Animals We Are

by Valerie Brandy

  And the next thing I know, he’s biting me, ripping my throat out. He says it’s a preventative measure, because he can’t be sure I won’t do the same to him. I beg him not to do it— to put his fangs away— trying to convince him that if we both agreed to trust each other, neither would have to hurt the other. But it’s too late and the rest of the pack runs on and on, leaving me bleeding on the forest floor.

  For a moment, I’m afraid that Mike will hurt the rest of the wolves, but then I realize he won’t, because they’re running behind him— not beside him. It’s the animals next to you that you have to worry about.

  I cover the bite marks on my neck with a paw, and as the bleeding slows, I realize I’m outside a house made from thousands of playing cards. A distorted family unit stands in front of it, holding hands; a Mom, a Dad, and two children— a boy and a girl. Their faces are blurred, but something in my gut recognizes them anyway. I step closer and their features come into focus, confirming their identities. The man is Mike, the woman is me, and the two children are marmots, covered in fur.

  The other Me tries to step forward, but Mike pushes her back— keeping her behind him, always two steps away from an equal footing. The other Me tries, again and again, but each time, Mike pushes her back, never letting her stand next him as an equal. Every time he pushes her back, her rage grows, until she pulls a playing card from the house, running its sharp edge against her hand as the house collapses. She slits Mike’s throat with it, and he crumples, but so does she; she cries, clutching him, shaking with rage.

  Then her hands turn to dust, breaking into pieces, crumbs on a kitchen floor. Mike crumbles too, and the two of them fade into nothingness together, and the last thing I see is the look in her eyes: it tells me everything without saying a word. She never wanted to play this zero-sum game. Destroying him meant destroying herself, but living two steps behind was a slow death anyway. The marmots gather around the weaponized playing card, and I notice it’s the Queen of Hearts.

  They eat it.

  Then I go back to the moment before it happened— before I was hit in the head, before the flames came— when I was listening to the falls.

  The sound of roaring water encompasses me, making me believe in something bigger than myself; something benevolent that situated the falls with intent to give life. I arrive at a realization embodied by divine balance: the water can be reached from every side, because each person matters as much as the other.

  A man comes to one side, and a woman to the other. They each bend down and drink, imbibing the exact same amount, both equally worthy, equally cherished by that divine something, and by each other. I’m too far away to see their faces, but I pray that it’s Mike and me. I want so badly for that to be us.

  My legs carry me towards the couple, but before I can get there, someone hits me in the back of the head.

  I feel that blinding pain again…

  See those blue sneakers…

  And a gentle hand rifling through my jacket pocket…

  … followed by a sound I heard at the time but couldn’t identify.

  But now I know what it is. I’m caught in the spider’s web, somewhere between sleep and waking, unsure of everything, except for the origin of that noise. It’s a sound I’ve heard a thousand times before.

  It’s the sound of papers rustling. Simple, eager, insistent— bursting with news, promising that they have something important to say.

  ***

  It’s morning when I wake up. A veil lifts— my fever has passed. The forest is in focus again, all her parts presenting themselves in sharp relief. The leaves are more saturated; oranges and greens abound. The air is lighter, the day clear and bright. It’s like I’ve taken off a pair of glasses, only to discover I’ve had twenty-twenty vision all along.

  Whatever Sue did to treat the wound on the back of my head, it worked. She saved my life. She really is the world’s best botanist. Across the falls, Sue is asleep, one hand splayed across a rock, like an off-duty super-hero. A few of the miracle leaves she used on my head are scattered near my feet, and I collect them carefully, slipping them into my pack like prized diamonds in case they come in handy later.

  My skin prickles. Now that I’m no longer blanketed by fever, the cold cuts through my limbs life a knife. My jacket crunches as I wrap it around my shoulder, but it feels heavier than normal, and the sensation makes me stop.

  Disjointed images from the attack race through my mind’s eye. A hand in my pocket. A rustling sound. In my dream-world I recognized it as something familiar.

