Fear No Evil

by John Gordon Davis

  ‘So how are you going to improve on the sheriff? Are you going to search for them by helicopter, for instance?’

  ‘My dear sir, helicopter search is useless. The forest is thick; one can’t see the ground. The only way to find an animal, unless you’re lucky and just stumble upon it, is by tracking it. That is what I shall do, and Wildlife officers are at the scene now, tracking from Devils Fork where they crossed this morning.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then, sir,’ Ford said with an impatient sigh, ‘we will keep track of them every day, darting one at a time, recovering it, flying it out by helicopter to our camp, where it will be placed in a stockade.’

  ‘Where’s your base camp?’

  ‘It hasn’t been set up yet. But it will be by tonight. In a suitable place near the area of operations, obviously.’

  Another reporter said, ‘When exactly are you going to get down there, sir, to take charge?’

  ‘This afternoon. Or tonight at the latest.’

  ‘Why so long, Professor? Dr. Elizabeth Johnson managed to get down there the day before yesterday, and by the small hours of yesterday morning she had found them.’

  Professor Ford looked at him with glowering dignity.

  ‘It is difficult,’ he said, ‘not to say highly uncomfortable to be in two places at once. Dr. Johnson just abandoned her duties here and rushed off. She found them not by tracking, but by luck.’

  ‘And with pluck!’ a reporter shouted from the back.

  ‘Indeed. I am not belittling Dr. Johnson’s courage, nor her good intentions. But I could not simply abandon my post on an emotional impulse; I had to organize the recapture operation. Do not underestimate the size of that task. It has been done in thirty-six sleepless hours. And though a handful of the sheriff’s men and I might have stopped the massacre had we, with the benefit of clairvoyance, been at Devils Fork, we could not have contained the animals. We would only have hoped that them seeing us would have frightened them into staying on the other side. If they had seen us. A handful of men in that huge area. In the dark. That is why we need a lot of troops, to act as a conspicuous human fence.’

  ‘What are the troops going to do if the animals aren’t deterred by them?’

  Ford took a deep breath. ‘It is not our intention, sir, to indulge in a debate on operational tactics. That will only provoke endless and possibly emotional discussion on something which, with all due respect, you know nothing about. Suffice it to say that these very points have been the subject of lengthy consideration.’

  Then Eric Bradman spoke for the first time:

  ‘Well, it seems to me that making a human fence out of thousands of troops who know nothing about animals is inviting confusion, panic, and a possible bloodbath.’

  Everybody waited for the professor’s reply. ‘Is that a question, Mr. Bradman?’

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ Bradman grumbled. ‘You made it clear that you won’t entertain questions on tactics. But I do have a question, please …’ Everybody waited. ‘According to Dr. Johnson, to whom I’ve spoken by telephone and whom I’m going to be joining later today, the animals are following David Jordan through the wilderness as if he were the Pied Piper. Can you, as a zoologist, explain this?’

  ‘There is nothing Pied Piperish about it, Mr. Bradman. Nothing very remarkable at all. These are tame animals, and they know him because he used to work with them. Indeed, most of them are highly trained circus animals. In the animal kingdom, one animal, usually the largest male, becomes accepted by the others as the leader, or alpha, as it’s called. In a zoo, the keeper becomes accepted as the alpha. The same in a circus. The animal also likes its alpha and is to a great extent emotionally dependent upon him. Furthermore, the keeper, the alpha, provides food. When such animals are thrust back into the wilderness, as has happened now, they are frightened and completely at a loss. So, naturally, they will follow their alpha—who, in this case, is Jordan. That’s all there is to it.’

  His eyes darted over the other faces challengingly.

  ‘But,’ said Eric Bradman, ‘are there not certain people who do have remarkable powers with animals? Who empathize with them to such an extent that the animals adore them, people who can communicate with animals in their own language, as it were?’

  ‘Supposedly. In the same way as there are spiritualists, hypnotists, mystics, people with extrasensory perception; I have not had anything to do with them.’

  Eric Bradman let the zooman’s dismissal hang, then he said quietly, ‘Why did you ban David Jordan from the zoo?’

