Endangered Species

by Barr, Nevada

  Tabby had had her baby. A healthy seven-and-a-half-pound boy. Her parents were there for the birth and would fly her home to Seattle. Tomorrow they would all be flying home and Anna was relieved. Cumberland Island had taken its toll.

  Zach was gone. As was Frederick. The night after Schlessinger’s arrest Anna had finally gotten through to him by phone. She’d told him she was not coming to Chicago. He’d been understanding. So much so it had annoyed her, but she knew it was just her ego that was hurting. In time she’d be glad there were no hard feelings. Passion was a two-edged sword. It had cut neither of them too deeply.

  Tonight she felt nothing but weariness and a sense of peace she’d not enjoyed in a while.

  Stretching her injured leg out in front of her, she looked down the long expanse of beach. Everyone had turned out for the hatching, including the moon, full and ripe and inviting. On this one night human lights were banished and people were allowed to truly be a part of the night.

  The nests they watched over were not the ones Anna had seen laid her first week on Cumberland. She and the others would be long gone when those turtles made their dash to the ocean. These were on the northern end of the island, out from the alligators’ pond, where sound hooked into sea.

  Lynette, Dot, Mona, and the rest of the fire crew were spread along the dunes, each with a site to monitor. Air was warm and stirred with an offshore breeze. Sand and sea vied to see who had the most hues of silver in her gown. Stars burned low and steady. Schlessinger had traded this for a drug-induced high and, now, four walls.

  Down the dune from where Anna perched, hugging her knees, the sand began to quiver. The movement was so minute it could have been a trick of the light, but she felt her breath catch in her throat. They were coming. Grains shifted, slid, formed tiny whorls and sinks as if the earth itself came to life. Sliding down as near as she dared, Anna watched the emergence of a new generation. The first miniature flipper pushed above the silver and she laughed aloud. A wee head followed. A mighty struggle contained in two inches of amphibian ensued. Anna wanted to help, to free it, to scoop it up and caress it, but man was its main predator. Her touch would be as soothing to the loggerhead as the lick of a pit bull to a newborn kitten.

  Soon a dozen flippers had forced their way through the sand, exciting wavelets in a dry sea of their own making. When the first started its resolute march to an ocean it had never seen, Anna thought she would burst with pride.

  Limping ahead and back, jousting with ghost crabs and shooing away gulls, she gloried in the progress of the turtles across the expanse of beach and laughed to see the waves pick them up for the first time, bobbing them about like awkward ships built by the hands of children.

  The last three had reached the threshold of their new home, felt the wash of their new element, when Anna heard the shout.

  “Maggie-Mary—she’s after my turtles!”

  “Take care of yourselves,” Anna whispered to the last of the little loggerheads. “Duty calls.”