  When the attack happened, I assumed Cassandra was searching my pockets for valuables. But Cassandra isn’t a common thief after a wallet or phone. She’s motivated by obsession. If she didn’t take something out of my pockets, maybe she put something in.

  Fingers trembling, I unbutton the outside pocket on my army-green utility jacket. It’s deep, built with function in mind more than fashion, and at first there’s nothing there. But then my fingers brush against a smooth edge, pulling out a folded piece of paper.

  I don’t open the letter right away, hoping it might crumble if I don’t acknowledge it.

  Then, slowly, carefully, like I’m handling a bomb, I turn crease over crease and smooth the page on a rock. The words are huge— taped together from magazine clippings— forcing me to stand back.

  How unoriginal, I think before reading.

  My eyes widen.

  I know where Mike is.

  9

  Monday

  If you want him,

  Find him fast,

  My giving nature,

  Will not last.

  I’ve left some clues

  To guide you there

  Try to find us

  Truth or dare?

  Thursday is

  the day he’ll die

  Unless you get here—

  Please, do try.

  And now I’ll cut

  right to the point

  (if you’re wrong

  I’ll break his joints)

  Your first clue is a

  President’s name

  Thanks for playing,

  my death-time Game

  Tick. Tock.

  ***

  “Don’t you see? It’s a game. A crazy, homicidal game!”

  My boots crunch over leaves as I pace back and forth, the Hardingers seated on two rocks in front of me, looking like unwilling students enrolled in summer school.

  A collection of items rest on a nearby log, all of which were hiding in the pockets of my utility jacket. In addition to the letter— which I’ve just read to the Hardingers— a search of my trusty coat revealed a compass and a map, neither of which belong to me.

  “She took him! Cassandra took him, and she wants me to find him! She’ll kill him unless I get there by Thursday, which means I only have…” I pause to do the math, and my stomach churns when I realize how much time has passed. “… Four days. I have four days.”

  “Okay…” Sue holds up her hands, her voice tinged with the restrained reason of a therapist walking a patient through a panic attack; nonchalant, hinting at false stakes. “That’s one possibility. But it’s also possible that—”

  “What?” I ask, my heart pounding, hoping Sue isn’t alluding to the dark boxes I’ve stacked in the storage cabinet of my mind, the ones labeled “MIKE’S LIES: Extremely flammable, handle with caution.”

  “That she tried to take him and failed. Maybe her intention was to move Mike to some other location, but he got away, and he’s still out there somewhere…”

  Ken nods, agreeing. “A lot of things that don’t add up here, kiddo. Mike’s not a small guy. What’s the likelihood Cassandra managed to overpower him?”

  I’m about to object, but Sue stops me, adding to Ken’s point, “And even if she did manage to knock him out, how could she have moved him? Unless Cassandra’s a weight lifter, he’s probably twice her size. Have you seen photos of Cassandra? Does she look strong enough to move a
180 pound man over a long distance all on her own?”

  I shrug but don’t answer, because I have seen a picture of Cassandra, and she’s a wisp of a woman; about 5’1”, maybe 105 pounds if we’re being generous.

  The photo wasn’t one I was meant to see. Mike and I had just moved into our new place together, and it was tucked at the bottom of a box filled with Mike’s old memorabilia; a UCSF sweatshirt, a baseball trophy from third grade, and a photo of Cassandra, her arms thrown in the air, the hazy outline of the Golden Gate Bridge visible behind her.

  Her stringy hair clung to her cheeks, her frail arms mimicking the bones of a baby bird. She was tiny, with a carved look about her, as if someone had whittled her out of wood. The feature that mastered her was her smile, so big it took up half her face. Effervescent and easy, Cassandra’s smile offered a stark contrast to the rest of her harsh, angular shape. Her energy was complicated; bubble-gum soft and razor-sharp all at the same time. It was one of the things I imagined us laughing about, if we’d ever become friends.

