Past Life Story

You were born a tiger, deep in the valleys of Baekdu Mountain. The first world you saw from your mother's back was a misty coniferous forest, and the ridges stretching beyond it had no visible end. You had two siblings, but before the first winter came, both had vanished. Nature taught you loneliness from the very beginning. In your early days, your mother taught you how to read the mountain. The direction of the wind, the way grass lay flattened, the prints of a wild boar's hooves. All of it was the mountain speaking to you. You listened, and listened again. Only one who knows how to listen can become the master of a mountain, your mother said. In your third year, your mother fell to a hunter's arrow. That was the first time you ever saw a human. How those small, frail two-legged creatures had brought down a mother so vast—you did not understand for a long time. You could not leave her side. For three nights you remained there, and at last you withdrew into the deepest part of the mountain. From that day, you lived alone. The mountain held bears greater in size than you, packs of wolves cleverer than you—yet you feared none of them. Fear had been buried with your mother. Wherever your paw prints fell, other beasts gave way. You did not distinguish whether it was fear or reverence. You knew only that this was your territory. In your fifth year, you met your mate—the first and last. A tigress who had crossed over from the next mountain. Two seasons you spent together, and three cubs were born. But one day she went hunting and did not return. You guarded the cubs. When hunters came, when other males came, you never left their side. Only after every cub had departed in search of its own territory did you return to solitude. The mountain folk called you the Mountain Spirit. Those who saw you never forgot your gaze for the rest of their lives. It was not the eye of a mere beast. It was the eye of one who had seen all the seasons of the mountain, who had endured them all. People offered you rice cakes and rice wine. You did not eat them, but you accepted them. That was the covenant between mountain and man. In the late autumn of your fifteenth year, you felt old age for the first time. Your steps grew heavy, and one of your fangs began to loosen. Yet you did not leave the mountain. The place of one's dying must be chosen on the mountain too—this your mother had taught you. You climbed near the highest peak of Baekdu. No one but you ever came there. On the day the first snow fell, you lay down and gazed at the sky. The stars seemed close enough to touch. You thought of your mother. You thought of your mate. You thought of your cubs. Then you drew one deep breath, and closed your eyes. When spring came and a hunter discovered you, you looked as though you were merely sleeping. The hunter set down his bow and bowed. From that day forward, the mountain folk spoke of a new Mountain Spirit upon Baekdu. You were lonely, yet you were not alone. For you were the mountain, and the mountain was you. Your spirit may yet be walking, slowly, somewhere along a ridge in the mist, even now.