Markov and Pochepnya were one and the same, it still had to be
confirmed, and this was one of the purposes of this trip down the
Takhalo. It was also an opportunity for the new arrivals to take this
tiger’s measure and see where he was headed. Everyone on the team was
a lifelong hunter and this was a good day for hunting; spirits were high.
Walking together in loose formation down the river, one had the sense
that these men, whom fate had gathered from end to end of Russia, were
doing what they were made to do. They were all workers with a deep
affinity for the taiga, and there was a certain bracing joy—like that of
sled dogs being put into harness—in being presented with a task that was
not just worthy of their mettle but bound to test it. They were in Arseniev
and Yankovsky territory now, and it was in part the promise of such
challenges that had lured most of them or their parents to the Far East in
the first place.
Seeing that Trush was filming, they razzed one another: “Aw fuck,”
said one. “It’s too bad I didn’t put my gold epaulettes on.”
“What were you thinking, you stupid ass?” called another. “You
missed your chance.”
Of all of them, it was Yuri Trush, alone behind the camera, who bore
the day’s burden most heavily—not just because he was the mission’s
now embattled leader, but because, with the exception of Sasha
Lazurenko, he was the only one present who truly, viscerally grasped
what a tiger could do to a human being. The rest would understand soon
enough and, when they got to the site, the collective mood sobered
quickly. There was no mistaking the implications of the pale and hairless
scat that lay on the ice like a warning at midstream. Nor was there any
confusion about the limping tracks: this was the same tiger. The
inspectors projected a solemn intensity there as if it was a murder scene,
and Trush urged everyone to take special care with the evidence.
Together, these six men represented close to two hundred years of
hunting experience—most of it in tiger country—and yet none of them
had witnessed anything quite like this. Stepping carefully, speaking only
in soft tones, they followed the tiger’s tracks to Tsepalev’s shredded
mattress, which was spattered with blood and laced with tiger hair.
ron
(Ron)
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