2020-08-20 - The Huntsman

There is peace in the woods. Trees do their thing regardless of what humanity gets up to; they grow. Each year they add another ring to their bulk and spend a long summer swaying gently on the wind, reaching for the sun when it is out and watching the seasons change. Sometimes, mist creeps across the ground, obscuring the undergrowth and turning the forest into a dreamscape of silver and blue hues. Pine and fir make up the main population although the larches are encroaching, and if you ask the occasional hemlock, those maples should saunter up north, back home to Canada. You'd have to listen very careful to hear that answer, though, because as any woodsman might tell you, coniferous forests are quiet. This is the kind of quiet that permeates not just nature but everything in it; the kind of silence with a low rustle and background noise of tree branches bending to the win that can drive a city man to tears in a matter of hours unless he's got enough cell battery left to tune into some nearby radio station. To someone who is not afraid of the woods, it is balm for the soul.

One should never get too comfortable in these woods. But there is such a thing as knowing your enemy, and thus, having a fairly good idea of when it is indeed safe to relax one's guard a little.

The ducks are quiet too. They sit on the river bank like so many feathery, rather large flowers, sunning themselves while the summer lasts. The Chehalis has its white-water stretches but this bend is deep and quiet and that special shade of blue-green particular to a reasonably fast moving river that transports large amounts of glacial waters towards the sea.

Man leaves his footprint wherever he goes. Even in the wilderness does one come across that sadly not very rare evidence of someone human having come through; a discarded Starbucks cup or a plastic bag discarded out a car window or from a tourist's rented canoe, carried away on the breeze, eventually coming to rest somewhere downriver. They're usually small things, though. The cardboard box that catches the eye of August Roen now is larger; it sports the smiling Amazon swish and is still taped shut.

The ducks are quiet because the ducks are looking at the box. Any moment now, they're either going to decide that the box is just so much part of the background scenery and ignore it, or the flock will take off in a collective squawk of panic. Because ducks, while tasty, are not very clever birds.

August has, indeed, needed some of that balm. Every time someone asks about him and Eleanor, even in a well-meaning fashion, it's like nails on a chalkboard. He can't do his usual level of physical work, and yet it's their busiest time of the year, which is driving him insane. (Not that anyone wants to have him out for an appointment; thank God for Cy and the lack of other tree work options, otherwise this thing with supposedly breaking up with Eleanor would have killed the business.)

That leaves a walk in the wilderness. No problem, he likes doing that, has made a living out of it. He's in his heavy hiking boots, denim jeans, and a black hoodie (ticks are a thing) over a plain, dark-red tee. He's got a small hiking pack with him, minimally filled (knife, compass, water, trail mix, beef jerky, map). Never go for a hike with nothing--that's the rule.

The Chehalis is a lovely river, offering a convergence of biomes to explore. The forest around him, the coast to the west, the surge plain under his feet. Unfortunately included in these is the most annoying biome, 'human encroachment'.

He eyes the ducks, smiles a little. He has ducks of his own, so their bewildered examination of the box is familiar. "Leave that alone, guys," he murmurs, heading towards it, knowing his intrusion will send them away. "It's not gonna be any good for you."

One duck eyes the man suspiciously; he is a beautiful mallard with a rather high opinion of himself but ultimately decides to surrender the scene, hopping into the shallow water and paddling away with the air of a suburban housewife who is not mad, but disappointed that she had to yell at your manager about you. The mallard has never heard of Eleanor but somehow, he manages to have that air of someone who would absolutely scoff about breaking a poor woman's heart too. Ducks are, on the whole, birds whom nature saw fit to equip with rather comical but also very judgemental little faces.

Other ducks follow suit. A few remain on the bank because they were napping and they have seen enough canoe-ing tourists to just assume that the hiker is just another one of those. He's not even carrying a plastic bag -- the otherwise obvious indicator that there might be a reason to get up and beg for bread. Most tourists are unaware that bread is in fact not very good food for ducks. The ducks aren't planning to change this status quo. Determined to continue their naps they ignore the man.

