by J. M. Walker
“Where can we go?” asked Doris.
She wanted to stay and pick up the old maid in her trunk, to hold and comfort her.
“There’s a way out through the back of the garden,” said Tony.
He left the maid and scampered across the lawn, round the side of the house and towards the maze. Bear followed and Bessie, braver than she’d been since the herring gull attacked, flew up and over the house, buoyed by the warm air rising from a stack of chimney pots. Doris took one last look at the maid’s ashen face, her crumpled wrinkles and her wide eyes. The elephant thundered across the grass, slipping as she went, until she reached Tony standing next to a hole in the hedge.
“Through here,” he said, tail wagging.
The hole was no wider than Tony’s shoulders, just big enough for a dog or badger. Doris didn’t stop. She charged the hedge, breaking its bones, splitting decades old hawthorn as if it was straw. She took some branches with her and a line of rusting barbed wire too, which spiked her skin, causing little drops of blood to run down her chest. Bear and Tony jumped through the breach. As Bessie soared over the hedge, a brown rabbit appeared. It hopped along and through the gap, pleased to have a way to pass between the garden and neighbouring field.
Doris found herself running through a meadow. She trampled the dark green grass, as taller stalks, with bushy heads, waved themselves aside. Bear followed in the channel created by Doris’s footsteps and Tony skipped along the flattened blades showing their light undersides to the sky.
Tony trotted, paced then broke into a canter to pass Bear. He started the gallop to catch the elephant, who had stubbornly refused to slow. He got ahead of her and veered to his right, guiding her like a pilot fish. The terrier didn’t know how to reach the college this way, but he knew the meadows stretched out to Leigh Woods, and the woods met the gorge. And he knew that across the gorge was the city with its tanning factories and cider presses, its gas lamps and electric trams, its smells of sewage and human urine dried upon its old stone walls. And somewhere within the city, up on a hill, was the college and Lord Morgan’s laboratory, where he liked to experiment on his animals.
Bessie by now had learned to fly low and true. She had put aside her twirls and twists and let her heritage take over, the one that told all parrots to fly straight and to think about where they were flying to. As she settled above the shoulders of the running dog, skimming the heads of grass, she noticed a flock of black-headed gulls had alighted in the far corner of the meadow. They had come for the flies and were making short, fast parabolic sorties, twisting their necks and snapping their beaks as they grazed on the insects in mid-air. Bessie decided to be brave. She took a hoverfly and gulped it down, then proudly banked to snatch a midge. She flew on, like a swallow in summer, ignoring the gulls as her wings flicked off the rain as quick as it could soak her feathers.
As the terrier and bird led the elephant, they didn’t notice the giant anteater falling further behind. Bear didn’t have the size of Doris or the stamina of Tony. When forced to run for too long, he became envious of those who had the right tendons and ligaments, who had their muscles arranged in such a way that they could maintain the same pace for minutes on end.
He began to slow and pushed out his tongue, to catch some water to cool his throat. He was grateful for the wet grass, feeling it between the pads of his feet. His spectacles steamed up and he finally stopped, to push them higher up his head. He watched as his friends cut a path through the meadow and into the next, heading for a line of trees that he hoped marked the boundary to somewhere safe.
He felt tired again. But unlike his last day in the circus, he wasn’t tired of life. He was tired because he hadn’t yet learned how to eat in the wild. He had rekindled his taste for insects, but he couldn’t find enough to satiate his stomach. He needed to dine a thousand times a day, digesting tiny meal after tiny meal. And all he could see about him were the midges and flies, which he knew he’d struggle to catch with his thin jaws and toothless gums.
He let the others go and lowered his head. He put his nose to the ground and determined to once again learn how to hunt. He used his snout to part the grass and he sniffed at the soil. He searched left and right and scratched at the dirt. He moved on and repeated himself until his motion became natural. He dropped his tail and arched his back and his long black hair fell straight in the rain, waiting for his nose to remember. For it to recall the unmistakable molecules and chemistry shed by a colony of ants. Their pheromones and stink that told a million others which way was home. For his nose and brain to register once more that he was an anteater, a giant one, and that eating ants was what he was born to do.
