Fear No Evil

by John Gordon Davis

  Kitty clawed her way down the tree when she saw Davey and Elizabeth, and came bounding excitedly toward them, tail up straight. Sam, who had been following jauntily, turned when he saw her, and retreated to a safe distance to watch. But Kitty only had eyes for Davey and the boar’s carcass. Tommy and Princess were pacing about in anticipation, and even Sultan perked up when he saw Davey and came stalking out of the undergrowth, looking moderately optimistic.

  Davey unlashed the rope and the carcass thumped to the ground. The lions fell upon it. There was a short sharp roar, and Tommy swiped at Kitty. The lionesses scattered. Tommy got down on his belly, his long tail flicking, put one paw onto the ribs, and sank his teeth. Kitty and Princess slunk back to the carcass, snarling and cringing, and he roared at them again, and they stopped in their tracks, crouched.

  After a minute of solitary feeding, Tommy allowed them in to share. They fell on the carcass, snarling for position, and tore into it. But Sultan sat forlornly on the fringe, his eyes intent and saliva drooling. From bitter experience he knew better than to try to muscle his way in yet.

  ‘Let’s cut a chunk off for him.’

  Davey shook his head absently, watching them. ‘He’s got to learn.’

  ‘But he’s famished.’

  ‘Maybe tomorrow he’ll do something about it. Go off and try to fill his gut.’

  It seemed so unfair. She watched the tiger sitting hopefully.

  ‘There’s nothing unfair about Nature, Elizabeth.’

  It was the first time he had called her by her Christian name. And how had he known that she was thinking it was unfair?

  ‘I’ll stop feeding them tomorrow. Let them get so hungry they’ll want to go out and hunt.’

  ‘But they won’t know how.’

  ‘I’ll teach them. I’ll go tracking some wild boar with them.’

  ‘Supposing they start hunting our other animals?’

  ‘All our animals can look after themselves against a lion.’

  ‘And if they can’t the laws of Nature apply? Unless it happens to be Sam who’s getting the thin end of the wedge?’

  Davey smiled. ‘Let’s go back to the cabin.’

  Elizabeth could see a change in Davey since they had left the Appalachian Trail. Or since the rain. Since they had laughed at each other laughing in the downpour—sharing the relief that their spoor was being obliterated. His face had lost the gauntness. And now, when they got back to the cabin, he almost bowled her over with another act of kindness. He went to his knapsack and came out with a small wrapped box. He looked embarrassed and said, ‘I asked Tom Underwood to get you this. Charlie and me. You haven’t got many comforts on this job. It was all we could think of.’

  She was astonished. He had been carrying this surprise for her for two days, while he treated her so distantly?

  She was overwhelmed. She tore off the paper. It was a bottle of lavender water. A bottle of perfume! And he had thought to get it especially for her and had carried it as a present for the end of the trail?

  ‘Oh—that’s so kind of you!’

  ‘At least it’s something you can carry easily to make you feel better.’

  ‘I feel better already.’

  ‘And this … to celebrate the end of the trail.’

  It was another bottle of whisky.

  ‘Oh, wonderful, Davey. Thank you!’ The thoughtfulness brought a burn to her eyes.

  He whispered, ‘Thank Big Charlie nicely …’ Then he called, ‘Firewater’s flowing, Rainmaker …’

  Wisps of mist were filtering through the trees; the air was soft and still.

  They sat in a row on the crumbling porch, Elizabeth in the middle, and solemnly sipped the whisky, watching the gathering dusk and feeling the glow of the liquor, Elizabeth still feeling the glow of their gifts. Yet she felt strangely formal—yet conspiratorial. Or comradely. Big Charlie sat hunched, looking selfconsciously inscrutable. Davey sat cross-legged, as serene as a guru, but his eyes were embarrassed when she glanced at him.

