Maybe I am downright crazy.
“I’m kind of like a cat. Open the end of a box and I have to see what’s in it, no matter what it is. I’m definitely in.”
“Wonderful! Wolf, let’s continue.”
Wolf’s eyes return halfway to normal. He rolls them and then walks on up the path. Ms. Bravelli fakes a smile and falls behind him. I walk where I can appreciate her posterior.
“You won’t be sorry, Zach,” Lance says. “This may be Pulitzer material.”
Pulitzer material? What is with all these contradictions? I was just told I could not publish. Pulitzer? I’m just happy to have someone who’s paying me to do what I love. Pulitzer! Never dreamed such a thing.
I file the notion into an overfilled wastebasket in the recesses of my head and began running my imagination at whatever I’m about to be shown. I envision a long-necked Tyrannosaurus rex nibbling at the top of the trees, or the larger Brachiosaurus nibbling on T-rex’s head, or an Anurognathus swooping around them both. My imagination gets carried away with itself until I stop it and wonder what Mesozoic age dinosaurs have to do with Bengal tigers. We step through a door and I have the feeling we just left the Bengal’s garden. We are now in a courtyard with trees, bushes and paths. We take a path to the right.
At a gate Wolf opens another plastic cover over a keypad and taps in some numbers. The gate slides open on rails. We step inside and I notice we are only halfway. He activates a switch to close the gate and then only after it stops, locking us in, does he open the next gate.
“Industrial secrets!” I say. “Nuclear weapons don’t get this treatment.”
Lance laughs. “This isn’t just to keep people out, Zach. That one cipher lock on one gate can do that. This double gate system is to keep what is in here in, should they escape their area.”
Wolf and Ms. Bravelli step in. “Are we all going in there?” I ask.
“Certainly,” Lance says. “It’s perfectly safe. They are still relatively young, not mature enough to be much danger. Besides we have all precautions in place. They are well secured in their garden.”
A vision of several Brachiosauruses poking their heads through the top of the building comes to mind. “They? What are they?” I still linger between the gates.
“Please, Zach. It’s quite safe. You’ll see when you get in there. Go now. We can’t stand here all day.”
He urges me with a push on my shoulder. Regrettably, I shuffle through.
Chapter 5
“. . . if you set foot in the forests–you enter a world where the ground sucks you down whole,
where the night swallows the stars, and where you know, for the first time, that your body is made of meat.”
–Spell of the Tiger
This second building is not unlike the first. As a matter-of-fact, I can’t tell the difference. We follow a short path that opens into a working area. Another man, of the same international heritage as Wolf, and the same dress, sits at a work bench. He turns as we approach. Wolf makes the introductions.
“Mister Price. This my associate, Thomas Holm. Thomas, this is Zechariah Price. He be with us as journalist.”
I accept Thomas’ hand and we exchange our appreciation of meeting each other.
“We labeled Wolf as ‘Keeper of the Cats.’” Lance says. “We’ve given Tom the title of ‘Keeper of the Sabres.’” He turns to Tom. “Where are our friends now?”
Click goes my mind. Suddenly all the clues come together: hundreds of thousands of years, keeper of the cats and tigers, sabre. I put tiger with the word sabre and the question falls out of my mouth.
“Sabre-toothed tiger?”
Lance looks at me and grins. Thomas points to an area in the middle of what looks to be an overhead shot of the jungle on a twenty-eight inch computer monitor. “They on beach. Still work on morning kill.”
“Morning kill!” It takes me a few seconds to realize I have stepped back two paces.
“Their food, Zach. They’re able to hunt and kill their own food now, versus us dropping in a side of beef on occasion. They’re growing and learning. And, by the way, it’s not sabre-toothed tiger. They are cats, not tigers. Sabre-toothed cats.”
I close my mouth. “You mean to say you have an actual sabre-toothed cat here; large enough to kill his own game?” Lance continues grinning. “How?” I add.
“DNA,” Ms. Bravelli says, the first words she has uttered since taking my coat. “Not one cat. Three.”
