Not yet, but soon, she said.
His eyes snapped open as he realized he really was hearing a sound. A soft breathing sound that came from the edge of the cliff, whence an icy fog was emanating like incense. Instinctively he readied his bow, knowing that even if he got his prey, he likely wouldn’t make it down the mountain. He just didn’t want to end up as a leopard’s meal.
He felt, rather than saw, the leopard climb up onto the ledge, its silhouette weaving through the brume. He gasped and lowered his bow when it finally revealed itself, just yards away from him.
It wasn’t a leopard at all, but a tigerling.
From nose to the tip of the tail, it was as long as his arms stretched wide apart—just the size of a full-grown leopard. It was too big to be called a cub, though still too young to hunt on its own. The tigerling looked at the hunter with curious eyes, twitching its circles of ears padded with white fur. Its calm yellow irises were neither threatened nor threatening. It had almost certainly never seen a human being before, and looked mildly puzzled by the strange apparition. The hunter gripped his bow tighter. It was, he realized, the first time he’d spotted a tiger within range.
Hunted by the Japanese in every hill and valley, tigers had been driven deep into the wildest mountains. The prices had gone up accordingly for their skin, bone, and even meat, which had never before been the reason they were hunted, but had become a fashionable delicacy on the tables of wealthy Japanese. They believed that eating tiger flesh gave you its valor, and held banquets where officers decked with epaulettes and medals and upper-class ladies in European dresses sat down to taste courses made entirely of tiger parts.
With this kill, he would be able to buy enough food to last three years. Perhaps even a plot of land. His children would be safe.
But the wind howled into his ear, and he lowered his bow and arrow. Never kill a tiger unless it decides to kill you first.
He got up to standing, which sent the tigerling scampering backward like a village pup. Before it even disappeared back into the fog, the hunter turned around and started his descent through the thickening snow. Within a span of a few hours, the snow had already gathered halfway up his calf. The hollowness that had made his feet lighter was now dragging him closer to the earth with every step. A gray, colorless dusk was draped over the shivering trees. He started praying to the god of the mountain, I’ve let go of your attendant creature, please let me make it down.
The blizzard stopped at nightfall. He came halfway down the mountain before his legs buckled and he fell knee first into snow. He was on fours like an animal; when even his elbows gave out he curled into the powder, sparkling white in the moonlight. Then he thought, I should be facing the sky, so he heaved himself over onto his back. The moon was gently smiling down on him: it was the closest thing in nature to mercy.
*
“WE’VE BEEN GOING IN CIRCLES,” Captain Yamada said. The others around him looked frightened, not just because what he was saying was true, but also because he dared to voice this calamity in the presence of his superior.
“These trees are all growing thicker on this side—so that way must be south. But you see how we have been heading the opposite way for the past hour!” Captain Yamada exclaimed, barely concealing his contempt. At twenty-one, he already had the manner of someone used to giving orders and opinions without once being challenged, which was a habit born out of his highly influential family. The Yamadas were a cadet branch of an ancient samurai clan, and his father, Baron Yamada, was a close friend of Governor-General Hasegawa himself. The Hasegawas and the Yamadas both hired Englishmen to educate their sons, and Genzo had toured Europe and America with a Hasegawa cousin before returning to take the commission. That was how he’d been made a captain at such a young age, and why even his superior Major Hayashi was careful not to offend him.
“We can’t keep going around like this, sir.” Captain Yamada finally directed his comment at Major Hayashi, and the whole group came to a halt. These were four sergeants, the local police chief Fukuda and two of his men, and a Korean guide.
“So what do you think we should do then, Captain?” Major Hayashi said, slowly and deliberately, as though they were back in the barracks and not in the snowy mountains, the night fast closing down on them.
“It’s getting darker by the minute, and we won’t find the right way at night if we lost it by day. We should make camp for tonight. As long as we can avoid freezing to death, we’ll be able to make our way down tomorrow at first light.”
The group fell even quieter, anxiously anticipating Major Hayashi’s reaction. He had never before become impatient with Captain Yamada’s impertinence, but this time, in such a dire state, the conflict had an air of mutiny. Major Hayashi regarded his subordinate’s face with cool indifference, wearing the kind of expression he had when considering a new pair of boots or the best way to skin a rabbit. In spite of his pure and profound brutality, Hayashi was not a man given to uncalculated outbursts. At last, he turned to a sergeant and started giving orders for making camp. The group, visibly relieved, dispersed to collect firewood, or such as could be had when it was snowy and wet.