Fear No Evil

fourteen

It was some time before dawn.

Davey lay in the undergrowth on the edge of the forest, peering down onto Highway 23 at Sams Gap. The road was a black blur, ten feet below the embankment. Beyond it, the forest rose again.

He could see no vehicles, no people. He lay, panting, sweating, trying to press his exhaustion into the earth, waiting. For a match to flare, for a voice, for a shadow, for a vehicle to come along the highway out of the forested night and light up the road. For five minutes he waited, then he stood up, quietly as an Indian, and retraced his steps.

The big cats were scattered about in the darkness devouring the meat.

Elizabeth sat well away, slumped against a tree to cover her rear, her legs shaking. Her exhaustion was nothing compared to her fear of the huge dark shapes of the animals in the moon-dappled forest. For one moment she had looked straight into the eyes of the Siberian tiger; those big, carnivorous eyes in that huge killer face with that menacing body behind it, staring straight at her without any bars between them, and she had felt a terror so pure that all she had known to do was throw her arm across her face and cringe. Then Davey had tossed the tiger a hunk of meat, and she had grabbed it and turned away. Then he had turned away himself and melted into the darkness, and she had wanted to run after him for protection, to beg him not to leave her alone. She waited desperately for him to return, her knapsack clutched in front of her as a shield, listening to the sounds of feeding. When she saw David Jordan come back she felt a wave of relief so enormous that it was almost sexual in quality—he was her protector.

She tiptoed nervously over to him. He was squatting, his face in shadow.

‘Mr. Jordan? Please listen to me … for the animals’ own good.’

‘I’m listening.’

She swallowed, feeling inarticulate.

‘How do you think you’re going to get away with this?’

He did not look at her. ‘I’m not trying to get away with anything, Dr. Johnson. I’m just doing what is right.’

She cried softly. ‘Right? How can it be right to throw defenseless animals back into the wild?’

‘You asked me a question,’ he said quietly, ‘so listen to the answer.’

She took a quivering breath to contain herself. His voice and manner were so quietly determined they were almost military. His whole presence inspired confidence. ‘You’re a vet, you should know. It’s not right to keep an animal in a cage. You’ve seen them at that zoo of yours—you must’ve seen them in plenty of zoos.’ He shook his head at her across the dappled darkness. ‘Pacing about, in those tiny cages. Why are they doing that, Dr. Johnson? Mama, here, the tiger. Up and down, up and down. Why? Is it natural for a tiger to do that? Or is she doing it because she wants out? Because she wants space? Because her nerves and body and soul are crying out for freedom?’

‘But Mama doesn’t know about freedom! Any more than a child who grows up in Manhattan knows about Africa! She was born in captivity.’

He said quietly. ‘Then why does she do it? For fun? Because she’s enjoying herself? No, Dr. Johnson. She’s doing it because she just naturally knows she wants out. She’s yearning. And the other big cats in your zoo—they weren’t all born in captivity. They remember, just as you and I remember, natural things like freedom. They long for it. And the elephants and the hippo. And the gorillas …’ He shook his head. ‘Jamba—she wasn’t born in captivity, was she? And look at her tiny cage. Nor the two youngsters …’

Big Charlie said out of the darkness. ‘Cats finished eating.’

‘Mr Jordan, please listen …’

‘We’re going now, Dr. Johnson,’ he said quietly. ‘Thank you very much for the meat. You better go back to your car. I don’t think you’ll keep up with us; you’ll be left behind. It would be much better if you went back and told them to leave us alone.’

She cried. ‘Where are you going?’

But he turned away from her and made a low whistling sound. All about her in the dark the big animals turned and shuffled; then he was moving among them like a shadow, making soft muttering noises, touching them and calling them by name. She grabbed her knapsack, too desperate to marvel at what she was seeing.

They slithered down the embankment at Sams Gap, and scrambled onto the highway. Davey ran across the road and leaped up into the forest on the other side, and the animals loped and lumbered urgently after him, followed by Big Charlie and Sam. Last of all stumbled Dr. Elizabeth Johnson.

