Deborah Jackson

Part I: The Discovery

 

Teresus (king of the Thracians) came to Pandion’s aid and smashed the enemy armies, thus winning a great renown for his glorious victory. Pandion, impressed by his wealth, the number of his retainers, and his glorious ancestry (which he traced back to Mars himself), gave him Procnê as wife. But Juno, patron of wedlock avoided the feast . . . . No Graces attended their marriage. Only the Furies were there, with torches snatched from a tomb.

 

—Ovid, Metamorphoses 6.424-431

 

 

Chapter One

 

Baruti cringed as a gust of polar wind swept through the inadequately insulated helicopter and swirled eddies of crisp, bracing air around his face. He breathed out. Ghostly white. He shivered and leaned subtly toward his companion, another perhaps more sane biologist.

 

Shaun Wilson, a tall ropy fellow with uncannily green eyes and a flop of blond hair reaching nearly to his nose, looked up from his perusal of his GPS, aimed a somewhat wicked smile at him, and crooned through the mic, “A little cold, my friend?”

 

“You call this summer?” Baruti grunted.

 

“Still wavering on spring, but yes, it can feel like the dead of winter. Especially if you’re from Botswana.” He added a sly wink.

 

Baruti suppressed another shiver and slunk even deeper into his thin layer of fleece.

 

“Honestly, I don’t know why a man would leave his perfectly comfortable life studying the wildlife of the Okavango Delta and come here.” His hand swept the view outside the window, the miles of stunted black spruce bordering on vast polygons of vegetation surrounding syrupy brown water. Miles of unchecked bog—lichen and moss the predominant plant life—a good place to sink and disappear. Yet there was something so calm about it. So . . . unmolested.

 

Colors blossomed in the gray dawn. Fringes of sunlight tickled the many ponds, transforming the melting ice into a kaleidoscope of green, yellow, turquoise, even rust. A migrating herd of caribou raised their great antlers as the aircraft sped past, pausing in their search for a spikelet of sedge to crop. Small birds flapped in the air, and one grand creature with a six-foot wingspan hovered off the coast. An eagle, perhaps?

 

“Yes, it does seem odd,” said the pilot, a thickset, black-bearded Canadian of undoubtedly Italian origin. DeLuca was his name. Wilson said he doubled as a geologist, in a rather sneering manner. Wilson liked to sneer, Baruti noted. And joke. And wink.

 

Obviously he took no delight in inorganic substances.

 

“Too dry and dusty at times. Too moleto. Hot. I needed a change.”

 

“One extreme to the other, though, man,” said DeLuca. “Why didn’t you choose something moderate? South of France. Now that would be the ticket.”

 

“And what would I study there?” asked Baruti. “Sunbathers?”

 

“Sun worshipers. In bikinis.” He looked back and winked; the helicopter shimmied and dropped a few sickening yards.

 

Baruti clutched the seat cushion, his heartbeat matching the thumping of the rotors. “Dr. DeLuca . . .”

 

“Tony,” he replied, swerving and swaying the craft back to level. “And no, Baruti. I’m not going to crash us . . . today.”

 

A strong gust of wind begged to differ as it grabbed the craft and shook its threadbare aluminum frame, rattling every loose component and sending the helicopter into a miniature rotation. Tony fought the controls and barely averted a death spiral.

 

Bile filled Baruti’s throat. What had possessed him to pursue . . . no, to take this course of action as a biologist in the extreme north of Canada?

 

Watch your words, even in thought. It’s easy to let thoughts slip into speech.

 

Wouldn’t it have been simpler to follow the demise of the declining populations of ostriches or wildebeest in the Delta? Or even to have resumed his studies of the gorilla in the Congo? And if he must come to this bone-withering, frostbitten land, why not study the woodland fox or the dwindling packs of wolves near the southern border? Why Polar Bear Provincial Park? Why polar bears?