  The animals were gathering uncertainly around the cabin, getting ready for the night, or ready to move on again, whichever they were told to do, waiting for leadership. The chimpanzees sat about aimlessly. The elephants were shuffling and sighing, trunks wearily plucking leaves, but always with an eye on Davey. The two gorillas sat together, anxiously watching for a signal. Then, at last, they began to scrape leaves into a circle around themselves. That’s right,’ Davey muttered. ‘But what’s wrong with the trees? That’s where gorillas like to make their nests.’ King Kong looked at him, hoping for direction. But Davey just smiled. But the most delightful thing about it all was that it no longer seemed extraordinary to Elizabeth to be sitting in the wilderness surrounded by animals. It seemed all perfectly natural. Familiar. She felt she knew them all, what they were thinking and feeling, like a big family. Her body was rested, and there was the delicious knowledge that tomorrow she did not have to run anymore. An end to running … And the glow of the whisky in her empty stomach. She almost believed that everything was going to be all right from now on, that Davey Jordan’s sweet vision was going to come true. Had it not come true already?…

  Just then the two bears appeared out of the dusk, enormous, shuffling to the security of their keeper, and Davey smiled gently at their big brown eyes and furry dish-faces.

  ‘Hello, bears …’

  He patted them, and then they came snuffling toward Elizabeth, eyes hesitant, ready to back off at the slightest warning. Maybe they could feel the happiness emanating from her, or maybe they thought she might have some chocolate, or maybe it was the lavender water she had dabbed behind her ears, but it was the first time they had shown any friendliness toward her. She sat rock-still, smiling, her heart hammering, and whispered, ‘Hello, Winnie. Hello, beautiful Pooh. Come on …’

  Winnie’s nose touched her hand, investigating her, then jerked back, then touched it again. She dared make no movement, just continued to beam. Then Pooh heaved his massive shaggy forelegs up onto the porch, tentatively stretched out his great head, and hesitantly sniffed at her neck. Then Winnie also hefted herself up on her other side, in case she was missing put on something. Elizabeth sat rigid, trying not to burst into terrified giggles under the animals towering over her, with their warm snuffling tickling both her ears—but she couldn’t control herself any longer, burst out laughing, and jerked backward. She put a hand on a furry paw of each to reassure them and gasped: ‘Dance? Shall we dance?’ She turned to Davey. ‘Would they dance for us?’

  He was smiling. ‘If you want, they’ll even dance with you. They enjoy that.’

  ‘Oh, yes! How?—what have I got to do?’ She looked at the great shaggy faces looking down at her, disappointed that she had pulled away from them. ‘Dance?’ she appealed. ‘Will you dance with me?’

  ‘They understand that word,’ Davey grinned. ‘But they’re puzzled that you’re just sitting there, with no music.’

  ‘What shall I sing?’

  ‘Try “The Teddy Bears’ Picnic.”’

  Before her nerve should fail her, she slid off the porch and stood between the two bears, eyes shining. They looked at her, digesting this development. Then Pooh heaved himself up onto his hindlegs. Then Winnie did the same. They stood expectantly, towering over her like thunderclouds.

  ‘What do I do now?’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘Take a paw each.’

  She took a huge paw in each hand. She had never felt so little in her life.

  ‘Now sing.’

  She took a nervous breath.

  If you go down to the woods today

  You better not go alone …

  She gently jigged each paw, and the bears responded uncertainly; they began to shuffle on their hind legs, their paws held up in her tiny hands, and she felt her heart turn over. She began to shuffle in tune, and the two great bears began to dance with her.

  Her eyes were sparkling, and she wanted to whoop and shout. Davey and Big Charlie were smiling
and singing along with her. Winnie and Pooh went dancing off with her, one each side, through the trees, shuffling amiably in the twilight, heads bobbing, their free paws waving to the crowds they were accustomed to, their shaggy backsides daintily shaking as she sang:

  Today’s the day

  The teddy bears have their pic … nic …

  part ten

  forty-six

  Overnight, new green things started to appear a little higher up the steep wilderness slopes, and the whole forest smelted young after the rains. At three o’clock that afternoon, through the trees, Smoky bear saw the Newfound Gap highway. He stopped.

  There it was again, another man-made place. Smoky stared at the highway; then he turned and lumbered hurriedly off the trail for cover. He crouched in the undergrowth, ears pricked.

  For an hour Smoky sat, peering, waiting for a sign of dreaded man. He only knew that he had to cross yet another terrifying road which lay across his trail. Finally he screwed up his courage and came out of his hiding place.