Davey slogged up through the black forest, across the mountain-side, the animals strung out behind him. Elizabeth gasped. ‘Mr Buffalohorn!’

Big Charlie hesitated, then stopped. She toiled up to him, and dropped her medical bag.

‘You better quit, ma’am.’

‘I’m coming, dammit!’

She was bent double, hands on knees, head hanging. He hesitated, then picked up her doctor’s bag. He turned and started after the animals.

She straightened, exhausted, then started stumbling doggedly after him.

Just before sunrise Davey stopped. They were in dense forest about a mile down-mountain from the Appalachian Trail. Somewhere, above the thudding of her heart, Elizabeth could hear a waterfall. He said, ahead in the dark, ‘We’re sleeping here.’

She looked exhaustedly about for a good spot. She badly wanted to sleep near him, or Big Charlie, or both.

But she was not going to ask. She wasn’t going to sleep surrounded by animals either. She went plodding back up the mountainside, struggling through the undergrowth, for about twenty paces. Then down she slumped.

She woke with sun on her eyelids. And the dread.

She blinked; all she could see was dense foliage. She struggled out of her sleeping bag, then her heart suddenly tripped as she heard a branch snap. She jerked around and stared, heart pounding; then closed her eyes. They were still here—that was the sound of an elephant feeding.

‘Mr. Jordan?’ she whispered.

The elephant jerked and blundered farther into the forest.

It was completely silent but for the hammering of her heart. She stood there, feeling helpless, afraid. She started rolling up her sleeping bag. Then out of the corner of her eyes she noticed a pair of black hairy legs. She jerked up, and looked straight into the blinking face of a chimpanzee, holding Big Charlie’s hand.

‘Oh, thank God …’ She closed her eyes. ‘Where’s Mr. Jordan?’

Charlie nodded downhill. ‘Asleep down there aways. Don’t do anything to wake him.’

‘And the animals?’

‘Down there too.’ He looked at her uncomfortably, eyes hooded in his brown face: ‘You’d better quit and go back today, Dr. Johnson. For your own sake.’

He had said it kindly. There was nothing she’d like better than to quit.

‘Well, I’m not going to … my own sake doesn’t matter. I’m staying for the animals’ sake.’

He built a tiny fire of dry twigs between two stones, balanced a little tin can of water and made coffee.

‘How long are you staying here?’

‘Until sunset. The animals need a good rest.’

‘And then?’

He did not answer. She wanted to cry out, For God’s sake tell me where you think you’re going.

‘The Garden of Eden, you said last night.’

Big Charlie fed twigs into the tiny fire. ‘Yes.’

She blurted, ‘There’s no such place.’

He did not answer. She closed her eyes in frustration. ‘Oh, for God’s sake give it up. They’re going to be shot to pieces. You know what a beast the American so-called hunter is! And I saw them, getting ready …’

He was staring into the little fire. Her hands were clenched; she stared at his big profile. He turned and looked at her, kindly.

‘It’s no good talking about it, Dr. Johnson.’

‘Where?’ she whispered fiercely. ‘And how the hell are you going to get there?’

‘It’s no use, Dr. Johnson. And it’s no good trying to talk to Davey about it, either. He’s got enough on his mind.’

She snorted. ‘Of course I’m going to talk to him; I don’t care how angry he gets.’

Big Charlie shook his head.

‘He won’t get mad. Takes an awful lot to make Davey mad. He just won’t argue with you, that’s all. He’ll just walk away.’

Big Charlie stood up and turned away himself.

‘Where are you going?’she appealed.

He stopped and looked back at her. Then she understood.

‘All right—I won’t talk about it anymore. Please don’t leave me here …’

‘Okay. Come with me.’

He started walking back up the mountain. She started hurrying painfully after him.

About half a mile up the mountain, on a rocky outcrop, sat Sam, on guard, thumping his tail in welcome.