The bright smile-y swish of the Amazon logo is accentuated by a strip of white paper behind plastic; an address, no doubt, and probably a declaration of contents. It's been torn open at some point but taped back together as the box was repurposed -- one must assume, because while it has about the size you'd expect from a shipment of goods or perhaps a plasma TV, it is moving slightly.

Ripping through the brown tape is little effort, particularly not with the aid of a good hunting knife. Inside of the box, slightly soggy at the bottom from sitting on the river bank, are three blue-eyed, stumpy-tailed kittens. They are far too young to be here on their own -- inasmuch as any animal should ever be in a sealed-shut box in the first place.

August just smiles at the ducks. Their judgment--and the harsher, more painful judgment of Chinese geese--is something he's quite used to. More importantly, unlike people, they're not potential customers or clients whom he can't afford to burn bridges with. (Not that this has stopped him lately, because he's marrying that woman, and anyone who thinks otherwise can meet him on the bridge he's tossing gas all over. They can even bring their own matches.)

He walks to the box, gently shooing the ducks away as he goes, pausing when it...moves. Hm. So something's stuck in there. A duck, maybe? A rat, or a nutria? (Just what he needs--a big ol' nutria bite.) So he's careful as he cuts the tape, ready to hop back at a moment's notice. But it's just kittens.

He sighs. This is something else he's used to: unwanted litters dumped on Park land. How many animals has he rescued from trailheads and roadsides? (Way too many. Sometimes too late.) His mouth flattens, and he eyes their current abode. The bottom of the box is probably not going to hold up, wet as it is. "Alright, kids, let's see if we can get you to the shelter." He can probably manage a sling to carry them in with the canvas bag in his pack, so he digs it out. It's not much more than a shopping bag, but they're not old enough to slice through it just yet, and the slippery nature of the canvas should make it harder to climb out of if there are objections.

...he pulls on his leather work gloves, which he is never without, just in case. Cute and fuzzy does not preclude rage and teeth.

Gathering up three little mackerel tabbies that whine and squirm proves to be no challenge at all; one of the little guys swats a little at the man's hand, half-heartedly resisting and then changing its mind and purring. These are very obviously not feral kittens. They may not know August Roen but they know human touch and they do not associate it with danger; the sound of his breathing and his heart beating offer them a very obvious sense of relief -- somebody is here. It's not mum but it's one of those big warm things that are friends. One of them tries to suck on a finger which is entirely too large to fit into its tiny mouth and covered in leather besides. Mew is the word of the day -- the kittens are cold and hungry and they want their mum, or any other warm substitute. Mew! Mew!

A glance at the shipping papers still attached to the box -- honestly, how stupid can a man be, leaving that on when dumping something? -- reveals a name and an address; a Mr Samuel Thompson, of a small street in the Sycamore part of town ordered this box from Amazon. One must presume that when he did so, the box did indeed not contain three abandoned kittens.

"Well at least you don't think I'm your mortal enemy," August murmurs as he tucks each kitten into the canvas sack. Would Eleanor mind a cat? He can probably teach it to leave the geese and chickens and ducks alone. (Or the birds can teach it--either way.) He loops the sack over his shoulder, which keeps them against his side. Though it's summer and thus not terribly cold out, it should still offer some extra warmth and closeness which they might prefer.

He examines the packing slip, pulls it out and stuffs it into his pocket. He eyes the box, but opts to forgo a read of it. What's he going to see, some dickhead packing a litter of kittens into a box? (Anyways, he's already gotten his ass kicked twice inside a week. He needs a rest.) He does collect it and fold it up, though, so he can toss it into the trash on his way back to his car at the parking lot. Another quick scan of the area to check for signs of Mr. Samuel Thompson, Abandoner of Kittens and Litterer of National Parks, and he's headed back towards his car.

The woods are quiet. Barring the occasional questioning mew? from the sack and the occasional quack from the ducks on the riverbank everything seems quite tranquil. The river makes the noise a river makes, water licking against stones, wearing them down over a thousand times a thousand years, each little stone slowly travelling towards the ocean and whatever it hopes to find there. It's so peaceful out here. Soothing. Natural.

