Tiger crouching, slinking, jumping. Tiger clawing, slashing, biting. Tiger tearing flesh. Tiger eating, feasting, gorging. Tiger holding Agwari in his claws, a mighty clutch he could not escape. Tiger skulking away with licking tongue of satisfaction. Agwari waiting to die. Agwari seeing his blood, black stains on the ground, seeing it soaking into the earth, feeling no pain, nor having the despair he thought that he would feel if this moment came to him. He is alone but he knows the others are watching from a distance. And for one brief moment, he is feeling anguish at never seeing Sarana again.
The images crept across the wall, wild flickerings of imagination and half sleep. Ready to pounce, ready to kill. It was dancing light that greeted his first vision of the day. He had tossed and turned all night, caught and held and ravaged over and over, again and again, in relentless encounters with the tiger. He died every time. He relived the agony through the night.
When he was fully awake she was already tending the fire and preparing food. Agwari knew this would be so and he was pleased and at ease with her ordained function. He went outside to relieve himself and pissed away a nighttime of terrible dreams and, hopefully, so purge his fear. When he came inside and positioned himself by the fire, she brought broth to him and held it close. He could feel the tiger’s hot breath on his face again and his stomach tightened with pangs of fear. Each thought related to the day’s hunt, his senses keen for that moment of conflict. He drank the hot liquid she handed him as he stood naked, the heat radiating against his skin. He ate sparingly of the chunks of meat she offered, and put the remaining pieces in a small pouch he would carry at his waist.
As he drank, she murmured to him the sounds of comfort in her quiet voice. They were words of support and of understanding for the fear he did not show, the fear she knew was deep inside him.
“The bad night is away, gone, the day coming and clear, and you will be safe.” She spoke this to him and his reply was a slow nod as if he agreed, as if he wanted to believe her when he knew he would not be safe and had grave doubts he could survive the hunt. He could sense her emotion for him and this gave him courage.
Agwari clothed himself with skins, then took the shaft of his favorite spear in his hands. It felt good and he grunted approval. The spear was his completeness, part of his manhood. He looked out from the mouth of the cave to see other men gathering for the hunt in the dim light of dawn. There was much soft talk. He could hear them speaking carefully chosen words, the quiet banter of building courage, the nervous anticipation for the hunt. Those voices gave him pleasure to know he would be part of their day. It was their mutual commitment. It was good.
Sarana stood close to him, experiencing his tension, understanding his desire to be with the men, believing Agwari did not know she could feel his excitement, could feel his reservations for what they were about to do.
Pikwa was their leader; he knows the tiger, he has experienced the tiger, he has lived to tell his adventures with the tiger. Agwari told Sarana that Pikwa will keep them safe, he was sure of this. She touched his hand and he rubbed her cheek lightly with two fingers. He walked away to be with the other men and move on into the forest.
Agwari and the other men followed Pikwa single file along a slight trail with Agwari fourth in line. It was a determined march through dense foliage and tall, overhanging trees. The men did not speak, only the sounds of the birds and the rustle of leaves could be heard. They had walked for more than an hour when Pikwa raised his hand for the column to halt. They had reached a small stream.
“Drink,” Pikwa said and they all knelt to cup water to their mouths with their hands.
Deep in the forest, surrounded by the unseen and unknown, the presence of danger was a constant burden to each of them. It was sensed, a feeling, like knowing when the rain would come, a penetrating stab of instinct that was unmistakable.
“We are near place of tiger,” Pikwa warned. “Must be ready, smell the air, listen to the wind.”
Today the tiger was their prey because he must be removed from their hunting ground. Yes, even though it was a necessary mission, they would still share in the flesh from his dangerous, respected body. Pikwa would have the skin, and all would make use of teeth and claws and bones and guts. There would be no waste; he would be totally theirs. They would stop the tiger from stealing their deer and chasing away the smaller animals. He threatened their survival and he must be removed.
Pikwa walked away from the stream and continued on the trail as the men followed. Agwari was now at the end of the column after taking longer to drink. A short distance later, Pikwa stopped, raised his hand for the men to stop, and listened carefully. He sniffed deeply, his nostrils flaring and curling to capture any scent available. He slowly lowered his hand and moved ahead.
The snarling tiger sprang out of the underbrush with such suddenness and fury that three men were felled by the power of that onrush and the noise of his rage. They scrambled on their hands and knees to pick up their spears, but the tiger was on them. It snapped Pikwa’s neck with a single lunge and crush of his jaws, and turned to slash at the other two who were now on their feet attempting to spear it. They were futile in their tries and the tiger batted at their thrusts as if he were merely playing with them. He sliced open the chest of one and ripped the thigh of the other.
The incredible ear-splitting screams of pain were terrifying to Agwari. He realized that Pikwa was dead and the other men were running away, not helping. Running away in fear. Pikwa was dead; he could not help. Agwari was alone watching the tiger clawing, slashing, biting; the tiger tearing flesh. Soon the tiger would be eating, feasting, gorging if it did not bring its attention to him.
He turned and ran as fast as he could as long as he could until he dropped to the ground with exhaustion. His chest heaved and his throat was on fire. He waited until he could control his breathing before continuing on at a fast-paced walk, throat raw, eyes streaming tears. When he returned to their clearing and could see the mouth of the cave, he relaxed somewhat. None of the other men were to be seen. Agwari was glad for that.
He went directly to the fire, avoiding Sarana, and crouched down close to the low flames. She came behind him and touched his shoulder. She had seen his face, saw the look in his eyes, and sensed the despair of his slouched body as he had moved past her.
“Tiger come before we know he there,” Agwari said haltingly. “Kill Pikwa first. Bito die next. Molo run. Lonca run, all run. Agwari run.”
He hung his head as he squatted by the fire, crushed into a ball of humiliation by his confessed cowardice. Agwari had seen himself die in his dreams so real, so certain, and was sure of the danger that awaited him, filled with doubt, tortured by anxiety, but never expecting failure in the show of courage. He had been driven by his own internal demand to be a part of the hunt, to be with the other hunters even though he assumed he would be taken by the tiger.
“Agwari run,” he said again, “they die.”
She put her hand on his shoulder as she handed him a bowl of hot herb tea. He sipped it slowly and the taste of defeat and death filled his mouth and shocked his senses. She placed a robe of deerskin around his shoulders and slowly rubbed his back. She was glad he had run.