Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
EVIE
I woke the next morning to something dragging quietly across the wooden platform.
For several seconds, I stayed exactly where I was beneath the mosquito net, trying to decide whether the sound was worth opening my eyes for.
Nothing outside sounded alarmed. Birds were already calling through the canopy, insects buzzed somewhere near the canvas wall, and the forest had settled into the ordinary noise of morning.
Then something scraped across the boards again. I opened one eye and found the amber-eyed leopard backing down the steps with something bright blue hanging from his mouth. My brain took several seconds to identify it before I sat straight up.
“Is that my lens cloth?” I demanded of the amber-eyed leopard, shoving the mosquito net aside while he froze halfway down the steps with the microfiber cloth dangling unmistakably from his teeth.
His amber eyes met mine.
No, the amber-eyed leopard told me around the cloth, remaining perfectly still as though refusing to move somehow strengthened his defense.
I stared at him.
He stared back.
“You are holding it in your mouth,” I told the amber-eyed leopard, swinging my legs over the side of the cot while Cat raised his head from where he'd been lying beneath the edge of the platform.
Found it, the amber-eyed leopard told me, backing down another step and adjusting his grip as if the distinction mattered.
“On my table,” I replied to the amber-eyed leopard, pointing toward the exact spot where I'd left it the night before.
Still found it, the amber-eyed leopard argued, dropping onto the ground and beginning to turn away with his prize.
“Oh, absolutely not,” I told the amber-eyed leopard, grabbing my boots without bothering to tie them as he immediately broke into a run.
I chased him, although not far enough to sacrifice all dignity.
He circled the platform once, bounded over a fallen branch, and stopped twenty feet away when I refused to follow him into a stretch of mud deep enough to swallow the tops of my boots.
The blue cloth still hung from his mouth, and his tail moved in a lazy sweep behind him.
“Give it back,” I told the amber-eyed leopard, planting both hands on my hips while I remained safely on the dry side of the mud.
Come get it, the amber-eyed leopard told me, lowering his head slightly while the bright challenge in his eyes made it obvious he was enjoying himself.
“You are a terrible person,” I informed the amber-eyed leopard, glaring at him across the mud before the last word registered.
Person.
Not animal.
I went still, and apparently I wasn't the only one who noticed. Cat raised his head near the platform, the darker leopard turned toward me from beside one of the rear supports, and even the amber-eyed menace paused for half a second.
Then his eyes brightened.
Person? the amber-eyed leopard asked me, tipping his ears eagerly forward while my lens cloth remained clamped between his teeth.
“You know what I meant. Give it back,” I told the amber-eyed leopard quickly, pointing toward the cloth rather than examining why that particular word had come so naturally.
He dropped it.
Directly into the mud.
I made a noise loud enough to send several birds bursting from a nearby tree while the amber-eyed leopard spun around and fled into the vegetation.
A low, rough huff came from behind me. I turned toward Cat and found him stretched beside the platform with one eye half closed and his whiskers pulled forward. I knew that expression by now.
He was enjoying this.
It was funny, Cat told me, lifting his head when he caught me glaring at him and sounding completely unapologetic.
“He dropped my lens cloth in the mud on purpose,” I told Cat, marching back toward the platform while holding the filthy cloth between two fingers. “I'm allowed to be annoyed.”
You have more, Cat replied, glancing toward the equipment shelf where, unfortunately, several clean cloths were stored inside a waterproof pouch.
“That isn't the point,” I told Cat, stopping at the bottom of the steps and narrowing my eyes at him.
What is the point? Cat asked me, tipping his head slightly while his tail rested across the damp ground.
I opened my mouth, then closed it.
“The point is that he's annoying,” I told Cat at last, climbing the steps while the darker leopard watched the exchange from beside the rear support.
You knew that yesterday, Cat reminded me, lowering his chin onto his paws with maddening satisfaction.
He had me there. The amber-eyed leopard returned before breakfast. He did not bring an apology. He brought another fruit.
I was beginning to suspect this was his solution to most problems.
“Bribery?” I asked the amber-eyed leopard, looking down at the reddish fruit he'd placed beside my boot while he sat in front of me with an expression of complete innocence.
