The Shadows Beneath the Jungle

THE VARIOUS HUNTING GROUPS GATHERED at the main gate on the east side of the village. A massive wooden bar was thrown back and two wooden doors, twenty feet high, opened inward to reveal the real world outside. The main road from inside the village strode up to this entrance, then stopped. Beyond was nothing but jungle. No touch of civilization. No worn pathways or machete-cut passages. Just a thick overlay of vines, trees and brush. As we stepped out of the confines of the village, we came to an indecisive halt. There didn’t seem to be any obvious way to go. Just...jungle everywhere.

    “Should have stayed in bed,” Bob mumbled.

    Fallow had led the way this far. He had put on a hat with a wide brim and a kerchief around his neck. Several of the others wore similar hats to protect them from the sun. Bob and I wore baseball caps. Now Fallow turned and addressed the group. “All right. Mark and Samantha, you’re leading the two anoa groups. Head off east and northeast. Sarah and Olivia, you’re in charge of the boar hunts. Head northwest and due south. There should be some good grouping those directions. And my group,” he said and looked at me, “we’ll be going north, following the river towards the mountain.”

    “You mean, up towards the volcano?” Bob asked.

    “Yes, Bob, up towards the volcano that hasn’t been a volcano for over a hundred years. Don’t worry,” Fallow said, and he actually waggled his eyebrows, “I would tell you if it were going to blow.”

    I looked around for Melody, but the groups were already separating and going their assigned routes. I wondered how Fallow knew to go east and northeast for anoa, northwest and due south for boar. Were those the usual areas those animals drifted to, or was there something more involved? Maybe one of Fallow’s visions? More questions for the interviews.

    Fallow lifted a hand, then pointed north. We followed. There were six of us, counting Fallow, Bob and I. The other three introduced themselves as Karen, Cynthia and Oscar. Oscar carried a long bamboo stalk and some rope. He said it was for carrying back the tiger that we killed. All three were from St. Louis, having joined Fallow’s church at various points before his big move to Indonesia. They had followed without hesitation. They trusted him, loved him. He would not steer them wrong.

    I wanted to question them further as we went deeper into the jungle, but it really wasn’t the time or place. Better to wait for a comfortable and quiet room. It was hard enough concentrating to keep my balance and make my way through this thick wild, especially at the pace Fallow was setting.

    Within minutes we heard the sound of rushing water rumbling underneath the other noises of the jungle. We reached the river and Fallow immediately bent over, took up a handful of mud and began spreading it over his arms, the back of his neck and on his face. The other hunters did the same. Bob and I looked at each other. 

    “Mud, guys,” Oscar said to us. “Protects you against the sun and bugs, keeps you cool.”

    “We put on sun block,” I said.

    “Oh. We don’t have that here.”

    “We use what nature gives us,” Fallow said. He was caked in mud now. When the others looked the same, he directed us to move up along the banks of the river, closer and closer to that big green mountain that rose above the darkness of the trees.

    I tried to make some conversation with Fallow, but he told me to shush. “You’ll chase away the tigers,” he warned me. 

    So, we remained quiet as we trudged higher up the gradual slope that led to the foot of the mountain. The sun was high and hot, made worse by the trees that covered us in darkness, so thick that their myriad branches and wide leaves contained the heat, held it, made it feel like we were walking through a pressure cooker. The water rushing down the river was cool, though. Now and then we would reach down and splash some in our faces, let it run down our necks and chests. Eventually, the river became the clearest path for us. It was shallow enough that we could walk down its center, our feet finding purchase on rocks and small stones as the cold water flowed around us, trickling more like a stream than a mighty river. Sunlight glittered here and there like attentive eyes as stray beams of sunlight made their way through the thick canopy above.

    Then, an hour into our trek, for no reason that I could discern, Fallow stopped and said, “Here.”

    Karen, Cynthia and Oscar did not hesitate. They made their way to areas that Fallow pointed out to them. It seemed he was planning to triangulate their shots on some target that hadn’t shown up yet. Great. This was going to be a long waiting game inside a dark bowl of unbearable heat and stinking sweat.

