by Laurel Kerr
When Magnus had begun writing full time, he’d found himself fighting a constant low thrum of pent-up energy. Eventually, he’d buckled and begun lifting weights, which he detested. He’d always mocked the toonsers who paid good money to work out in sweaty, smelly indoor gyms instead of earning their muscles. And then Magnus had become one of them. But it was either exercise or go absolutely barmy.
As daft as it sounded, Magnus actually looked forward to hauling feed and cleaning out pens again. It would be good to use his muscles for their intended purpose. He just wished it didn’t mean dealing with the zoo’s guests and all the townsfolk.
The streets seemed fairly deserted as he left his B and B. Thankfully, the Primrose, Magnolia & Thistle opened at six thirty. Up ahead, a welcoming glow seeped from a large picture window. Picking up his pace, Magnus could fairly taste the bangers and tattie scone. The fare on the menu was heavier than the food served by a traditional British tea shop, but he was in the States now. He supposed he should be grateful that a Wild West town like Sagebrush Flats even had something approaching a traditional Scottish breakfast. Although the name of it—the Hungry Scotsman Platter—made his hackles rise, he’d order the blasted thing. As long as a breakfast included black pudding and beans, he wouldn’t quibble over what a Yank called it.
Magnus pushed open the door, and a little bell chimed. Two older men with sun-leathered skin and cowboy hats glanced up at his entrance. Their eyes scanned him briefly, taking his measure. Magnus bobbed his head sharply. The men returned the gesture. Their assessment of him complete, they returned their attention to the more important matter of breakfast.
Magnus turned toward the front of the tea shop and froze. Behind the counter stood the blond lass from the Prairie Dog Café. She’d wrapped her long, wheat-colored hair into a comely top knot that drew Magnus’s attention to the graceful lines of her neck. For a minute, he went utterly doolally and imagined planting his lips there. Because of his cursed imagination, he could practically feel her shiver in his arms. Baws, he’d be sporting a fair stauner if he didn’t stop the direction of his thoughts.
The woman smiled, and her green eyes sparkled with an unholy chirpiness, especially given the early hour. Magnus wondered if she’d divined his thoughts. She did look a bit like a fae creature despite her height. One thing was certain. She didn’t look either goosed or hungover—just happy to the point of being mental.
“Hi there, stranger.” She grinned broadly. “Welcome to my tea shop.”
“Fuck me. Thoo bloody own this place?” His dismayed shock had evidently startled the stutter right out of him. He didn’t even block on the P, which generally gave him trouble. He still spoke in his Orcadian accent, using “thoo” instead of “you.” It could confuse Americans, but that was one aspect of his dialect that he’d retained through the years.
To his amazement, the lass’s smile didn’t turn brittle at his crudeness. In fact, it stretched a little farther northward in pure glee. The barmy hen was taking delight in his misery.
“I sure do. Now how can I help you, Magnus?”
He glowered. How the fuck did the lass know his name? She must have read the confusion in his face.
“We don’t get many Scots here in Sagebrush, especially in the winter. When I mentioned your accent, Bowie figured it was you.”
Magnus scowled. Damn it all to hell. And damn the nosy lass too. Was the whole town gossiping about him now?
“So,” June asked, leaning across the tall glass counter, “what can I get you?”
“I’ll be having the Hungry Scotsman P-P-P…” His throat closed up. He couldn’t fight the tightness. He stood there, stuck on the P, helplessly watching the lass’s face. He wondered in those long seconds of horror what her expression would be. Frustrated annoyance like his da? Amusement like his classmates? Pity like the headmistress? Discomfort like the townsfolk? He’d witnessed them all…or so he’d thought.
A light flickered in the lass’s eyes as if she’d just solved a challenging riddle. Then, she stuck her arms akimbo and delivered a look a mum would give to a lad who wanted to quit football just because his team got mullered.
