Chapter 10 #2
Usually are, the darker leopard replied, folding his paws neatly in front of himself while his gaze followed one of the capuchins overhead.
I didn't bother answering.
For the next hour, I barely spoke.
The grove was a gift. Fruit pulled animals into the area from several directions, and from where the darker leopard had placed me, I had a clear line of sight through a natural opening in the vegetation.
I photographed squirrel monkeys racing through the lower branches, a mother capuchin carrying an infant against her belly, and one spider monkey hanging by its tail long enough for me to catch the exact moment it reached toward a cluster of fruit.
By the time activity finally slowed, I'd taken more than four hundred photographs. I sat back against the fallen trunk and started reviewing them while the darker leopard remained near the roots.
“You did that on purpose,” I told the darker leopard, enlarging one of the capuchin photographs while he rested beside me.
Yes, the darker leopard told me, closing his eyes as though deliberately guiding photographers toward ideal wildlife locations was a perfectly ordinary leopard hobby.
I lowered the camera.
“Do you know where everything in this forest is?” I asked the darker leopard, studying him while afternoon light warmed the gold along his shoulder.
Most things, the darker leopard replied, opening one green-gold eye before letting it close again.
I waited for more.
Nothing came.
“That's not unsettling at all,” I told the darker leopard, returning my attention to the photographs while one of his ears flicked lazily in response.
The amber-eyed leopard took a very different approach to being helpful.
He continued bringing me things.
Lots of things.
Fruit remained the most common, which was useful enough that I didn't complain. He brought me two different kinds before lunch and watched with intense satisfaction while I checked both before adding them to my food supplies.
Flowers appeared twice. The first was a small cluster of bright orange blooms he placed beside my camera bag. The second was white and fragrant, still wet from wherever he'd found it.
A brilliantly colored feather appeared beside my cot when I returned from the blind.
So did another smooth stone.
I kept the feather.
The rock somehow ended up in the side pocket of my field bag too.
I blamed exhaustion.
When the amber-eyed leopard caught me putting it there, his tail lifted so high that I briefly considered taking it back out on principle.
I didn't.
Cat brought nothing I could hold. Instead, he checked everything—the trails, the perimeter around the platform, the blind, and the route to the stream.
If I mentioned wanting to work somewhere the next day, he disappeared in that direction and eventually came back smelling of wet earth and crushed vegetation.
He never explained what he'd been doing, and after the third time, I stopped pretending it was coincidence.
It was in the evening of the second day now and I sat on the platform steps cleaning dust from one of my lenses while Cat lay several feet away.
“You're checking where I go before I go there,” I told Cat, carefully circling the glass with the edge of a clean cloth as I finally said what I'd been thinking all day.
Yes, Cat replied, his front paws crossed while his golden-brown eyes moved briefly toward the trail.
“Why?” I asked Cat, rotating the lens in my hand as the fading light caught along the edge.
Because you go places without knowing what is there, Cat told me, watching with the patient expression of someone explaining an obvious problem.
“That's called exploring,” I informed Cat, setting the cleaned lens beside me and reaching for the cap.
That is what you call it, Cat replied, lowering his chin onto his paws as though he'd won the argument. I studied him for a second.
“You're impossible,” I told Cat, snapping the cap into place with slightly more force than necessary.
You keep coming back, Cat reminded me, closing his eyes while the tip of his tail moved once against the ground.
I paused.
That wasn't fair.
Mostly because I didn't have a particularly good answer. Before I could come up with one, something landed on the platform beside my foot with a wooden clack.
I looked down.
A stick.
Not a small twig. An actual stick, nearly the length of my forearm and almost perfectly straight. The amber-eyed leopard stood at the bottom of the steps looking immensely pleased with himself.
“No,” I told the amber-eyed leopard, staring at the branch before slowly lifting my gaze to his face.
His ears tipped forward.
Why not? the amber-eyed leopard asked me, glancing between me and his offering with genuine confusion.
“Because it's a stick,” I told the amber-eyed leopard, pointing toward it as though the problem should have been self-evident. He stepped closer and nudged it with one paw.
Good stick, the amber-eyed leopard insisted, examining the branch before looking back at me.
