But a couple of hours passed and no sign of the big cat. When the herd of gaur passed by, Rosman was worried that the animals would set off one of his snares. Fortunately that had not happened. But still. No sign of the striped one.

Rosman nibbled on a biscuit. It was very frightening at night in the rainforest. Often you could hear the animals, but not see them. The game trail was lit only by moonlight. A python slivered by. Unidentified rodents scurried. And then suddenly the jungle fell silent. Rosman immediately went on full attention. The silence had fallen abruptly. And at the same time, there was the tell-tale stench of a predator; a sour, rotten smell. The smell of rancid meat. Rosman eyed the game trail.

It was a leopard.


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The leopard walked, its haunches taut, the spotted pelt glistening beneath the moonlight. Rosman noticed that the cat’s footfalls were as quiet as a feather, and in its jaws was a half-eaten carcass of a turtle. It was a beautiful specimen, and would make a fine trophy. But Rosman ignored it, and let it pass by. To make a kill here would be to compromise his spot.

The leopard passed through, disappearing at the other end of the game-trail. At the very moment it could no longer be seen or smelled, the jungle became alive with noise again. Rosman waited patiently. A pangolin crawled inches beside him, unaware, or rather, ignorant, of his presence.

Rosman felt tired. He had been trekking all day. And so far there has been so signs of a tiger except for the pugmarks. He thought he could afford to rest his eyes for a few minutes. He checked his camouflage, shifted to a more comfortable position, and rested his cheek on the butt-stock of his rifle. He slept.

He did not how many minutes have passed; the night was still cool and dark. The moon was still high in the sky. But he knew he had woken up to the haunting roar of a tiger. His senses jerked to awareness.

The roars sounded distant, but it could also just be due to the layers of insulation the jungle provided. The big cat could be anywhere at all. He readied his rifle, and also his handgun. His eyes darted everywhere, looking for any indication that the tiger was nearby. He waited a few minutes, and the roars subsided.

Rosman sighed, and that eased the tension. He decided to call it a night, and got up to look for a safer place to rest.


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The next morning Rosman woke up fresh and eager. He made breakfast; a ration, with a cup of coffee he heated using a Bunsen burner. As the caffeine and carbohydrates made its way through his blood, he traversed back to the game trail. Rosman checked his traps. All of them were still intact. But he also made a welcome discovery: fresh pugmarks. Large ones, followed by a set of tiny ones. That meant that sometime during the night, the tiger – no, tigress – had passed by here with her cub, and had missed the trap by mere feet. “

Son of a bitch,” Rosman muttered. “You were this close.”

Rosman shook his head and laughed. The sound of his voice was very foreign in this part of the land. Gibbons howled above his head, and a curious hornbill perched on a nearby branch, observing him. Rosman paid no attention to these ‘peripheral animals’. Satisfied with his traps, Rosman decided to further investigate the game trail.

There were signs of various animals along it; footprints, claw marks, stool. At one point he stopped in his tracks, startled by a cobra that reared up in front of him. He waited until the cobra slithered away, and proceeded on his own trek. As he walked with his rifle slung across his shoulder, he noticed a mewling sound coming from some bushes.

Curious, he went to see what was making the noise. It could be anything: a mongoose, or even a frog. But he was hoping it would be the tiger cub. He parted some fronds and branches. He smiled at what he discovered. Hidden beneath a naturally formed canopy of fallen branches and fronds, was a small tiger cub; it was barely the size of a fully-grown housecat. The cub had blue eyes, and the fur was not as orange. Even the stripes were not very prominent. It looked comically like a stuffed toy: fluffy, with an oversized head and paws, and very cute. It hissed angrily at Rosman, and when he reached down to touch it, it swiped a paw at his hand.

Rosman was amused. He stared at the little cub for a moment. It was very young. It probably came from a litter of three; the other two had probably died earlier, through natural causes or predation. Anyway, the fact that this one was hear proved that it was the strongest amongst its siblings. Rosman was also aware that with a cub this young, the mother would not be too far away.

“What should I do with you?” Rosman said whilst prodding a stick at the cub, which was still hissing and batting with its paws. Then Rosman nodded. “I know what. Come along now.”

He picked up the cub by the scruff of the neck and it immediately turned quiet. It was a natural phenomenon amongst all cats. Rosman carried the cub as hurriedly as he could. He had a plan, and his plan required live bait.