She would remember it disjointedly: her body aching, her head light from not enough sleep; the unreality of the forest, the animals, the twittering of the birds through her harried thoughts; the whole extraordinary thing. The big Indian sat, waiting. The gentleness behind his bulk, the quiet strength that did not need to be leashed because it was so … confident? So gentle that she did not want to upset him by breaking her bargain. She would, she had to—but at the right moment.

And the strange, beautiful wolf-dog, Sam. He was so serious, ears cocked, staring fixedly up the mountainside. Suspicious of her, tolerating her only because of the Indian’s presence. She wanted him to accept her, she wanted to stretch out and fondle him, tell him he was a good dog. But she didn’t—it would almost have been a presumption, an intrusion into such professionalism. But all the while was the frustration of waiting.

‘Does Sam understand?’

The wolf laid his ears back, but did not turn.

‘Sure.’

‘That he’s on guard for pursuers?’

Big Charlie looked at her. ‘Of course. He’s trained.’

Of course. It seemed a silly question now. ‘What’ll he do if he sees anybody coming? Bark?’

‘Run and wake Davey. He knows he’s got to keep his mouth shut unless it’s a real emergency.’

Oh, lovely Sam …

‘Is he very fierce?’

A wisp of a smile crossed Charlie’s face.

‘He’s pretty friendly.’

‘But would he attack?’

‘Only if he had to. Then he’d be fierce. But usually his bark’s worse than his bite.’

She smiled. ‘How does he like the other animals?’

‘He likes them fine. He’s used to them.’

‘But he’s never had to herd them before.’

‘No. I guess he’s not too crazy about that. They’re all pretty big.’ He added. ‘The big cats, he’s not too keen on them.’

For the first time in a long time she smiled, and tears burned in her eyes. Oh, Sam …

‘I don’t blame him,’ she whispered. ‘Does he chase ordinary cats?’

‘If he gets the chance. But with these big ones? He’s not stupid, Sam.’

They both smiled. It was a little shared amusement at Sam’s expense. Then the moment passed. Charlie looked solemn again.

‘And the other animals? Do you think they understand what’s happening?’

Big Charlie looked surprised. ‘Sure.’

She felt almost foolish.

‘But how?’

He looked at her. ‘Because they know. That they’re out of their cages and running away: Davey’s telling them to run.’ He added, They can feel what each other’s feeling. They know. There’s a—sort of bond between them. To follow and run. Can’t you feel it?’

Yes, she could. But no, she did not believe it. Not a bond, a common purpose, to run away from their cages. Surely they wanted to be back in their cages, where it was safe; they were frightened, that’s why they were running. They were only keeping together because they were frightened, and because they were trained animals, and because Davey Jordan was the only security blanket they had.

The silence returned. Just the occasional cheeping of a bird. The vast, eerie wilderness. Her nerves were tight with the waiting—waiting for David Jordan to wake up so she could try to talk him out of this madness.

Then, completely silently, he was there. Sam’s tail thumped in greeting; she looked around, and he was standing behind her: a lean young man, with the most penetratingly gentle eyes she had ever seen.

Afterward, when she tried to remember what she said, how she said it, whether she had spoken too forcefully or not, she was unable to reconstruct it fully. She was articulate; she had been on her university debating team; she knew what she was talking about; she could be forceful when she wanted to be—overly emotional perhaps, but she defended herself and what was right. What she would remember was feeling blustery and impotent against this quiet, gentle man, who refused to argue with her, who listened to her politely enough but who did not want to talk to her at all, who did so only as an act of hospitality. He was a private man who seemed to know what she was going to say, who had heard it all before; a man who had made all his decisions, and no matter what she said and pleaded and preached, would remain unmoved.

