‘Get where? I thought we were there. I thought this’—she waved her hand dramatically—‘was the Garden of Eden.’
He ignored her tone. ‘The place I’m heading for is only a few more days.’
She stared at him. ‘Only a few more days to Eden, huh? Then we all settle down happily? Excuse me.’ She grabbed her towel and soap and strode away through the undergrowth.
Davey did not look up. He was sorry for her, but he could not dwell on it; all he could think about was Sally. She was all right. She was exhausted, and she was better off back there at the Pigeon than battling her way over the Great Smoky Mountains, straining her old heart and guts. She had made it to the country where he had been taking her, she had survived. She could rest now. Lumber into some quiet eddy and just let the water take the weight off her weary hooves, and wallow and huff and puff; she did not have to run any more. No more exhausted, pitiful trailing along behind everybody else, trying to keep up: now she could swim all day as a hippopotamus should, wallowing along the bottom of the river in her underwater world as comfortably as the old sea cow she was. And there was plenty for her to eat along the banks; that’s probably what she was doing right now. Tonight she would sleep as nature made her to do, at the bottom of the river, slowly rising unconsciously when she needed to breathe. And in the morning the whole Pigeon would be hers.
Davey sat, staring into the fire, trying to convince himself of all those things. But all he could see in the fire was poor, old Sally stumbling along the riverbanks all alone in the gathering darkness, with the fear of the night closing in on her, wondering where they had all gone. She wouldn’t be eating like a lawnmower because her guts were clogged, and her old heart would be breaking.
Elizabeth had regretted her outburst almost immediately. Flouncing off with sarcasm was not going to put David Jordan in the mood to listen to reason. And it was true that Sally was better off back in the Pigeon River than straining herself over these mountains for the next few days—that is why she had not been unduly alarmed when the poor old thing had gotten lost. And she would probably be easier to recapture there.
Elizabeth felt better after her bath. She had intended washing only her face and throbbing feet, but that had felt so good she had stripped off in sections and washed the whole of her, finally sitting in the water for a freezing moment and scrubbing herself frantically as if Sheriff Lonnogan’s posse were about to descend and catch her bare-assed. Afterward her whole body tingled, and, by God, she was going to have another drink.
The lions tensed as she came back up the mountainside, and she felt her stomach quake again. But she did not let herself hesitate.
‘I’ve got a bottle of whisky. Would you like some?’
Davey looked up from the fire. ‘You better keep it for yourself, Dr. Johnson.’
‘Very well.’ She sloshed a big shot of Scotch into her tin mug, added a dash of water. She could feel the lions watching her every move. She did not want to sit down, she wanted to be ready to run. But she made herself sit, on the other side of the fire. She lit a cigarette and inhaled, and took another swallow of whisky.
Then he astonished her by saying, self-consciously, ‘I want to thank you for coming with us, Dr. Johnson. It’s a great relief to know you’re here. And I … admire your guts.’
It almost bowled her over; she felt her eyes burn for an instant in near-gratitude at being acknowledged at last. Then she wanted to blurt, Oh, Davey,give it up now.
‘Won’t you have a drink? And let’s … talk?’
‘I don’t want to use up your whisky.’
‘There’s not going to be much left after tonight anyway. Unfortunately.’
He smiled. His face softened, and his eyes were the most beautiful she had ever seen. ‘Okay. Thanks.’ He held out his cup.
Pleased, she poured a shot into it, though she suspected he was only taking it to be polite. He filled his cup with water and took a sip.
‘You don’t drink much?’
‘No. I like whisky, though.’ He nodded at the wilderness and said affectionately, ‘Old Charlie’s had a few, hasn’t he?’
‘Yes. Over lunch.’
‘He loves it. Save a bit for him.’
She smiled and nodded. ‘He’s an awfully nice man. He hasn’t got a girl?’ This was going better than she’d hoped.
‘He’s always working on it.’ He thought, then dropped his voice a few octaves and quoted: ‘ “But it’s not always too easy for a three-hundred-pound Jewish Indian.” That’s his favorite joke about himself.’
