Fear No Evil

by John Gordon Davis

  They were gathered in Fred Wiggins’s You-Bust-’em-We-Buy-’em Scrapyard.

  ‘Well, we are,’ Jeb tapped his chest. ‘And until I’m constitutionally suspended from my duties I’m here to tell y’all that I’m going to do my duty of keeping this county clean. And that means I’m going to arrest and bring to trial all people who steal animals and firearms, and assault officers of the law. Has this kid’—he jabbed his finger at Stephen Leigh-Forsythe on the screen—‘got a warrant of arrest?’

  Lonnogan said nothing.

  ‘He don’t say so,’ Deputy Sheriff Kid Lonnogan said.

  Jeb exploded: ‘But he says he’s gonna capture Davey Jordan! Who the hell is he to tell the police to keep out of the case when he ain’t even got a warrant? What does he think he’s going to do? Make a citizen’s arrest? He ain’t even a citizen! He’s a goddamn Englishman or somethin’. Or has he suddenly gotten himself deputized all in the five minutes he’s been in the USA?’

  ‘Look at him.’ Jeb glared at the screen. ‘Fifteen years old. Look at that grinning kid, can’t hardly even speak his own language, like his mouth’s full of doughnut or somethin’. Listen to him!’ He listened aggressively, then exploded. ‘Niggers! A bunch of illiterate niggers—and he’s tellin’ us to keep outa our own goddamn case!’

  ‘Switch that thing off,’ Lonnogan said.

  Fred Wiggins hastily snapped the switch. Sixpence Mpondo disappeared with a gurgle. Lonnogan stared at the blank screen. His men waited. They had never seen him so quiet. At last he said softly, ‘A kid from South Africa an’ a bunch of niggers going to tell me to keep out of my own case in my own terri-tory?’ He stood up slowly and looked at them; then he wagged his big finger. ‘Well, I’m tellin’ y’all that I’m goin’ in there. And y’all comin’ with me as my posse. I don’ care what the president himself says, I’m not havin’ officers of the law assaulted, or lions and tigers and then grizzly bears terrorizin’ the folks near my county.’

  There was a loud murmur of agreement.

  ‘But this time,’ he said grimly, ‘we’s goin’ to be organized. Deputize more men. … Fred—you go’n get Bert Waller an’ Turkey-George and tell ’em we hittin’ the trail day after tomorrow, sunrise. Jeb—get your ass over to Cherokee and tell that Chief Owle we want a couple of his Injun trackers chop-chop.’

  ‘What about dogs, Pa?’ Kid Lonnogan said excitedly.

  ‘No, son,’ Sheriff Lonnogan said, ‘hound dogs’ll go yappin’ and barkin’ when they pick up the scent an’ have Davey Jordan runnin’ for dear life.’

  He breathed murderously deep. ‘Man huntin’ is the best sport I know …’

  That night three men met in Sylva, North Carolina.

  The meeting was held in the den of one of their houses. It was opulently furnished in leather. A gun rack held a dozen rifles, and more rifles and pistols were mounted on the walls. There were also framed photographs, all of hunting scenes: a man leaning out of a low-flying helicopter aiming at a pack of fleeing wolves; the same man standing beside a slain lion, his foot on the animal’s head; a polar bear floating in an icy pond, blood flooding from its head. The lion’s head was mounted on the wall above the bar; the wolf and bear stood in the corner. There were also two big elephant tusks; a hollowed-out elephant’s foot served as a wastebasket; another stood upon the bar, fashioned into an ice-bucket. Next to the ice-bucket stood a glass jar of neat alcohol, and in it lay a human finger. There were many other trophies, including a zebra’s head, a buffalo’s, half a dozen species of buck, and zebra and lion skins on the floor. Resting on top of the skins was a large wooden frame, and stretched tight across it, treated with chemicals and still drying, was the striped skin of Mama, the zoo tigress. Her head rested on a piece of plastic, and there were several tubes of plastic filler, with which the men had been carefully patching up her bullet holes. But now they were watching the video tape of Forsythe’s television interview.

  When it ended, one man said, ‘Well … what d’you think? …’

  Their host poured more whiskey into his glass. He began to pace the floor.

  ‘This ain’t Africa,’ he said quietly. ‘He doesn’t know those mountains. It’ll take him months. It’s not going to be nearly as easy for that guy as he thinks. It’ll take him a long time. Meanwhile, all those animals are up for grabs. With every fool and his dog going in there with their goddamn guns.’

