Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
EVIE
I returned the next day.
Then the day after that. By the fourth afternoon, pretending the visits were purely medical had become a little embarrassing.
His injuries did need checking, but they were healing remarkably well. The swelling around his leg had gone down, the long wound across his side was closing cleanly, and he could walk without the same obvious discomfort I'd seen during our first meeting.
I still brought medical supplies.
I also brought food.
Convincing the station cook to give me raw chicken had required claiming I wanted it for a trail-camera bait station. I wasn't particularly proud of the lie, but I figured photographing the leopard eventually would make it at least partially true.
The first time I arrived with the container, his nose lifted before I had even crossed the creek.
Food, the leopard observed, pushing himself upright beneath the roots while his eyes settled immediately on the container in my hand.
“Try not to sound too excited,” I told him, setting my pack on the ground before opening the lid. “You're destroying the whole mysterious-predator thing you've got going on.”
I was not aware I had a mysterious-predator thing, the leopard replied, although his attention didn't leave the raw chicken.
“You live alone in a hidden section of rainforest and refuse to tell me anything about yourself,” I told him, placing several pieces on a broad clean leaf within reach. “That's practically the definition of mysterious.”
The leopard leaned toward the food.
Perhaps you ask too many questions, the leopard replied before taking the first piece of chicken.
“Maybe you give terrible answers,” I told him, sitting several feet away and pulling my own lunch from my bag.
The corner of his mouth didn't move.
His whiskers did.
I had learned enough by then to recognize the reaction.
“You're laughing at me again,” I accused the leopard, pointing one piece of my sandwich toward him.
Eat your food, Evie, the leopard replied, continuing with his chicken as though he hadn't heard me.
I narrowed my eyes.
He ignored that too.
Somewhere during those visits, sitting beside the creek became one of my favorite parts of the day.
I worked every morning, following survey routes and photographing whatever I found.
The new ability made wildlife photography simultaneously easier and far more complicated.
Birds sometimes told me when something interesting was nearby, while other animals loudly announced my presence before I could get close enough for a photograph.
Apparently, being able to understand nature didn't mean nature intended to cooperate.
After lunch, though, I usually found myself turning toward the creek. The leopard was always waiting somewhere near the exposed roots.
Sometimes he slept.
Sometimes he watched the forest.
Sometimes his head lifted before I was even close enough to see him, and I began to suspect he could smell me coming from much farther away than I wanted to think about.
He asked very few questions about me, but he remembered almost everything I said. I discovered that after complaining about the station generator one afternoon.
“Dolores nearly died again this morning,” I told the leopard, leaning back against a smooth root while sorting through photographs on my camera. “Mara kicked her twice before she finally started.”
The leopard rested several feet away, one paw stretched in front of him.
Dolores is the generator, the leopard replied, opening one eye as though confirming a detail from an earlier conversation.
I lowered the camera.
“You remembered that?” I asked him, surprised enough that my fingers stilled around the controls.
You talk about the machine often, the leopard answered, his ear flicking when an insect landed too close.
“I mentioned Dolores once,” I told him, thinking back over the previous few days.
You also complained yesterday that the shower became cold because Dolores stopped working, the leopard pointed out, closing his eye again as though the subject required no further discussion.
I stared at him.
“You listen to everything I say, don't you?” I asked the leopard, feeling something unexpectedly soft settle in my chest.
One golden eye opened.
You say many things, the leopard replied, completely avoiding the question.
I smiled.
“That's not a denial,” I told him, returning my attention to my camera.
He didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
A day later, I realized something else.
“You know my name,” I told the leopard, sitting cross-legged near the edge of the creek while a warm afternoon breeze moved through the ferns. “I don't know yours.”
His head lifted from his paws.
You do not need my name, the leopard replied, regarding me calmly.
“That sounds suspicious,” I told him, lowering the camera into my lap. “Everyone has a name.”
Animals do not use them as humans do, the leopard explained, his tail making a lazy movement behind him.
“Fine,” I told him, narrowing my eyes while pretending to consider the issue. “Then I'll choose one.”
His ears moved forward.
I smiled.
“Cat,” I announced to the leopard, watching for his reaction.
