Volume One, Chapter Thirty-Six: Survival in the Jungle

In the pouring rain, the Nu River was like the longest and largest beast in the vast mountain forests, opening its bloody maw wide and raging through the darkness. The rain ceased as abruptly as it had begun, but the farther downstream one went, the greater the drop, and the more ferocious the floodwaters became.

Moonlight shone on the mountains and forests, illuminating the desperate struggle for life of the flying squirrel, whose will to survive was shattered again and again by the violent waves. All it could do was stare in terror as massive boulders rushed towards it, only to narrowly miss as they thundered past.

Within the surging river, the flying squirrel dodged relentlessly, evading the razor-sharp blades of wild grass along the banks—each blade as lethal as a knife. Fortune favored it; the massive tree trunks, torn from the mountainside and carried by the current, moved with unstoppable force, but their size slowed them as they struck the banks, giving the flying squirrel just enough time to dive beneath the surface or slip to the side.

Just half a day ago, even when faced with the search party of over a hundred men led by Ruoaya, he had not felt so close to death.

He reminded himself: Do not be afraid. You cannot afford to be afraid.

Otherwise, he might die of terror before the river could drown him.

When a sudden wave dragged him under, or a whirlpool sucked him beneath the surface, he had no idea how long he would have to hold his breath before resurfacing. He strained to keep his lungs from bursting.

A large piece of driftwood floated past; he lunged and clung to it.

After so long in the water, his stomach began to revolt; he vomited several times.

Just before dawn, he saw dozens of snakes tangled together in the water, writhing as a living mass that swept past him. He caught sight of countless pairs of terrified, glimmering snake eyes flickering at the surface.

At last, utterly exhausted, he abandoned all futile struggle and surrendered to fate. He swore to himself he would never again take part in rafting, or even swimming—never any water sport at all.

He woke on a shallow sandbar, nestled in a bend of the river. The burning rays of the rising sun and the shrill cries of birds in the forest roused him from unconsciousness.

Lying face down, his mouth buried in the mud, his body scraped and slashed by rocks and branches, his head spinning, his body caked in blood and filth, he dragged his mouth out of the muddy water, closed his eyes, and gasped for breath, enduring the agony of wounds inflicted by both men and nature, waiting for a flicker of strength to return.

He lay there for over half an hour before finally sitting up.

Now, he was a sorry sight, his shirt and trousers in tatters, streaked and stained with blood that still seeped from his wounds. He tore off a sleeve from his shirt, intending to bind the gash at his lower back.

But the wound, swollen and pale from immersion, had stopped bleeding, while countless smaller grazes and cuts continued to ooze. The pain was like a thousand ants biting all over his body. He wiped his face and saw blood on his hand—his features were surely marred.

The storm had long since passed; the river now flowed quietly, as if nothing had happened, like a careless young girl idly playing with her braids. The flying squirrel shot a resentful glance at the water, remembering the beast with the bloody maw.

Amei was dead. At last, the irreparable tragedy returned to his mind. He stood and gazed upstream at the mountains, cursing bitterly, “You bastards, you’ve turned this into a personal vendetta.”

Now, not only was he wounded all over, but he was also unarmed.

He knew that those pursuing him would not so easily believe he had perished in the river. His only choice was to avoid the main roads and cross through the primeval forests of the mountains.

Scooping up river water, he washed the grit from his face, tightened the rags at his trouser legs, and staggered into the dense jungle.

In the morning, the tropical rainforest was alive with birdsong, a celestial chorus ranging from exuberant anthems to gentle melodies, the birds singing their praises after a breakfast of bugs and dewdrops.

Sunlight streamed through the forest canopy, bathing the solitary figure in its golden glow. If he were not now a fugitive, a dog with no home, he might have sat down to savor the moment.

He surveyed the dense forest ahead. To cross it, he would need a compass and a machete. In this season, wild animals roamed the woods, but the blade was not for defense—against beasts, the only strategy was to avoid them. The machete was for hacking through the tall, tangled grass and vines blocking the way.

Without a machete, he would have to go around such obstacles, slowing his progress.

Without a compass, he could only use the sun to guide him, making for the crossing on the eastern cliff.

His digital watch had drowned in the flood.

Images of maps began to flicker through his mind like slides on a screen. Though this land was desolate and uninhabited, with sunlight and knowledge of the local flora, he could roughly judge the terrain. The mountains of Saro stood out clearly, their altitude distinct. In the north of Saro, one could experience four seasons in a single day; in the southwest, the elevation did not vary so much, but he recognized the tropical plants—wild cloud aromatics and golden thread—which told him he was above 1,200 meters.

Luckily, there was no more rain, only blazing sunshine. He walked on, alone and weary, his thin clothes drying quickly in the heat. By late morning, the sun was scorching, and now and then he would thrust a straight stick into a clearing, squat down, and use his fingers to measure the angle of its shadow, estimating time and direction.

He knew that the unpredictable sun of the Yunnan-Guizhou Plateau could easily lead him astray.

The primeval forest was treacherous, and he knew he could not travel at night. By day, unaware of how long the journey would take, he forced himself not to stop for rest—he needed the daylight. After climbing through a mountain thick with brambles, he found himself beneath ancient trees whose canopies blocked out the sun, plunging the woods into darkness. He stumbled and fell, his tattered clothes and bare skin torn by thorns and undergrowth. When he finally emerged from the forest, the sun beat down mercilessly, its ultraviolet rays making him shed his skin like a snake; he clung to the shade of trees as he pressed on.

At night, the sky was moonless, and though the stars were bright, to a wanderer they only revealed the dark silhouettes of the mountains and forests surrounding him. At times, it felt as if he were the only soul left on earth.

As dusk fell, he noticed a heap of white at the edge of the forest. Curiosity drew him closer.

It was the skeleton of a giant python; its skin and flesh had long since vanished. From its enormous length, he could tell it was a Burmese python. Its backbone, more than six meters long, lay straight upon the ground, with over a hundred massive ribs attached. At a glance, the ribcage looked like the bones of a colossal white centipede. The python’s skull was raised in a grimace, rows of dagger-sharp teeth curving backward in two neat rows of hooks, like two lines of scimitars. Within the python’s belly, he saw the skeleton of another quadruped, which he guessed was a muntjac.

He imagined the python, using its powerful muscles, strangling and swallowing the muntjac whole. The muntjac, fragile as it was, managed to pierce the python’s belly with its sharp, broken bones. Mortally wounded, the python could no longer crawl. Before it died, swarms of ants, flies, and other scavengers, visible and invisible, came to feast, and the giant snake and its prey were soon stripped to the bone. At first, the air was thick with the stench of decay, but within days, nothing remained but a heap of white bones for the soil and the occasional sunlight filtering through the trees.

In killing the muntjac, the python had killed itself.

Both became a feast for countless insignificant creatures.

He thought of Yannuo, and of those he himself had hunted.