“Now why didn’t you tell me that you were a person who stuttered?” June asked. “I would have understood, honey. Is swearing one of your avoidances? You don’t need to worry around me. Just be yourself. I don’t mind disfluency. And people who do can go straight to the devil.”
Magnus blinked. The woman made his head spin faster than a weathercock in a gale.
“Disfluency?”
“Do you prefer another term?”
Magnus rubbed his head. He couldn’t help it. What he preferred was to be left alone, but it didn’t appear the fae lass would grant him that particular wish.
“What one would you like me to use? My brother, August, is pretty flexible about terminology, but I know some people prefer certain words over others.”
“Thoor brother?” Why the hell was she blethering about her brother?
“He’s a person who stutters,” the lass said. “I did too in elementary school, but I’ve been fluent for years. It’s partially why I speak like a Southerner. My mama’s from Georgia, although I grew up all over the world. That doesn’t mean I use my drawl as an avoidance. It’s how I talk naturally, and the slower cadence gives me more control over my rate of speech.”
The deluge of information pelted Magnus like spray from an arctic wave. The woman could drown a body in random facts. She sounded like a bloody medical pamphlet from the National Health Service.
“So?” the lass asked, with an expectant expression on her face. He simply stared back in confusion. A bloke needed a compass to navigate her speech.
“What term do you prefer instead of disfluency?” she clarified.
“I don’t give a shite,” Magnus said in frustration. Why the hell would he care what she called his damn stutter? He wanted to live free of the bloody thing. Calling it something different would never fix it.
“I’m sensing you don’t like talking about it.”
“Aye, that’s right.” Bloody perceptive of her.
She leaned over the counter and said in quiet seriousness. “Ignoring it won’t make it go away. My brother tried that for years, but August found it was easier if he just told people up front. He’s a JAG officer in the air force now.”
Was she giving him advice on his own stutter? Magnus glowered. For once, the blond heeded his look. She straightened, and the welcoming smile returned. What was it about her pink lips that made him think of snogging when the woman herself was nothing but a constant vexation? She had him in a tangle.
“So,” the lass said conversationally, “what would you like to order?”
Magnus opened his mouth to respond and discovered that he’d lost his appetite. The lass had ruined his ale and now his breakfast. “Fuck me.”
Without giving the hen a chance to react, he turned and left the tea shop. He’d eat at the bloody B and B.
It wasn’t until Magnus was halfway down the street that a realization struck him. He hadn’t stumbled over his words once since the lass had started havering about disfluency. Which never happened. Especially in the company of a stranger. An annoying one at that.
* * *
Magnus arrived at the zoo in a sour mood. Instead of a hearty Scot’s breakfast at the Primrose, Magnolia & Thistle, he’d scarfed down weak tea and overly sweet French toast drowned in maple syrup.
Since it was the middle of the week in January, the zoo was deserted. Magnus felt his shoulder muscles unhunch as he wound his way through the animal enclosures. Finally, peace. Quiet. Solitude. This was why he’d chosen to volunteer during the winter. That, and he didn’t want to haul feed under the desert sun in August.
Gravel crunched under his feet as he followed the directions the owner had given him to the main zoo building. At the sound, a pack of disgrunt
led llamas and two camels picked up their heads. Magnus paused, watching the animals as they chewed their cud.
He’d read about the female camel, Lulubelle, on the zoo’s website. The animal park claimed she’d been lovelorn until she’d met her mate, Hank. All shite, but the public loved it. According to her profile, Lulubelle was pregnant, but even knowing nothing about camels, Magnus would have noticed she was up the duff with her swollen belly and her lumbering, uneven gait as she approached. Glancing between her hind legs, Magnus saw her udder was swollen with milk. Her bairn would be along anytime now.
Magnus scratched Lulubelle’s wooly neck and something inside him seemed to slide back into place like a latch on an old metal gate. He’d missed this, he realized. The simplicity of animal husbandry. He’d never felt nostalgic for his childhood. It had been rough, dreich, and devoid of comfort…and not just because of the drafty crofter’s cottage he’d called home. Yet something about the mix of hay, manure, and animal scent whispered to him. Balanced him. Perhaps this wouldn’t be the hell he’d imagined.