And then there is something, indeed, under that small fir that isn't quite a tree yet. Unseen as of yet, but not unfelt; a rustle, something pawing at the pine needles on the ground, watching. The sort of sensation a man accustomed ot the deep woods might have when realising that he is about to turn around and find himself face to face with one of nature's large predators. A wrongness that is human instinct attuned to the wilds.

It's a cat.

Not a kitten, this one. A skinny black cat with burning yellow-green eyes. Staring right at the man, and for a moment, she seems a hundred times larger, as if she may be a small thing but her shadow is that of a very large, very ancient great hunting cat, long extinct on this continent.

It's definitely not an ordinary cat.

August pulls up short. He's not run into too many creatures from Over There to immediately assume this is one. Feral cats are a problem for the wilderness; mankind didn't do anyone any favors by domesticating them and then unleashing them upon the world, except himself. He's seen plenty of them, often felt a pang of remorse for how careless humanity is with its wild spaces.

Yet there's something more, here. The eyes, the sensation the cat gives off, the way it's watching him. Feral cats, of course, often know people = food, especially in wilderness areas with trails or anywhere people might be found regularly. This is different, though; he knows it in the marrow of his bones. Those eyes aren't hopeful for a handout. Maybe for a hand, but not a handout.

He sets a hand on the bundle in canvas at his side, more to reassure himself than anything else, but also to muffle any noise they might make. He waits, watching the cat, not quite looking it in the eye.

A black tail swishes, angrily.

Grumpy cat is not nearly as adorable as its internet phenomenon namesake. This grumpy cat is staring intently at the man with eyes that are far too intense for any ordinary cat to have. Whatever religious newsletter one subscribes to, whatever story telling tradition one originates from, whatever culture -- this one's potentially bad news. An angry cath sith? A witch's familiar? A ghostly harbinger? Or if one wants to jump into the trench of positive thinking, a lucky ship's cat that brings misfortune to pirates?

For a while there is silence as the two evaluate each other and reach their respective conclusions.

They're not here.

The voice is whispery like the dark velvet of a cat's fur; it slips in through the window of the mind like a stray that's spotted half a pizza lying abandoned on a kitchen counter. It is a quiet voice, but somehow, it manages to convey the presence of a much larger feline -- or whatever it is that's currently trying to pass for feline here.

Go find the human tom. I have a message for your people.

August watches the cat watching him. Does he hold the kittens a little more defensively, in case he has to do something and run? Maybe. But all it does is stare, so all he does is stare. Not locking eyes; no attempt at asserting dominance here.

He blinks, slow and deliberate, at the voice. "The one who abandoned them," he says, not quite a question and not quite a confirmation. "Who's not here?" He doesn't dare look away, so can only use his peripheral vision to scan around for anything obviously missing.

If cats could scoff, that definitely would be a first-class scoff; the scoff of something that does not consider the notion of needing to prove its dominance because obviously the human is just human. In this regard, whatever the creature actually is, it manages a quite convincing feline impersonation.

A life for a life. What is it you humans say? Do unto others...

The ducks on the riverbank quack and scuffle in the reeds as if disturbed by something; a fox slinking past in the undergrowth nearby, perhaps. A sound which manages to be simultaneously perfectly normal and appropriate for the location, and yet leave someone experienced with How Stuff Works with a sensation that it was meant to be a distraction; there is a sudden noise, the hero turns his head to look -- and when he looks back, the villain is gone. Hollywood is happy to demonstrate how this trope works.

Comforting to know that the not-a-cat's control of this moment is not perfect? Terrifying that control of the moment is even a thing?

The spatial awareness of a man accustomed to moving silently through the wilds, feeling the forest against his feet and the wind against his cheeks, reveals change. The majority of the duck collective abandoned the riverbank in favour of the safety of glacial waters when the human approached the box that was the object of their interest, lead by the judgemental mallard. They are not in the water now; snoozing on the shore as if neither man nor box ever existed, they lie and sit like so many grey and brown and blue-ringed dots among the reeds and on the grass between the rocks. They moved away but now it seems that they did not.

Go on, human. I will not hurt you. You are the message.