“We have triplets, Zach.”
“From the La Brea Tar Pits in Southern California,” Ms. Bravelli adds. “From the fossil diggings we managed to obtain fully viable DNA.”
“But I thought that wasn’t really possible, just stuff of science fiction.”
“Taking a rocket to the moon was science fiction only forty years ago,” Lance says. “Sometimes sci-fi writers come up with ideas that people like Victor Vandermill look at and say, ‘why not? Maybe that really could happen.’”
“That’s what he did here?” I’m astounded. “Jurassic Park hit the box office and he got the idea to create a sabre-toothed tiger, er . . . ah, cat?”
“Actually his idea came first. At the time of Jurassic Park we already had a test-tube embryo; however, success was still a year away. We have been on this for ten years.”
A dozen questions fly into my head. Before I can ask any Lance says, “I’m sure you have questions. We’ll answer them all later. Right now we shall go observe our trio. We must be very quiet.”
Thomas leaves his chair and goes to a door that is hidden in the foliage. He steps through and the four of us follow. The door closes silently and we are quickly swallowed up by the vines and bushes overhanging the dirt path.
“This path winds throughout the garden,” Lance whispers. “There is only one garden in this building. We want them to have plenty of room to grow and develop. There are a dozen viewing areas—one-way glass. They are angled so that they can’t accidentally catch an image of themselves in the mirrors. Let’s continue.”
As we wander along the path I catch glimpses of solid wood walls. Occasionally there is a window that looks out over a meadow, a babbling brook, or a swamp. I spot a couple of birds, but no animals, no big cats with sabre-like teeth. We reach the pinnacle of a rise and stop. One-way glass overlooks are on both sides. To my right a brook passes from underneath us and wraps out of sight about fifty feet away. I realize the water has to be all internally recycled as there is certainly no way it could come from outside.
Lance taps my arm. I look and he points out the opposite side. I turn to see where a dam forms a large pond. Water pours over the dam, dropping three feet into the brook I saw from the other side. I hardly notice this, however, because my attention is drawn to two cats on the beach gnawing on the remains of what appears to be a pig. They are not large cats, but large enough that I wouldn’t chance a close encounter. I recall a drawing from a Discovery Channel program a few years back of what the artist imagined the sabre-toothed cat looked like and I am anxious to see how close he was, but their faces are away from me, engaged with their meal. I wish I had been advised of the sabre-tooth when I signed the contract as I would have done research on them instead of the Bengal. And what does the Bengal tiger have to do with the sabre-toothed cat?
Lance grabs my arm and leans in close to whisper. “If you’re wondering where the third one is, he, or she, is standing guard. It’s as though they recognize they are vulnerable while feeding. There is some kind of agreement between them that only two will eat at a time while the third patrols out of sight. Very interesting concept we have never seen in the feline world.”
“Vulnerable to what?” I ask.
“They are from a time many thousands of years ago when there were other predators. They probably had enemies.”
I move along the window to get a different angle. My vision focuses on the activity some thirty-five or forty feet away, when suddenly I see a movement only two feet from my face. The focal point of
my vision quickly changes and I see a snake, a very large snake, moving down a tree. “Holy shit!” I try to jump back about a hundred feet but hit the glass behind me. I force my voice to a whisper. “Sorry. Did you see that?” Thomas is glaring at me. Wolf and Aileen are watching the cats closely. Lance starts to step toward me and then stops. His attention is suddenly diverted back to the activity in the garden. I step closer to look, only mildly aware of the snake now. Snakes don’t normally bother me. It was the unexpectedness of this one that got me off balance. I try to shake off the embarrassment.
The two cats are no longer eating. Their heads are up and they are looking toward our location. The third cat has appeared and is pacing slowly not ten feet away, its head down as it searches for the source of the noise I just made. It is of him that I get my first real look at the face of a sabre-tooth. I immediately decide that if I had my druthers, I’d rather tangle with the snake. Although I’m sure he cannot see past the one-way glass, I feel his eyes boring into me.
