17

Every   fact    seemed  to  warrant me  in  concluding  that    it  was anything

but  chance  which   directed    his     operations;     he  made    two     [separate]

attacks ... both    of  which,  according   to  their   direction,  were    calculated

to  do  us  the most    injury....  His aspect  was most    horrible,   and such    as

indicated   resentment  and fury.

OWEN    CHASE,

Narrative   of  the Most    Extraordinary   and Distressing

Shipwreck   of  the Whale-Ship  Essex,  of  Nantucket^1

THERE ARE NO STREETLIGHTS IN SOBOLONYE, AND THE

SUN WAS keeping winter hours, so darkness of a profound kind set in
around five in the afternoon. People stayed indoors. If they had to go out,
they only did so armed, even to the outhouse. Inside, by their massive
Russian stoves, people paid close attention to the barking of their dogs
and any augury a change in timbre—or a sudden silence—might contain.
Daylight, fire, weapons, and wild animals were now determining the
shape and schedule of the villagers’ lives. It was as if the clock had just
been turned back a hundred years—or a million.
Andrei Pochepnya’s death had a profound effect on the people around
him, and it moved their understanding of this tiger into unfamiliar
territory. Never, in the living memory of the Bikin, had there been such a
sense of menace emanating from the forest itself. Markov’s death had
been tragic, but one could still find in it an elemental logic, even justice:
Markov, it could be said, had been forgiven his trespasses as he forgave
those who trespassed against him. He had judged the tiger and, in turn,
been judged by him. But what had young Andrei done? He had been
devoured while checking his traps for weasels. His mother was shattered,