  ‘So? When do you reckon we go in?’

  The first man clasped his hands behind his back as he paced.

  ‘Not yet. If we get caught the judge could be tough right now. There’s a lot of starry-eyed nonsense going on. And business could suffer too. I say we let this guy Forsythe fail first. And he will.’

  ‘But if we wait, every one else will go in, like you said, and get them before us. Then we’ll miss out. Or all the best ones, anyway.’

  ‘No, let him make a few mistakes. Then the public will be more on our side if we’re caught. We could say that we only went in to protect the public because this guy’s screwing it up. We’d be the do-gooders then. That would even be good for business.’

  ‘But all the best ones may be gone by then!’

  ‘None of these local hicks have got the experience we’ve got.’ He smirked and jerked his head at the finger in the jar. ‘Like this fink, here.’ He smiled, picked up the jar and admired its contents. ‘If Forsythe’s not going to find those critters in a hurry, those slobs won’t either.’

  ‘An accident might happen,’ the third man mused. ‘Somebody gets gored. Or attacked by a lion. Then we’d be goddamn heroes.’

  ‘That would be very good for business …’ The first man smiled.

  ‘Aw …’ The second man sighed in exasperation. ‘Business, business, is that all you guys worry about? We all got good businesses, goddammit, that’s why we can go to Africa for hunting—so why we so worried about a little bit of bad publicity in town—if we’re caught … huh? Why should we get caught, anyways? Look, every year we spend a goddamn fortune going places, but this year it comes to our goddamn doorstep. And what do we do? We worry about business and let these local hicks have the fun? The government’s failed, ain’t it? And those are dangerous critters.’

  ‘Goddamn dangerous. And they’re here illegally.’

  ‘I say give him a week first.’

  The second man shook his head. He got up and walked slowly across to Mama, and prodded her snout with his foot.

  ‘She don’t really count; we didn’t kill her,’ he muttered. Then he said ‘God- damn, I’d like a tiger. … Always wanted to go to India. Look good in my bar, huh?’

  ‘They’d all look good. How about a grizzly? To keep this guy company?’ The first man indicated the polar bear.

  ‘Listen, we got to be fair about this. We got to throw dice or somethin’, to decide who gets what, otherwise it could work out unfair.’

  ‘Sure,’ the first man said. ‘I’ll buy that.’

  ‘And a gorilla,’ the second man continued. ‘Never even seen a gorilla. He’d look good, huh? Goddammit—it must be just like shooting a man …’

  forty-one

  The Appalachian Trail winds down the very spine of the high ridges of the jumbled mass of the Great Smoky Mountains, through the same tall timber that grows in Canada, through birch forests, lofty hardwoods, and evergreen pines, rhododendron and laurel, and around rocky peaks and crags, and across grassy balds. Sometimes the trail is only a few feet wide, a knife-edge six thousand feet high. Below, way down there, are the vast masses of green blue valleys, mountaintops climbing up out of the smoky haze, vast, stretching on and on, all the way to the horizon.

  To Elizabeth those were heartbreakingly beautiful days—because she knew they would end soon. Soon the man from Kenya would arrive, and the terror and the stampeding would start again. This paradise, this fool’s paradise, would be over. But right now it was wonderful to know that for today there was going to be no fleeing, no fear. It was wonderful to be walking, unafraid for t
oday at least, across the Great Smoky Mountains heading for the valley that was the Garden of Eden.

  The animals knew it too. She could see it in their eyes, in the way they held their bodies. Before crossing the Pigeon she had sensed a common fear among them, a need to stick together and close to Davey Jordan. That was gone now, and from Davey Jordan too. He was as he had been that first day back in the glen, ten days ago: serene, unobtrusive, but there, leading them as they ambled along the beautiful Appalachian Trail. Sam had a jauntiness about him she had not seen. Before, he had padded along like a sheepdog, head low, ready to charge off to do his job; now he trotted along, bushy tail high, cheerfully sniffing this and that. When she spoke to him he put his ears back and smiled at her like any other happy dog.

  Sometimes a gorilla stopped to grab a handful of greenery and sample it thoughtfully, and Sam did not worry it. Elizabeth could see the elephants’ trunks snaking out to feed as they shuffled baggily along, and Dumbo carried all their knapsacks and her doctor’s bag as if they were garlands.