Lulubelle emitted a contented, low, rumbling bray that reminded him of a horse’s. Magnus smiled. “Thoo’re a fine lass, thoo are.” His stutter never troubled him when he spoke to the beasties. When his da was out on the trawler, he used to blether on and on to the cows and the horses. Aye, they’d been his first audience. If it hadn’t been for them listening to his descriptions of his day, he might never have become a writer.
Magnus pulled back to stare into the camel’s soulful eyes. They reminded him keenly of Sorcha’s, one of his da’s highland cows. He hadn’t thought of her in years, but she’d been his favorite. She’d come running up to him whenever he passed the pasture, probably because he’d sneak her treats when his da couldn’t see. In trying to bury the terrible memories of his youth, he’d discarded the good ones too. Giving the camel one last pat goodbye, he made a promise to himself. When he returned to London, he was going to find himself a dog.
Walking around the bend, he spotted a bear lounging on a fairly good facsimile of a rock. Judging by the animal’s contented expression, he wondered if the structure was heated. He paused for a moment, leaning up against the rail to watch the blissful beastie. By the size, girth, and color, he guessed the animal was a grizzly, and he was partial to any bruin after raising two polar bear cubs.
The massive creature shifted. It turned rheumy eyes in Magnus’s direction as it sniffed the air. Magnus grinned at the faint snuffling sounds. The elderly animal was having trouble spotting him, but there was no doubt he’d been scented.
“Good morning,” Magnus said, and the bear snorted in response. “I’m sorry I disturbed your sleep.”
A rumbling sound emerged from the grizzly as it tried to settle back down on its rock. It did not appear to be successful. After shifting for several minutes, the animal clamored to its feet with a beleaguered groan. Shaking its limbs, it began to pad around its enclosure.
“I’ll bring thee a treat if Bowie Wilson will let me,” Magnus promised.
The bear did not appear to be impressed. It shot Magnus what seemed to be an accusing glance as it lumbered back to its rock again. It sank down, this time finding a better spot. With a happy sigh, the bear rested its chin on its massive paws.
“You’re here early.”
Magnus turned to find Bowie Wilson walking up the path. He recognized the zookeeper from his online videos. Magnus had spotted him at the Prairie Dog last night, but he hadn’t wanted to bother with small talk. Unfortunately, he hadn’t planned on the blond menace.
“Aye,” Magnus replied. He could always form that word without hesitation. Through the years, he’d accumulated a library of phrases that saw him through most short interactions.
“I see you’ve met Frida. She’s our grizzly and one of our oldest residents. I imagine you saw Lulubelle, our camel, on your way in. She’s become our unofficial greeter. She’s probably the friendliest animal here—although our capybara, Sylvia, is a sweetheart too.”
Magnus grunted in response. He’d learned people generally liked to hear themselves talk. As long as he gave them some encouragement, they’d carry on and never notice he hadn’t actually uttered a word.
“I thought we’d start with a tour,” Bowie said. “You can get to know the animals, and then we can go over what your volunteer duties will be. You said you don’t mind shoveling manure or lugging around feed.”
“Aye.”
Bowie flashed a broad smile. “That’s great,” he continued. “But don’t worry. This job won’t just be about hauling stuff. This morning, I finally got the call from the Alliance for Polar Life.”
Magnus jerked his head in Bowie’s direction. He’d worked with the Norwegian branch of the APL when he’d rescued the polar bear cubs.
Magnus started to say “bear” but he could sense he was going to block on the B. Quickly, he switched the word. “Cub?”
“Yeah.” Bowie nodded. “Oil exploration near dens up in Alaska scared off a lot of new moms. APL has too many bears that aren’t candidates for rehabilitation. They’re going to send us a female cub who was born late in the season.”