“I have access to many sticks,” I replied to the amber-eyed leopard, sweeping one hand toward the rainforest surrounding us. The amber-eyed leopard turned his head and surveyed the trees. For several seconds, he seemed to consider that before looking back down at his offering.
This one is straight, the amber-eyed leopard told me, sounding as though he'd finally identified the critical detail I'd somehow failed to appreciate.
I pressed my lips together and looked toward Cat.
His eyes were closed. His body was moving.
“You're laughing,” I accused Cat, pointing toward him while the amber-eyed leopard continued guarding his rejected branch.
I am resting, Cat told me, opening one golden-brown eye while another silent shake moved through his chest and betrayed him completely.
“You are absolutely laughing,” I told Cat, narrowing my eyes while his whiskers twitched.
The darker leopard appeared at the edge of camp while I was still deciding whether refusing a stick could somehow be considered rude.
He walked directly past the offering without slowing, earning such an offended expression from the amber-eyed leopard that I finally looked back at the branch.
Then at him.
Then at the branch again.
“Fine. The stick can stay,” I told the amber-eyed leopard, picking it up and leaning it against one of the platform supports. The amber-eyed leopard immediately straightened.
Good, the amber-eyed leopard told me, settling beside the steps with the unmistakable satisfaction of someone whose excellent judgment had finally been recognized.
I regretted giving in almost immediately.
Dinner that evening consisted of rice, dried vegetables, tuna, and enough hot sauce to make the packaged meal feel less depressing.
The smell attracted approximately half the insects in the rainforest and one amber-eyed leopard who sat so close to the bottom of the platform that I could feel him watching every forkful.
“You brought me fruit. That doesn't mean we're sharing tuna,” I told the amber-eyed leopard, raising one eyebrow while I guarded the bowl with my free hand.
Why? the amber-eyed leopard asked me, inching his front paws closer as his eyes remained fixed on dinner.
“Because this is my dinner,” I told the amber-eyed leopard, moving the bowl several inches farther away from the edge.
I brought dinner, the amber-eyed leopard reminded me, glancing pointedly toward the fruit he'd delivered earlier.
“You brought snacks,” I corrected the amber-eyed leopard, trying not to smile as his ears tipped backward. Cat lifted his head from where he'd been resting near the steps.
You feed me, Cat told me, apparently deciding to join the argument while his gaze moved toward my bowl.
“You were injured,” I told Cat, pointing my fork toward him in warning.
Not anymore, Cat replied, looking entirely too satisfied with himself as his whiskers shifted slightly.
I lowered the fork slowly.
“That sounds like an argument I don't want to encourage,” I told Cat, narrowing my eyes as I pulled the bowl closer to my chest. The darker leopard lay several feet away with his paws crossed neatly in front of him.
She is learning, the darker leopard told Cat, closing his eyes while the faintest amusement warmed his otherwise calm voice.
I turned toward him.
“You're supposed to be the nice one,” I informed the darker leopard, watching one ear flick without the rest of him moving.
Apparently, alliances were meaningless here.
The second night passed almost embarrassingly well. I checked in with Mara at six, reviewed the best photographs from the day, changed two batteries, backed up the memory cards, and climbed beneath the mosquito net expecting to spend at least twenty minutes listening to the rainforest settle.
I didn't.
Cat took his usual place near the entrance. The darker leopard curled near the rear of the shelter, and the amber-eyed leopard stretched himself near the front with absolutely no consideration for how much space one animal could reasonably occupy.
I was asleep in minutes.
By the third morning, I stopped finding that strange. It was simply what happened now. I woke, worked, and somewhere around camp there were three leopards moving in and out of my day as though we'd been doing this far longer than we actually had.
The darker leopard led me toward places worth photographing. Cat checked routes before I used them. The amber-eyed leopard deposited objects around my shelter as though slowly furnishing it according to a design plan known only to him.
At some point, I realized I'd stopped wondering whether they would come back.
I simply expected them to.
The photography only got better.
I spent most of the third afternoon in the blind after finding fresh tapir tracks along the muddy edge of the clearing. Waiting was usually the least glamorous part of wildlife photography. Hours could disappear into heat, insects, numb legs, and absolutely nothing happening.
That afternoon, the waiting paid off.