But she remembered him saying, almost reluctantly, ‘I was there the day those baby elephants arrived from India. At Kennedy airport, in the middle of the night. They were reaching out for each other with their trunks, for comfort. Pushing their trunks into each other’s mouths, and everybody was saying. ‘Ah, aren’t they cute!’ But nobody felt bad for taking those poor animals away from their natural home.’ He’d looked at her, and she would remember his quiet intensity. ‘Because people are strange, Dr. Johnson. Somehow they think it’s all right to make animals unhappy, and treat them as curiosities. I remember the vet saying, “I got a real live baby elephant.”’ He’d looked at her, puzzled. ‘In prison, Dr. Johnson. For life. And yet that vet was a kind man.’ He shook his head. ‘Every day you see those animals in their cages—pacing up and down, up and down. For the rest of their lives … You’ve seen it in your zoo, seen it in the Central Park Zoo.’

She would remember protesting, ‘Kindly don’t compare us with Central Park. That zoo’s a disgrace.’

He said quietly: ‘All zoos are, Doctor. Your Bronx Zoo is worse. Because you’re the famous New York Zoological Society, with all the money and all the university degrees. But you’ve got all those tiny cages. Outside in the grounds there are hundreds of acres for people to walk around enjoying themselves looking at the unhappy animals … innocent animals, who’ve committed no crime.’

She had started to interrupt, but he went on quietly.

‘And we look at that miserable animal in its cage and say, ‘Isn’t that interesting—look at the elephant.’ What kind of creature are we, that takes pleasure in another creature’s misery? Even though we like that animal …’

‘That’s not all there is to it. Mr. Jordan. Zoos do a great deal toward conserving animal life—and educating the public.’

For a moment he had looked as if he were going to argue with her, then he just said, kindly, ‘I can’t understand you, Dr. Johnson. You’re a vet. All the good things you can do. Heal animals …’ He looked at her in real puzzlement. ‘You’re a kind person. But you’re really a prison doctor. You’re a doctor who wants to keep his prisoners forever, Dr. Johnson. Not send them home when they’re better—just keep them in prison forever so you can admire them.’

She had been absolutely indignant. ‘Rubbish!’

‘It’s as if you went to Africa and captured all kinds of black people, brought them back here, and stuck them in cages as Montezuma did, so people could go and look at them on Sundays with their children.’

‘Rubbish! There’s no comparison. Animals aren’t people.’

But he’d withdrawn, as if he regretted having let himself be drawn out at all, sorry for having hurt her feelings unnecessarily, because she would never understand.

Later, cooled down, she tried again.

‘But what are you trying to do, Mr. Jordan? I mean—please believe me, I love these animals as much as you do, and I deeply resent your calling me a prison doctor. But what are you trying to achieve? Are you hoping to make such an impression with this extraordinary feat that the whole world is going to be up in arms against zoos and somehow just turn their animals loose in the forests around London and Los Angeles and Tokyo? If so you’re wrong.’

But he was not going to argue about it, because she would never understand. When he spoke it was not in reply, but rather an articulation of a private thought.

‘There is a way of life, a way of thinking, of … behaving toward other men and your fellow creatures … toward all living things … toward the whole earth, and the sky, and the sun … that is based on love. On compassion. On respect. On cherishing everything there is around you, because it’s wonderful. Unique. It’s natural and … good, and it evolved that way all by itself. It’s got to be cherished. And if we think like that, and live that kind of life, we can all have our freedom, we can all have our happiness. … We can all feel the sun, and smell the grass and smell the flowers and look upon each other with … appreciation …’

“That’s the Garden of Eden. It doesn’t exist anymore. Maybe in parts of Africa. But you can’t try to re-create it in the United States of America.’

For the first time he almost argued with her. ‘Not in the richest, the cleverest, the most … inventive … the biggest, the most successful country in the world? Or can man only be successful when he hogs the whole world for himself?’

‘Are you suggesting we revert to a state of nature?’

He said quietly, ‘It’s a state of mind, Dr. Johnson. A state of heart. A state of soul. A state of God, maybe.’

He stood up. The discussion was over.