He flicked his tongue more than a foot ahead. His little eyes opened wide as his tongue danced. He’d found them! They were red rather than black ants, smaller and scrawnier than he’d have liked for his first true meal in years. But he sighed as he began to eat up a convoy, plucking them one by one from their labours, swallowing them whole. They tasted exquisite. He experimented, sucking some ants straight down, letting others dissolve on his acidic tongue. He compared three single ants to three ants eaten at once and intentionally sucked up an earwig running with the ants, to see if it tasted nuttier. He then watched as the ants scattered from their line, having collectively decided to run for their lives. His paws picked up tremors, which vibrated up his thick forearms, resonating within his long skull. His tiny ears then heard a rumbling. A deep, bass-like sound, building and building.
He lifted his head out of the wet grass and saw a chestnut thoroughbred horse running straight at him. Upon the horse’s back stood a young human, a lithe male with empty cheeks wearing a shirt that had turned black in the rain. The man’s tight trousers rubbed the horse’s shoulders as his black boots sat upon silver stirrups that dug into the horse’s belly as it lunged forward with each gallop.
The anteater didn’t move. The horse’s nostrils flared as it stretched its legs, veins and sinew rising beneath a foam of sweat on its neck. The man released a hand from the horse’s mane, revealing a thin leather stick that he raised next to the horse’s eye. As they closed the space, beating down upon him, Bear witnessed the fear in the horse’s bulging eyes, as the man smacked the whip down and across the horse’s hip.
Bear froze. It was all he could do to flick his tongue across the pink scar on his face. The horse kept coming and Bear stood his ground. He heard the cries of more humans, further back, somewhere behind the horse, whooping and cheering as the tremors within the soil intensified. Suddenly Bear realised the horse had seen him, this strange black creature hiding among the wild grass and flowers. But it couldn’t stop. The horse tried to adjust its gait and pull back its head. But the human whipped it again, forcing the horse’s head down and onwards. Bear flinched as the horse ran upon him. He tried to duck and the horse tried to vault him.
Both the horse and rider almost made it, except for a fetlock that caught the arch of Bear’s back, knocking the anteater on to his side. The horse landed upon three feet, a lost hoof catching at the soil, dragging back its knee then shoulder until the human was catapulted over the horse’s neck as his ride collapsed beneath him. The blow dazed the anteater and he lost the human and horse among the grass.
Then Bear heard a second horse galloping on by, and a third swiftly followed by a fourth. He stood to see the chestnut horse flailing some twenty feet away in the meadow, kicking out a broken leg that had snapped half way between knee and ankle. The horse snorted and tossed its neck, not understanding why it could not right itself. The human climbed out of the grass, his face covered in sweat and mud. He grabbed at the horse’s mane, and shouted, as if that would calm his broken beast.
More humans appeared in the meadow, running down a hill towards the rider, his horse and the giant anteater. Some were dressed in labourers’ clothes, others in suits, waving their hats about their heads as they tried to hop a
cross the pasture, planting their feet into the unknown.
Bear gathered his senses. He sucked in his belly and made himself thin. He slowly weaved through the wafting heads of grass, moving so his black hulk wouldn’t break their lines. He felt a pain in his shoulder and edged away, putting distance between the bellowing men descending on the fallen horse.
The men gathered around the gelding, which had quietened, occasionally tossing its head, its ears appearing above the flowers. Some stood, hands in their pockets, while one ran his hand along the horse’s body, with slow deliberate strokes. The rider cursed at his charge and worked at the leather straps, trying to free his saddle and stirrups. He pulled at the horse, which winced and whimpered, and yanked his tack away, falling back with it on to his rear. Embarrassed he stood and ran a finger across his throat. An older gentleman, who had just joined the party, nodded. He took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and threw it across the horse’s wild eye. A third man raised a broken shotgun, inserted a slug, snapped it shut and triangulated between the horse’s eyes and ears. He pulled the trigger.