  He had wanted to carry her again too; he had curled his trunk around the back of her legs and clumsily tried to lift her. He had dumped her on top of the knapsacks, and she had toppled with a shriek to the ground. Dumbo had looked very taken aback, and blinked his eyes rapidly when Davey had rebuked him. ‘Oh, don’t,’ she had laughed, hastening to reassure Dumbo that it was quite all right, that she quite understood.

  After that she had insisted on riding him, at least until her bottom and thighs hurt. Riding along the Appalachian Trail astride Dumbo’s bristly neck, she could feel his pleasure, that he was no longer a frightened baby elephant. And she could tell that Rajah and Jamba were happy too, just by their huffing gait; she could feel it in the air about her. When she had finally dismounted because her legs were sore, Dumbo had looked crestfallen, frequently looking back at her over his shoulder.

  ‘He’s got a crush on you, Doctor,’ Big Charlie rumbled.

  She knew that was true: it often happened with young male elephants and women. Male elephants are very pampered by their mothers and aunts; Jamba had not yet quite replaced Queenie as his foster-mother, and Dumbo had latched onto her. That was why he was proud to carry the knapsacks: he was showing off, to ingratiate himself with her. And, O God, no, she did not want Dumbo to go back into his cage …

  She was getting to know all the animals as individuals, and she felt sure most were starting to accept her. Perhaps not the bears, or Jamba. Jamba was clearly still nervous of her, and did not like her being with Dumbo. Similarly, King Kong did not like her approaching Auntie. He glowered at her every time she went near. Tommy looked dangerous too. And poor old Sultan was just plain shy of everybody.

  But Kitty … Oh, how she loved Kitty! Oh, the thrill of having a lion as a friend!

  Well, not exactly a friend, because Kitty was mostly after chocolate: sloping seductively up to her at the campfire with her steamroller blandishments, purring like a lawnmower and trying to look sweet. And when Elizabeth jerked back, Kitty blinked her eyes as if expecting to be smacked on the nose—but the nose was busily twitching, trying to zero in on the whereabouts of goodies; the blinking was an act. Kitty wasn’t afraid of anything except missing out on something to eat. Elizabeth would hold out a piece of chocolate, and Kitty’s big, rough tongue would slurp it out of her fingers like a vacuum cleaner, with one big lick of the chops afterward. Then, forbidden by Davey, she sat down, curled her tail neatly around her paws, fixed Elizabeth with a penetrating stare, and prepared to wait it out.

  One night, Princess got in on the act. Suddenly she came padding purposefully over at her, glowering hopefully, spat at Kitty, then sat down to join the siege. Kitty ignored the intruder, and started purring louder. Then Tommy followed Princess. On the other side of the fire, Sam shot bolt upright, aghast at missing out on any chocolate, but not daring to muscle in. The thrill of it, of having three lions clustered around her expectantly; but the most wonderful part was that Elizabeth had not felt afraid. It was the most liberating of feelings. She was in love with the world. She wanted to hug each one, and feel their furry warmth against her face.

  She tossed a piece of chocolate to each lion, and each dashed off in different directions to gobble it. Even though she had made it clear she had no more, Kitty came slinking back and delighted Elizabeth by lying down beside her.

  Elizabeth was afraid to move in case she disturbed her. Then Kitty rolled her stomach to the fire and stretched her legs languidly, closed her eyes and began to purr. Quite naturally, Elizabeth placed her hand on Kitty’s head and stroked it. Kitty purred and rolled onto her back, paws in the air, and Elizabeth scratched her whiskery chin. And she was unable to resist it any longer, and she lowered her face against the lion’s chest, listened to her heart beating, hugged her, and whispered joyfully: ‘Oh, Kitty Topcat, I love you …’

  forty-two

  That day Smoky arrived at the Pigeon River.

  In the late afternoon he stood on the edge of the forest, looking down onto Highway 40 and the river. His wounded flank was a long swollen lump now, but for the moment he did not feel the pain, in his anxiety.

  Smoky’s heart sank. He saw how wide was the highway, and beyond it the strong, frothing river, and the bridge. Smoky was not afraid of water itself; but this was the same sort of place where the monster had tried to kill him.

  He had not found Sam’s scent again after the forest fire, nor the scent of any of the other animals. But he had found the Appalachian Trail, and he had doggedly followed it, only because it was the sort of trail his keeper had been following.

