Fauna

by Alissa York

  “So.”

  “What’s in the bag?”

  Edal hasn’t thought this part through. Any possible reply seems flippant, unequal to the truth. Pigeon. Dead pigeon. Unfortunate bird. In the end she holds the bag open, letting the contents speak for themselves.

  “Aw.” Lily’s utterance draws a matching one from between Billy’s teeth. “Poor thing.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You want to bury it?”

  “You think we should?”

  Lily says nothing.

  “I guess so. Yes, I do.”

  Lily nods. “Come on.”

  Billy seems to know what they have in mind. He leads the way down past the office, sidling through the gap in the overlapping hedge. While he sniffs a winding path from hubcap to hubcap, Lily reaches for the spade where it leans against the cinder-block wall. Headed for the corner where fence meets hedge, she says over her shoulder, “Guy set a patch aside for me. You know, for my birds.”

  Edal comes to stand beside her, staring down at the neat rows of minute graves. It’s heartbreaking, the way she’s marked each one with a simple upstanding twig.

  “We can put it here if you want,” Lily adds. “There’s room.”

  Suddenly Edal’s not sure she can trust her voice. It’s crazy, fighting back tears at a roadkill funeral. Maybe she should see about counselling after all. “Okay,” she says finally. “Thanks.”

  Lily does the digging, which leaves Edal to stand with her head bowed, hands clasped before her, holding the pendulous bag.

  “That should do it.” Lily steps back and leans on the spade.

  Billy joins them for the interment, lying down with his nose at the edge of the hole. It feels wrong to upend the bag and let the pigeon drop, but where would she pick it up—the neck? Lily and her dog sustain a patient silence while Edal kneels and sets the bag down on the grass. The spatula is fairly kind as kitchen implements go, designed to be eased under fluffy batter, the delicate, frilled edges of eggs. She slides the blade gently beneath the pigeon again. Tilts it slowly into the waiting grave.

  Following Lily and Billy back out through the hedge, Edal feels easier, almost calm. The sensation lasts for several paces, until Guy steps out of the office door.

  “Edal.” If Lily smiled to see her, he positively beams.

  “Hi, Guy.”

  Lily looks from one to the other. “Come on, Billy, time to go to work.”

  “Work?” Guy raises an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, you know, you show up, you do shit, you get paid.”

  “You have a job?”

  “Of course I have a job. You think I’m some kind of bum?”

  “No, I just never—”

  She spins on her heel. “See you, Edal.”

  “Bye, Lily. And thanks.”

  Lily waves without turning around. Guy and Edal stand together like young parents, watching her go.

  “Thanks for what?” he says as the gate clangs shut.

  “Oh, I had a … I found a bird. Lily let me put it in with hers.”

  “Wow. You should be honoured.”

  From anyone else it would be a joke. “Yeah,” she says, nodding, “I am.”

  He looks away toward the flight cage, then back. “I was just going to feed Red. Want to watch?”

  Fixed on its branch, the hawk eyes the small grey box in Guy’s hands. Not even a glance at Edal as she shoves the cage door closed behind him. Maybe it can hear movement inside the trap, squeaking, even a pitiful wail. Stop it. The red-tail is a predator, the rodent a species of prey. Mice breed in the numbers they do for precisely one reason—to blanket the world with food.

  Still, her heart sinks as Guy sets the trap down in the dirt. Lifting its little hatch, he backs away quickly. She opens the door a crack to let him squeeze out.

  The mouse has been locked up for who knows how long. Still, it knows better than to burst from the trap into the dangerous light of day. It pokes out its nose, whiskers working. Black eyes now. Translucent ears. It emerges in unbearable increments, front paws groping, as though the creature they belong to is blind.

  Edal forces herself to look away, transferring her attention to the bird. It hasn’t moved—not a feather—and yet it is changed. The difference between a closed hand and a clenched one. She’s conscious of Guy breathing beside her. Feels fleetingly, absurdly, as though he’s breathing for her too.

  Movement splits her focus—the mouse making a break for it, the hawk lifting off, becoming its own killing gaze. A second later the red-tail brakes with its wings, strikes hard with its reaching feet. The mouse is stabbed through, strangled. Wholly dead as the hawk gathers it up in its claws.