The sound of the discharging gun crashed like a wave upon Bear’s ear drums, forcing him to blink as the man ended the life of an animal that moments earlier had been running as fast as it had ever run in its life. The anteater froze again, immediately recalling the sight of the horse’s legs involuntarily kicking into the air at the final moment. He slowly lowered his body into the ground, all joy leaving him, as he curled his tail across his eyes. He listened as some of the men consoled the older gentleman, while others took out banknotes from their pockets, exchanging them for crumpled chits. After a few minutes, the men started to break away. Some turned, walking back through the grass in the direction they had come, cursing their wet trousers and bad luck. The rest jogged on, tracing the line taken by the other horses through the meadow and over a short fence, followed by the rider carrying his saddle, which he held tight as if it were his only possession.
Bear couldn’t help himself. He fell into a pained sleep, no longer able to face this new world. He drew in the smell of the pasture and dreamed of home, fantasising what life was like in spring for a wild adult anteater that hadn’t been taught any tricks. He kept fidgeting, buzzed by the flies gathering around the horse. And he was sure he heard the sound of seagulls landing, imagining them pecking at the horse’s eyes as they cackled and snapped at each other, still fighting for the best bits among all the horse offered. So he squashed his eyelids tighter together, and pulled his tail in closer, taking slower heavier breaths.
He woke an hour later, feeling the slobbering chops of Tony the fox-terrier excavating his fur, trying to reach and lick his mouth. Tony had come alone, having noticed Bear was missing, and he found the anteater by weaving through the meadow, taking random lines that always seemed to lead to the thing he was searching for.
Two days earlier, Bear would have knocked aside any dog trying to nuzzle his gums. But here and now, the warm, moist currents of Tony’s breath felt affirming, and vital. Bear unfurled himself, grateful to no longer be alone. He told Tony about the horse and its rider and pointed to the gelding’s body still listless in the grass. As he did so, the clouds above moved faster. They fragmented, letting through shards of golden sunlight.
The horses, said Tony, must have been racing towards the church spire situated beyond the woods, piercing the top of the trees. Tony recognised the gelding. He didn’t know him personally, but he had visited his stable. The gelding was a thoroughbred, one with a bad eye for the jumps. So the men who owned him had him done, and trained him for the point to points rather than the courses. He used to be a good horse, said Tony, in a matter of fact way, as if he was used to seeing dead animals.
“But why was the man on his back whipping him so hard?” asked Bear.
“To make him run faster,” said Tony.
“But he was running fast enough,” said Bear.
Tony then asked about the other horses and how close they had been to the gelding?
“Not far behind,” said Bear, confused.
“Then the man was making the gelding run faster,” said Tony.
To the anteater, the dog wasn’t making sense. The rider appeared to be hitting the horse, just to make the horse run faster. And each time Bear asked why he was hitting him, or why the horse had to run so fast, the answer seemed the same. The horse was being whipped to run faster, and running fast was why the horse was being whipped.
Bear thought back to Whyte and Wingate’s Big Top and how he had been whipped to run around the ring. He wondered if he’d had it wrong. All season he’d tried to please the crowds, by running well, despite it being unnatural to him. Perhaps he should have tried to run fast instead of well? Perhaps that would have pleased the Ring Master more? But he thought on and reasoned that if he had run fast, like the horse, he would have been whipped regardless. He would have been whipped to run fast around the circus and running fast would have led to him being whipped. And now the horse was dead.
“Why did the horse do what the man on his back wanted?” Bear asked Tony.
“I don’t know,” said the dog.
“Why did he do what the man wanted if it led to his end?”
“I don’t know,” said the dog.
“Why didn’t the horse do what he wanted instead? Might he not still be alive?”
