Fear No Evil

by John Gordon Davis

  She closed her eyes tighter, and tried to force the thoughts from her mind.

  But her body was talking to her now. Aroused by her thoughts.

  And her body felt wonderful. She had lost so much weight. She could feel it in the slackness of her waistband, the new roominess in the seat of her jeans. In the ease with which she could run and climb. Her whole body felt lighter and lither, the chubbiness almost all gone from her hips, tummy, and arms; she wished she had a full-length mirror! The only parts of her that didn’t feel slimmer were her calf muscles. They had grown with all this foot-slogging; she could feel their new fullness. Which was good! Her legs were getting shapely at last. No longer were they just the ‘sexy carrots’ Bernard used to joke about.

  Then suddenly the chilling dread came back. She tried to stifle it; then had to say it. She whispered, ‘Davey? What are we going to do? The man from South Africa must track us down soon.’

  He answered quietly from beyond the fire.

  ‘Wait till tomorrow, Dr. Johnson. You won’t have confidence until you see things happen.’

  ‘What? Tell me. I won’t betray you.’

  ‘It’s often easier to be the hunted than the hunter. A lot of things are about to start happening. You’ll see tomorrow.’

  She lay still, trying to dispel the old cold fear. Then, out of the darkness came the thought, Before the cock crows twice, you will deny me thrice …

  She was amazed at herself for thinking it. Why did she think of him in Biblical terms?

  ‘Davey?’

  ‘Yes?’

  She took a breath.

  ‘Will you please, please call me Elizabeth?’

  fifty-three

  Before first light he knelt beside her and shook her shoulder. ‘We’ve got to go now. Back to the cabin.’

  It was still dark when they arrived. He told her to stay there, and he disappeared down the path to the old pasture.

  With the first light a canoe came slipping silently across the water, with three men in it. As it nosed into the shore, Davey stepped into the water and held the bows steady.

  ‘Good morning, Mr. Bradman!’

  As the sun came up they sat inside the cabin, drinking coffee and munching Eric Bradman’s biscuits. Elizabeth’s spirits were soaring, bubbling over with relief. She was stunned at the public relations job Davey Jordan had pulled off: Eric Bradman could topple kings!

  ‘How long will you need?’ Davey asked.

  Bradman looked at the forest outside, his handsome old face enthusiastic. The early mist was hanging in the first golden rays shafting between the trees, and out of this beauty had emerged three very relieved elephants and two huge bears who sat like dogs in the undergrowth, never taking their eyes off the door. Eric Bradman shook his head in delight.

  ‘I wish I could stay forever. But I must get back by tomorrow night. To capitalize on Forsythe’s debacle yesterday. My wife’s filming some important sequences around Cherokee today. I want to splice those in tomorrow night, for screening the next day.’ He shook his head enthusiastically. ‘It’s going to have the whole world weeping.’ His wise eyes were moist for a moment. ‘Can you show me everything in a day and a half?’

  ‘I think so.’

  He turned to Elizabeth. ‘And you, Doctor? Will you help?’

  She stared at him. She could still hardly believe that the great Eric Bradman was actually here.

  ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘Only the truth.’

  Only for a moment did she hesitate. For a moment she wanted to clutch at the shreds of the establishment she belonged to, the professional rules and truths she was steeped in. But she knew what the truth was now.

  ‘Yes.’

  Davey and Big Charlie were smiling at her, Eric Bradman too, and her spirits soared. With Davey Jordan and Eric Bradman together, anything was possible.

  It was not till they were about to set out that Bradman suddenly stopped, remembering something. He pulled a letter from his pocket and handed it to Elizabeth.

  ‘This arrived for you, addressed care of my office in New York. I guess it’s a fan-letter.’ He added jovially, ‘You’ve got a multitude of fans out there, now, Doctor.’

  She stared at the letter. The familiar handwriting on the envelope made her heart turn over. It was postmarked Sydney, Australia, and the writing was her husband’s.

