“Did you just speak?”

​

“Yes, haven’t you heard a rabbit before? Get the hell out of the meadow and into the forest—it’s dangerous out here.”

 

“But rabbits don’t speak!” He gasped, running into the forest, losing the rabbit to speed and to the underbrush, no matter how quickly he stumbled forward on his hands and feet.

​

Once in the forest, Yong slowed. He could smell the mildew of a forest floor that felt like a damp and chilled soft carpet underneath his feet at one point and prickly the next, as he walked over moss one moment and crispy leaves the next. There was a metallic smell in the urgent wind that told him rain was coming. In the lulls between the gusts of wind, Yong could smell bear, a deer around the bend, the berries on a bush yards away, and rodent urine. He paused. How was it he could discern the difference between bear and deer smell? And since when did berries smell so delicious? Before he could ponder the reasons for his sharpened awareness, the idea of those berries swelled to epic proportions in his mind, shoving out all other thought. He barreled forward, still blind in the nighttime, but knowing exactly where it was those berries resided.

 

He heard the snap of sticks, and the swishing sound of branches as he shoved through the forest. There was no other sound, he noted; no car horns, no jackhammers, no generator humming in the distance, no roar of human din, just him; each sound he made exploded in the darkness.

 

He got to the berries, and began to shovel them into his face, the berries exploding like roe in his mouth. He paused. Roe. He wondered if there was any fish roe to be had here. And after cocking his head and concluding that the burble of water was absent in his proximity, he resumed feasting. The berries were so good that Yong ate handful after handful without vanity until satiated; he could feel the juice dribbling down his chin.

 

Had he grown a beard? No matter. The berries were delicious.

 

Yong anticipated dawn; he turned his head this way and that, but on this particular moonless night, he could not discern rock from tree from shrubbery. Because it was still too dark to see, he took a deep sniff to assess his surroundings. This time, he smelled a tiger—how he knew it was a tiger he could not say, but still he was certain. Since his childhood days in the forest with his brother Sang, Korean tigers had become extinct; the last of the tigers were pushed out by humans and taken to zoos where they all eventually died. Yong tensed himself but an inherent apathy forced himself to relax.

​

“Oh well,” he thought.

​

He sat with his full belly, surrounded in a shower of crescendoing bird sound until the silhouettes of trees and rocks began to appear and then sharpen against the brightening dawn. He waited with a dull patience like moviegoers at a theater waiting for a film to begin, shoving popcorn into their mouths with an absent-minded, focus-at-infinity stare. The smell of tiger never dissipated, but instead settled into the landscape like fog, finding its way into every crevice such that Yong became uncertain as to the exact direction of the tiger’s whereabouts. Still, he felt no fear. When the light came, he thought he could discern his immediate surroundings but found there was not a single road sign or building on the horizon that could tell him where he actually was. Instead, he saw the tiger, sitting in the low branches of a tree, licking its paw. His orange and black jagged stripes rippled with every graceful but thorough moment.

 

“Hello Mr. Bear,” said the tiger. His voice was surprisingly high pitched with a bit of a squeak.

 

The voice didn’t match the body; Yong expected the liquid voice of a baritone singer. But more surprising to Yong was that he addressed him as “Mr. Bear.”

 

“Mr. Bear?” asked Yong. “Why are you calling me Mr. Bear?”

 

“Because that’s what you are, a bear. Ah, though I suppose you do have a name. I shouldn’t like it too much if you were to just call me ‘Mr. Tiger.’ What is your name?”

​

In the light of dawn, Yong looked down to see a huge bear paw, stained in berry juice, the big black curved nails digging into the soft forest dirt. He was not sitting down, but sitting on his haunches. Yong was not so shocked as he was relieved to have an explanation for his newfound senses.

 

“Okay,” he said back to the tiger, “I suppose my name is Yong Kim.” He wasn’t sure what proper intra-animal etiquette for introductions might be and wondered what the next step was; he pondered bowing and made a move to do so, but found his body unwilling and so he gave up.

 

He was a bear.

 

The tiger allowed no time for such a response. “Suppose? You suppose your name is Yong Kim? I suppose you are Yong Kim, then, my friend—”

 

“What’s your name, then?”

 

“I was just getting to that, my friend. My name I suppose, is Sang. No last name.” The tiger yawned, flashing his large teeth. “Forgive me, but my back

aches a bit. I’m no young tiger and early morning hours require a good stretch.” The tiger stood, and hugging the tree, descended backwards down the trunk. The tiger rolled onto its back, all four legs and paws in the air. Its lack of grace made Yong laugh.

 

“Has anyone ever told you,” the tiger screeched, “that your laugh really suits you as a bear?”