 

It was the only option. Yes, of course, the only option . . . for an insane man on an insane mission.

 

“There,” shouted Wilson, completely oblivious—or at least he seemed that way—to the buffeting wind and the looping path of the helicopter. A bare speck of white loped across the tundra, not particularly intimidating from this height.

 

The helicopter swung around and angled downward. The speck grew substantially, like a snowball accumulating mass as it hurtles down a slope. Longer, wider, heftier, gorilla-sized, and bigger, but without the gorilla’s shy aspect. It looked up and watched the helicopter’s approach with borderline disdain, its lips curled to expose teeth. DeLuca hovered above, but tilted to the left—to the Baruti Mbeki side, of course—while Wilson leaned over and shoved open the door.

 

Wind thrust through the opening—biting, snarling wind that threatened to flash-freeze Baruti’s eyeballs—as DeLuca tipped the helicopter toward the bear.

 

“Are you trying to send me into the beast’s jaws?” asked Baruti. A cowardly question, he knew, but surely the pilot could hold the craft level.

 

“The closer, the better shot,” said Tony. “You’re strapped in, aren’t you?”

 

“Yes,” he replied, eying the thin straps that held him above the now growling specimen a few mere feet below.

 

Wilson fumbled a dart into the tranquilizer gun, trying to aim at the creature’s back from the jittering vehicle, with the gun slung across Baruti’s legs.

 

“Hold still,” he muttered. “I’ve almost got him.”

 

Hold still?

 

DeLuca tipped; Baruti slid; Wilson fired.

 

The bear growled, groaned, and then collapsed. His long glistening snout of sleek cream-colored fur tipped with a black knob of a nose crashed to the arctic tundra. His massive body, weighing likely 1000 pounds—beginning to thin through the summer but still notably rotund—sprayed jets of water as it hit the spongy earth. His monstrous paws, with their equally monstrous claws, fell limply to the side.

 

Wilson retracted the gun and slapped Baruti on the back. “Now we just have to tag him, my friend. The bears are adapting to global warming, their numbers growing steadily, according to the Inuit. We just need to substantiate their claim. Amazing how animals adapt.”

 

“Does that mean I will adjust to this cold?” he shivered out.

 

“Only if you accumulate more blubber,” said Tony, smacking a hand on the inner tube that encircled his belly as he gently set the aircraft on the ground. The ground slurped greedily at the skids, insisting they settle a foot deeper than the surface appeared to be.

 

“Is this location stable enough?” asked Baruti, picturing the bog gobbling up the helicopter just like Skywalker’s unfortunate fighter in the classic film The Empire Strikes Back.

 

“As stable as it’s going to get here,” said DeLuca. “This is a shelf—a raised gravel beach that provides a path through the bog. It’s narrow, but I can see its outline delineated by the black spruce. It’s solid enough or we’d be sinking right now. But be careful of the surrounding mire. A few shelves, many sinks.”

 

“Well, tranquilizer’s a-wastin’,” said Wilson. “Let’s measure, tag, and skedaddle before the brute wakes up.”

 

He kept a firm grasp on his tranquilizer gun as he gingerly stepped from the helicopter. DeLuca snatched a revolver from his backpack and hopped out the other side. He took two steps, rotated on his heel, and beckoned Baruti with a slight jerk of his head.

 

Time to get leswe.

 

Baruti fumbled with the buckle, taking a bit too long, which drew a hooked eyebrow from Wilson. Released, he swung feet first toward the gaping exit, the cold drilling into his exposed face, threatening to expose even more of his inadequacy to the task at hand, or to the greater task.

 

“Wait,” Wilson warned before he could jump down. “Watch where you walk. There are certain pathways through the bog with thick enough moss to support your weight. The rest is, well, bog. Follow my footsteps.”

 

Baruti nodded, jumped from the craft an inch to the right of where the Canadian biologist had landed, and sank, deeply and firmly, into the mud.

