Fear No Evil

by John Gordon Davis

  But she felt her eyes burn. For she glimpsed the sunlit glen, the chimps romping and cartwheeling for joy, and Kitty chasing them; and the elephants swooshing water over themselves, and Sally wallowing in the beautiful pool. And regret stabbed her breast, for what might have been; for a few days this elephant had been free—a few glorious, heartbreaking, adrenaline-pumping days. Now she was about to return him to his concrete cage. To do what? … For the rest of his elephant life.

  Jonas Ford came up, blinking behind his glasses. Her throat was suddenly thick.

  ‘Well,’ she said abruptly, ‘there he is. What are you going to do? The light’s almost gone.’

  Jomas Ford looked at his massive, immobile prize. What he felt through his exhaustion was enormous relief. Thank God … After four, bad days he had at last got one of his exhibits back. After four hectic, embarrassing days he had something to show to the press, to the world.

  ‘I’ve radioed for the helicopter. We must fell some trees.’

  She knew she was being utterly unreasonable—and insubordinate. And she did not care. ‘Oh, lovely! It’s only taken these trees a hundred years to grow. How long’s all this going to take in the dark, before this elephant recovers consciousness?’

  Ford was taken by surprise. ‘How long will he be out?’

  ‘I told you, I simply don’t know! I don’t know how much M99 he should have had in that dart, how fast or slow his system absorbs it. He could wake up any moment, he may never wake up!’

  She suddenly had tears in her eyes. Jonas Ford stared at her, astonished. She was talking like a shrew. The rest of the recapture team were embarrassed, even Frank Hunt.

  ‘That’s a chance we just have to take …’

  ‘The point is time. We need daylight for this business! If this animal wakes up now, we can’t even track him! He’ll be under stress, he can’t see, he could injure himself! You had no business to dart him at this time of day!’

  ‘Doctor, you may be tired, but you will kindly not tell me my business.’

  ‘I’ll tell you whatever I think is right!’

  ‘Then get out of here!’

  ‘Like hell I will!’

  There was a shocked silence.

  Then she dropped her face in her hands and stifled a sob.

  Gas lamps hissed bright around the gray hulk of Clever, casting huge shadows. A Wildlife Department jeep had managed to join them.

  Dawes and Milton were manning a screaming chainsaw. They knew about forest clearing, and the first tree had come down as intended. Now they were cutting a big triangular wedge out of the second tree.

  Elizabeth sat on the ground next to Clever’s chest. She had recovered from her emotional outburst, and she was feeling thoroughly ashamed of herself. A stethoscope hung from her neck. From time to time she listened to Clever’s heartbeat. The elephant was sweating profusely, dark stains between his legs, and he was making long, groaning noises.

  Dawes put down his saw and straightened his back with his wrists. Jonas Ford came over. In the lamplight his eyes were large behind his spectacles. ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘Just taking a rest. Next whirl she comes down. She’s going thataway. Everybody way back.’

  The television man took up his camera; the troopers scattered. Ambrose Jones was squatting on his haunches beside Elizabeth, his hand on the elephant’s flank. Frank Hunt was slumped in the front seat of the jeep, head back, eyes closed, whistling wearily, a flask of whiskey between his thighs. It was nearly finished, and where the hell was he going to get some more before the package store opened in Hot Springs tomorrow? By which time he’d be walking his unfortunate ass off again playing Big Game Hunter for television.

  The chainsaw was whirring through the last six inches of the tree’s trunk. Then Dawes hollered, ‘Timmm—berrr.’

  He moved back from the tree, and everybody tensed, looking upward.

  But nothing happened. The tree stood in the hushed, glaring lamplight, with a great bite out of it, held together by a couple of inches of itself.

  Everybody waited. Dawes approached it cautiously. He gave it a shove and jumped backward.

  Nothing happened. The tree stood firm.

  They started up the saw again. They slid the screaming machine back into the trunk, and chips of wood flew. Suddenly the treetrunk creaked; Dawes amd Milton both hollered ‘tim-ber’ and scrambled back out of the way.

  The tree stopped creaking. Everybody was transfixed. Then there was a big rustle of wind up in the treetops, and Dawes’ eyes widened in horror.

  ‘Watch out!’

