As the invisible birds chirped, the man wiped his eyebrows, and turned aside from the tiny earth trail onto a higher earth-bank, where he spotted a tiny slime slugging its way back to safety in the spruces. He paused for a break, excusing the act to himself by looking at the watch. It was twelve o'clock. There was no sun nor any hint of one, as the thick, multiple layers of trees in this jungle had became the sky, along with the hot, thick air of the evergreen kingdom. It was a clear day, yet there seem to be an intangible cover over the face of things, a subtle feeling that made the air almost suffocating with the fresh smell of leaves. This fact did not worry the man. He was used to the smell. It has been days since he see a hint of the sun, and he knew that at least a week must pass before that cheerful orb would just peep down on him over the diminishing layers of the jungle and immediately get covered again.
The man flung a look back along the way he had come. The tiny trail lay a foot wide, hidden under the growing layer of herbs. If there isn't people like him to traverse the road at least every month, the trail would no doubt be hidden. Armed with only a machete, they, the wood-loggers, would travel a good twelve miles into the deep forest before reaching their camp. From there, they are to make another three miles before reaching the lumber camp, where they would supply the workers with food and water, before making their trip back home.
But all this-the mysterious, deep-reaching hairline trail, the absence of sun from the sky, the stickiness feeling of the jungle, the tremendous heat, and the strangeness and weirdness of it all~made no impression on the man. It was not because he was long used to it. He was a new-comer to this business, and this is his first summer. The trouble with him was that he was without imagination. He was quick and alert in the things of life, but only with the things, and not in the significances. 90 degrees means 32 degrees of celcius for him. Such facts impressed him as being hot and uncomfortable, and that was all.
As he turned to go on, his machete swinging left and right, chopping and slashing at the branches and vines entangling, clearing the trail. The air seemed to be suffocating him with the complex, deep smell of the forest. There is almost no wind in such a jungle, as the man wiped his brows. It sure is hot, he thought. But the temperature did not matter. He would be in to camp by three; a bit after noon, and he would have plenty of rest before continuing the second part of his trip.
He plunged in among the thick vines. The trail was faint. He knew that it is the season of rain, by the sign of the thick layer of mushroom rapidly dominating the floor's jungle. However, this spells danger to the man. The ants are especially irritated and nervous during the time of danger (to them), hence their raised battle spirits and aggressiveness. He was glad he was traveling light, only carrying a backpack.
Empty as the man's mind was of thoughts, he was keenly observant, paying attention to everything around him: from the changes on the creek, the curves and bend of the trail, and especially where he put his feet. Once, coming out from a giant fallen tree trunk, he shield abruptly, and retreated back into the safety of the empty tree trunk. In front of him is the territory of the ants. Small as they may be, they are certainly bigger than your average house ant, and the soldier ants will kill a person in a matter of minutes if nothing is done. Sticking his foot in their terrain meant trouble and danger. At the very least, it meant delay, for he had to spray himself with insecticide and quickly wash his skin with water. He stood and studied, then decided to try a different road. A quick detour would be better than rushing through this, he decided.
As the air around him seem to quiver, the man noticed a slight change in his surroundings: It is as if the humid air has dampened the sound of the forest, until he cannot hear anything except the sound of his periodical breathing and the occasional sound of tree branches being cut down by him. He stopped and checked his surroundings. Nothing out of the ordinary. He resumed walking. Then he stopped again. This time, not because of suspicion, but of fear.
In front of the man stand an Indochinese tiger. Its beautiful fur caressed by the sticky air, the beast stared at the man with cat-like eyes, shining with hunger and excitement. These tigers are rare nowadays, thanks to the poachers invading the forest. However, the remaining ones are even more aggressive than the soldier ants. It is said that one of these tigers, called "uncle" by the natives, can take down an entire group of hunters armed with guns and tranquilizer.
The man stared at the tiger, and the tiger stared back at him. As the watch slowly, painfully move, slowly and accurately ticking every single second of life passing by, and forcing the man to be painfully aware of it.
He was never the kind of man to make friends. The boys surely won't miss him, and he has five brothers. Evidently, he will not be missed. That is still not explaining why he is running through the forest right now, with the animal hot on his heels. He is running as if his life depended on it, his machete arm swinging manically, his heart beating like they never did before. The tiger is definitely faster than the man, but it is leisurely following the man, as though mocking him.
His theory of running until he reached camp and the boys has one flaw in it: he lacked the endurance. Several times, he stumbled, and finally he tottered, crumpled up, and fell….