‘Charlie’s Jewish?’
Davey smiled. ‘He fell for a Jewish girl and converted. Very kosher, he became. They were going to go to a kibbutz and everything.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘She flew off with somebody else.’
She smiled, ‘Poor Charlie. Is he still Jewish?’
‘No.’
She was anxious to keep him talking. She ferreted in her knapsack and pulled out a bar of chocolate. ‘Would you like some?’
‘No thanks.’
She broke off a piece and put it in her mouth, putting the bar in her top pocket. Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Kitty get to her feet. Elizabeth jerked her head around and froze, wordless; then Kitty came padding straight for her, menacing, purposeful. ‘David.’
‘Keep still,’ he commanded. ‘Stop, Kitty.’ Then he said, ‘Open your eyes.’
Cringing, she opened her eyes, heart pounding. Kitty was standing in front of her, her neck stretched as far as she could, her nose trying to reach the mug of whisky clutching in her trembling hand. Elizabeth wanted to cry Call her off please. But she heard herself croak with hollow playfulness: ‘Lions don’t like whisky, Kitty …’
Kitty was encouraged and took another step forward. Elizabeth jerked back, one hand in front of her eyes. Kitty stopped, poised. Elizabeth opened her eyes, and looked straight into the huge face of the lioness. She jerked again, and Kitty blinked as if she were expecting to be hit; then she sat down and looked at Elizabeth reproachfully.
The hurt look on her big lion face pulled Elizabeth out of her terror, and suddenly she wanted to laugh and throw her arms around Kitty. ‘Oh, poor Kitty!’ And poor Kitty seized her advantage. In one big, invincible movement she suddenly swarmed all over Elizabeth and bowled her over.
One moment Elizabeth was half laughing at Kitty, the next she had four hundred furry pounds of lioness knocking her off balance; head down, purring like a tractor, huge shoulder wiping against her, splashing her whisky over her bosom, and she gave a strangled gasp as Kitty found her chocolate. In one cunning movement Kitty zapped it out of her pocket, and she was gone. She bounded five paces away, then crouched and gripped the chocolate between her front paws, and proceeded to get into it.
Elizabeth was sprawled, one arm curled over her head, her bosom soaked with whisky and her heart pounding. Davey was standing.
‘It’s okay, it’s okay, Dr. Johnson.’
‘I’m all right …’ Elizabeth gasped.
Kitty tried to nip at the wrapping, couldn’t get a grip on the flimsy stuff, then gulped the chocolate down, silver paper and all.
She crouched, ears half back, deciding about the taste; then she looked back at Elizabeth hopefully. She got up and came padding straight back at her.
Elizabeth cringed in dread; then Kitty arched her back, raised her tail, and wiped her massive self against Elizabeth. Then she turned and rubbed herself the other way, nuzzling Elizabeth’s bosom for more chocolate and almost bulldozing her off balance again. Kitty coughed up a piece of silver paper; then nuzzled her neck and ear. Elizabeth’s ears were full of the terrifying ticklishness of slobbering lion, the enormous purring, and the huge rough tongue licking; she cringed, giggled, and wriggled in a mixture of terror and pleasure. For five seconds the delightful agony went on; then Kitty gave up on more chocolate and turned and sauntered off back to the others.
Elizabeth crouched in a state of de
lighted shock.
‘Oh,’ she gasped, ‘that was wonderful.’
She had another stiff whisky after that. So, to her surprise, did Davey. She felt on a warm, lovely cloud. She could not stop thinking about being cupboard-loved by a beautiful lion in the wilderness. She wanted to throw her arms wide and tell the animals she loved them all. She could hardly believe the things that were happening to her; it was the sort of dream-come-true she had had as a little girl when she thought she wanted to marry a game ranger in Africa when she grew up. She did not want to spoil it all by arguing with Davey right now. She just wished it were day, and he could call the birds down again.
‘Have you worked with animals all your life, Davey?’
‘Yes. Pretty much.’
She looked at him. He seemed almost shy at being asked a personal question. It was a sweet face, even an angelic face—but controlled.