  “Maybe she used a gun! Maybe—” I pause, trying to think of other scenarios, but none appear.

  “If you do what she wants, you could be playing right into her hands,” Ken says, passing Sue his canteen. “We aren’t even sure she has Mike.”

  “You’re underestimating her!” I tell him, my cheeks flushing. An odd need to stand up for Cassandra, to convince them of her ability, makes me pace again. “Mike’s had to change his entire life to get away from her. She’s capable of more than you think.”

  “That may be true,” Sue answers. “But that’s all the more reason to wait for help. Brock and Logan—”

  “— aren’t coming,” I finish Sue’s sentence for her, and the silence that follows says I’ve pointed out the elephant in the room. He stampedes through the forest with his pants off, trunk held high, spouting purple bubbles into the sky, completely, utterly impossible to ignore.

  “They’re not,” I say, driving the point home. “It’s been twenty-four hours, and Brock told us he’d be back within eight. Something bad happened to them, or they’d be here by now. Even if one of them got into trouble, wouldn’t we have heard from the other?”

  The Hardingers don’t answer. They’ve been thinking the same thing.

  Something rattles inside my chest. It’s my inner wolf, and she’s chewing through the leash I use to keep her at bay. She breaks free from her restraints, her jaws wide, her direction certain. Without another word, I start packing up my bag, filling it with one third of our remaining supplies.

  “Wha— what are you doing?” Ken stutters, his voice colored with fear at my newfound unpredictability.

  I hike the pack onto my back, tying my canteen to the strap.

  “First I’m going to the ranger cache, so I can radio for help. We need helicopters, search parties, as many rangers as we can get, all looking for Mike. Maybe I’ll run into Brock and Logan on the way, but if I don’t, I’m getting to the cache on my own. Then, I’m going to find Mike.”

  “But— ” Sue tries to speak, but I cut her off.

  “It’s not a debate,” I tell her, simply. “I wish you two best of luck, and thank you, again, for helping me with my head.”

  I turn, heading toward our old camp. Twigs snap in my wake, and I don’t have to look behind me to know that the Hardingers have followed me, completely unaware that they’re being led by someone who’s only moving because she’s afraid to stand still.

  ***

  At first the landscape is all rock— boulders and sediment— a futuristic quarry where nothing can grow. My boots struggle to operate on the difficult terrain, but then the rocks are replaced by trees and soil, and the earth is soft again. When we rushed to the waterfall, I was so busy calling for Mike that I barely noticed my surroundings. Even though I’ve seen it all before, the world looks new.

  As we make our way toward camp, we stay on the lookout for signs of smoke, but none appear. With any luck, the fire has run its course and cannibalized itself into nothingness, unable to spread very far due to the way the terrain transitions from forest to rock. Charred branches appear with increasing frequency, their blackened edges lifeless and warped, waiting to be replaced by new growth. The winds have died down, hindering the fire’s spread even further, and I expect that when we get to camp we won’t find any flames. The thought should give me comfort, but I’ve only traded one threat for another; and between Cassandra and the fire, I’d take the fire.

  Goosebumps freckle my skin, and I pull my jacket tighter around my shoulders. The sky darkens, signaling a turn in weather just as Brock predicted. We need to make it to the ranger cache before a sudden downpour.

  Our walk gives us time to re-read Cassandra’s letter, trying to piece together her clue. The Hardingers chime in with theories, either too good-natured or too bored to deny me their assistance just because they disagree with my direction.

  “‘Truth or dare?’ ” Ken asks, scratching his chin. “Think that means anything special?”

  “She’s making me choose,” I answer, confident I understand Cassandra better than either of them. “I either have to dare to find him, or admit the truth…”

  “Which is what?” Sue asks.

  “That Mike belongs with her.”

  Sue shudders, overtly creeped out.

  “What about this, here?” She motions to the letter, singling out a word. “In the word ‘Point’ all the letters are red. It’s the only one with all the same color letters…”

  She’s right, and I re-read that section of the poem.