    “Ruben,” Fallow said in a whisper that somehow rode above the hissing of the river. “You and Bob go to those bushes on the bank of the river. You’ll be safe there and should get some magnificent shots.”

    We did as he said. The brush was thick here, but we could step in behind it and see through the leaves to the river. By the time we were in position, Fallow was gone, hidden in his own spot. I looked around. The bank dipped next to us, about a foot down to the water. Insects hopped from nearby trees and tiny mote-sized creatures flew in front of our faces and buzzed our ears. There didn’t seem to be any wind or breeze, so no danger of the animal smelling us first. Sweltering heat kept our flesh slick and shiny. 

    Bob brought his camera up, pointed it at the length of river before us, and we waited.

    We didn’t have to wait long. The tiger appeared after about ten minutes. 

    It eased out of the brush on the opposite bank, about 100 feet upriver. Even at this distance it looked massive: a long, well-fed body, sharp black stripes against soft orange fur, powerful shoulder muscles bunching and relaxing, a bristly half-circle of whiskers around its jaws. Its ears rode high on its head as it looked around, scanning for anything it might eat. Seeing nothing, it lowered its great head and began to dart a tongue out to drink the cool water. 

    “How could he know,” Bob whispered to me. He had his camera pointed, recording the terrifying animal before us. “How could Pastor Fallow know,” he said again, “that the tiger would appear right there? We had it surrounded before it even showed up.”

    “Maybe that’s where the tigers always come,” I whispered back. “Maybe there’s a well-worn animal path behind those bushes—”

    “Ruben.”

    “—that provides easy access to the river. Maybe animals use it all the time—”

    “Ruben.”

    “Hmm?”

    “It’s looking at us.”

    I looked upriver. The tiger had its head up and it did seem to be looking our way.

    “We’re hidden behind these bushes,” I whispered. “How can it see us?”

    “It’s looking right at us.”

    “We’re not moving. We’re too far away. How could it see us?”

    “I zoomed in to its eyes, man. Its big yellow eyes. And it’s looking rightat us.”

    I watched the tiger. It hadn’t moved, hadn’t twitched. Its face was aimed in our direction. It couldn’t smell us, there was no breeze. It couldn’t hear us, the river was too loud. Maybe it had caught sight of a bird or some other prey? 

    “No,” I said, “it can’t—”

    And then the tiger exploded with a roar and it charged us.

    “Fuck!” screamed Bob. “Shoot it! Shoot it! Shoot that motherfucker!”

    I would have, but in my shock, I dropped my rifle and it slid down the bank into the river. Fortunately, the water wasn’t moving fast or hard enough to drag the gun away, but I had to lean down to reach it.

    “Ruben, shoot!”

    I pushed my arm further, my shoulder screaming in pain. I couldn’t get far enough past the brush to quite reach it, but I kept pushing, pushing, my fingers glancing over the wood stock of the rifle, nearly there—

    The tiger’s roar was like a slap in the face. I couldn’t help glancing up. It had covered half the distance between us in seconds. And there was no doubt it was coming right for us. Those yellow eyes were clear now, and they were angry and they were hungry. Its teeth were fully bared, sharp white blades—

    “Goddamn it, Ruben! Shoot!”

    I pushed so hard it felt like my shoulder was going to bust right out of its socket. I touched the rifle now, but it was slippery and my fingers couldn’t get purchase. I could feel Bob struggling next to me, trying to pull his handgun from his waistband. The tiger roared again, and it felt like it was right there next to my ear, trying to make me deaf before it made me into breakfast—

    And then the air was shattered by a gunshot. 

    I looked up fast. The blast had landed right in front of the beast, making it skid to a stop, river water splashing all around it, and then the tiger was turning and darting into forest on our side of the bank, limber and faster than any creature that weighed that much should be.

    Fallow appeared, stepping into the center of the river and bringing his rifle up for another shot. He aimed, and I waited for the blast. It didn’t come. Fallow lowered his gun and shouted, “Karen! Cynthia!” He moved his arm in a jerky motion, pointing to his far right. Upriver, in the distance, I saw the two women cross the waters and jump into the jungle. “Oscar!” Fallow called. His arm made a curving motion to our left. I heard a splash behind us and whirled around, nearly screaming. But it was Oscar, moving across the river and into the jungle. 