More of the details about that Discovery Channel program start coming back to me. A group wanted to try and recreate how Smilodon, the largest of the sabre-toothed cats, used its sabre-teeth to kill prey. They debated between ripping the animal’s stomach open or ripping out the throat and then waiting until it dies. They created a machine that operated much like they imagined the cat’s jaws did and then tested it on a buffalo. It worked quite nicely, ripping out the animal’s jugular vein. Smilodon’s sabres were reported to be up to seven inches long. I would say that this cat pacing in front of me, not yet fully grown, easily sported seven inch sabres. I do not care to try to imagine what damage would be done if those jaws closed down over any part of my body. Compared to most other large cats I’ve seen, and tigers for that matter, his head to body ratio is rather large. I’m curious if that is to accommodate the muscles behind the jaws, or a higher intelligence.
Or both.
The long fangs protrude below his jaw, very much like the drawing, but the eyes are . . . so piercing . . . so intense . . . so full of knowing my fear and vulnerability that I want to back up as badly as I did with the snake. I hold my ground, certain in the knowledge that he cannot see me. The only animal I can imagine that would be worse to face is the grizzly bear, and I have a hunch, remembering the one hundred and twenty degree opening it can manage with its jaws, that this sabre-toothed cat, at full-grown, could take down a grizzly.
“Wow!” I say under my breath. The pacing cat briefly looks to his siblings. They step away from their meal and then turn and disappear into the jungle. The third one paces a bit more before backing toward the dead pig. I glance away to the snake and note that it is gone. When I look back sabre-tooth number three is not to be seen.
The next thing I know we are all walking back along the path from where we came. When we are again in Thomas’ work area and the door is closed, I say, “Wow! That was amazing! I’m sorry about the . . .”
Lance raises a hand. “That’s quite alright. Did you see what took place there? We’ve learned something valuable.”
I look between Lance and Wolf. “What?”
“They communicated somehow,” Lance says.
“It was look.” Wolf shakes his head. “Jungle body language. The way sabre-tooth on guard pace and look say danger not pass and they need hide.” He gives me a look that contradicts Lance’s, ‘quite alright’ comment. “It stupid, way you make noise.”
“There did seem to be intelligence there,” Ms. Bravelli says. “Don’t you think, Thomas?”
Thomas shrugs his shoulders. “Do not know. Maybe reaction from unfamiliar sound.”
“It’s more than that. It’s a communication that I’ve heard of in the gorilla world, not the cat world.”
“I think Thomas right,” Wolf says. “It coincidental. Their movements normal jungle reaction to perceived threat. They only look like they communicate.”
Ms. Bravelli doesn’t appear convinced. “You can’t disagree about the one patrolling while the other two eat. You’ve been watching them since their birth, and the patrolling only just began a week ago, right after you dropped your clipboard and they spooked. They don’t have a mother to teach them the rules of the jungle. They’re figuring it out on their own.”
“Hereditary,” Thomas says.
“Genetic,” Wolf says. “Certain traits kick in at different ages. Patrolling coincidental. Genetic trait.”
“I have to agree with Aileen,” Lance says. “They’re learning, and very quickly.”
“Humph!” Wolf says. “We see.”
“Yes, I guess we will.” Lance walks over to a monitor a few feet from Thomas’ computer station. “I’d like to see the tape of that.”
“I no see point,” Wolf says angrily. “Waste time.”
Lance punches a button and the computer monitor comes to life. It is divided into four camera views. I recognize the one with the sandy beach where the cats left the pig, except . . .
“The pig is gone,” Lance says.
Chapter 6
The three of us reverse through the procedures from the time we started our trek into the gardens. I arrive in the main building still sniffling and clogging along in my boots. With them and the huge parka, I feel like what I imagine the moon-walkers felt like in all their gear. We shed down to our interior clothing and then proceed back up to the conference room. I consider what I just saw, including the replay of the tape a half-dozen times, and the argument between Lance and Wolf over whether the cats’ actions were learned and communicated between them or only hereditary makeup.