‘Have you ever been in the army, Davey?’
He looked surprised, even uncomfortable.
‘The Navy. I was drafted.’
The Navy? A million miles from the wilderness and and animals. ‘What, in the Navy?’
‘The SEALS.’
‘What’s that?’
He shifted. ‘It stands for “Sea, Air, Land.” They’re sort of commandos, I guess you’d call it,’ he explained reluctantly.
She stared at him. The SEALS, yes, she had heard of them. The crack troops. Underwater sabotage. Espionage. All that derring-do Clint Eastwood stuff. It was the complete opposite of what she imagined him to be. Yet she had been right; she had felt his military-like competence, the can-do-anything confidence he inspired.
‘But have you ever killed anybody?’
‘No.’
‘Where did you serve?’
He smiled uncomfortably. ‘That’s classified. I’m sorry.’
‘But … did you enjoy it?’
‘No.’
She heard herself blurt, ‘Is that why you’re doing this? To somehow make up for what you did in the SEALS?’
He looked at her in genuine surprise.
‘No, Dr. Johnson. You know why I’m doing this. Please, let’s not argue about that any more, Dr. Johnson.’
She had blown it, dragging that last question in by the scruff of its neck.
‘Please call me Elizabeth.’
He looked shy. ‘Okay.’
She took a sip of whisky. ‘Tell me about birds, Davey. How do you explain that? Can you call them out of the trees every time?’
He looked relieved at the change of subject. ‘Provided there’s nothing unhappy or dangerous happening on the ground. But I’ve never tried to train birds. Let them be birds. They’re quite hard to train. They’ve got very small brains. They’ve never evolved a very high degree of intelligence because they could always fly away from their problems.’
She muttered, ‘Maybe the same applies to airline pilots.’
He was puzzled. ‘Why?’
‘I married one. He was always flying away from his problems.’
He looked amused.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Don’t be. I’m over it.’ She added wryly, ‘Can’t you tell?’
He smiled, then ventured: ‘Were you his problem?’
‘Me? No. I mean, I suppose I must have been, or he wouldn’t have left me. But I adored the man, let him do as he liked. Except I didn’t know he was bedding everything in sight on his stopovers. That shows what a dumb-dumb I am.’
He straightened his face apologetically. ‘Where is he now?’
‘Back home in England. London.’ She added, ‘Living with a nice blonde with black roots. In our house.’
‘Shouldn’t you have gotten the house?’
She took a sip of her drink and stubbed out her cigarette vigorously. ‘I could have. All kinds of alimony too.’
‘And you don’t?’
She lit another cigarette.
‘If he doesn’t want me anymore, I don’t want his money, Davey. I’m not going to be bought off; I earn my own living.’
He nodded sympathetically. ‘Do you have any children?’
She felt the sadness sweep over her all over again. ‘No. I really wanted to, but …’ She stopped. ‘Just as well, I suppose.’ She tried to be brightly philosophical. ‘Besides, there’re enough mouths on the Earth, aren’t there?’
‘Right,’ he said.
She stared into the fire, then sighed and pulled herself firmly back out of the past. ‘How did we get into this? Let’s get back to the birds.’ She ran her hand through her hair. ‘How do you account for it—people like you?’ She sloshed some more whisky into her cup.
‘It’s a gift,’ he said finally. He shrugged slightly. ‘You’ve got to have love. And confidence.’
‘What about magnetism?’
He smiled shyly. ‘Okay. I guess that’s the gift. But I mean it’s also an … intellectual thing … to be able to think like that little bird. To … almost be a bird yourself, for the time being. But you’ve got to work at that.’
‘Go on. Please.’
He sighed uncomfortably. ‘You’ve got to know birds … study them. Then you begin to understand what’s going on in their little heads. Then you can think the same way.’ He smiled at her. ‘But you’re better at it than them, aren’t you, because you’ve got a better brain. So, because you’re superior, the birds are attracted to you even more. But first you’ve got to really love that little bird. Really want his love. And be confident you’ll get it …’
She nodded earnestly. ‘And with higher animals?’