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The cub mewled, the sound long winded and wailing. A cry. The expression on the cubs face was of agony, the jewel-lie blue eyes strained. The right hind leg was hanging in the air, suspended by a length of wire tied so tight that it cut into the flesh; it was already bleeding. The cub did not comprehend all this. The more it tried to scurry away and pull from the wire looped around the leg, the deeper the wire cut.

Rosman lay on his belly about sixty meters away, already in camouflage with his rifle set up. He kept his breathing calm. He felt no sympathy for the little tiger cub. He wanted its mother. Earlier, he had taken the cub and looped a length of wire around one of its hind legs. This wire he pulled tightly that the cub yelped in pain. Then he suspended the wire on a shrub, and hoped that the cub’s cries of pain would entice the mother quickly. Once the mother tiger was here, he’d shoot it, butcher it and take the necessary parts. The cub he would kill.

Hours passed and still the mother was nowhere to be seen. Rosman thought maybe the cub had been abandoned, or the mother had been killed by a prey animal. Rosman had seen it happen once before, to a leopard. The leopard had been gored to death by a gaur. But Rosman persisted and waited a few more hours.

The cubs mewling grew weaker and it finally stopped. There was still no sign of the mother tiger. Rosman became tired and irritated. It was supposed to be an easy thing, once you got the cub.

He shifted out of his hiding place and walked to where the cub lay. The little animal was lying on its side, breathing shallowly. It cast one look at Rosman and mewled. Rosman decided to end its misery. He took out his large machete and with one swift stroke he cut the tiger cub in two, right in the middle of the body. It was nearing dusk. Rosman decided he wanted to rest.

That night the roars started. As a precaution, Rosman had set up his camp a bit further from the game trail than the previous night. The roars were haunting, and they seemed to be getting closer. Each time the roars floated through the air, the jungle became silent, as if in fear.

For the first time in his years of hunting, Rosman felt a bit frightened.

This in turn made him feel annoyed. There was this nagging feeling that he was being watched. Sure, he’s felt this way before on previous hunts, but never this strong. And he was also feeling guilty for killing the tiger cub in cold blood earlier. He has never felt guilt before. Not even a few years ago, when he had shot a baby elephant at close range after killing the mother and taking its tusks.

But the fear made his senses extra acute. He could have sworn he could see every leaf on a tree, every movement on the jungle floor no matter how minute, heard every sound no matter how soft. Most of all, Rosman tried to take in every scent; he knew that a predator has a telltale stench of rotten meat. He was on the lookout for such a sign.

He tried to sleep but he could not. Disturbed, he quietly crouch-walked back to the carcass of the tiger cub, now already swarming with insects. He dug a shallow hole with his machete, and chucked the two halves of the cub’s body inside. He then hastily covered it with loose soil and dried leaves. Burying the little cub made him feel slightly relieved. For one, he no longer felt as if there was a pair of eyes watching him intently.

The night became cooler and Rosman hid within the buttress roots of a large tree, not far from his traps. He was hoping the mother tiger would pass by tonight and get ensnared. Within a few minutes, Rosman fell asleep.


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He woke up just after dawn. The jungle was noisy as usual, and he heard the squawks of birds and the ever-present orchestra of a million insects. He stretched his limbs and squeezed the gum out of his eyes. Yawning, he stood up and stopped. A chill ran down his spine.

In front of him was a pile of stool; it stank. Rosman squatted down, and using a stick, he prodded the stool, breaking it up. It was still moist, and when he broke it up he could see traces of bone and animal hair within it. He gulped, suddenly feeling very frightened. The moistness of the stool indicated it was fresh; the bits of bone and the reeking stench told him it was the stool of a predator. Something had visited him not more than a couple of hours ago and left a surprise.

Rosman surveyed the ground around him. There were pugmarks. Large pugmarks, about 8 inches across. And the pugmarks were pointed his way. The big cat had visited him during the night while he slept. It had looked at him and left him a stinking pile of shit. Rosman shivered. It could have been any other tiger, of course. But he was convinced it was the mother of the cub he had killed in cold blood. Why had the big cat just ‘visited’ him?