Gift, the amber-eyed leopard corrected me, lifting one paw to groom it as though there were no connection whatsoever between the fruit and the muddy lens cloth.
“You destroyed something of mine fifteen minutes ago,” I reminded the amber-eyed leopard, crouching to inspect the fruit despite myself while his eyes followed my hands.
You have more, the amber-eyed leopard replied, glancing toward Cat before returning his attention to me.
I slowly turned toward Cat.
Cat immediately became very interested in the forest.
“Wonderful. You're coordinating now,” I told both leopards, picking up the fruit while Cat's ears moved suspiciously and the amber-eyed leopard looked far too pleased with himself.
The darker leopard was the only one who seemed unwilling to participate in whatever conspiracy had formed around me.
He sat near the rear support with his paws crossed and watched the entire exchange with the patient expression of someone observing children he had decided not to claim responsibility for.
“You're still my favorite,” I told the darker leopard, pointing toward him before slipping the fruit into my food bag while the amber-eyed leopard made an offended sound beside me.
For now, the darker leopard replied, dipping his head once before closing his eyes again with infuriating calm.
I paused.
“That sounded threateningly confident,” I told the darker leopard, studying him while he answered with nothing more than a lazy flick of one ear.
By the middle of my second day at the field camp, the three of them had somehow become part of the routine.
Cat was always somewhere nearby. Sometimes I found him resting beneath the platform where the shade stayed coolest. Other times he sat near the entrance to the marked trail, facing the forest with the patient attention of something that could apparently spend an hour listening to sounds I didn't even know existed.
Once, I found him nearly thirty yards from camp studying a set of fresh tracks pressed into a muddy patch beside the trail.
I moved closer.
He immediately stepped in front of me.
“What made those?” I asked Cat, leaning sideways in an unsuccessful attempt to see around his much larger body.
Nothing you need to follow, Cat told me, shifting with me so that his shoulder continued blocking the tracks while his attention remained on the trees ahead.
“That wasn't my question,” I told Cat, moving in the opposite direction while he matched me without effort.
It was my answer, Cat replied, planting himself directly between me and whatever had crossed the trail.
I frowned at him.
“You know, being mysterious is significantly less charming when I'm holding a camera,” I told Cat, trying once more to look past him while he remained completely immovable.
Go back to camp, Evie, Cat told me, his voice calm but firmer than usual as one ear angled toward the vegetation behind me.
That finally caught my attention.
“Something dangerous?” I asked Cat, lowering my voice while I glanced toward the thicker growth.
Not if you go back, Cat told me, keeping his golden-brown eyes on the trees instead of looking at me.
I went back.
I wasn't stupid. Curious, yes. Professionally willing to make questionable choices on occasion, certainly. But not stupid.
The darker leopard became my unofficial guide.
He appeared whenever I headed toward the stream and repeatedly redirected me onto routes that turned out to be easier, drier, or less heavily traveled by animals.
He never hurried me. He would simply appear ahead, look toward whichever direction he apparently considered better, and wait with increasing patience until I accepted that he probably knew what he was doing.
In the late afternoon, instead of letting me head directly toward the blind, he turned onto a narrow path I hadn't noticed before.
“Where are we going?” I asked the darker leopard, ducking beneath a low branch while he moved ahead through the vegetation with irritating confidence.
You'll see, the darker leopard told me, glancing back long enough to make certain I was still behind him.
“That is exactly the sort of thing people say before something goes badly,” I informed the darker leopard, adjusting my camera strap as I followed him between two enormous roots.
You came anyway, the darker leopard pointed out, continuing down the narrow path while one green-gold eye flicked back toward me.
“That says more about me than I'd like,” I admitted to the darker leopard, carefully stepping over a root slick with moss. The path eventually opened beside a massive fallen tree overlooking a shallow slope. At first, I didn't understand why he'd brought me there.
Then something rustled overhead. A small group of capuchins moved through the branches on the far side of the clearing. Before I could even lift my camera, movement appeared lower down.
Squirrel monkeys.
Then another shape crossed through the upper canopy.
Spider monkey.
I stared.
The darker leopard settled beside the exposed roots of the fallen tree as though none of this was remotely remarkable.
“You knew they'd be here,” I told the darker leopard, dropping into a crouch while I pulled my camera into position.