  Now, for the same reason, Smoky knew he had to cross the highway and this wide river. Smoky stood there, his big round furry face staring worriedly out of the undergrowth. He knew he had to wait until it was dark, when monsters and men would not see him easily.

  At dusk he came down the steep bank toward the highway, the gravel cascading beneath his paws. For one long moment he paused on the edge of the tarmac, his round face raised, nose twitching, and eyes wide; then he rushed.

  Smoky galloped across the lanes as fast as his legs would carry him, his claws biting into the surface. He burst onto the bridge and ran and ran; head down, as if hounds were chasing him, and every moment he was expecting the terrible scream of the monster. He did not feel the pain in his side.

  Beyond was the steep, black forested mountain. Smoky hurled himself into it and went scrambling, clawing desperately up its side, and his heart was pounding in exhaustion. But he did not stop. On and on Smoky went until he was over a mile up the mountain; then threw himself down to rest.

  If Smoky had crossed the river where Davey Jordan had, he would probably have heard Sally croaking in the dark. For that is where she was—staying on the riverbank where she had last seen the animals, hoping and waiting for David Jordan to come back. Maybe, if Smoky had crossed the rapids, she would have seen him and recognized him, and maybe she would have blundered out of the water and followed him. Maybe.

  The next morning Smoky found the Appalachian Trail again on the crest of the mountains. He limped painfully up and down the steep and winding footpath, knowing only that perhaps his keeper was at the end of it.

  That day Smoky came across a pile of elephant dung on the Trail.

  He stopped and smelled it. His heart surged.

  At about noon that day, Sam suddenly dived off the Trail.

  One moment he was happily trotting along; the next he was bounding furiously down the mountainside, the hair standing up on his back. He hurled himself into a bush, then sprang out of it, and his jaws was a possum. He shook his head to kill the little animal; then he flung it into the air so that the brown bundle cartwheeled; then it hit the ground with a thud. Elizabeth came pounding down the slope yelling, ‘No, Sam!’ Sam crouched over his prey, growling a low warning, looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

  The whole caravan of animals had stopped, all surveying the drama below.

  ‘Leave
him,’ Davey called. ‘It’s his.’

  Sam gulped a better grip on his quarry at the sound of his master’s voice.

  ‘But,’ she yelled, ‘it’s a possum! It probably isn’t even dead. They just faint from fright.’

  ‘He’s dead,’ Davey said quietly. ‘His neck’s snapped.’

  ‘You of all people! What harm’s that possum done? It’s his wilderness—not Sam’s. And this’—she jabbed her finger at the trees—‘is a national park. Everything’s protected, that’s why we’re all here, isn’t it?’

  He said, ‘It’s Nature, Dr. Johnson.’

  ‘She cried, ‘Is Nature always right?’

  ‘Yes, Dr. Johnson, it’s pretty much always right.’

  ‘Then hunting’s right. And zoos. Because might is right—that’s Nature too.’

  He said patiently, ‘Hunting’s only right to fill your belly, not for pleasure. And zoos are for pleasure.’

  She yelled, ‘Come and save this possum!’

  But Kitty came instead, bounding down the slope, and Sam, who had had his attention on Elizabeth, was taken off guard.

  He saw Kitty descending on him, and he spun around with a snarl that came out as a muffled yelp with his mouth full of possum. Kitty bounded to a stop two paces from him, tail flicking, eyes piercing. Sam crouched, heart pounding, trying to snarl convincingly. For a long moment (from Sam’s point of view) the two adversaries faced each other dangerously; then, slowly, Sam began to walk backward. Purely out of sensible preservation of his possum against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune—without surrendering an inch of his dignity—Sam retreated one, two, three, stiff-legged steps, his hair bristling, his wolf eyes bright, and his dog’s heart quaking, snarling unsuccessfully through the four pounds of densely furred possum hanging from either side of his face. Kitty stood poised, glaring. Now Sam had widened the distance between them where it would have been only prudent and in no way undignified to consolidate his gains and retreat rapidly with his prize to a place of safety. He was about to turn and bolt for his life when Kitty sprang with an awful roar. Sam fell over himself in mid-turnabout, and he spat out the possum, to face his terrible adversary. Kitty tried to grab the possum, and Sam hurled himself suicidally onto the back of her neck. She was knocked off balance, and they rolled.