  Her heart was hammering, she felt a contraction in her stomach, and suddenly her face was throbbing with the old emotion. She was afraid to open it.

  She tore it open slowly as the others filed out of the cabin into the beautiful morning.

  My darling Liz, I have read all about your fantastic experiences and I’m kind of basking in reflected glory wherever I go, both in England and Aussie …

  It went on to tell her that his admiration for her was unbounded, that his affair with the blonde was over, and that he wanted to come back to her.

  part eleven

  fifty-four

  The president of the United States was a conscientious man to whom years in office had not yet really taught the art of delegation of responsibility. He was also deeply religious. This made him a little too ready to drive a softer bargain, to welcome reconciliation. He had come to power on a platform of human rights, and this had proved a two-edged sword. Both by temperament and policy, he often sacrificed practicalities at home and abroad on the altar of vague, emotionally charged principle.

  Now he had a new problem, emotively called humane rights. It was unprecedented, and it had become a national issue. Indeed the whole world seemed up in arms. The White House was daily inundated with thousands of telegrams and letters, either urging him to let the stolen animals stay free, or urging him to use all his resources to get them safely back behind bars. Normally such missives would receive scant presidential notice, but elections were around the corner. There were numerous demonstrations, and now, in Washington, hordes of young people with banners. A petition had been delivered to the very gates of the White House and had received wide television and newspaper coverage. It purported to come from the entire Cherokee Nation, and it was headed: ‘The Trail of Tears started and ends here.’ It was delivered by a band of Indians in full war paint.

  Now the president of the United States sat pensively with his First Lady and watched a worrisome television program made by the venerable Eric Bradman and his nationally popular wife.

  The forest was flickering with campfires; there was a sea of faces; singing swelled and banners were raised. Barbara Bradman was speaking.

  ‘This is the atmosphere that greeted Stephen Leigh-Forsythe on his return last night from his expedition into the mountains. Boos went up as his helicopter landed, and when word got out that he and his trackers were battered and bruised from a fight they had had with trespassers, quote, unquote, there was loud cheering, and some fireworks were let off …’

  The screen cut to Forsythe painfully climbing out of his helicopter. His cheek was swollen; he had a limp which he failed to conceal. But he smiled bleakly for the cameras. The same could not be said for his team. Samson walked only with difficulty, his legs well apart and his face like thunder. Sixpence had a swollen eye, and Ben was limping too. Only Frank Hunt looked in good humor, if somewhat footsore, with a cheery smile for all.

  Barbara Bradman continued. ‘But nobody was able to tell us what really happened in the woods today that brought them home all tattered and torn, as this clip shows.’

  Professor Ford snapped, ‘I don’t know because Mr. Forsythe chooses to give me no details. Ask him yourself. Now, please excuse me.’

  ‘Are you going to use troops again to guard against more trespassers?’

  ‘No. It would take half a million soldiers to encircle the Smokies effectively. Now, will you kindly excuse me.’

  With that the campers’ fireworks went off. The president smiled, despite himself. He was quite sure that Bradman had edited his film that way, but it was funny. And worrying.

  ‘T
his morning, Mr. Forsythe and one of his trackers were unable to go out, due to their injuries. This left Professor Ford in charge again. He and a diminished party left at dawn to start their renewed search for spoor. Meanwhile, Mr. Forsythe went to pay a visit to Chief Nathaniel Owle of the Cherokees …’

  The road through Cherokee was lined with hostile faces and masses of banners. There were a good number of black faces too. The president paid close attention. Where had they sprung from? Barbara Bradman supplied the answer.

  ‘Several busloads of blacks arrived this morning from neighbouring cities to join the demonstrators of Cherokee. A spokesman for them, Mr. Cunningham, a school teacher, had this to say.’