  Ford had not imagined he would have to defend himself.

  ‘There are certain perverse people who make a pest of themselves in zoos. They torment the animals, or feed them, or try to touch them. I ban such people—as do zoos everywhere. I can understand the public’s morbid curiosity in this man Jordan, but I am not about to have any administrative judgment debated.’

  ‘Of course … But is it true, Professor, that the animals used to show great excitement when he arrived, make a noise and try to reach him through the bars?’

  ‘I believe so. Then he’d break all the rules and touch them. Highly dangerous, because the public is then tempted to try the same thing. You can’t treat them like dogs and cats.’

  ‘I see … they should be left alone in their cages?’

  Ford look at him angrily. ‘The obvious answer is yes, Mr. Bradman. Only a fool would say no. But I do not like what you imply.’

  Bradman said mildly, ‘Professor, I am not condoning what this man Jordan has done. I do not like zoos—that is what I implied—because is it not immoral, Professor, let alone cruel, to imprison our fellow creatures for the amusement of the public?’

  He was prepared for the question.

  ‘Zoos, Mr. Bradman,’ he said with a hint of triumph, ‘are more necessary today than they have ever been in history. For never before has the animal kingdom been in such danger of being overrun, sent into extinction, by man. Zoos are a sanctuary for animals, Mr. Bradman. They breed under protection, and one zoo trades off surplus stock to another. And zoos, Mr. Bradman, are not there simply for the public’s amusement. They are there for the public’s education.’ He glowered at him. ‘For the fact is that ninety-nine percent of the world will never see these specimens except in a zoo. And seeing them makes them aware of … their worth.’

  Bradman said earnestly, ‘Professor Ford, as a zoologist, do you feel sorry for animals in distress?’

  Ford knew what was coming. ‘Of course. But none of the Bronx Zoo animals is in distress, Mr Bradman.’

  ‘Then why is it,’ Bradman said reasonably, ‘that—for example—all the big cats are constantly striding up and down their cages? A human being, constantly pacing up and down in a confined space, would be considered in distress.’

  ‘There is no parallel. A man has a highly developed brain. An animal has no powers of reasoning. As it knows nothing but its cage, it is not reacting to his captivity by pacing.’

  ‘It is not instinctively searching for freedom?’

  Jonas Ford said triumphantly, ‘No! The desire for freedom is not an instinct. There are only five basic instincts, meaning things which animals do entirely alone without learning from others or by experience. These are eating, sleeping, keeping warm, mating and self-preservation. Anything else an animal does or knows, it gets by experience or imitating others. So, Mr. Bradman, a tiger pacing in its cage is not doing so because it has learned about freedom, because it has not experienced it. And it is not doing so in an instinctive desire for freedom, because freedom is not one of the five instincts.’

  Eric Bradman was staring at him, amazed at this clinical but obviously sincere scientific analysis.

  ‘Then why is the tiger pacing, Professor Ford?’

  ‘Perfectly natural. All creatures walk about.’

  ‘Natural? Is it happy?’

  ‘Perfectly. It is well fed and cared for. It has no enemies to prey on it. And it knows no differen
t life.’

  ‘But the tiger in the jungle doesn’t pace up and down.’

  The tiger in the jungle must hunt for its food. When not hunting, it sleeps or relaxes. As the zoo tiger does not have to hunt, it paces about to work off its excess energy, as it were.’

  ‘It’s not bored stiff?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor unhappy?’

  ‘I have answered that question.’

  ‘Nor restlessly seeking freedom because freedom is not an animal instinct? Nor is it lonely?’

  ‘The tiger is a solitary animal, Mr. Bradman.’

  ‘So it is simply being a tiger—expressing its tigerness?’

  Everybody was hanging on the sharp exchange. Bradman’s eyes were blazing, and Professor Ford was glaring.

  ‘As a scientist, I am not sure what you mean by “tigerness.”’

  ‘I see.’ Bradman let the admission hang theatrically. Then he went on, almost wearily. ‘And the elephant, Professor—is that a solitary animal?’

  ‘No …’ Ford began.

  ‘And the hippopotamus?’