  The tree creaked over in the opposite direction with a great rending noise; and Elizabeth yelled, ‘The elephant!’ There was wild shouting and scrambling, and Frank Hunt opened his eyes.

  He saw one hundred feet of tree coming down out of the night on him, in terrible slow motion through the glaring lamplight. He gave a terrified yell and tried to fling open the door, but missed the handle and gargled in horror. Then his scrabbling hand found the door handle, and he flung himself out into the undergrowth, his arms clutching his head. He rolled in a desperate ball. There was a crash and an explosion of metal and flying glass.

  Frank Hunt lay on his back, eyes wide, his knees bent up over his stomach. The massive tree lay across the body of the government’s jeep. Its wheels were splayed, its axles crushed into the earth.

  The tree trunk had missed the elephant by two feet.

  twenty-seven

  It was after dark when Sam came to the end of the railway bridge. He stopped and sniffed, then turned and set off down the tracks toward Hot Springs at a fast trot, nose down, bushy tail up. He could smell the animals.

  He came around the bend in the river, and ahead were the lights of the town. But Sam was not afraid of the lights, of human habitation. He had lived with humans and in towns most of his life. He understood there was danger from men to the other animals, but he was alone now and did not think of danger to himself. He trotted into the lights without a qualm. There was nobody about.

  He went trotting up an empty Main Street for about a hundred yards. Then he smelled food, and his empty stomach ached.

  It came from the cafeteria across the road, jampacked with journalists and television men. For only one moment did Sam hesitate. Then he padded purposefully across the road. Sam walked into the cafeteria, his nose up, sniffing the delicious smells, his bushy tail wagging ingratiatingly.

  Nobody noticed him. There was a clamor of voices and dishes. Sam walked down the rows of tables hopefully, ears cocked, his eyes appealing, looking for a friendly face. Then he spotted the swing door to the kitchen. He nudged it open and walked in. The smell in there was wonderful.

  The cook had her back to him. The first thing Sam saw was the garbage bucket. He stuck his head into a mess of French fries, rolls, ketchup, napkins, and cigarette butts. He got a mouthful of roll, withdrew his head and gulped it; then he saw something else. On the table, behind the cook’s back, was a pile of T-bone steaks.

  Sam knew it was punishable to steal. Garbage buckets were fair game, meat on tables was not. But Sam was too hungry to care. He glanced nervously at the cook’s back, and then he hefted his forepaws up onto the table. The pile of steaks was right in front of him He stretched his neck and twisted his head sideways. But they were just out of reach.

  Sam glanced apprehensively at the cook, licked his chops, and stretched his neck for all it was worth, then tried to stretch another fraction; but the steaks were just half an inch beyond his teeth. He slurped out his long pink tongue and tried to hook a steak back toward him; but all he got was a delicious tantalizing taste.

  Sam almost whimpered in frustration, and he rolled his eyes nervously at the cook’s back; then he gave a desperate little jump, his twisted neck outstretched, and he nipped the edge of a big steak. And the cook turned, and she screamed.

  She screamed, fists clenched in front of her bosom; then, as Sam turned to flee, his mouth full of T-bone steak, she wail
ed, ‘Woo-oolf!’ Sam dashed for the doors, and a waitress burst through. ‘Woo-oolf!’ screeched the cook again, and the waitress staggered back through the door, her tray flying, and Sam swerved past her. Still clutching his T-bone, he made for the front door, straight into another laden waitress. She screamed in horror, and threw up her hands, and Sam dashed for cover.

  Amid the crashing of crockery, Sam dived under the tables. There were more yells; chairs were being kicked over, people jumped up on tables, and more crockery crashed. Sam scrambled in panic for the back of the cafeteria, and a wave of pandemonium preceded him. He darted between the scattering legs and chairs, his eyes desperate, his T-bone steak slopping out the sides of his mouth. Then the first plate was hurled at him. It walloped his shoulder. He yelped and almost spat out his steak. He collected his wits and turned.

  Sam fled underneath the tables the way he had come, scattering all before him again amid more crashing of crockery and yelling, and burst out into the night.

  He raced up the sidewalk and disappeared down a lane, making for the dark trees. He scurried under a bush. He gripped the big T-bone between his front paws, and began to work on it.

  It was not nearly enough, but it was delicious.