Nervous, Rosman opened his water canteen, but to his dismay, he realized he had run out. He would have to go to the stream nearby to refill his canteen. Which meant following the game trail. He took deep breaths, his mind a mess. He would be heading back to civilization tomorrow, and he hoped he would have gotten his kill earlier. But kill or not, tomorrow he would go back. His client would need to be told to wait.

Rosman walked along the game trail, checking his traps along the way. None of them had been disturbed. A large python crossed his path, but the snake ignored him and proceeded to climb up a tree. Rosman made his way to the stream. He placed his canteen inside the crystal clear and cold water, filling up. Then he put the canteen aside and bent over to wash his face. The cold water was very refreshing. He washed his face several times, and wet his hair and his neck.

It was then that the smell of rotten meat reached his nostrils, and he heard a low, deep purring sound. The purring turned into a growl. Rosman slowly looked up from his bent over position.

The tiger was across the stream. It was the largest tiger he had ever seen. Unconsciously, Rosman’s hunter’s mind was measuring the animal up; head to tail, the tiger in front of him must be about twelve feet long, easily 200 kilograms. Its pelt was a deep gold color, accented with strips of dark maroon and tufts of white. The eyes were large and yellow, bright and intimidating. The tiger opened its mouth, baring the fierce looking fangs and teeth.

Rosman froze for a moment. He slowly reached his arm around his back to grab the rifle… only to realize it wasn’t there. He kept his body still but mind was panicking. He must have left his rifle where he slept last night, along with his other weapons. He started to tremble. He calculated the distance from the stream to where his weapons lay. He knew he would never outrun the tiger, but by dodging here and there, he could try.

Still crouching, he slowly backed away. The tiger stared at him, proud on all fours. Its growling became louder, but it just stood there. Confident that he had made enough distance to break into a sprint, Rosman began to turn around, slowly.

Then the tiger roared; the sound, this close, was terrifying, blood chilling.

Rosman spun his head and saw the tiger was in a crouching position; that meant only one thing. The tiger bounded. Rosman broke into a run. The tiger roared again.

Rosman ran as fast as he could. He dodged fallen branches and holes, puddles and tree roots. Behind him he heard the tiger pacing, its paws crunching loudly on the jungle floor. Rosman did not bother turning around. He ran, now along the game trail. He heard the deep bassy growls of the big cat behind him. At any minute now he expected to be pinned down from behind, and have his neck broken by powerful jaws.

But something else happened instead. He was running, his lungs burning, when suddenly he felt a searing pain in his left ankle and he tripped. He hit the ground hard and felt his left ankle lifted off the ground. The pain went all the way to the bone. He screamed in pain but he knew what had just happened. He looked anyway.

His left foot was hanging above the ground. Wrapped around the ankle was a snare, made of concertina wire, his very own trap, and the blades cut into the flesh, deeply.

He knew the more he struggled and pulled, the tighter the snare would become. He knew his only chance to release him-self from the snare was to be calm and try to reach for his ankle. And yet to his dismay, he also knew he had set up the trap so that it was extremely difficult to reach for the snare. The pain was so great Rosman forgot about being chased by the tiger until the decaying odor approached him.

He looked to see the big cat was now walking slowly towards him. It stopped about a few feet away from him. The tiger eyes him curiously. Rosman was filled with pain and fear. He tried to scream to frighten the tiger away.

“GO AWAY!” Rosman shouted. “GO! GO! ARRGHH!!!”

But the tiger just stared at him. It approached closer to him and sniffed his body. Rosman tucked his limbs as close to his body as possible. The tiger approached his face, near to his ear. It sniffed in deeply. Then it roared, directly at his ear. It was deafening. Rosman wet and soiled his pants out of fear. This hunt was turning awry in the worst way possible.

The tiger circled his body; and then he saw it was a female; a tigress. He had no doubt this was the mother of the cub he had stolen and killed. It couldn’t be anything else.

The tigress circled him and sniffed every inch of Rosman’s body. Rosman tried to shoo it away but the tigress just ignored him. Then it approached his arm and suddenly lunged at it, biting. First the tigress just grabbed at the arm; the move was so quick Rosman did not have time to pull his arm away; and then the tigress bit down. The crunch of bones was audible and Rosman screamed in pain. The tigress let go and went to the other side of Rosman’s body. This time Rosman swung his good arm wildly, trying not to let the tigress grab hold of it. But it did anyway, just above the wrist. Again it bit down hard, crushing the bones.

