Now a major motion picture starring William Dafoe   A man identified only as “M” is hired by a multinational biotech company to locate and hunt down the last known Tasmanian tiger, or thylacine. Beginning at a remote house on the fringe of a vast wilderness, M embarks on a fateful course deep into the forest and an ancient world of silence and stillness. The Hunter is a haunting adventure tale of obsession and redemption, worthy of Conrad or Melville, where a business proposition takes on mythic aspects, as the quest for an extinct animal becomes a search not for ultimate profit but for the essence of life that technology has all but crushed. “ Impressive.”— The New York Times Book Review   "Strong and Hypnotic."— Don DeLillo “[Leigh’s] narration is as clear-eyed and cold-blooded as her hero.”— The New Yorker “A memorable debut, one full of many rewards and a subtle, precise beauty.”— San Francisco Chronicle "Strong and Hypnotic." — Don DeLillo “ Impressive.” “[Leigh’s] narration is as clear-eyed and cold-blooded as her hero.” “A memorable debut, one full of many rewards and a subtle, precise beauty.” Praise for DISQUIET: "Julia Leigh is a sorceress. Her deft prose casts a spell of serene control while the earth quakes underfoot." — Toni Morrison Julia Leigh is the author of two internationally acclaimed novels, THE HUNTER (1999) and DISQUIET (2008). Her film SLEEPING BEAUTY was selected for Competition at the Festival de Cannes 2011. She lives in Sydney, Australia. The Hunter By Julia Leigh Penguin Books Copyright © 2001 Julia Leigh All right reserved. ISBN: 0142000027 Chapter One                          Now the little plane drops andthe fat woman sitting next to him yelps and spills hercoffee; his tray of food goes flying. With eyes closed hebegins to count, one ... and two ... and three: a religiousman, he thinks, might now decide to pray. Then it is over,they survive, and as the eighteen-seater settles high abovethe rift of blue which separates the island from the mainland,the pilot quickly and calmly sends his apologies.     There is nobody to greet him at the airport, no rent-a-cardesk, and so no smiling rent-a-car girl. The fatwoman, he sees, is being comforted by a fat man with acrew cut wearing a White Power T-shirt. From the smallcrowd gathered in the lounge he guesses the plane outwill be full. He waits outside for a truck to pull hisluggage across the airstrip and when it arrives he gathershis pack and bag without delay. The mini-bus takes fifteenminutes to arrive in town: `Welcome to Tiger Town' readsa sign by the highway, `Population: 20 000'. As prearrangedhe hires a new 4WD utility, the latest model, asilver Monastery. `Picked a good day for it,' says a smilinggirl and so he too smiles, nods, and then turns to leavebefore she can start to ask questions.     Soon he is out of town, heading south-west. The lastKentucky Fried advertises a `$4.95 Two Piece Feed'. Smallertowns crop up along the highway, tiny collections of cornerstores, antique shops and hairdressers. Paddocks flatten outby the roadside, run into foothills. Where there are sheep,there are mud-brown sheep, and where there are trees thefarmers have wrapped them in tin bandages at cow-muzzleheight. By one stretch of road he passes a haphazardarrangement of topiaries in odd geometric shapes, no swansor giraffes or poodles, and later he sees a stone cottage fullof grinning toy cats. He crosses Tiger Creek, Break O' DayCreek, this creek, that creek. At the next corner store hestops for a coffee: sweet and chemical.     The distances between stores draw out and the roadturns to dirt. He checks his map. Eventually he turns off atan unmarked T-junction and when he passes the firsthillside pricked with uniform rows of tiny plantationsaplings he knows he is on his way. Then come the vacantconcrete plots: Welcome to the dead town, once a loggingtown. Here, people have picked up their houses and movedon. A whole row of demountables has been abandoned,the windows bagged with bright orange plastic. But thereis a petrol station, and a cardboard sign propped up in thewindow says `Open'. At the sound of his car pulling in, aclutch of scraggly children materialises, with two of thebigger ones on bikes. He serves himself and goes in to pay.The woman behind the counter waits a second beforepulling herself away from the miniature TV, then sticksout her hand and refuses to speak. He pays in cash, buyinga bar of chocolate at the last minute as a civil gesture.     He drives, turns smooth corners. He practises his story.And who ? today ? is he? From now on he is MartinDavid, Naturalist, down from the university and fightingfit. `Hello, I'm Martin David', `A little turbulence butotherwise not too bad', and `Yes, thank you, a cup of teawould be lovely'.     He will drink the tea and assess his situation.     It is almost dark by the time Martin David, Naturalist,turns into the long driveway and pa