  ‘No.’

  Bradman shook his head, like a wise old magistrate. ‘Indeed,’ he said quietly, ‘both are very gregarious animals, are they not, which live in herds, highly loyal and affectionate to each other?’

  Professor Ford opened his mouth but Bradman continued: ‘And we know that elephants roam thousands of miles a year. Now, to quote David Jordan’s open letter to the New York Times, why is it that the New York Zoological Society—the expert on animals—sees fit to keep their elephants, these gregarious animals, among the greatest mammals ever seen on earth—in separate cages the size of a human being’s bedroom?’

  Ford was trying to control his anger.

  ‘Elephants, Mr. Bradman, only cover large areas in search of food. The wild elephant has to spend sixteen hours a day feeding. The rest of the time it spends resting. In the zoo, where it is well fed, it does not need much space.’

  ‘How many hours a day does an elephant feed in the zoo?’

  ‘About three.’

  ‘I’m trying to find out what your elephant does with its free time. If it only feeds three hours it must spend twenty-one hours resting. Is it correct that an elephant only sleeps about six hours a day?’

  Ford shoved his spectacles up on his nose. ‘It is.’

  ‘So your zoo elephant has fifteen hours a day when it’s neither eating nor sleeping?’

  ‘Your mathematics are correct.’

  ‘What do—or did—your elephants do with their fifteen hours every day?’

  Ford was uncomfortable.

  ‘They rested.’

  Bradman let this hang too, then said quietly, ‘From what were they resting, Professor?’ Ford glared at him in answer, so Bradman went on quietly, ‘Oh, Professor, doesn’t an elephant ever like to play?’

  ‘All animals play to a certain extent.’

  ‘Doesn’t it want to feel the pleasure of space about its massive body? Feel the fresh air and the sun and the breezes? Doesn’t it want real trees to feed from? Doesn’t it want to roll in the sand and dust itself and squirt water over itself? And doesn’t it want companions, its herd?’

  ‘There are two other elephants right next door to it.’

  Bradman’s voice began to go hoarse. ‘But in a separate cage. With a great concrete wall between them so they cannot even see each other! Why? …’

  ‘Because,’ Ford said, ‘the cages were built that way a hundred years ago—somewhat before my tenure of office.’

  Bradman cried, ‘But in the name of pity, why haven’t you knocked that wall down, so at least the elephants can see each other—touch each other, just be together?’

  Ford said uncomfortably, ‘Because of the expense. And it’s a question of space …’

  ‘Space?’ Bradman echoed incredulously. ‘But the Bronx Zoo has two hundred and fifty acres of parkland, as David Jordan points out. And you allot a piece of concrete the size of a bedroom to an elephant. Is a zoo for animals or for people?’

  ‘These things take time and money …’

  The veins stood out on Bradman’s neck.

  ‘How can you justify inflicting misery on an animal, the screaming misery of solitary confinement as David Jordan says, to save the expense of knocking one wall down? Can’t you imagine the frustration of it, the heartbreak of it—year after year, the misery of being in a cell every day of its life, without even the company of its own kind, yet knowing there are elephants just next door; being able to hear them and smell them but unable to see them, unable to join them! Imagine, the stultifying boredom, the yearning. …’

  ‘They have the company of their keeper, and every day hundreds of people come to visit them.’

  Eric Bradman stared at him incredulously.

  ‘Good God …’ he breathed.

  Jonas Ford folded his notes theatrically.

  ‘Enough of your sentimental ignorance, sir,’ he said grimly. He strode angrily out of the building.

  nineteen

  That same morning, when the sun was coming up over the mountains, gold and misty through the trees, Smoky sat and let Davey examine his wound. But, as he parted the heavy fur, Smoky barked and reared, his eyes wild, and he scrambled backward, looking at Davey fearfully, flanks heaving, blood on his fur, the pain thudding through his chest. Davey approached him again, whispering urgently, and the bear stood, quivering. But as soon as Davey tried to part the bloody fur he scrambled back again, confused and terrified, pain in his ribs, chips of bone grinding with each breath.