Both ears flattened. The response was immediate enough that I laughed.
No, the leopard replied, his voice carrying an unmistakable warning despite the fact that I could see amusement lingering in his eyes.
“Oh, you don't like Cat?” I asked him, trying and failing to keep my expression innocent.
I am not a house cat, the leopard answered, lifting his head higher as though deeply offended by the comparison.
“I noticed,” I told him, letting my gaze travel deliberately over the size of his paws. “You're slightly larger.”
The leopard made a low irritated sound. From somewhere overhead, the scarlet macaw burst into noisy laughter.
That settled it.
I called him Cat whenever I wanted to annoy him after that.
I never used it when things were serious. He never told me to stop more than twice. By the end of the week, the urge to photograph him had become almost impossible to ignore.
I hadn't done it yet.
That surprised even me.
Normally, encountering a leopard at this distance would have had my camera in my hands immediately, but our first meeting had been different. He'd been injured and vulnerable. Taking photographs while he could barely stand had felt wrong, particularly once I realized he could understand me.
Now the cut along his side had nearly closed.
Late-afternoon light filtered through the canopy and fell across his coat in warm broken patches, catching individual rosettes along his shoulders.
My fingers practically itched toward the camera resting beside me.
The leopard noticed.
Of course he did.
You keep looking at that, the leopard observed, his gaze shifting toward the camera near my thigh.
I glanced down.
“I was wondering if you'd let me photograph you,” I admitted to the leopard, resting one hand over the camera without lifting it. “I won't if you don't want me to.”
His attention moved from the equipment back to my face.
Why? the leopard asked, turning his head slightly while sunlight caught the gold around his eyes.
“Because you're beautiful,” I answered without thinking.
Silence followed.
I realized what I'd said approximately half a second too late.
Heat moved into my cheeks.
“I mean, photographically,” I clarified to the leopard, picking up the camera mostly so I had something to do with my hands. “Your coat looks good in this light, and the contrast with the ferns is beautiful. You would make an incredible subject.”
The leopard's whiskers shifted.
You said I was beautiful, the leopard replied, and the quiet amusement in his voice made the warmth in my face considerably worse.
“Yes, well, enjoy the compliment,” I told him, adjusting one of my settings while avoiding direct eye contact. “I'm not repeating it.”
You may take your photographs, the leopard answered, settling his head across his front paws again with an air of complete satisfaction.
I looked at him over the camera.
“Thank you,” I told the leopard, unable to stop my smile despite being annoyed that he'd somehow won that exchange.
I lifted the camera.
Everything else disappeared.
It always did.
The first photograph was good, but the angle wasn't quite right. I shifted several inches to the left and lowered myself closer to the ground.
The leopard watched me.
I adjusted the aperture.
Waited.
A breeze moved several leaves overhead, changing the light across his face.
I took another photograph.
Then another.
His head turned toward the sound of something moving beside the creek.
Click.
His ears shifted.
Click.
Then those golden eyes returned to me and looked directly through the lens.
I pressed the shutter.
The instant the image appeared on the back screen, I knew.
There it was.
The photograph.
Not because he was a leopard. Not because the lighting happened to be perfect. There was something in his expression I couldn't explain.
Calm. Intelligent. Focused.
Almost as though he were the one studying me.
I lowered the camera slightly.
The leopard hadn't moved.
You are different when you do that, the leopard said, his voice quieter than it had been a few moments earlier.
I let the camera settle into my lap.
“Different how?” I asked him, glancing toward his face while my thumb rested against the edge of the screen.
The leopard seemed to consider his answer.
You forget everything else, the leopard replied, watching me with that same unnerving attention. You stop worrying.
I looked down at the photograph and my chest tightened slightly.
Most people didn't notice that. They noticed how excited I became about animals or how much time I spent working. They joked about me forgetting meals or disappearing behind a camera.
But he had noticed the reason underneath it.
“Yeah,” I told the leopard softly, running my thumb along the camera body. “I think that's why I love it.”
He didn't make a joke. He didn't ask another question. He simply stayed beside me while I reviewed the photographs. That was becoming another thing I liked about him.