“I don’t know,” said the dog.
Tony realised Bear had begun to shiver, his convulsing body throwing droplets from the ends of his hairs.
“Follow me,” said Tony. “In the woods there will be dry leaves you can roll in.”
Bear looked around as the sun began to clear the skies. He sniffed a line of black ants marching out to confront the red ants, but he’d lost his taste for them. He saw the flock of seagulls cavorting above the body of the horse. He felt a ray of yellow light cross the meadow, away from the horse, and ignoring the terrier he pursued it, limping on his sore shoulder.
“This way,” said Tony gently, rubbing his tight white and black coat and brown head against the anteater’s thick shawl of fur.
He cajoled Bear, directing him through the grass and flowers, commenting on the petals and dragonflies, occasionally jumping in anticipation of a passing swift, playing a game with the birds, hoping to draw Bear’s mood.
They moved this way, the dog dancing, the anteater ambling, until the edge of the meadow. They crossed a brook full of croaking frogs and on they went, until the trees stood taller on the horizon. Tony barked and trotted upon his toes. He could see the outline of an elephant standing at the edge of Leigh Woods and a bird flitting around its trunk as it pulled at the grass, filling its mouth with some lush greenery.
A few paces more and Doris saw Tony and Bear approaching. She waved her head and tossed some grass, some of it falling on to Bessie’s wings. She waited at the verge to the woods, more conscious now of the open spaces. As Bear emerged from the golden grass and into the shadows, Doris ran her trunk along his back, feeling his bruised clavicle and underlying pain.
At first, the animals didn’t speak. Doris had a sense of these things, as elephants do, and Bessie read her body on behalf of Bear’s, deferring to her soft stance and gentle touches. They retreated past the first line of trees and Tony went on, until he located a decent pile of leaf litter. He stood to its side and with his rear legs he kicked at it, sending last year’s leaves up and over themselves, creating a bed of brown, yellow and red.
Then Tony spoke, encouraging Bear to rest. Bessie joined him and in her own way she pleaded over and over for Bear to sleep upon the leaves. Bear said he couldn’t, because the humans might come running again through the fields, tossing their hats and money.
Doris didn’t understand why Bear was saying these things. But she knew the anteater well enough to know how to reassure him. She offered to stand guard over her friend. If anyon
e came while he slept, she would snort and bellow. She would charge if she had to and if that wasn’t enough she would trample the interloper.
As Bessie watched from a branch on a tree, Bear staggered below her into the leaves. He pushed himself into them until he was almost gone. Doris moved close and stood straight while Tony lay down, head on his paws, eyes wide open, just as he used to behind the gate at Lord Morgan’s house.
For a while the animals forgot about Edward.
Not because they couldn’t remember. Elephants have excellent memories. Doris could even recall her own birth, the feeling of dropping six feet on to a bed of spiky juniper, blowing the fluid from her lungs, and the joy at being able to stand supported by her mother’s trunk. She still knew the routes to the best watering holes in Kerala and occasionally wondered if they filled each spring.
Bessie too evoked memories of her recent youth, reminiscing about walking on a ball and sitting on a swing and her first taste of various seeds and cereals.
Tony the terrier knew the location of every comfy cushion in Lord Morgan’s house, what time dinner was served and the daily movements of his master.
But being animals, they occasionally forgot to remember each other. And it took Doris until late afternoon to realise their cheeky monkey was still not with them. That he had been taken by Lord Morgan, and that they were trying to find their way to the college, on a hill, in the city, to see Edward again.
Doris thought about making the journey alone, leaving Bear to sleep in the leaves, the dog and bird slumbering alongside. Then she thought ahead, envisaging what that would be like. Immediately she became concerned, unsure which way to walk or what to do if she found a street full of humans that hadn’t paid to see her. So she took a deep breath and blew away the leaves, waking the others, who seemed surprised to be resting on the edge of a wood.