Magnus whistled. In the wild, polar bears gave birth between November and December. Since it was early January, the bairn must be very young. Magnus started to say just that, but he felt his throat muscles tighten as he tried to say “must be,” so instead he got out, “She a…wee cub, aye?”
Bowie luckily didn’t seem to notice Magnus’s hesitation or the slightly incorrect syntax. Instead the man nodded. “She’s about a month old and the APL is struggling to provide round-the-clock care for all the abandoned young.”
Magnus jerked his chin again. The group focused on research and wasn’t staffed as a rescue center. Although they’d given him advice on how to care for the orphans he’d found, they hadn’t had the manpower to care for the cubs. Plus, the oil rig had been too far north to easily extract the cubs. The other roughnecks had initially given Magnus a hard time about being a polar bear mum, but eventually they’d all helped. The weans had become his crew’s mascots until they could be relocated to a zoo.
“The cub’s eyes are open, but she’s still pretty young,” Bowie said. “It’s going to be intense in the beginning.”
Magnus responded with a shrug. He’d taken care of cubs in the middle of the Arctic while working fourteen days straight; he could handle caring for one while doing odd jobs around a small animal park. Hard work didn’t fash him. It would only improve his book.
“We’re not a very big zoo,” Bowie said as he started walking again, “but we are growing. In the last year, we’ve gotten some grants, and we’re starting to build our reputation for providing care for abandoned young and unwanted exotic pets.”
“Aye,” Magnus said. He’d done his research when his editor had ordered him to come here.
“Part of it is because of this sweet girl.”
Magnus looked inside the pen in front of him. A kidney-shaped creature lounged in a heated pool of water. She looked as content as Magnus felt tucked away in a corner of a pub enjoying a good whiskey.
“That’s Sylvia, our capybara, who I was just telling you about. She mothers all of our orphans.”
Intrigued, Magnus stared at the odd-looking animal. He’d read her profile on the zoo’s website. Strange how a member of a wild species—and a rodent, no less—could have a greater natural affinity for nurturing than many a human. Neither of Magnus’s parents had shown any instinct for caring for him, their only offspring. His mum might have been the only one to physically abandon him, but his da had been more interested in keeping their livestock alive than he’d been in raising Magnus.
Magnus pushed abruptly away from the fence. He started moving forward, hoping Bowie would understand that he wanted to press on. He didn’t feel like trying to form words. Luckily, Bowie understood the unspoken signal. They walked in silenc
e until Magnus turned the bend.
The next enclosure looked like an empty ten-foot-deep swimming pool, but with red dirt instead of cement for a bottom. Two separate sheds were erected at opposite ends. Unlike the other pens, this one was relatively barren with only a few balls and other small toys.
“This is the home of our two resident honey badgers,” Bowie said. “They make the goats look personable, but we love Honey and Fluffy all the same.”
Magnus looked at Bowie questioningly. Orkney did not have badgers, but mainland Scotland did. He’d never heard them referred to as honey badgers, though.
“They’re from Africa,” Bowie explained, “and they’re more closely related to weasels than the badgers you have back in Britain. They’ve got similar coloration to the true badger but are meaner. They kill cobras…for fun. Snake venom doesn’t kill them, it just temporarily knocks them out. They’re smart and extremely devious.”
Now that would make good fodder for his book. Magnus leaned over the fence as he tried to peer into the shelter. He still couldn’t get a glimpse of the beasties.
“Fluffy and Honey are nocturnal,” Bowie said, “but don’t worry. You’ll get a look at them. Honey-badger wrangling will be a big part of your job…and cleaning up their messes. They escape at least once a week.”
“From there?” Magnus asked in surprise, jerking his thumb toward the sheer concrete walls.
Bowie nodded glumly. “Yep. They’re smart. Too smart. I thought if I found a mate for Fluffy—that’s our male—he might settle down. Now, I’ve got two of them running around, and Fluffy is ornerier than ever. Honey is always pestering him, and I think he blames me.”