  He saw some faraway flashlights, but after a while they receded. The news went through the village like wildfire that a wolf was at large. Everybody figured out it belonged to David Jordan. Everybody who had a gun kept it handy. Everybody kept well indoors.

  Sam set out to pick up the scent of the animals.

  He trotted jauntily into the middle of Main Street, nose down, oblivious to the consternation he had caused. He picked up the scent straight away, and started following it up toward the Mission, where the Appalachian Trail resumed.

  On the other side of the French Broad River, Smoky sat in the undergrowth on the edge of the forest, overlooking the embankment down to the railway tracks. Now he wanted Sam, his only link with the others, to come back. He had followed Sam’s scent to this spot, and he knew he had crossed the fearsome bridge. Smoky wanted with all his heart to follow Sam’s scent across that bridge. But he dared not, because terrible men were waiting to kill him.

  Meanwhile Sam trotted up now-deserted Main Street, nose down, following the scent. He had forgotten about Smoky; all he had on his mind was finding his master.

  He was well off the highway and well into the dark, almost into the black forest, when, on the wind, he smelt a bitch on heat.

  Suddenly Sam’s nostrils, which had been full of nothing but the pursuit of his duty, were full of the most compelling, irresistible scent, and Davey Jordan and duty went straight out of his mind. He stood poised on the footpath, the blood coursing joyfully to his loins, head up, testing the wind; he isolated the scent, and he started bounding down the hillside, toward the houses in the hollow below.

  He came down onto the dark dirt road, heart pumping excitedly, ears and tail up, and went running past fences and gardens with locked, lighted windows. Then he heard an anguished woman’s voice.

  ‘Mitzi—come here!’

  Sam heard yapping. He went bounding joyfully toward it; then he glimpsed the pack of dogs in the next yard, and in one leap Sam was over the picket fence.

  There were a dozen dogs, all shapes and sizes, ears cocked, tongues slopping, tails wagging, all with one purpose. Mitzi was sitting with her tail firmly planted in a flower bed, ears back, whining: she didn’t want to have any of these dogs scrambling all over her. But neither did she want to heed her owner and go inside: she was half-enjoying herself.

  Mrs. Donnybrook was yelling at her through a window, too scared to venture out because of the wolf scare, when suddenly she saw the terrible animal bounding across the yard at her poor Mitzi, vicious head raised, tail wagging for the kill. Mrs. Donnybrook screamed and ran from the room to telephone the sheriff. Mitzi took fright. She ran across the yard and leaped over the fence, the whole pack of dogs hollering after her, Sam in the middle, trying to bark them aside. He caught up with her in the middle of Main Street. And there and then, after only a few coy protests from Mitzi, he mounted her.

  That’s how Sam was, happily knotted haunch-to-haunch with Mitzi, his ears back and a smile all over his face, when the lights of the sheriff’s car appeared.

  The sheriff had not received Mrs. Donnybrook’s frantic telephone call, because he was looking for the wolf himself. He was not optimistic about spotting the beast, particularly in the dark, but he wanted to do his duty. He had been driving around fruitlessly for half an hour, and now he was on his way up to the Mission to seek the advice of the circus owner, Mr. Worthy. He considered that a fool’s errand too. That is how the sheriff of Hot Springs was feeling as he came around the corner and saw the pack of dogs in his headlights.

  He jammed on his brakes, slammed his hand irritably on the horn, and swung his wheel over. Sam looked at him, and licked his chops apologetically. As the sheriff pulled around them he shouted, ‘Go home, Mitzi Donnybrook, you brazen hussy, or a wolf’ll get ya!’

  Then his eyes widened as he realized what he had seen. His car skidded to a halt, and he looked back through his rear window.

  All he could see in the red glow of his taillights were Sam’s devil eyes. He started to open the door; then slammed it shut and hastily locked himself in. He rolled up his windows urgently and yanked out his revolver. He sat there shakily, wondering what to do. But he could do nothing from inside a locked car. Then he collected his wits and pulled his car into a big U-turn, to get his headlights on his quarry. At that moment Sam finished his copulation and parted company with Mitzi.