  Edal expects the hawk to rip into the mouse—either that or bolt it down and carry it back to the dead oak in its crop. Instead, it holds the little body to its breast and lowers its head.

  “Wheep,” it says softly to its food. And again, this time scarcely audible, “Wheeep.”

  Guy lets out a low whistle—of admiration or plain release—and the bird looks up sharply. Staring, it lowers its kill to the ground. It stands motionless for several seconds, one foot on the mouse, before it moves. Hop, pivot, hop—an awkward, counter-clockwise shuffle. The red-tail is showing them its back.

  Incredible that spoken language should ever have evolved, when even a bird can communicate so clearly without words. The hawk stoops forward and opens its wings, halting at half their span. The message is mixed, part tenderness, part sinister intent.

  “Guess he’d like a little privacy.” Guy hooks the padlock in place and snaps it shut. “You okay? You look a little pale.”

  Edal nods.

  “Want a coffee?”

  “Coffee.” She considers the hawk’s hunched form.

  “Okay, then, how about a beer?”

  Stephen’s walking out to the loader when a mouse makes him jump. It’s gone before he can get a good look, disappearing down the chute of a truncated tailpipe into a warren of scrap. Gone. But the sensation it evoked remains.

  The camel spider made him jump too.

  No one had warned him how much of his tour would be spent standing around, trying to keep alert in the heat. It was a tough slog for a boy from the wet west coast—white-hot mornings, forty degrees before your boots even hit the ground. Come the full of day, troops unable to keep to the shade started dropping, drunk with sun. He’d never dreamt his body could call for so much water—half a dozen litres on milder days, triple that when the sun did its worst.

  It was blistering, the day the camel spider appeared in the corner of his eye. His platoon had been briefed on the big arachnids and other indigenous fauna upon arrival at KAF, the sergeant making a meal of the topic the way only an east-coaster could. It’ll feel like the bugger’s stalking you, but he’s only after your shade. He can give a healthy bite, right enough, but only if you go asking for it, messing him around. Even then there’s no venom to speak of. No, it’s the vipers you want to watch out for, and wouldn’t you know it, the filthy fuckers like to hide.

  Four months in, Stephen had yet to lay eyes on one of the deadly snakes, though he’d seen his share of Afghan animal life. Pigeons or something close lined the rafters of the old Russian-built hangar at KAF. Horses were in short supply throughout the region, but there were always the hobbled, hopping donkeys, the reeking, skin-and-bones goats. Once, during a cordon search of a village, he came upon half a dozen rabbits in a corner courtyard. He didn’t spot them at first, their fur the same powdery brown as the little baked houses, the many winding walls. Fresh meat, one of the others said hoarsely behind him, but Stephen could think only of scooping one up and holding it. Clutching it to his hammering chest.

  Once he got over the small shock of the camel spider’s presence, Stephen decided to test the shade theory for himself. Stepping to one side, he found the creature came too, riding the slim carpet his shadow made. Another step saw it dog him again. He’d heard they were big, and sure enough, this one was the si
ze of a toddler’s hand. He’d heard they were ugly too, but that wasn’t strictly so. There was a delicacy to the way it fingered along after him through the sand. It was pale, soft grey and ivory, with pointed feet and a fine, almost formal design. Not so much a child’s hand as an X-ray of that hand come to life. The longer he watched it, the lovelier it became.

  It stuck by him throughout the long afternoon, even followed him back to the LAV when the order to move finally came through. He considered pointing it out to his fellow soldiers but thought better of the idea. It would only take one startled soul, one boot brought down with a nervous laugh. He lagged a little, making sure he was the last one up the ramp. The camel spider kept on alone. As it vanished into the gloom beneath the LAV, Stephen said a rapid, silent prayer. Let it keep clear of the wheels, he thought. Let it live.

  He’s forgotten what he was doing, where he is. The sun on his face is confusingly pleasant, the armoured vehicle before him all wrong. The fork is what sets him straight. Loader, not LAV. He’s on his way to shift the cars he flattened earlier, start a new stack along the eastern wall.