Now that we have left Wolf behind, Ms. Bravelli and Lance excitedly discuss their agreed-upon conclusion, of which they were even more convinced when the tape showed the young cats returning to take the pig. The three oozed out of the forest in different places and paced the circumference of the beach for about two minutes. Then one broke away, wrapped its jaws around the pig’s body and, with no more effort than that of a housecat stealing away with a mouse, carried it into the trees. The other two backed up and then turned and followed.
“They had a procedure,” Lance says, “as though it had been discussed who would do what and when. All three scouted and then the chosen one, which happened to be the largest of the trio, without a flinch from the others, walked away with the lunch. All part of a plan that had to have been worked out ahead of time. Why didn’t they fight over it? Why didn’t they all run in and grab it? Why didn’t they take it with them to begin with? It certainly didn’t seem to slow them down any.”
“I’ve studied the papers written on the diggings from La Brea and I don’t recall anyone coming to such conclusions.” Ms. Bravelli settles back in her chair. “There’s still an argument over whether they were lone animals or had a social structure.”
“How much can you deduce from ten thousand year old bones?” Lance asked.
“Maybe it’s a twin thing, or . . . ah, triplets in this case.” The two of them look at me as though they forgot I was with them. When they seem about to dismiss the relevance of my words, or just me in general, I add, “You know how some twins have a communications link between them; one can feel the other’s pain and such? Why can’t that happen with animals as well?”
They are sitting in a couple of overstuffed chairs while I’m standing at the window, partially mesmerized by the white wilderness, partially listening to their conversation. “It would require a higher intelligence, an awareness that a link exists,” Ms. Bravelli says.
“Why?” I turn from the window. “They don’t have to question it or understand it. They just do it. No different from not thinking about where their paws are when they walk. They probably don’t even think of themselves as three different animals; instead they are one animal with three sets of eyes.”
“A far reach,” Lance says.
I can see Ms. Bravelli is still thinking. “Consider the ant colony,” I add to my argument. “That’s a prime example of a group working for one cause, almost with one in
telligence. It’s a basic method of communications.”
Lance shakes his head. “It’s a long reach from ants to warm-blooded animals. These animals, especially this species, are territorial and self-preserving. It would be nothing to fight to the death over the rights to a kill.”
“But,” I raise my hand with my index finger extended, “they did not. As a matter-of-fact they appeared no different than my right hand working with my left hand. There is no battle between the two, simply an agreement that they’ll work together for the common cause, which the brain has control of. Look at each of the cats as an extension of one brain, one intelligence.”
“He has a point,” Ms. Bravelli says. “I think we should investigate the possibility, at least run the tape and the theory by Victor.”
“I guess you’re right,” Lance says. “Put another brain on it.”
And so is my first afternoon at Sans Sanssabre. I retreat to my room to finish unpacking and organizing, add several pages of notes to my journal, and then go through the cupboards and refrigerator. I make a bunch of check-marks on the list left by Ulla, which only ten minutes later she retrieves.
And then it’s six o’clock and I realize I’m hungry. There was no mention of a gathering together someplace for dinner so I assume I am on my own. I wander back through the cupboards and realize there isn’t much with which to make a meal, as Ulla won’t stock until tomorrow. There are several cans of green beans, a package of noodles and a small variety of sauce mixes. The only things in the fridge are ice-cubes, a couple sodas and a selection of condiments. Living by myself for a time in Seattle, I have learned how to punt around the kitchen and make a meal out of little. I locate a couple pots for the beans and noodles and get some water on to boil when the phone rings. I search down a cordless, realize I should call Tanya and advise her as to where her husband is now, hit the talk button and say, “Hello.”
“Zach! Lance here. Victor has laid down some steaks. His eyes were bigger than our stomachs. Why don’t you come up and join us?”
Sabre-Toothed Cat Trilogy Page 4