A shrill voice echoed in the mist. The beast had come, like it had so many times before. Windell saw the open-mouthed fear in the tribesmen and stayed eagerly behind them, clutching his Snider rifle as they pushed through the brush, thick jungle leaves over their heads. Leaning down he tried to see through the foliage, a fleeting attempt to catch a glimpse of the beast or its unwitting victim.

Why did he have to abandon the guide and come alone? Always, always alone. It was practically his mantra. It wasn’t all his fault though, people were so terribly disappointing sometimes. He came to India to not be one of those terribly disappointing individuals. The British Expedition would be happy to learn about the killing of the tiger in the Khulna Valley but Windell had scoured his mind for the last few days, deciding whether he would feel the same. He certainly wasn’t here for this nonsense, to trudge through the incredibly varied temperatures of the Meghna River, to scout the area and deem it safe for the main expedition team, and now to hunt a possible man-killer in the heat and muck, insect and disease-riddled as it was. A group of tribesmen continued rushing through the leaves, some of them practically invisible, their numbers untold, making the leaves move and rustle like the turbulent ocean. Some came out of the brush near the riverbed.

He squinted, trying to determine their motives and if anyone had been injured. Based on the shriek a moment ago he would assume that one of the village hunters would have been fatally wounded. Windell wasn’t a sea captain, which meant he wasn’t much of anything, other than a surveyor and part-time cartographer. Nor had he the experience to determine what was a call of pain or a call-to-arms. Fame, it seemed, was not in the cards for him. Quickly waking from his thoughts he saw the lead hunter, a middle-aged man in a loincloth, gazing up at the forested hillside towards himself. The hunter was frozen in place like a statue and for a short breath Windell thought he was staring directly at him, but he wasn’t.

A growl, deep and bass, drove a rod of shock up his spine that went to his brain and caused him to drop his Snider, fingers trembling like a mouse standing in front of the maw of an alligator. The sniffing of a great nose touched his shoulder blade, huffing and breathing in sharply. He tried to clear his mind, facing impending death from the beast behind, but kept imagining his old tabby cat running across the living room floor and how it would meander up to him and lick her paws. The same type of licking sounded from the beast, as it was either licking its own paws or its own lips.

The village hunters held their spears aloft and their bows and arrows tight, aiming directly for him. Were they planning on shooting through him? He slowly shook his head but he couldn’t tell if they understood. An arrow whizzed by his head and landed somewhere in the underbrush behind him. Echoing through his chest the bass of the growl that followed drove his heart to deep despair. He had been a fool to come here, he had always been a fool. The divorce, the failed attempt at naturalist writing, the rejection letter from Harvard. Rejection. Enough to last a lifetime.

Another arrow followed a hiss from the beast as Windell felt a tug on his shirt and was promptly pulled into the underbrush, the river and the hunters disappeared before him in a blur. Huge fangs ripped at his clothes and rifle strap as it pulled him further and further into the jungle, the leaves slapping his face into oblivion. He was being taken. Deeper. Somewhere dark to be devoured, far from the villagers, far from anyone who could help.

He tried to fight but once he placed his fingers on the large fang dragging him he realized there was little chance of survival. The beast would find a quiet place soon and eviscerate him, eat its fill, and leave him for the scavengers. A trench opened up along the tiger’s path and his shirt tore, allowing Windell to fall away. He quickly turned and was overcome with a glorious but terrifying vision. A tiger of immense size, at least it seemed large from the ditch, stood above him, lowering its head, sniffing the air, its lips quivering. The most striking aspect of the beast though was its color. The natural orange fur was darker, giving it the appearance of having swam in an ocean of blood.

Windell wished he hadn’t dropped the Snider and clumsily grabbed a rock and threw it, missing the tiger’s head completely. To his surprise the tiger ran away, turning away only briefly, and came back, laying the rock down into the ditch, its mouth open. As he examined the tiger closer he could tell, his fear dissipating, that the fur coat was cleaner than it should have been, the hair less coarse than it should be, and the stomach more sizable than it should be. She, as this became clear as well, was well-fed, cared for, and maintained, drawing similarities to the tigers he had seen in zoos and circuses. But there were no zoos in the area, not in Khulna anyways. Either the tiger escaped and found her way here or this was a tiger from the Koshti tribe, who treat tigers with reverence and occasionally open arms.

The hunters were approaching and would surely slay her, such a beautiful creature did not deserve such a fate. He, on the other hand, finally had a purpose and wished only to aid in her retreat. What other significance did he have? Other than to be an ally to this great beast?

Without hesitation he retrieved a biscuit and fed it to the tigress, who gulped it up quickly without chewing. She heard the approaching disturbance of twigs snapping and, ignoring his presence, jumped up the hillside. Following closely he ran behind her, giving her kind words, until, after an hour or so, she entered a gap in the brush that opened into a small clearing surrounded by foliage. This appeared to be her home as the grass seemed to be matted in a circle, around which she sauntered and eventually plopped down next to a stick which she gnawed with content, again oblivious to the fact that a man was standing in her residence.