  “I guess I’ll cut right

  to the point

  (if you’re wrong I’ll break his joints)

  Your next clue is a President’s name

  Thanks for playing

  my death-time Game.”

  “… A President’s name,” I repeat, pulling out the map Cassandra placed in my pocket.

  The map is a comprehensive overview of the park, geared not just toward tourists, but toward the serious mountaineer. Various landmarks are indicated by tiny icons; waterfalls, bridges, scenic overlooks, topographical features, and altitudes are all outlined in impressive detail. I scan the page, looking for anything Presidential, gasping when I find it.

  “Here!” I point at the map, where a camera icon indicates an overlook. “Taft Point.”

  Ken and Sue look over my shoulder, and Ken smiles, forgetting for a moment that this is a puzzle arranged by a homicidal maniac and not a game of Jeopardy.

  “You got it!” he claps me on the shoulder. “President William Howard Taft… If that’s not it, I don’t know what is.”

  My finger traces a path along the curving yellow lines that designate hiking trails from Taft Point to Tenaya Lake, where Brock said the ranger cache was located. There’s no single trail from one point to the other; instead, various yellow lines shoot off in opposite directions, none of them directly connecting the two landmarks in question. To get to Taft Point, I’ll have to cut straight through Yosemite backcountry, and the vast, empty wilderness. My chances of running into the casual hiker just decreased dramatically. It’s a long, isolated journey. I have a sick feeling that Cassandra planned it that way.

  “It’s about twenty miles from the lake to Taft Point,” I say aloud, trying to calculate the amount of time it might take me to make the trek. Based on my past camping experience, I estimate I can hike about three miles per hour with a heavy pack. That’s around six or seven hours to get to Taft Point.

  A strong temptation to head straight to Taft Point washes over me, but if we reach the Ranger Cache, one call on a radio could save Mike’s life. It might be possible to divide and conquer, but the Hardingers don’t have any wilderness experience, and I’m afraid they won’t make it to the cache on their own. Best to split the difference.

  “When we get there, you two can look for the Ranger Cache. I’ll keep heading south while you search the lake. When you find it, radio for help. Tell them where I’m going
. Tell them about Mike, and the letter.”

  The Hardingers don’t argue with me this time.

  Sue’s eyes widen, and her expression changes to that of someone who’s just remembered she left her stove on. “Oh no,” she shakes her head. “I’ve just realized—”

  Sue looks around, waiting for someone to jump in and come to the same conclusion she has. No one does.

  “Does any one of us know what a ranger cache looks like?” Silence. Sue presses on.

  “They must mark it with something. A specific rock, or a stump— something they would recognize, but not so noticeable that hikers might dig it up to borrow supplies. Does anyone know what that thing is?”

  Ken shuffles in place a little, absorbing the problem, growing more uncomfortable as the idea takes root.

  Sue takes the map, estimating the circumference of the lake. “Not to mention, it’s about two, maybe three miles walk around the lake. Did Brock say where they put the cache?”

  Ken and I both shake our heads. Sue’s right; we’re looking for a hide-a-key in a vast, unyielding wilderness.

  “It’s our best bet,” I sigh, shaking off my doubts. “We’re in the middle of nowhere right now. Tenaya Lake gets more foot-traffic. Even if we can’t find the cache, at least if we head toward the lake we’ll be more likely to run into someone who can help us.”

  Ken and Sue nod, encouraged by a confidence I emit but don’t feel. We walk onward, looking up at the sky every so often, checking for signs of rain. I swear the sky sees us, and with each glance, turns her face away.

  The temperature drops, shadows darken, and the sky’s refusal to speak to me promises one thing only:

  Rain.

  ***

  When we reach the remains of our campsite, tiny droplets leak from the clouds above us, plunking onto the bones of our tents. The three of us stand shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the wreckage, taking in the damage.