Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
EVIE
By the end of my first week in the rainforest, I was beginning to understand that receiving the ability to communicate with animals had come with one important complication the nature spirit hadn't bothered to mention.
Animals had opinions about absolutely everything.
They cared about the temperature, whether it would rain later, which branches belonged to whom, whose fruit had been stolen, which predators had passed through during the night, and whether the berries on a particular tree were ripe enough to bother fighting over.
They also had opinions about me.
I'd barely made it fifty yards from the research station when a pair of capuchins started discussing the field bag hanging from my shoulder.
She has the bag again, one of the younger capuchins announced from somewhere above me, his voice carrying through the leaves as a narrow branch bounced beneath his weight and scattered droplets from last night's rain.
She always has the bag. Sometimes there is food in it. Sometimes there are those black things she points at everyone, an older capuchin corrected him, leaning around the side of a tree trunk to peer down at me with dark, curious eyes while his tail remained wrapped securely around a higher branch.
I stopped beneath the canopy and glanced at the camera resting against my chest. I'd spent most of my professional life actively searching for wildlife, so there was something deeply strange about becoming interesting enough that the wildlife had started discussing me instead.
“Those black things are cameras,” I explained to the capuchins, keeping my voice quiet as I tipped my face toward them because two researchers were still close enough to the station that being overheard having a coherent conversation with monkeys would create questions I had no intention of answering.
Black things, the younger capuchin repeated stubbornly, scratching underneath his chin with one hand while continuing to inspect the straps and equipment hanging from me.
“Fine, they're black things,” I conceded to the monkey, shaking my head as I adjusted the strap digging into my shoulder and started along the trail again, my boots pressing into the damp ground left behind by last night's rain.
Leaves shifted above me as the younger capuchin followed through the canopy, moving from branch to branch with considerably more grace than I had while navigating the wet roots below.
Do you have food? the capuchin asked hopefully, hanging from a lower branch long enough for his small face to appear between two broad leaves while his attention remained firmly fixed on my bag.
“No, and even if I did have something you'd want, I'm not feeding you,” I told the capuchin, stepping carefully over a slick root while the damp earth compressed beneath my boots and something inside my camera bag bumped lightly against my hip.
That's a lie, a familiar voice called from behind me, the amusement in those three words making it unnecessary to turn around before I knew exactly who had joined us.
The scarlet macaw flew between the trees and landed heavily on a branch beside the trail.
Several droplets shook loose from the leaves with the impact, and one struck my forearm, pleasantly cool against skin already warming in the morning humidity.
“Good morning to you too,” I greeted the macaw, wiping the water against my cargo shorts while he resettled his wings with far too much dignity for a bird who had spent several days insulting me.
You feed the spotted hunter, the macaw pointed out, cocking his head until one dark eye focused directly on me while his claws shifted against the wet bark.
“That was different. He was injured,” I told the macaw, dropping my voice further as faint conversation drifted from the research station behind us and disappeared beneath the constant buzz of insects.
He's not very injured anymore, the macaw replied, fluffing the scarlet feathers across his chest before smoothing one carefully with his beak as though my excuse hardly deserved his full attention.
“He's still healing,” I argued with the bird, although even I knew the excuse was becoming thin as soon as I said it.
The wound along the leopard's side had almost closed, his leg didn't seem to bother him much anymore, and he'd made it clear yesterday that he considered himself perfectly capable of hunting.
At this point, checking on him every afternoon had less to do with whether he still needed me and considerably more to do with the fact that I'd gotten used to seeing him.
I wasn't particularly interested in examining that too closely.
You still bring him food, the macaw observed, sidestepping along the branch while his attention remained fixed on me with enough intensity that I had the uncomfortable feeling of being interrogated by something covered in red feathers.
“I bring him lunch sometimes,” I corrected the bird, continuing down the trail because I refused to stand within sight of the research station defending my relationship with a leopard before I'd even had enough coffee.
The macaw launched himself from the branch and followed above me.
His red wings flashed between breaks in the foliage before he landed farther ahead, forcing me to walk directly beneath him if I wanted to continue along the trail.
Food is important, the macaw informed me, gripping the branch with his claws while his long tail feathers hung beneath him and nearly brushed one of the broad leaves below.
“I'm glad we agree on something,” I told the macaw, stopping long enough to check my camera settings while the changing light beneath the canopy made yesterday's exposure too dark.
Giving food can mean things, the macaw continued, leaning forward slightly as he watched me with enough interest that I slowly lowered the camera again.
“Like keeping an injured animal from reopening his wounds?” I asked the macaw, narrowing my eyes as suspicion began replacing my earlier amusement.
Like showing someone you want them around, the macaw replied, dipping his head to straighten a bright blue feather along his wing as casually as if he hadn't just steered the conversation somewhere completely different.
I frowned up at him, the camera hanging forgotten in my hands while his words settled.
“Are you trying to give me relationship advice now?” I asked the macaw, shifting the camera back against my chest as he stared down at me without the slightest embarrassment.
You need help, the macaw answered without hesitation, his tone carrying so much certainty that my eyebrows rose before I could stop them.
“I absolutely do not,” I told the macaw, narrowing my eyes as I planted one hand against my hip and wondered how my morning had deteriorated into defending my romantic competence to a bird.
You do, the macaw insisted, giving his feathers one satisfied shake before spreading his wings and launching himself into the forest.
“You're incredibly rude,” I called after him, watching a flash of scarlet vanish through the trees as a loud squawk came back from somewhere beyond the leaves.
Soft chattering sounded above me, and when I glanced up, one of the capuchins was still nearby, watching the direction the macaw had disappeared.
Red bird talks too much, the capuchin observed, settling onto his haunches with his tail curled securely around the branch while he picked absentmindedly at a piece of bark.
“Finally, someone around here understands me,” I told the capuchin, smiling as I automatically reached for my camera and shifted my weight into a better position beneath the tree.
The monkey immediately moved behind the trunk until only his tail remained visible, making my smile turn into a quiet laugh as I lowered the camera again.
Apparently, agreeing with me did not mean he wanted his photograph taken.
Three days ago, the rainforest had been filled with sounds. Now every part of it seemed to contain a conversation, and the difference was far greater than I'd expected when the nature spirit first touched my forehead.
Before the blessing, bird calls had blended with insects, rustling leaves, distant water, and movement through the canopy to create the familiar background noise I'd always associated with working in a rainforest. Years of fieldwork had taught me to recognize certain alarm calls and behaviors, but I'd still been observing everything from the outside and making educated guesses about what those sounds meant.
Now I actually understood them.
A bird wasn't simply calling somewhere above me; it was irritated because another bird had moved too close to its nest. The monkeys weren't making random noise from the next tree; they had found fruit and were arguing over who had noticed it first. Something small hidden beneath the undergrowth wasn't rustling leaves for no reason either.
It was complaining because the ground was wet and had somehow decided that was everyone's problem.
It was fascinating, but it was also a lot.
Fortunately, I was slowly learning not to focus on every voice at once. If I concentrated on my footsteps, the pressure of the camera beneath my hands, or whatever animal I was actively searching for, the other conversations faded enough to become part of the background again.
Birds were proving the hardest to ignore because they never seemed to stop talking, although some of what they said was genuinely useful.
Snake near your foot, a small bird warned from somewhere to my right, its sharp voice making me stop before taking another step and shift my attention immediately toward the leaf litter.
I searched the ground and found a narrow body partially concealed beneath one broad leaf several feet ahead. It wasn't close enough to be an immediate threat, but I gave it plenty of space and moved around the opposite side of the trail.