 

The tiger’s casual nature and nonchalance put Yong back at ease and he ignored the cat’s question. The rules here were that there were no rules.

 

“Sang? That’s my brother’s name!”

 

The tiger stuck out his tongue and yawned. “What a nice little coincidence.”

 

“Sang Tiger? I have a question—where are we?”

 

“You’re in the DMZ, my friend.” Sang Tiger rolled over and stood on four feet, alert for the first time in their dialogue. “Otherwise known as an animal paradise. Here,” he gestured with his tail, “we have no human predators. This is truly our own land. No waste, no pollution. We rare creatures have retreated her. There’s plenty to eat, plenty to share.” His words sounded well rehearsed.

 

Yong noticed that Sang Tiger’s belly was taut with both muscle and fat. Yong brushed his paws over his belly, noting his own toned and well-nourished body. He had been a happy bear.

 

A stick snapped in the underbrush.

 

Yong readied himself for battle. Claws poised to swipe, ears cocked, shoulders tensed, he turned towards the bushes, glimpsing out of the corner of his eye the tiger only slowly turning his eyes to the bushes in a casual manner, as if expecting guests. Antlers parted the branches and an elk emerged.

 

The elk looked askance at the bear and tiger and said, “Excuse me,” in a voice very similar to that of Ricardo Montalban, a voice that reminded Yong of lakes, smooth and deep, and trotted off across the clearing. Oh.

Yong watched the tiger who didn’t seem to care that an elk had crossed his path. In fact, the tiger seemed lost in thought; perhaps, thought Yong, the tiger was just groggy because after all, it was dawn. Oh wait, he thought, tigers are nocturnal, so maybe he’d had a long night.

 

“Don’t you eat elk?” asked Yong.

 

“Theoretically, yes. But they know that my belly’s usually full, no need to chase them down.” He looked at Yong with narrowed eyes. “That’s usually a human thought – they watch too many television shows, you know. All humans see is movies of us tigers shooting off after every single deer or elk or buffalo we see. Goodness! Like we’re that bloodthirsty! Sometimes, just sometimes (he emphasized “sometimes” in another bout of sarcasm), we’re actually full. Maybe just maybe we’re actually just eating when we need to eat.”

 

“Oh.” Yong the bear cleared his throat, the sound coming out like a low gurgle. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend, Sang Tiger.”

 

“Oh no worries, Yong Bear.” The tiger grinned, bearing his sharp fangs, so that his grin looked very grimacing. The hair on the back of Yong’s neck stood, despite himself. The tiger continued, “I’m just sensitive about these matters. We tigers get such a bad rap, you know. And now that there’s just a few of us left, we’re doing what we can to voice who we are.”

 

Yong thought that that was indeed a very human thought but kept his mouth shut. His head filled with a hundred questions—how were they talking, how many tigers were indeed left, what year was this—but he managed to only get one question out of the heap.

 

“So, Sang Tiger? How long have you been living here?”

 

“Oh, since around the war. I’ve been here since the DMZ was formed. Oh I know what you’re thinking—look at that surprised bear face—how can I live so long? It’s been what, over twenty years since this refuge was formed? You’ll see these are optimal conditions for animal life. Many of us have lived beyond our natural years.” He paced, then plopped back down with languid grace. “Have you tried the mountain strawberries or the goji berries? I hear they are fantastic! I mean, so much so that I’d try them myself if I were even remotely interested in fruit.” He said the “fruit” with great disgust.

 

Yong Bear nodded. “I definitely had mountain strawberries. They were indeed delicious! Thank you for the recommendation,” he replied as if thanking a host for a delicious dinner. Yong Bear, too, sat down so that his haunches rested on the soft forest floor that upon closer observation was a mixture of composting leaves and bark accented with the occasional patch of moss. “But I have so many questions, Sang Tiger.”

 

“You do? Well, most animals here do, when they first discover the place. It’s funny—they always run across me first; I’ve become the greeter by default. This isn’t so nice for the rabbits and deer and well, I guess most animals. Imagine! Being greeted by a tiger! But I guess that’s the way things are.” Sang Tiger wore a large tiger smile, a smile that despite being well practiced from years of greeting guests to the DMZ, again set Yong on edge. If the tiger didn’t have such large fangs, there was a chance his smile might even be welcoming.

 

“Let me go orient you to the DMZ. We usually hold our orientation on a site uphill. Come!” Sang tiger, so lackadaisical until now, sprang with a soundless leap into the ferns. “Come! Follow me!”

 

The two creatures crashed through the underbrush, Yong Bear’s lungs relishing the crisp clean morning air.