She would remember that day as a kind of dream.

There was a little grassy glen below the waterfall she had heard last night. Sam was left on guard up on the mountain, while Big Charlie slept beneath a tree, the chimpanzee called Daisy sitting nearby. Most of the other animals were in the forest. Elizabeth glimpsed them through the trees from where she sat, near the waterfall, her body stiff and aching, her nerves tight with frustration and anxiety about the gunmen that must be closing in on them now. Only the big cats were in the open glen, except Mama, the zoo tiger, who crouched near Davey and balefully watched the other big cats. Mama wasn’t going to have anything to do with them. On Davey’s side sat the little chimpanzee. Elizabeth thought it was a pathetic, colorless little animal.

The waterfall cascaded into pools; the sun dappled gold through the treetops, sparkling on the cold clear water, warming the rich earth; and the spring air was crisp and soft and clean.

And Sally wallowed in the gurgling pools.

Wallowed and huffed and sighed, big fat old Sally who had exhausted herself stumbling along at the rear of the troupe of animals, her old heart pounding and her hooves sore and scored. Now she had slept off her exhaustion, lying flat out like a felled ox, and when she woke up she had heaved herself up and waddled down to the stream, and stood there in the misty sunlight, staring at the first running water she had seen in her whole life: real sparkling water, tumbling and swirling through real pools, with real weeds and reeds and mosses. Sally had never seen, nor smelled, all these wonderful, almost frightening things, and she stood on the bank and sniffed and hesitated, showing the whites of her eyes. She knew this place was good, but still she was nervous. Then, finally, she tentatively put one sore hoof into the water. She flinched at the cold, but she wanted the water, cold or not; wanted to plunge her great weary body into the buoyant balm of it, wanted it to soothe and support her. For a long quivering moment old Sally hesitated, then she sort of bunched up her big haunches, and she plunged.

With a resounding splash, and a snort, she thrust her head down, and then she was gone in a flurry of hooves, her fat old body suddenly streamlined, surging like a submarine. Sally swam, the water churning about her, and she no longer felt the cold—just joy, of her body working naturally as a hippopotamus’s body is meant to do; she no longer felt her aches, and her hooves did not hurt anymore. Sally swam underwater, her eyes wide at the rocks about her, her ears filled with the crashing of the waterfall; then she came up to breathe, surging and huffing. The water cascaded down on her black shiny head, and rainbows sparkled about her in the morning sun.

She sank back under the stony bottom of the swirling pool, and pushed by the current, she walked, bumping against the smooth boulders, peering all around, nosing and nudging around the rocks, into dark places, all for the sheer pleasure of it. Then she broke surface with a gush; her ears pricked, her eyes widened and her nostrils dilated; then she turned, and plunged back under and swam into the current again, churning back to the waterfall.

Sitting on the bank, Elizabeth could almost feel, through her frustration and fear, the old hippo’s happiness, almost feel the pleasure of the water surging about her body, the joy of doing what she was meant to do—and in all the beautiful space, with the sunshine and the rainbows and all the green things growing.

And Elizabeth’s face softened, and she smiled.

Davey would not talk about it any more.

He had not said so, but she sensed and saw it: in his apartness; although he sat only a few paces from her; in his privacy; in his absorption in the animals. It was like an unspoken agreement between them that she could stay a while and rest, and even, he hoped, enjoy, provided she did not try to argue with him. He was in his own world.

She wanted to cry out, What about these men following you?—but she just sat, stiffly, trying to bide her time.

She worried for them all, but, after Sally, she worried most about the big cats: the bears could feed themselves, so could the elephants, the gorillas too—but the lions and the tigers could not.

They were grouped together uneasily in the middle of the glen, Sultan sitting disconsolately apart. They were all scared to venture closer to the trees—if there were a cave they would be huddled into it; the only reason they weren’t huddled around Davey was because Mama was glaring them off. Mama was tense, aggressive, clinging catlike to her only security, the man she knew.