  He crept cautiously through the undergrowth, peering and sniffing, stopping twenty paces from the highway. His heart was pounding harder, as he summoned the courage for the dash.

  He hit the parking area with a grunt of pain, and he started running. He hobbled desperately across the parking area and onto the road beyond. Then he heard the helicopter.

  He heard its drone, and, frightened, he turned and started galloping-back across the road. Then he saw it was farther back than to cross, so he swung around and went galloping back again toward the far embankment. At the last moment he saw that it was vertical.

  A high stone wall supported the embankment. Smoky leaped panic-stricken. He hit the wall, fore legs upflung and his hind legs frantically clawing; for a long second he clung there scrabbling, then he crashed back to the tar with a thud. He scrambled up desperately and looked up the road for another escape. The road and its embankment curved out of sight. He turned to run back across the road again; then suddenly Smoky saw the helicopter.

  The huge flying monster, the most terrible sight he had ever seen, was coming over the Appalachian Trail from the direction of the Pigeon River, and Smoky swerved again. He went galloping up the road, following the bend, the machine roaring louder and louder; then he saw the tourist road that led to Clingmans Dome, he fled wildly down it for a hundred yards, the machine thudding above him; the wall ended and he plunged up the embankment into the dark forest beyond.

  The helicopter turned in a tight circle and hovered above the parking area at the Newfound Gap lookout. Stephen Leigh-Forsythe looked around at the vast blue mountains stretching all the way to the horizon. He had just finished a four-hour airborne inspection of the Smoky Mountains, accompanied by his trackers and Professor Ford, Frank Hunt, and a journalist. His face showed no emotion at that massive beauty—no awe, no doubt. But his African trackers were wonderstruck at the experience.

  “Put us down on that parking area.’

  Forsythe spoke quietly to his trackers in Swahili; the four black men climbed out and headed separately for the forest on both sides of the road, each carrying a walkie-talkie radio.

  ‘They looking for that bear?’ asked Jonas Ford.

  ‘No. There’s nothing to suggest that’s one of the animals we’re looking for. This area’s full of black bears. My men are having a quick check for spoor. But even if Jordan has crossed over here, the rain yesterday will have washed everything out. Still, we may be lucky and find a bit of jumbo dung.’

  The reporter was scribbling.

  Forsythe climbed out of the helicopter, walked slowly to the edge of parking area and looked around. Then he inspected his map. After ten minutes he spoke into his walkie-talkie radio. A few minutes later his men emerged from the forest and made their reports in Swahili.

  ‘Nothing,’ he reported to Ford. ‘Back to the camp.’

  The Oconaluftee Visitor Center is on the edge of the Great Smoky Mountains, outside the little Indian town of Cherokee, surrounded by forest. There is a big pasture with a log barn, and in the modern visitors’ center there is a museum. No tourists are allowed to camp there.

  This was Operation Noah’s camp, and there were cars and tents everywhere, belonging to the scores of reporters and television crews. Jonas Ford had wanted to refuse the reporters admission but Forsythe had tactfully dissuaded him.

  There were the trucks of The World’s Greatest Show, the caravan trailers of Charles Worthy and Frank I. Hunt, and numerous national parks vehicles. There were several military vehicles, even a bulldozer, and several helicopters. The newsmen had clubbed together to hire a caterer from Cherokee to run a fastfood service, and permission had been obtained for a temporary bar. This had scandalized Ford, but once again Forsythe had overruled him, if only because many reporters seemed to be rooting for David Jordan. Equally reluctantly, Ford had consented to allowing Bell Telephone Company to install temporary lines.

  The national parks department had provided a large, air-conditioned trailer for Forsythe, but he had declined it. He was more accustomed to living in tents, he had said with his fresh-faced smile. He had insisted that Jonas Ford use it, but he had felt he had to decline too. He also preferred to camp, he said—didn’t get enough outdoors in his job. And—although he didn’t say so—it wouldn’t look good for the director of the Bronx Zoo to be living in luxury while the hardy expert from Africa slept under canvas. Forsythe was amused. All this hoo-hah. All their souped-up gear, bulldozers and helicopters, troop trucks, caravans, and telephone lines. Even a first-aid station. The resources of the entire United States at his disposal, just to recapture a handful of animals—tame ones at that. Trust the Yanks.