 

Up top, they watched the sun start its ascent over the DMZ, coloring the mist a pale peach tinge that made Yong’s mouth water. Did they have peaches here? They were not on a mountain top as Yong had expected but more on a hill, looking down over hundreds of miles of land that according to Sang Tiger “humans were afraid to touch for stupid reasons that we don’t understand.”

 

From their vantage point, Yong Bear thought that perhaps he could see Pyongyang through the morning haze.

 

“Can you see Pyongyang from here on a clear day?” he asked the tiger.

 

“The dogs, those poor blind bastards, have a little trouble seeing what the humans call Pyongyang, but we tigers and probably you bears can see the city. The eagles, definitely. We get news from birds who tell us what’s happening. They’re probably the only ones who really understand both sides. The moles and gophers make their way back and forth, but they are so blind any of their aboveground data is useless. For instance, we thought that village over there was populated. If I were to ask a mole, they’d tell me it was a normal village. But the birds tell us it’s a fake village. Not a crumb to eat there. Just buildings with lights that come on automatically at nightfall at exactly the same time each day.” The tiger struck a dignified pose, one paw in a sweeping gesture over the landscape.

 

He was a beautiful creature, one of the last of his kind. Smart enough to seek out this refuge, smart enough to survive, smart enough to prosper here. Except for his voice, he was a truly regal creature—Yong Bear grudgingly thought the tiger was a very good choice for Korea’s national animal.

 

As they made their way back to the original clearing, Yong Bear heard a rumbling that grew louder as they headed down the hill. It reminded him of a subway train passing beneath his feet, but with much more unrelenting force. Sang Tiger sensed his unease; the tiger’s own ears were rotating this way and that. “When I first started hearing it a few years ago, I was a bit alarmed. I thought maybe the time-of-shooting-lethal-metal-objects had started again, or maybe an earthquake had hit us. It’s not an earthquake. The humans are digging below us.”

 

“Digging?” asked Yong Bear. “Why would they be digging? For what?”

 

“Yes, those humans are odd, aren’t they? They live aboveground, they figured out how to fly, and now they’re underground! I didn’t believe it at first, either. But they’ve got men digging underground, making tunnels while making very large noises. And carrying these peculiar and terrifying metal branches that shoot lethal fire. Or that’s what the birds, moles, and gophers have told us. They’ve been at it for years. Don’t worry though, soon the explosions will pass. They’re at the southern end of the DMZ now, almost all the way through.”

 

“Through to where?”

 

“Who knows? Somewhere south. All I know is that they’re done rumbling through the DMZ and they’ll be at the south end shortly.” The tiger licked his paw.

 

An ominous feeling passed through Yong Bear and set his fur on end. He couldn’t help the overwhelming animal urge to fight.

 

The tiger look askance. “It can’t be helped, you know. They do what they want. At least they’re out of the DMZ so that we can have our peace and quiet again.”

 

“But they’re going to Seoul.”

​

“Sure they are, wherever and whatever that is.”

 

“But they’re going to Seoul.”

 

Dae-Sang tiger’s eyes narrowed. “It’s as if you’re human, with your useless concerns about random-areas-and-things-designated-with-peculiar names.”

 

“It’s just that I am—I know people in Seoul. And if Seoul is going to be attacked—“

 

“People! What do you care about People! Like I said, it’s as if you’re human. Whose side are you on?” Sang Tiger looked very much like a predator just now, having tensed all his muscles as if prepared to leap, tackle, jump, or pounce in any direction required. “People,” the tiger spat, “will disappoint you. They are not on our side.”

 

“People need to know. How does one leave the DMZ?”

 

Sang Tiger lowered his hackles and shook his head in a movement so slight that it was only noticeable to someone staring hard at him as Yong Bear was at that moment. “You would be leaving what the humans call Eden if you did so. You’re no bird or gopher, Yong Bear. And I don’t quite agree with your leaving—although I suppose if you left and somehow figured out how to warn these People about the other People, then that would just keep them fighting, which I suppose is a good thing. If you can’t tell, I am all for those people fighting. The longer they fight, the longer they stay away from this place.” The tiger’s tail gestured at the landscape, now lit by the rising sun. “So, if you want to leave, the way you do so is to leave.”

 

Yong Bear thought that made complete sense.

 

“Walk north or south! It’s your choice,” said Sang Tiger.

 

Yong wondered in which direction he should go. He knew he couldn’t ask Sang Tiger’s recommendation--for his choice was to stay where it was safe.

 

“Go on--why aren’t you leaving?”

 

“Because--” said Yong, “why do I even have to make this choice?”

 

Sang Tiger stretched. “Because of humans.”