He fed a twig into the fire. ‘The same. Except that it’s easier, because they’re much more intelligent. And with these animals here, especially the circus ones, it’s very easy, really. They understand complicated commands. But you’ve got to be able to get inside Rajah’s head, to understand what’s going on in there. Then you can think like an elephant.’ He paused and sighed. ‘But confidence …’ He clenched his fist in emphasis. ‘That’s so important. People make such a mystery about it. Even you,’ he glanced at her apologetically, ‘a vet … You’ve got no confidence in yourself to do the same thing.’ He looked at her. ‘Have you?’
She felt like a student again. Yet there was nothing professional in his manner. She was just in the presence of … a maestro. He was simply telling her, because he knew she really wanted to know.
He spoke to the fire. ‘So you’ve got to think positively. It’s … will power. To reach into that animal’s mind. His heart. To communicate with him.’
‘Telepathy?’
He nodded absently. ‘Yes … two people can do it together. Especially if it’s someone you love. But our minds are stronger than animals’, aren’t they? So you’ve got to use it … projecting your thoughts. Most animals are very sensitive to this kind of thing.’
She nodded earnestly. He fiddled with a twig.
‘They’ve got extra senses that we hardly know about, haven’t they? Like how migratory birds navigate across continents and oceans to the same spot every year. How dolphins and whales echo-locate. They can tell each other’s emotions with a kind of x-ray. Can hear each other hundreds of miles away. We haven’t begun to understand these extra senses, because we haven’t got them. But you’ve got to have confidence in yourself. And you’ve got to have love.’
She breathed deep. ‘And the gift.’
She was fascinated. But she believed he was underestimating his gift. She could almost feel his gentle, simple magnetism as he talked. He went on quietly, almost as if to himself. ‘Animals are usually very willing to cooperate with you. If they understand. If you’re trustworthy. It’s not so difficult to understand them. We’re very alike.’ Then he shook his head. ‘No. It’s us who are like them. We’re all part of the same animal kingdom, aren’t we?’
She nodded.
‘So we have many of the same characteristics. Like trust. Cooperation. When you trust someone, you’ll follow them, take their advice. People think an
imals are entirely different. But most animals are quite prepared to be cooperative if you give them the chance.’
She almost felt foolish asking, but she had to put it to him. ‘But can you … I mean, you can’t actually talk to them, can you? As such.’
He smiled at the fire. He had often been asked that question.
‘Not talk. I can only make some of their own noises they understand. And signals, and some words they’ve learned. But people and animals can understand each other well if they try. I was up in Canada once. Right up in the tundra. Some of the Eskimos there could understand wolf wails. They’d hear a wolf howl, and say to me, “Three caribou are coming.” And sure enough, three would come. Not two. Or four. But three.’ He glanced at her. ‘Or they would listen to the wolf and then say. “A man and a woman are coming this way.” And they would come. Not two men—a man and a woman.’
She was rapt.
‘Could you understand the wolves?’
‘Eventually. The Eskimos taught me.’
‘Is that where you got Sam?’
Sam pricked up his ears at his name. Davey put his hand on his head affectionately. ‘Yes. His mother was a Huskie. They let her mate with a wolf.’
‘He’s beautiful.’ She asked, ‘What were you doing up there?’
‘Just looking around. The Canadian Government was poisoning the wolves.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they said that the wolves were hunting the caribou, and the Eskimos need the caribou for food.’ He snorted softly. ‘Wolves don’t. They eat mice and rabbits. I watched them. They only occasionally killed a caribou that was sick. Or old.’
Though he spoke softly his tone was bitter, and she felt for a moment that he regarded her as one of the heartless foolish establishment that drove him to despair.
‘Man will think up every excuse to justify killing every creature he possibly can. Even the American wild mustang, Dr. Johnson. Even the poor old black bear who grubs around our rubbish dumps. The day the season opens the hunters are there in their cars, with their wives and kiddies and picnic lunches. Waiting for the Game Ranger to officially declare the season open at the stroke of noon. Do you know that?’
Fear No Evil Page 22