  Forsythe had three tents, pitched well away from everybody else. Outside his dining tent a log fire was smoldering, attended by Gasoline. On the other side of the fire was Forsythe’s sleeping tent. It had a canvas floor and contained a stretcher, two canvas chairs, a pressure lamp, and a pole for his clothes. The third was the ‘operations tent.’ It held several large trestle tables, two covered with maps. On the other was a large, plaster-relief plan of the Great Smoky Mountains, showing every detail.

  At the other end of the pasture a stockade was being constructed of stout builders’ scaffolding, bolted together.

  Beyond the pasture, in the forest on the outskirts of Cherokee, another tented village was springing up. Its residents were mostly young people who had come from all over America and Canada to protest the recapture operation. Many of them were members of Greenpeace and Friends of the Earth.

  Forsythe sprang out of the helicopter and started striding toward his own tents. Jonas Ford hurried after him, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose. A dozen television crews were filming their return. Frank Hunt gave the cameras a cheery wave and his conspiratorial Dean Martin smile.

  The recapture team crowded into the operations tent after Forsythe. ‘Ben?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Mambo?’

  Forsythe spoke quietly in Swahili to his men, pointing to the relief map.

  ‘I’m sending my trackers out at first light in the morning,’ Forsythe said to Ford. ‘In the helicopter. Dropping one of them at each of these points.’ He pointed at the map. ‘They’ll start looking for spoor in this direction.’ He swept his hand southward. ‘I’m also putting one man down on the Appalachian Trail, on the crest, about here.’ He indicated a point about five miles from the Pigeon River.

  Ford nodded. It irritated him that young Forsythe had hardly consulted him.

  ‘It’s bad luck about that heavy rain yesterday,’ Forsythe continued. ‘We have to start from scratch searching for spoor. However, some signs will remain. Such as broken branches where an elephant has been feeding, the odd bit of dung. But it’s going to be hard to estimate its age. When a tracker finds spoor he will radio back to me here at the camp. He’ll then shoot off a flare, and I’ll proceed to where he is by helicopter. I’ll estimate the age of the spoor, and if it is suitable, follow it. And O
peration Noah proper will begin.’

  Ford didn’t like that—‘Operation Noah proper.’ But Frank Hunt smiled. ‘Won’t Jordan also see the flare, and start running?’ asked Ford curtly.

  ‘It doesn’t matter if he does. The spoor must lead me to him. He can’t run forever.’

  ‘He’s done a pretty good job of it so far.’

  ‘Yes, he has,’ Forsythe agreed mildly. ‘My guess is he’s moving in this direction.’ He indicated.

  Ford was irritated by Forsythe’s demeanor.

  ‘Why do you think he’s still on the move? Now that he’s reached his objective. One part of those mountains looks as vast and impenetrable as another.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see if I’m right.’

  Chuck Worthy said with a trace of triumph, ‘Do you think you know where he’s headed?’

  ‘Yes,’ Forsythe said quietly, ‘I think I do.’

  ‘Where?’ Ford demanded.

  ‘Let’s wait for my trackers to find some evidence before I say any more, gentlemen.’

  Then Chuck Worthy announced, ‘While you were out there today, some Indian gents from Cherokee came here and told us they had found spoor. They know where the animals are …’

  For the first time Forsythe looked taken aback. Then anger flickered across his face.

  ‘Excellent. Where are they?’

  ‘Waiting patiently outside to speak to you.’

  Frank Hunt scratched his cheek to smother his smile.

  ‘Well,’ Forsythe said, ‘obviously we’ll check out their story at first light tomorrow. Thank you,’ he said to everybody with polite dismissal.

  He turned to the national parks man who had been assigned to him as liaison officer.

  ‘Will you please telephone your head warden and tell him that I saw an injured black bear today. Something wrong with his leg. If I have the opportunity—and I’ll probably cross his tracks in the next few weeks—I’ll shoot him. He should obviously be destroyed. But I’d like the skin for my Nairobi office. Just get the okay from the head warden, as a courtesy.’