Over the next day there were no signs of the hunters and he was grateful for it. The tiger acted with great kindness to him, licking his forehead and offering pleas of delight through various growling, while he gave her soft petting and chin rubs like he had his tabby cat. As a reward, as he saw it, she led him to water nearby and would occasionally throw him pieces of dead rodent which he ate and cooked while staring at her. He couldn’t determine where this affection came from but accepted it and returned twice as much kindness as he received. They would spend hours under the protection of the jungle thicket, Windell deciding whether he would return home or if there was anything there for him at all. Over several days of peaceful existence and playful frolicking through the Khulna jungle and Meghna River, he made his choice to stay.

He lived happily and didn’t worry anymore about where his life would take him. It didn’t seem to matter. Her fur was warm during the nights and would conceal him during the days. After all there was no better place to hide than behind a corpulent, large cat when villagers would be seen in the distance, which had been rare. They were alone, the two of them, traversing the beautifully green landscape, romping and running with each other, chasing wild animals. He lost himself to the passing moments, caring only to stare endlessly into her eyes and she, with a lap of the tongue, staring back. Reverence, like the Koshti tribe. That was what this was. Or was it something more? Something further inside himself that needed release. She didn’t seem like a man-eater and probably never would be. The world was dead to him. He would never go back, he thought watching the sun go down at night, not ever.

Windell, having just eaten his fill of a mouse, was feeling lethargic and had been laying on his back for some time. The tigress had rolled over and was swatting at his face, evidently in a playful mood. He saw the half smile, open-mouthed, that cats have when they’re feeling jovial and decided to play back, putting his hands up against the ravishing. The paws were massive and he had the scars on his hands to prove it. In that moment of gentle play he was free. Playing rougher he pushed against the paws until her arms were strained, pushing back. He gazed into her eyes and became relaxed, letting go of her paw, which struck down, cutting suddenly into his stomach. Wincing in pain he closed his eyes and when he opened them again saw that her claw had penetrated his stomach, quite deeply in fact that he reacted by pushing her away.

The blood pooled on his lower sternum in seconds. Dread filled the same area of his stomach. No, this couldn’t be. It was an accident. She didn’t mean to. Heartbroken he pulled himself up and was met with a knowing growl, a miserable moan that came from her open maw. She didn’t mean to, he kept telling himself, she was just playing. Already he could tell his sight was fading, his body losing too much blood as it turned the green around them crimson. His love, her gentle expression of down turned gaze, recognized the wound. She sniffed it, chuffing with displeasure. The more the blood pooled the more she became concerned, standing over him, he, trying to tell her everything would be alright, trying to calm her. It didn’t work. She whimpered and licked his forehead. It was a shame, a pure, bitter shame that it had come to this, that his seemingly first and only love would be his undoing, his death, since it was clear he would not be making it to a hospital to close the three-inch deep gash to the right of his belly button. He laid there, immobile, stagnant, losing the sharpness in his vision, for such a time that he had almost forgotten about the gash. How cruel, how unfair…that he had been born in this weak body, a body made of wax paper, full of soft jellylike organs and tissue. Her fur however was luxurious, thick, and reached an almost spiritual beauty.

No, what was that? What was she doing? His mind failing, flies woke him as he lifted his head to witness his red tigress licking around the wound, perhaps to clean it, he envisioned, but no. It became apparent that this wasn’t the case as she drooled over his stomach. A shooting pain woke him further, compelling him to howl in anger when she tugged at the skin around the wound. Tugging lightly, then harder. More agony! He protested, pushing her nose but she did not abide and became lost in the same type of passion he had for her affection but only in her hunger. She tore a chunk of intestines from the hole with a great bite, sending a shrill scream from his throat as the anguish became too much and his limbs froze in their spastic positions.

He screamed and screamed until his throat cracked and blood shot from his lips like a fountain. His beloved, cruel tigress, cruel as nature intended, tugged and pulled, rending his stomach wide open for the cold air to cause him to shiver. He wished he knew why she had done this. Oh why, the pain, the misery, the shock. Why had he sought emptiness in a jungle of thorns and monsters? She had saved him from his own dark thoughts but only so that she could embrace her own.

Blood leaving his body. Eyes fading. He stared up at the trees above and knew no one would find his body here. Lost to the jungle. Lost to his love. A final tug at his inner organs, he barely felt it. Although in the end he accepted her as she was. The plunderer of viscera. The keeper of his heart. Lovers, they’ll love you to the end, until they take all the love from you and decide they no longer need you, tearing you to pieces, leaving no trace.