 

“Are you serious?” he asked no one in particular, since Wilson was already trotting down the path and DeLuca was circling the helicopter several feet away. When Wilson had said “follow my footsteps” Baruti had assumed this meant “basically,” as in “as close as possible,” not “in the very cradle of each print,” as if they were entering a minefield.

 

Luckily, the skids of the aircraft were still within reach. Baruti clutched the metal appendage and yanked himself loose.

 

“Hurry,” yelled Wilson from beside the mound of polar bear. “If you want to lay a hand on the gorgeous creature before he bites your hand off.”

 

“Fell in the mud,” Baruti tried to explain, then thought better of it since it would make him look even more incompetent, and strode forward on the definitive path of footprints, not deviating a fraction.

 

The sun shot pale beams through the clouds, tracing the outline of the stout geologist and the tall biologist as mere hills beside what could only be described as the Everest of bears. Baruti trudged toward them as they threw their measuring tapes around his girth, tackled his massive paws to get a scraping from his claws, and as Wilson drew blood in ample vials.

 

“Here. Tag his ear,” said Wilson, tossing the glue-on satellite tag over to him.

 

Baruti spent an extra minute admiring, one more stroking the pearl-white fur as the bear lazily drew breath, then another minute to set the tag and tack it to the beast’s fuzzy ear.

 

“Magnificent, isn’t he?” said Wilson, no longer scornful or teasing. Baruti gazed over the expanding and retracting ribcage to meet the biologist’s eyes. The man’s apple-green irises had taken on a gleam, a sparkle that only a biologist could summon as he gazed at the king of species.

 

“I would not like to encounter his teeth or his claws on any occasion when he wasn’t dosed with adequate tranquilizer but, yes, what a remarkable creature. The lion is also remarkable and one to be wary of, but certainly not capable of thriving in this climate.”

 

Wilson met his eyes. “I once visited your country, with all its diverse species, my friend, before the widespread extinction event. I prefer my object of study, but I certainly appreciate yours.”

 

A desperate yearning crept into the biologist’s eyes that Baruti couldn’t fathom. Or maybe he understood it all too well.

 

A soft moan emerged from the bear’s mouth, enough to give Baruti a start, especially while leaning against its foreleg next to the massive snout.

 

“Tranq’s wearing off,” said Wilson, snapping out of his own spell. “Just a few more things . . .” He rustled out tweezers and a swab from his sample case, plucked assorted hairs from the bear’s chest, then forced open its lax jaw and stroked the interior of its cheek with the swab. He collected these samples in standard specimen jars and tucked them securely in a sealed plastic bag.

 

“Do you suspect him of a crime?” Baruti remarked.

 

“Only the crime of not surviving into the next century. I know the species is rebounding, but it’s still endangered, and it wouldn’t take much to tip it near the brink again. I’d like to keep DNA on file, in case we need to reconstruct.”

 

“Fair enough,” Baruti replied. “Although cloning the species won’t restore its habitat.”

 

Wilson’s gaze clashed with Baruti’s again, and he maintained eye contact for an uncomfortably long time. Too long, considering the bear was snorting in air, reviving.

 

“Too true,” he finally muttered. “Well, I think that about covers it, anyway. Give him a kiss and we’re out of here.”

 

Baruti frowned.

 

“Kidding,” Wilson clarified.

 

Would he ever adapt to this man’s bizarre sense of humor?

 

 “A hug will suffice.”

 

That said, he wrapped his rather lengthy arms around a quarter of the bear’s belly and squeezed it tenderly.

 

“I think I’ll skip the hug,” said DeLuca, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and striding toward the path. Wilson shrugged and motioned for Baruti to walk in front of him. No doubt he’d noticed Baruti’s embarrassing exit from the aircraft.

 

“Remember—”

 

“Keep in DeLuca’s tracks. I know.”