  Talk about a cheap date—one beer and she offers to make dinner? She’s not the world’s worst cook, but when was the last time she made a meal for other people? Guy didn’t protest the way anyone else would have. If he had, Edal might have come to her senses and backed out.

  She left to go shopping without thinking to ask what he and the others might like. Loblaws came close to defeating her, her mind a bright void as she wandered the aisles. In the end it was a chicken breast that saved her. Fajitas. She may have cried the actual word—several people looked round—or it may have been pure, unintelligible sound.

  Strangely, everything seems to be going okay. They could be a family, and a modern one at that—Edal at the counter chopping garlic, Lily outside smoking, Stephen online in another room. Guy’s already set the table. He sits there reading, the book unknown to Edal, something about a pilgrim and a creek. Whatever the story, it holds his attention almost entirely. Almost. Earlier, while she was slicing the green peppers, she caught him watching. He met her look, held it briefly before returning his gaze to the page.

  Now, as she crosses to the stove, she catches him in a moment of distraction again. This time, though, he looks toward the screen door, where Lily can be heard calling across the yard.

  “Hey, Kate.”

  At least Edal thinks it’s Kate, the single syllable muddied by Billy’s welcoming woof. Kate. It’s not a name she’s heard mentioned—but then, why would she? She’s only known him—them—for a few days. She scarcely knows them at all.

  A second female voice now; Edal can’t quite make out the reply. She can make out the laughter, though—the first time she’s heard anything more than a snort from Lily. Bright, almost childish in tenor, it finds a counterpoint in the other, sustained and warm. Edal becomes aware of the wooden spoon in her hand. She twists back to the stove and balances it against the hot lip of the pan.

  When she turns back to face the room, Guy has laid his book face down on the table. The screen door is a portal, now empty, now holding a woman turned hazy by the fine steel mesh. Guy stands as she draws it open, coming clear.

  First, there is her skin. The colour of caramel sauce, it glows against the ice cream white of her T-shirt, the black of her high-cut runner’s shorts. Then there’s her hair, far longer than Edal could ever grow hers, not a full blue-black but not what anyone would call brown either. Dark, most people would say. Long, dark hair. The high ponytail has swung forward to cover a shoulder, a breast. It lies there like a pelt, as though it might just as easily end in the sharp little face of a mink.

  “Who’s this?” Guy says, as Lily and Billy follow the newcomer inside.

  “This is Kate.” Lily looks at the floor. “I told her she could come and see the hawk.”

  “If that’s okay.” Kate’s voice matches her laugh. The mouth it issues from is red and full. Edal feels herself swivel back to the spitting pan.

  “Sure,” Guy says warmly. “Hey, Edal, come and meet Kate.”

  She angles the spoon against the pan again, but it slips, splattering the stovetop, an oily spray. She hates herself for what she does next. She’s tucked her thin hair back to keep her face cooler as she cooks. Now she reaches up to free it. It falls in two flimsy curtains as she turns, hiding the flaw she’s come close to forgetting, her unfortunate little ears.

  Something’s up. Guy may not have known many women, but unless he’s very much mistaken, something has rubbed Edal the wrong way. She’s not what you’d call a big talker in general, but tonight she hasn’t said word one—not even when he told her everything tasted great. It’s true, too. He’s had Mexican before, but never like this—the fresh green bite, the soft tortillas in their corn-scented steam. He helps himself to seconds, taking his time.

  Too much time, it would seem. He’s still working on the last fragrant bite when she stands to take his plate.

  “Uh-uh.” He swallows. “You cooked.”

  She stands still, as though admonished. Cuts her eyes toward the door.

  Kate balls up her paper-towel napkin and rises. “I’ll wash. You want to give me a hand clearing, Lily?”

  Billy whines, and Lily slides down in her chair, bringing her nose to his. “Billy’s gotta go.”

  “Maybe Stephen can take him.” Kate reaches across Guy and he gets a whiff of the runner’s sweat in her T-shirt. Honest sweat, Aunt Jan used to say. You can always smell a phony, Guy. The pores don’t lie.