  Now Smoky lumbered along the Appalachian Trail behind all the other animals, panting and gasping; with each thud of his paws the pain jolted through his flank. There was nothing he could do but follow, and there was nothing Davey could do to help him.

  The bullet had hit the socket of Queenie’s tusk, skidded along it and lodged into her jaw. Now she lumbered down the trail, blindly following the others, shaking her head against the elephantine toothache, her ears flapping. With each footfall the agony jolted through her jaw, and she shook her head harder trying to get it out. Each shake aggravated the pain, so she shook her head harder and squealed, trying to run away from it. All she knew was that she had to keep running after the man who was hurrying her away from that terrible place where it had happened. For three miles she had blundered along, shaking her head; then at last they had stopped.

  Queenie knelt down when Davey ordered her, groaning and blinking. He examined the bloody bullet hole and could see the hump where the bullet was lodged in her jaw. It was probably only an inch beneath the swollen hide. If she would let him, he could probably cut it out himself. But when he had touched it with his finger she had squealed, flung up her trunk, and tried to scramble up. There was nothing he could do to help her, to take away the pain, and she could sense the fear and fury in him.

  The bullet had smashed into Daisy’s shoulder and flung her onto her back. Blinded by the headlights, deafened by the rifles, she had tried to run and she had crashed. Her left arm had buckled under her, and she had scrambled up, screaming, and terrified out of her wits, and fled into the forest on her hind legs and one arm.

  When they stopped, the sun was up. Whimpering, her brown eyes wide in shock, ready to cower, she let Davey examine her.

  There was only a small hole in her shoulder, but her arm dangled powerless. She looked up at Davey with big, desperate, pleading eyes, lips curled back over her teeth. King Kong stood on all fours, chest heaving, his eyes darting suspiciously. When Davey had tried to bind her arm against her body to support it, she had barked and tried to scramble aside. There had been nothing he could do for her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Daisy, O God, I’m sorry …’

  He could not bear to think of what he had to do, nor how he was going to do it, nor when, to put her out of her misery. The only thing he had was a knife.

  And he wanted to shout his anguish and his fury to the heavens.

  Now Daisy
stumbled along on three legs, her shattered arm dragging, head down, whimpering.

  Thus they fled down the Appalachian Trail that Monday morning, wild-eyed, nostrils wide, flanks heaving, the big Indian bringing up the rear with Sally, Smoky, and Sam.

  twenty

  The sun was getting low.

  One police car had been at Allen Gap some hours with four deputies under the leadership of a worried young patrolman. Two truckloads of troops had just arrived and were taking up positions. Frank Hunt and Charles Worthy were standing with the patrolman and the lieutenant in charge of the troopers, Frank wore a safari suit and a broad-brimmed veldt hat with a leopardskin band. Chuck Worthy was watching the road, hoping for a television crew to arrive. ‘How dangerous are they, sir?’ the patrolman asked. He suffered from acne, and his eyes were burdened with responsibility.

  ‘Very.’ Frank drew on his cigarette. ‘Very,’ he added sincerely.

  The patrolman rubbed his chin. ‘Even with you? Would they go for you?’

  ‘You should see their eyes when I get into the ring with them every morning.’

  ‘You go in alone?’

  ‘With an assistant. Guards my back.’

  The patrolman glanced at the forest. ‘How’s this guy Davey Jordan doing it, then?’

  Chuck Worthy snorted. ‘Him? He’s not a human being, he’s some kind of fairy.’ He tapped his head. ‘You can see it in his eyes.’

  Suddenly Frank’s eyes widened.

  ‘It’s that goddam Indian,’ he whispered.

  Everybody swung around.

  A hundred yards away, Big Charlie stood on the high bank above the road. They stared at him, astonished.

  ‘Hold everything!’ he shouted.

  He held his hands above his head. Then he started along the bank toward them.

  The patrolman slowly pulled out his gun, and there was a ragged click of gunbolts. Frank yanked out his forty-five, his eyes darting across the forest for animals. Charlie was fifty yards from then now. He shouted hoarsely, ‘Is the vet here …?’

  The patrolman wet his lips and shouted, almost politely, ‘No.’