 

The plush carpet of lichen and moss squelched beneath his boots as he tramped after the geologist, rapidly catching up to him and hugging his shadow, each footstep conforming to the leading man’s print. He felt immeasurable sadness and immeasurable relief to be leaving the bear behind. He appreciated close encounters with such magnificent creatures, but he also respected their instinctual and sometimes unpredictable nature, and bore the scars of too cavalier an attitude toward leopards, hippos, and even an annoyed ostrich. Lions, not so much. Lions respected him.

 

The bear grunted and sputtered, gradually regaining consciousness. Perhaps DeLuca should pick up the pace. Wilson, the seemingly calm and collected bear specialist was spurring Baruti on by occasionally clipping his heels.

 

Another snort and a canyon-deep growl burst from the bench of moss and gravel where the bear lay slumped. Wilson rotated on his heel, impelling Baruti and DeLuca to turn in unison. The bear was no longer stretched across the tundra completely doped, but was half sprawled, half struggling to get up, as he aimed his bobbing, disoriented head in their direction.

 

DeLuca pivoted back toward the helicopter and proceeded to hop-sprint down the spongy path. Baruti followed in his tracks, or close to his tracks, but his tracks were becoming increasingly haphazard. Then DeLuca’s ended, as he sank into a deep morass. Baruti skidded to a stop, but not quickly enough. His feet slipped off the edge of the flimsy moss path and into the swamp and thick mud that surrounded it.

 

“No!” he yelped, as he struggled and sank. He clawed at the moss, a thick overlay that might offer a lifeline, but the spongy quilt tore and fragmented in his hands. He sank through a cushion of peat until his boots crunched on something solid. The bottom of the quagmire had an oddly brittle quality. It felt as if his boot were clutched in an actual claw.

 

“Give me your hand,” said Wilson, extending his arm, a look of urgency in his eyes. “It’s not very deep, just disgusting and muddy. But our friend is definitely awake, and we need to haul ass.”

 

Baruti reached for and clutched Wilson’s hand, and pulled with equal urgency, but his feet were still clamped in the jaws of some persistent swamp beast.

 

“I’m caught in something at the bottom,” he tried to explain, as his wrenching, tugging effort merely moved him a fraction. Wilson dug his boots into the gravel, venturing only as near to the fragile boundary as he dared, and gave a ferocious yank. Baruti pulled free, or the snag pulled with him, and he tumbled onto the shelf.

 

“Oh crap!” said Wilson, blinking at Baruti’s feet.

 

Baruti twisted around and found that his boots had acquired a most bizarre attachment. A horribly crumpled, mangled, human-shaped mud-creature. He’d broken through what was apparently the ribcage. He could distinguish no features in the misshapen face, but reddish mud-caked hair was clinging to a typical human skull. Obviously not the remains of a polar bear.

 

“Oh,” said DeLuca, from his slogging approach in the bog. “That’s interesting.”

 

He advanced toward the path, but stumbled before he reached it. Fishing in the molasses-like water, he discovered another limb, which was attached to another ribcage, and another skull.

 

“More than one, too.”

 

“Cree?” asked Wilson, casting a backward glance.

 

“Possibly. But I don’t think this is Cree.” He tugged a chain with a circle-shaped pendant from the grip of tissue and gristle near the creature’s skull. He polished it on the least mud-offended sliver of his shirt and unveiled a grayish tint.

 

“Silver, I believe,” he said.

 

Wilson grew pale, and a soul-clutching shiver engulfed his entire body. But he dismissed their discovery in an anxious tone as he helped DeLuca from the bog and practically pushed him toward the helicopter.

 

“Whoever they were and whatever that is, it can wait. We have a polar bear to consider.”

 

A thunderous roar punctuated his remark. The men carefully dashed along the path, angling for the helicopter, but DeLuca still held the chain up to the light in fascination.

 

It didn’t fascinate Baruti, though. Now, if the body had possessed distinctive African features and the chain had glittered with diamonds, he’d have trouble disguising his joy.