  “Come on, Lily,” she says. “You can dry.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Stephen stands and pats his thigh, drawing Billy after him to the door. Edal watches them go. She still hasn’t sat back down.

  “Take a seat,” Guy says.

  She twists her hands together. “I thought I might get going.” She says it as though she’s a stranger among them. As though she doesn’t know what happens next.

  “Don’t you want to hear tonight’s chapter?” He means to say it lightly.

  “I’m tired.”

  And he sees now that she is—not weary so much as sleepy. Somebody ought to pick her up and carry her to bed, tuck her in before she begins to cry. She would be easy to lift; he knows this in his arms, his chest.

  “It’s ‘Letting in the Jungle’ tonight,” he says. “Mowgli gets his own back on the villagers.” Ever so slightly desperate. Even he can hear it, and still he keeps on. “I’ll give you a ride home after if you want.”

  She tilts her head, as though she can’t quite make out his meaning. Then nods and resumes her seat—but not before grabbing a section of the Star from the table’s far end. Aunt Jan used to read in different ways for different reasons. When she opened the paper, it meant she’d rather be left alone.

  Guy takes his time fetching the book, sitting down on the bed and reaching first for Ring of Bright Water. Should he take it out to show her? Something tells him no, at least not yet. He lets it fall open to a page he’s favoured. A man not much older than himself has fallen asleep in his chair. On his lap, a large, white-throated otter lies wide awake.

  By the time Guy returns to the table, Edal’s set the paper aside, folded her arms into a pillow and laid down her head, her face turned away from his chair. The others sit quiet and alert. Guy eases into his place, slips his finger in behind the bookmark and begins.

  Having learned to hate man, Mowgli’s back in the jungle, where he belongs. His friends counsel him to forget the village, but how can he when he knows Messua, his human mother, is to be put to death for having harboured him in her home?

  Guy keeps his voice low to begin with, but allows himself to grow louder as Mowgli forms his plan. Louder still as that plan comes into effect.

  Once Messua and her man have escaped, the jungle is free to do its worst. The wild pigs lead the way for every horned and hungry thing; soon the ripening crops are no more. With nowhere to graze, the village herds wander off to join up with
their wild cousins. Ponies lie broken in the laneways, marked by a certain panther’s paw. In the end, Hathi the elephant and his sons run mad, plucking roofs off the little mud houses and kicking through crumbling walls.

  In the midst of the havoc, Edal turns to lay the other temple down on the back of her wrist. He can see her face now, her eyes still closed, the lids bluish, soft.

  “‘A month later,’” he reads, “‘the place was a dimpled mound, covered with soft, green young stuff; and by the end of the Rains there was the roaring Jungle in full blast on the spot that had been under plough not six months before.’”

  He leaves a pause before finishing with “Mowgli’s Song Against People.” When he falls silent, Edal makes a small sound in her throat, like the click of a CD reaching its end. She lifts her head and opens her eyes. Her cheeks are flushed.

  “That was amazing, Guy,” Kate says, stretching her arms up over her head. “The dinner was great too, Edal. I only ever cook Indian, and I even cheat at that.”

  “I love curry,” says Stephen.

  “Yeah? I should make some for you guys.”

  “You’re on,” Guy says. “How about tomorrow night?”

  Edal rubs her eyes roughly and pushes up out of her chair. “Well, good night, everybody.”

  She’s at the door before Guy can stand.

  “Bye, Edal,” Stephen and Lily say together, and Billy huffs out a sigh.

  “Nice to meet you,” Kate calls.

  “You too.” She says it over her shoulder, not looking back.

  Guy slips out after her. She’s walking fast, already coming alongside the trucks. “Hey, wait up.” She slows a little but doesn’t stop. He catches up to her at the gate. “What’re you going to do, scale it? Hold your horses.”

  He feels for the chain at his neck and pulls up the key. Once he has it in hand, he finds that hand less than steady. Whatever’s upset her, it seems to be catching.

  He busies his hands with the lock. “No bike tonight?”

  “No.” She says it softly, almost sadly, her tone confusing him further.