  An elderly black face appeared. ‘In our school we had been following this drama closely, and after considering all the pros and cons we held a vote; the unanimous verdict was we want these animals to be free. Freedom is something we blacks understand better than whites. Like these animals, our ancestors came to this country as slaves, and that memory is not so distant. My grandfather was a slave. Most of these children have heard tales from their grandparents about his father, and so on. We are aware of those days, far more than whites. And, when all is said and done, most of us still find ourselves living in conditions … er … reminiscent of our unhappy origins, despite election promises. We have a feeling of comradeship with the Cherokee people—and with all the Indians. They are an underprivileged minority, just as we are. Let’s not mince words. They had their lands stolen. We feel for them. They had their birth rights stolen, just as we did. And so did these animals. And the Cherokee people. By rights they own these Great Smoky Mountains. They want the animals to stay—perhaps to them it is a kind of emotional restocking …’

  Then an angelic black girl took his place.

  ‘We never thought much about them until this happened. Now we’ve all got class projects; we get books from the libraries and make scrapbooks. We really want to study Nature now. And the whole environmental crisis too, about pollution and overpopulation and the energy crisis and all that. It’s very interesting.’

  ‘What do you want the government to do about these animals?’

  ‘Oh,’ the girl gushed, ‘we want them to be free!’

  ‘What do your mother and father think?’

  ‘The same. Every night they’re glued to the televison; they’re all rootin’ for the animals. Everybody!’

  ‘How do you think the animals feel, now they’re free?’

  ‘Oh! …’ the girl clasped her hands. ‘They so happy!’

  The beatific black girl’s smile faded into the puffed-up black eye of Stephen Leigh-Forsythe as he climbed out of the US government vehicle outside Chief Nathaniel Owle’s office. People stood both sides of the entrance in silent rebuke. Forsythe winced as he put his weight on his injured leg. Barbara Bradman reappeared on the screen.

  ‘The media were not admitted to the meeting, but we do know what happened outside. When Mr. Forsythe emerged he found this.’

  All the tires on his vehicle were as flat as pancakes. Forsythe glared with his good eye. Then he limped furiously, climbed in and slammed the door. The wildlife liaison officer gaped, then hurried after him. Forsythe gunned the engine and, before the liaison officer had closed the door, the vehicle roared flatly away.

  Then the screen faded, and the dignified, twinkling smile of Chief Nathaniel Owle formed. He was seated in his office beneath two portraits: one of Junaluska, the other of the president of the United States.

  ‘The meeting was more or less polite, I think, in the curious way of foreigners. We Indians have considerable experience of colonialists; we understand their little ways, from reading our history books.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Apart from my scalp?’ the old chief twinkled. ‘Well, now, there’s another curious thing. You see, I had invited Mr. Forsythe, as a matter of courtesy, to visit me some days ago. But when he arrived today he seemed to come not as a visitor, but as if he was a kind of detective. But I guess this is just a curious colonialist characteristic and should not be taken too seriously. I must say I thought it was a good thing he was not addressing one of our black citizens like that, or he might have gotten his other eye blackened.’ The old man smiled indulgently at the camera, and went on brightly. ‘I suppose that in the unsentimental business the government is bent on, diplomacy is not a priority. After all, we Indians do not add up to many voters.’

  The president of the United States groaned.

  ‘What transpired between the two of you?’ Barbara Bradman said.

  ‘Well,’ the old chief said, ‘he made a rather blunt suggestion that two of my fellow tribesmen, who assisted him, deliberately misled him. He was rather emphatic about that. I asked him how an expert such as he could possibly be misled by anybody. After the huge sums the government is paying him, one expects him not to be misled, doesn’t one? My goodness! With what this young man is costing us, could not the government compensate the owners of these animals and leave the poor creatures in peace? Still, government moves in curious ways … And the president is a law-abiding man, I believe.’ He sighed with the patience of old age. ‘However, Mr. Forsythe went on to request that I ban the people who are presently visiting our little town. He said they were disturbing the peace and being less than friendly.’ The old man spread his hands. ‘What right have I to do that? American citizens are free to go anywhere. The campgrounds are private property. They seem perfectly decent people, as far as I can see. If they wish to express their views, they are free to do so in Cherokee. No, no, no, Mr. Forsythe, I said, you may be able to clamp down on public sentiment in Africa, but not in Cherokee. And I’m sure the president’—he indicated the portrait—‘would agree with me.’