  He shook himself cheerfully, looked around absently, saw the sheriff’s car swinging round, sat down, and had a scratch. He was considering hanging around Mitzi, but saw the car coming straight at him, and decided he had to get out of the way. He got up, shook himself once more, turned and started trotting up the road. He got out of the way of the car as it slammed to a stop, and he trotted past the passenger-side window.

  As the sheriff frantically reversed his car around again to get his headlights onto him, Sam stopped. He looked over his shoulder, shook himself energetically, then started up the footpath into the dark forest, his nose to the ground.

  And he was gone.

  twenty-eight

  It was three hours since Clever had been darted. Half a dozen big, jagged stumps gleamed white in the lamplight.

  A helicopter hovered overhead, roaring, the downblast of its propeller blowing leaves and dirt like grapeshot. Four stout steel cables were snaking down, with a nylon-rope harness flapping from them.

  Dawes and Milton grabbed it and wedged it under the elephant’s stomach. Then everybody crouched beside Clever, to heave him over into the harness.

  ‘One … two … three.’

  They heaved with all their concerted might, and again, and Clever rocked on his great belly; they heaved again, and then he rolled massively over. Dawes, Timmons, and Milton hastily made fast the harness. And Clever was ready to fly.

  To fly, fly away, up out of the wilderness to which he had returned, into the night sky and over the moonlit mountaintops, back to Hot Springs; to be put in the steel stockade, then into a truck and hauled back to his cage in the Bronx Zoo, where he belonged.

  The helicopter began to lift and take up the slack in the cables.

  The great body rose, slowly, saggily, the harness digging into his gray hide, head and trunk hanging. His legs were straightening; then his feet were off the ground. The helicopter roared, and Clever slowly began to lift in the lamplit wilderness—two feet, now four, now eight, rising, rising; when he was twelve feet off the ground, Clever woke up.

  He came around with a great wailing snort at the pressure on his guts; he jerked up his head, and all he knew was the earth disappearing below him and the roar of the machine above him and he screamed in absolute terror. He thrashed his legs and lashed his trunk up, trying to grab the harness cable. Four tons of terrified elephant lashed and twisted, and the
helicopter lurched. It staggered sideways; the screaming elephant swung like a pendulum, and he smashed into a tree.

  The whole tree shook and the helicopter wrenched and keeled, the propeller screaming. The wild-eyed elephant swung the other way, bellowing and twisting, and he crashed into another tree. Branches snapped and blew fifty feet up in the sky, and Clever desperately flung his trunk around the tree.

  Clever blindly grabbed the stout treetop, and the helicopter jolted, with a wrenching of its cables. The propeller tried to bite the air, the pilot frantically gunned the engine, and the elephant was wrenched sideways so his trunk tore loose from the tree; the machine staggered upward and sideways again.

  The pilot desperately tried to clear the treetops, dragging the terrified elephant through the branches like an anchor, and all Clever knew was the blinding smashing and crashing, and the wrenching of the harness as he was towed twisting through the night sky, wildly trying to catch something. For a hundred yards the helicopter went tearing across the forest-top with Clever bellowing his terror to the night then, just as the machine was almost back under control, Clever crashed into another tree; and he lashed his trunk around it and clung with all his terrified might.

  The roaring helicopter was wrenched back in mid-recovery, and Clever clung, desperately trying to lash his legs around the tree like a bear. For a long terrible moment the elephant clung to the tree seventy feet up in the sky, the helicopter tilted madly, and the pilot saw the treetops rushing up at him. The rotor hit the treetops and snapped.

  The helicopter dropped, crashing onto the treetops; then it rolled, its engine still screaming, branches snapping, and Clever was suddenly hurtling through the branches. Four tons of elephant went plummeting down, ears and trunk flying and timber tearing. Clever hit the ground at fifty miles an hour, and the earth shook as his great bones snapped with a crack. Fifty feet away the helicopter smashed into the undergrowth, and it burst into flames. A great orange flame exploded out of it like a balloon; giant tongues of fire leaped into the trees to light up the forest. There was another explosion and a bigger balloon erupted, twice as high, throwing a great heat fifty yards wide. Suddenly the pilot appeared, his body contorted, his clothes on fire, his hair and back and arms and legs ablaze. He was clawing at his body, beating and twisting through the flaming undergrowth in terrible slow motion; then he fell to his knees with a scream that nobody heard, and the flames engulfed him. Then Clever began to try to get up.