Deprived of its chance to make a dramatic exit in narrative context, the black stray turns its back on the man and walks away pointedly. It disappears in between the ferns and the tall grasses with the dignified air of a cat that's thinking 'I meant to do that'.

"Before they do unto you?" August says it on a wry smile, eyes narrowed. He nods his understanding, such as it is; he can only makes educated guess when it comes to an inscrutable creature like this. But isn't that what life in Gray Harbor is all about? Educated guessing?

It takes everything in him to not turn his attention away from the cat at the appointed moment. He knows he's supposed to, and maybe that's why he doesn't. He's too aware, which causes him to hesitate when he needed to act. And so the create turns its back on him (proving cats remain a universal constant) and departs in a less mysterious, more mundane fashion.

He takes in a slow breath, lets it out. "Guess we pay Sam a visit," he says to the warm bundle at his side. He glances down at them. Shop cats would be okay, right?

He'll think about it. (Who's he kidding, it's happening; he's just trying to pretend there was some other outcome.) In the mean time, he resumes the trek back to the car. Sycamore, then the pet store for some formula.

Three little warm bodies are in a warm, dark space leaning against body heat; as far as they are concerned, this is a vast improvement over being in a cold, dark space without body heat. The kittens appear to have settled in their sack -- they are quiet and very likely asleep now that at least part of their immediate concerns have been resolved. Small bodies, small priorities.

Sycamore Street winds its way through the quieter parts of Grey Harbor; not quite glamorous but not low end either, the street off it that seems to be Mr Thompson's home address, is one of those sleepy suburban areas with large lawns, two-carport houses with porches towards the street -- an architectural style that worships a little at the feet of older victoriana, takes a wistful look to warmer climates where Grampa might indeed sit on that porch all day with sweet tea, and then decides that actually, this is almost Cape Cod. The house to which the Amazon box was originally delivered is not unpleasant to look at (unless you happen to be an architectural aesthetic, in which case, shuddering in despair is entirely legit). It is a lived-in house, one that wishes it was just a little nicer, perhaps, but not at all unpleasant. The house of someone with a low-end white-collar job, perhaps, solidly lower middle class.

A white 2019 Mazda Miata Sport -- or, to the less car literate, a pretentious little foreign car -- occupies one carport; the other is empty at this time. A couple of children are playing hopscotch on the sidewalk -- true children of their time, one is looking up how to draw the chalk fields on her cell phone. Everything breathes peace and quiet in the fashion of suburbia.

August makes his way to Sycamore, keeping the snoozing kittens on the passenger seat next to him. It's warm out, meaning he won't be able to leave them in the car, at least not safely. So when he arrives at the little suburban neighborhood, he parks a ways down the street, in the shade. He spends some time studying the house, the children, the area. Who ditches kittens out in the wilderness when they have kids? That's pretty harsh. Or was it a stolen box? Maybe grabbed from the recycling bin?

He eyes that empty car port, thinks back on what the cat said. A life for a life.

Well. One way to find out. He gets out, carefully settles the canvas sack of kittens against himself, and heads down the sidewalk towards the house. His aim is the front door; talking to the kids might spook them, and anyways, if this was a, shall we say, unsanctioned removal of kittens, he's not going to be the one to reveal that. Noooo sir.

The kids on the sidewalk glance at the botanist as he walks past but offer him little attention; they're playing and his is not a familiar face. One little girl complains that she uses her pink chalk stick faster than the blue one and this is bad because the pink is almost as pretty as the purple, and the purple is almost gone. Her companion in turn declares that the yellow is by far the bestest because yellow is the colour of the sun and her favourite candy. Suburbia breathes peace. It's convincing except, well, this is Gray Harbor suburbia so it's probably about to explode.

The door is white and has a window of faux painted glass mosaic depicting love birds. The doorbell plays a chirpy little jingle, the sort of which is entirely too cheerful and bright and happy for Gray Harbor. Any minute now.

A few moments pass. Gray Harbor does not explode. Footfalls resound inside, and the door is opened. A man peers out; some forty-forty-five years of age -- Caucasian, dark haired, slightly chubby, could be anyone's white-collar office wage slave. Nothing ominous or untoward or indeed, unusual about him.