“You two!” came Fallow’s voice. I looked up and he was pointing at Bob and I. “Stay with me! Hurry!”

    I stood, pushed myself around the brush and grabbed up my rifle. I wondered if it would still work if it was wet. I guess I really didn’t have a choice. We hurried to catch up to Fallow as he marched his way into the thick brush.

    Fallow moved impossibly fast. I’d seen movies where travelers would have to cut a path through the jungle with machetes. Yet somehow Fallow dipped and ducked and swerved around the endless gauntlet of vines and trees and low brush. His speed did not let up. Bob and I were gasping for breath. My body was boiling. My head felt like it was going to explode. Yet Fallow kept on. 

    “It’s too fast!” I finally called out, hoping to get him to stop and let us catch our breath.

    “It’s not going far,” Fallow said.    

    “Why not? Doesn’t it want to get away from the people with guns?”

    “It’s hungry,” Fallow said in his dark, quiet voice. “It wants to eat us as much as we want to eat it.”

    “We could go back to the river and wait for another one,” Bob suggested.

    “No, Bob. I think our gunshots have scared away any other tigers in the area for the rest of the day.” He pointed ahead. “This one is ours.”

    So, we kept moving. I listened for the tiger, but also for Karen and Cynthia and Oscar. I didn’t hear anything. Just jungle noises.

    But Fallow heard something. He suddenly jerked to the right and said, “There!” and moved so fast he nearly disappeared into the darkness before we could catch up. We were moving upward now, at the foot of the mountain that Fallow swore was no longer a volcano. The underbrush was thick here, waist high and terrifying in what it might be hiding. Fallow moved cautiously now, perhaps also aware that the tiger might be lurking beneath that green covering, could be lying in wait for us, ready to pounce the moment we got close enough.

    I managed to push myself beside Fallow and whisper, “The tiger knows this jungle. It has the advantage. Maybe we should retreat.”

    Fallow grinned and said, “But we have God on our side, Ruben.” 

    “What if God likes tigers?” I said.

    He looked at me, raised his eyebrows as if to say, “I hadn’t thought about that,” then smiled and continued forward.

    We reached a small clearing, about thirty feet in length between gnarled trees that might have been twisted into the earth like a screw. Above, we could actually see the sky: deep blue and still. Fallow moved around the perimeter, listening, his rifle ready. Bob and I grabbed at our canteens and took several swallows of warm water.

    When we could breathe again, I asked Bob, “You doing okay lugging that camera around?”

He shrugged. He was a big, strong guy, but I couldn’t imagine rushing through this jungle with that extra ten pounds or so on his shoulder. 

    “I’m okay,” he said. “We’ve been through deserts and mountains and shit, so this isn’t much worse.”

    “Bet you could use a nap.”

    “Yeah, about a ten-hour nap.”

    Fallow suddenly whipped around and shushed us. We watched as he stood very still, listening, listening...

    And then I heard it too. A very low growl to our right, deep in the brush, but very close.

I brought my rifle up slowly and aimed where I thought I heard the noise. Fallow came up beside me and did the same. “Do not fire blindly,” he whispered to me.

    I wiped sweat from my stinging eyes, tried to concentrate. I couldn’t hear the growl anymore. But there was something moving around in the brush in front of me. I could see the leaves vibrate, hear a crack of sticks or hiss of brush as something stepped on them. I kept my rifle pointed, finger on the trigger, ready for any movement.

    Silence.

    Everything was still.

    Even the insects around us seemed to go quiet.

    Then I saw the leaves shiver in front of me. Something was moving there. And it was close. I took a step back, another. My rifle kept a bead on that movement in the undergrowth. My eyes strained for a trace of orange, of fur, of cruel, yellow eyes looking back at me.

    Fallow had not backed away as I had, so I could still see him in my peripheral vision. I flinched when he suddenly twirled to our left and pointed his rifle at the brush at the far end of the clearing.

    “Fallow,” I whispered, tension turning my words into a growl. “Fallow, what’re you doing? It’s over here. It’s in front of me.”

    The brush was still moving ahead, something coming closer. I could hear the pad of its feet now, stepping carefully, muscles tensing, ready to pounce.

