Let me tell you how he fed himself.
He followed the stream downhill, staying a few steps back from the water where the ground was firmer, and the cold air carried the smell of wet stone and crushed green stems. Along the bank grew a cluster of broad leaves with pale veins, and without knowing how, he understood that the thick roots beneath them were safe to eat. He knelt in the mud, loosened the soil with a flat stone, and pulled up three roots that looked like knotted fingers, then rinsed them in the stream until the water ran clear over his knuckles.
They tasted bitter and gritty, with a starchy sweetness that arrived only after he had chewed for a long time, and his jaw ached from the effort.
A little farther on, a low bush held small red berries, he ate them leaving the shiny black ones that hung beside them like a trap. The juice stained his fingers purple, sharp and sweet at the same time, and he wrapped a handful in a leaf and tied it shut with a stem he had twisted into cord.
The stream bent around a wall of roots, and what lay beyond it made him stop walking.
Bones were scattered across the bank, grey and brittle, half sunk in the mud, with scraps of rotted cloth clinging to some of them like dead moss. A sweetish smell of old decay hung in the air, thin but impossible to ignore, and it coated the back of his tongue until he wanted to spit. A jawbone lay near his foot with its teeth still in place, and a little further off a rib cage had collapsed inward under the weight of years. Now he understood the name of this forest.
He swallowed hard and asked aquestion, because he did not want to touch the dead for nothing.
"Is anything lying here safe and useful for me to take?"
~ The rusted knife half buried beside the thick root is still sound enough to cut cord and dig roots, and the dry cloth next to it can be wrapped around your feet. Take nothing else, because the rest is too rotten to help you. ~
He pulled the knife free of the mud with both hands, and it came out with a wet sucking sound, red with rust and heavy for his small fingers. The blade was dull but straight, and when he pressed it against a stem it cut cleanly. He wrapped the dry cloth around his feet, tied it with cord, and felt the strange comfort of something between his skin and the cold ground.
It was while he was tightening the last knot that he noticed the prints in the mud near the water.
They were wider than his two spread hands, with four round toes and deep scratches ahead of each one where claws had dug in. Water was still seeping slowly into the bottom of the nearest print, which meant the animal had not been gone for long. His mouth went dry again, even with the stream running right beside him.
"What made these tracks, and how long ago did it pass here?"
~ A wild tiger heavier than a grown man made them, and it drinks at this stream every morning around this hour. It is coming back now from the east, and it will reach this bank before you can walk far enough to be safe. ~
His heart stumbled, then began to pound against the metal at his throat, and the knife felt suddenly very small in his hand.
Where do I hide, and what do I do while I wait for it to leave?
~ Climb the leaning tree twenty steps upstream until you are higher than the reach of two grown men, then stay flat on the thick branch and do not move or make a sound until it leaves. ~
He ran, awkward and stumbling in his cloth wraps, and the leaning tree appeared where the voice had promised, its trunk tilted over the water like a tired old man.
The bark scraped his palms raw as he climbed, the sap sticky and sharp-smelling on his fingers, and his dizziness came back halfway up so that he had to hug the trunk with his cheek pressed against the rough wood until the world steadied. He pulled himself onto the thick branch, lay flat against it with the knife tucked under his belly, and forced his breathing to slow.
Then the forest went silent AGAIN.
A heavy shape moved between the trees across the stream, smooth and unhurried, and the smell reached him a moment later, musky and warm like a wet animal that has been sleeping in a closed room. The tiger stepped out onto the bank with its great head low, its shoulders rolling under a grey coat marked with dark stripes, and it lowered its face to the water and began to drink. He could hear the lapping clearly, wet and rhythmic, and under it the soft grinding of its breath.
He did not move, and he barely breathed, and he did not look away.
When the animal had drunk its fill, it lifted its head slowly and turned its face toward the leaning tree, and its nostrils widened as it tasted the air.
The tiger did not look at the tree for long, but every second of it felt like a year to him.
It took one slow step into the shallows, water streaming off its heavy paws, and its nose lifted again toward the leaning trunk. The wind had shifted a little, and he realized with a cold drop in his stomach that his scent was drifting straight across the stream, carrying old blood from the bandage and the sour sweat of fear. The animal's ears turned forward, and a low sound rolled out of its chest, so deep that he felt it through the bark more than he heard it.
"Will it climb up here after me, or will it only circle the tree?"
~ It will not climb, because the trunk leans too far over the water for an animal that heavy to hold its footing. It will test the tree once and then wait below, so stay flat and do not look into its eyes. ~
He pressed his cheek against the rough branch and tried to believe it, though his body disagreed with every part of that answer. The tiger crossed the stream in four unhurried strides, its fur dripping and its breath rasping like a saw through wet wood, and stopped at the foot of the trunk. A hot, meaty smell rose up to him, mixed with wet fur and river mud, and it was so thick that he had to breathe through his mouth to keep from gagging.
Then the animal rose onto its hind legs and drove its claws into the bark.
The whole tree shuddered, and a shower of splinters and sap rained down across his hair and his shoulders, sticking to the dried blood at his temple. He did not flinch, though his heart was slamming against the collar so hard that he thought the sound might carry down to the ground. The claws dragged downward with a long, tearing screech, the trunk groaned, and for one terrible moment the branch beneath him sagged a hand's width toward the water.
Then the weight dropped away, and the tiger settled onto the muddy bank with a heavy huff of disappointment.
I will be honest with you, because it is the best way to describe what came next: nothing happened for a very long time. The tiger lay at the base of the tree with its chin on its paws, tail flicking lazily, its amber eyes half closed but never quite shut. Above it, he lay flat on the branch while the cold crept into his ribs, his legs went numb, and the knife handle pressed into his stomach until his skin burned.
Thirst returned, and so did the dizziness, and he counted his own breaths just to keep his mind from drifting into sleep.
He could not ask the voice a question without moving his lips, and he did not dare to move his lips, so he asked it silently, shaping the thought as carefully as he could.
"How long must I stay here before it is safe to climb down?"
~ The tiger will rise and leave when the shadow of this branch reaches the second stone in the stream, which is a little less than two hours from now. After it leaves, wait until you count to three hundred before you climb down. ~
Two hours felt like a punishment, but he found something steadying in having a number. He watched the shadow of the branch crawl across the water, inch by inch, until it touched the first dark stone and then, at last, the second.
The tiger's ears twitched, it yawned with a wide pink mouth full of yellowed teeth, and it rose in one smooth, boneless motion. It shook the water from its coat, gave the tree a final, bored look, and padded away into the trees without a sound.
He counted to three hundred twice, because his fear did not trust the voice as much as his mind did.
When he finally lowered himself to the ground, his legs gave way and he sat in the mud with his hands shaking and his heart still racing. The berries were still tied in their leaf at his belt, the knife was still in his fist, and the claw marks on the trunk above him were as long as his forearm. He stared at them for a long moment, and the only thought that formed was a small, stubborn one.
That is the third time it has kept me alive, and I still do not know what it wants from me.
He pushed himself up, wiped the sticky sap from his face with the back of his wrist, and turned his eyes downstream. Whatever the voice was, he had decided to use it the way a cautious person uses a knife, with respect and with a careful hand, and never without watching the edge.