Rosman screamed again, and the sounds did not even make the tigress flinch. Rosman thought surely the tigress would kill him now. Instead it left him, abruptly. Rosman felt an uneasy mixture of pain, relief and fear. He was crying now, certain that doom awaited him. The crunching of dried leaves indicated the tigress was back. Rosman, lying on the jungle floor, both arms mangled and non-functioning with his left ankle hanging in a snare, looked at it. The tigress held something in its massive jaws. It dropped the items beside him.

It was the remains of the cub; the upper half, where the head and shoulders were. The carcass was already half eaten by the various scavengers of the jungle. Then the tiger crouched down beside Rosman and kept looking back and forth from the carcass and his face. Rosman burst into fresh tears. His arms lay limp on his side, bleeding.

“Forgive me!!!” he yelled at the animal. “Forgive me! God, forgive me!!”

The tigress was quiet, just purring along. It stood up on its legs. Rosman thought that the time had come for the tigress to kill him. He was now just awaiting death, in the jaws of a beast. Somehow it occurred to him at just how appropriate that is. Predator has become prey. Prey has turned predator. The tigress approached him again and Rosman said prayers.

But suddenly, the tiger leapt over his body and disappeared into the jungle. For a moment Rosman was stunned into surprise. What just happened? Why had the tigress left? Then he felt maybe he could use this opportunity to try and free himself from the snare, even if one right foot was all he had. He wanted to get out of this area, or at least crawl back to where his weapons lay, or he would die trying.

For hours he tried to wriggle out of the snare. But the wound was only getting deeper. Insects began to surround his ankle and arms, which would surely turn septic in this condition. It was hot, damp and humid. If the wounds were left, they would start to smell and that in turn would attract all manners of animals. So Rosman tried his hardest to release himself. This went on until the night.

The jungle was very quiet this time. Rosman lay still, exhausted and in pain. He thought pretty soon he would turn delirious from the pain and extremes of hot and cold. And though he was plagued by nightmares, he managed to fall asleep for hours.


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The rays of sunlight piercing through the canopy onto the jungle floor woke him up. His eyes hurt with with the salt of dried tears. He stank of urine, sweat and faeces. He felt very thirsty. Rosman wished so much that he had never gone on this trip, that he had never taken this customers request, and most of all, that he had never killed the tiger cub. He wished very much he was at home, making love to his wife, or playing with his beloved son, Rosmi. Rosman began crying again at the thought of his son.

Rosman was still in tears a few hours later. The air around him was starting to turn dank and humid. He figured it was nearing noon. Then the jungle fell silent. Rosman stopped his tears and twisted and turned to see where the predator would be coming from. Then, from above his head, he heard the foot-steps, and of course, the rotten smell wafted through the air.

But from his position, he could turn to see the tigress approaching. He sighed. The tigress had returned to kill him. He was resigned to the fact. He heard and felt something being dropped near his head.

Flies buzzed around whatever it was. He twisted his head to see. Struggling, he finally managed to turn his head enough to see what it was that had been dropped near his head.

First he saw a mess of intestines and ragged strands of bloody meat. What was this? Had the tigress killed an animal and given it to him? Twisting some more, he focused on the carcass above him. When he saw what it was, his eyes widened, and he choked. Gathering whatever strength remained in him, he screamed. He screamed so hard his throat burned. Saliva ran out of his mouth.

Above him was the mangled torso of his son, Rosmi. The body had been severed at the mid-section, just below the rib-cage. Rosman had seen deep claw and bite-marks on his sons chest, and he had seen how Rosmi had been killed; Rosmi’s head was almost severed; a crushing bite had been delivered to the base of the skull. His lifeless eyes stared blankly, glazed over. Rosmi’s body was bloody; one arm had been chewed through.

Rosman had seen all that in the space of a few seconds. Already he felt his mind was insane. He screamed and cried. He yelled and shouted. He tried to writhe and struggle but he had no energy. His screams echoed through the jungle.

There were no insects buzzing. No birds were squawking. All the animals had gone silent.

The tigress stood just beside Rosman, watching him scream and lose his mind over the sight of his dead son. It was not going to kill the man. It was just going to let the man die.

The tigress took in a deep breath and roared. Rosman’s screams died down, and the roar of the tiger emanated throughout the jungle. This was its territory.

Violators were severely punished.

- end -
- Happy Year Of The Tiger-