    But Fallow kept his rifle up and aimed at the far end of the clearing, his back to me. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Simply aimed and waited.

    “Fallow!” I spat. “It’s here! It’s right in front of me! To your right!”

    Did I see a hint of orange? My finger nearly pulled the trigger. I held my breath. Whatever was under that brush was nearly at the edge of the clearing now.

    “Fallow!” I whispered harshly again. “It’s going to—”

    And then the animal burst through the undergrowth and leaped towards me, and before I could tell myself, It’s a bird, just a big bird! I fired and blew its head off.

    “Fuck!” I breathed out.

    And then the clearing was filled with a mighty roar as the tiger pounced from the brush, claws out, teeth bared, coming down on us from the far end of the clearing.

    Fallow fired, already aimed in that direction.

    I fell back, landing hard on my hip, but I still saw the tiger’s head explode in a mist of blood and brain, its perfect face distorted by the blow, then ravaged as its skull crumbled. It hit the ground hard, its legs no longer able to support it, and it flipped onto its side and over again before coming to a stop nearly at Bob’s feet.

    Bob had also fallen on his ass, his back up against one of those gnarled trees, and kicked at the tiger’s dead body to try to get a few more inches of space between them.

    As Bob and I tried to catch our breaths, Fallow moved up on the tiger and surveyed his handiwork. “Excellent,” he said. “Good head shot.”

    I sucked in what air I could and said, “You knew it was going to be there.”

    “Yes.”

    “How?”

    He looked at me and grinned. “I’d like to say that God told me. But to be honest, I just have very good ears.”

    I sighed and nodded. I’d been so worked up about what had been in front of me that I hadn’t heard anything else.

    Fallow walked over to what was left of my prey and said, “Well, well, Ruben. It looks like you got yourself something, too.”

    “A stupid bird,” I said, embarrassed.

    Fallow held his finger up at me. “Ah, ah, ah! Don’t underestimate your contribution, Ruben. This is a good-sized peafowl. About ten pounds, I’d say. That’ll feed a dozen adults, even more children. You’ve done very well. Nice head shot. We won’t have to pick any bullet fragments out of the body.” He came over to me, held out his hand and pulled me to my feet. “Well done,” he said with a wide smile. “Very well done, Ruben.”

    “Not as impressive as yours,” I said. We hovered over the dead tiger. “What do you think he weighs?”

    “Three hundred pounds or so.”

    Suddenly, the underbrush behind us rattled, accompanied by pounding steps. I looked for my rifle as I backed away—and tripped over the tiger. I may have let out a small scream. Bob later enjoyed telling me that I had.

    Turned out it was just the trio: Karen, Cynthia and Oscar. They saw the tiger and immediately spread their arms, turned their heads up and chanted: “O God please...O God please...thank you so much for this offering...”

    Fallow joined them as Bob helped me to my feet. I brushed at my clothes, avoiding Bob’s amused look.

    When the chorus was done, Oscar said he’d go get the bamboo stalk and rope. Fallow agreed, then turned to me. “Well, Ruben, a wonderful day of hunting. I’ll bet the other groups have also bagged their limit. We should be eating well for the next several days.”

    “How do you keep something like this refrigerated?”

    “Oh, we don’t. We can keep some of it in the cold water of the river for a couple days, but that only goes so far. We have to eat what we kill right away. So, by the end of next week, we’ll be back out here hunting again.”

    “You hunt tigers all the time?”

    “No. Just special occasions.” He looked at me and Bob. “Such as visitors from far-off lands.”

    “We’re honored,” I said.

    “Say, Pastor Fallow,” said Bob, surveying our prize for the day. “What does tiger taste like?”

    “Not like chicken. It’s a bit gamey. But plenty of protein.” He bent down and patted the side of the dead beast. “You two will have a unique honor, actually. You’ll be two of the few human beings on earth who have ever tasted tiger.”

    Bob thought about that for a moment. “But aren’t these tigers from around here? Don’t Indonesians eat them?”

    “Oh, goodness no, Bob,” said Fallow, rising again. “They can’t hunt them or eat them. Sumatran tigers are an endangered species.”