  Barbara Bradman was smiling. ‘What else?’

  ‘Well; finally he rather changed his tune. He really can be a charming young man, and he is very lucky because he seems to be able to turn this on and off like a faucet, which must be a great convenience. He asked me to “provide” him with a number of “honest” and “reliable” trackers. The area is so huge that finding the spoor may take some time, even for an expert such as him.’

  Chief Owle sighed. ‘Well, I had to tactfully explain.’ He spread his hands. ‘Of course, if any of my people want to work for Mr. Forsythe, they are free to do so. But every Cherokee wants these animals to stay! Even today we delivered a petition to the White House. I believe there will be more. Indian chiefs from all over America have cabled me expressing their solidarity. It seems the whole Indian population wants these animals to stay in the Great Smoky Mountains. As do a great many other people of goodwill, all over the world …’

  His eyes took on a faraway look. He had his audience the world over enraptured, even the president, waiting for wisdom.

  ‘You see, to us humble Indians, this a spiritual issue. Apart from the fact that we like animals, that we now realize just how inhumane zoos are, and circuses, apart from the fact that now they have tasted freedom in our mountains and it is heartless to send them back to their miserable cages—apart from all that, this crisis has a very special significance to our tribe.’ He paused. ‘For it is right here, in these very mountains, that the notorious Trail of Tears began—when the president of America, Andrew Jackson himself, defied his own Supreme Court and stole the last of our lands, dragged our women and children from their homes, and herded us Cherokees into stockades like cattle; then deported us to Oklahoma, through a terrible winter journey lasting six months that claimed four thousand Cherokee lives. It was in these very mountains that Chief Junaluska’—he pointed at the portrait above him—‘who had saved the life of President Jackson at the Battle of Horseshoe Bend, raised his eyes heavenward and cried, “O God, if I had known at the Battle of Horseshoe what I know now, American history would have been differently written.”’

  The old chieftain slowly lowered his fist and looked at the camera with tears in his eyes.

  ‘And it was in these Smok
y Mountains that a handful of our grandparents hid and escaped that shameful round-up of our people. And from that pathetic handful we Cherokees of today are descended. So those mountains out there are also the place which gave rebirth to our present-day people. It is also our rebirthplace …’ He looked at his audience with old, strong eyes. ‘And now another Trail of Tears has ended in our Great Smoky Mountains. But a Trail of Freedom! A valiant fight for life that brings tears to the eyes. And once again our mountains have given sanctuary! There is new life again in our sacred Smokies.’

  He paused, his eyes shining.

  ‘And those mountains are sacred to us, for yet another reason …’ He wagged his finger gently. ‘Because, according to our Cherokee legends, it is in the mountains that the very first life on earth began.’ He paused to let that weighty notion sink in. ‘For when the earth was covered in water and only a little mud, the Grandfather Buzzard was sent down from the great Sky Rock, where all the animals lived. To look for dry land, and finally he came to this place. And then all the animals on the Sky Rock came down to live here. They were the fathers and mothers of every creature in the world! Including Man …’

  He looked at his audience solemnly, then gave his lovely smile.

  ‘Think about that a moment, please. Isn’t that a beautiful thought? It is the Garden of Eden. Isn’t that a thought to be cherished? To rejoice in? So you see how spiritually exciting it is that these animals have come to our sacred mountains.’ He spread his hands eloquently. ‘Our Garden of Eden is created again. The animals have come back—as they did tens of thousand of years ago. To start a new world, afresh. And to multiply …’ He looked at the world earnestly, then his old eyes twinkled, inviting his audience to share another delightful thought. ‘And, perhaps, did not the Great One send them? Did He not send Davey Jordan as once long ago He sent the Grandfather Buzzard?’

  He let that thought dangle, his fine old face wise and kind, then he sat back unhappily.