"I gave at the office," says Mr Presumably Thompson.

August tries not to twitch. The perfectness of suburbia is a little weird for him, a guy who lives out in a cabin surrounded by a motley of animals. The statement makes him blink, slowly. 'What the hell does that mean' is plain from the look on his face. "That's, ah, great," he says, trying not to sound awkward. "I'm here because we found some abandoned animals on Park land in a box with your name on it." The use of 'we' is automatic; despite being three years retired, a decade in Forestry makes it natural to slip back into the habit of referring to himself as a part of an organization with authority in what remains of wild spaces.

He raises his eyebrows, inviting an explanation about the box. In the end, he has no authorization to do anything beyond report the guy to Niall, but something about this--the strange cat, mostly--makes him want too look closer.

"A box with my name on it," repeats the presumed kitten dumper, a look of incredulousness slowly spreading over his face; a very ordinary face, somewhat smug, with sort of watery hazel eyes in which there is not the faintest trace of glimmer, shine, song, awareness, whatever one's preferred term for that sort of ability might be. This is a mundane man; one for whom magic is something that happens on TV; telekinesis is Uri Geller bending spoons; and mind reading involves sexy betazeds because he is just old enough to have had a crush on Deanna Troi in Star Trek: TNG re-runs. A man for whom shine is something his car does, and sparkle is for the fourth of July.

Well, it is a nice car. If you're into little Japanese sports cars that probably wouldn't survive an hour off-road through the woods.

"Look," the man starts and straightens up to all the intimidating posture which his pot-bellied office worker physique does in fact not at all possess. "I don't know what your deal is, mister. But unless you got something with my name on or a police badge, you can beat it right now." He gives the woodsman the kind of look that clearly says, and we both know you don't so bugger off -- except that he's American and that would undoubtedly be a far stronger term. The man of the house is officially Unimpressed.

This isn't August's first rodeo, not even one of this nature. He lacks the social aura most Park Rangers have, though; he was the one out there climbing pines in subalpine regions to check for insect damage, or wintering over to keep an eye on a fragile area in the Park, or spending a few months collecting samples. He wasn't then and isn't now a 'people person'. So any time he had to confront a visitor about littering or damage to the park environs, this is how it went. He'd ask 'hey did you X' and they'd fall back on 'you're not the boss of me'. And, fair enough. Except...

"Something, with your, name, on it," he repeats, slow and careful, as he pulls out the packing slip from the Amazon package and holds it up. "Like, this?" He tenses, ready for this guy to try and snag it, equally ready to yank it clear of questing hands. "Look, I'm not here to ban you from the park or fine you or anything like that. The fine and the ban they'd just mail to you. I'm here to save you some money and tell you the shelter is right over there on Spruce and there's zero need to dump things on protected wetlands, especially animals you don't want."

Some people demonstrate grace in defeat; stoicism under fire; some basic level of human decency when caught red-handed with their arm elbow deep in the cookie jar. The kind of people whom park rangers and retail managers and anyone else in some sort of managerial or administrative capacity inevitably have to remind that rules exist and yes, buster, they apply to you too -- they never do seem to possess those qualities, do they?

He tries. He really does. Puffing himself up, maintaining the superior attitude, the smug expression -- but there is the delivery note with his name on being waved in his face. Mr Thompson may think that he has the high ground over this gritty, salt and pepper-haired hillbilly, but it's hard to argue with the fact that he has in fact been caught in something that can lead to an actual fine, and he knows it. "Well," he growls. "What do you want? The wife wouldn't have 'em. Certainly not going to pay to get rid of cats -- I'd be paying more than they're worth!"

Definitely one of those people.

August weathers the man's reaction with the stoicism of someone who's faced much worse and had the therapy needed to control a more natural response, like punching him in the face. He just arches an eyebrow. "So it's about money. Don't want to pay to fix your cat, don't want to pay to re-home the resulting kittens, don't want to pay a fine for dumping them in the wilderness to be eaten by whatever finds them first." He looks askance at the pristine Miata. It's on the tip of his tongue to point out fixing his cat or rehoming the kittens would cost less than one monthly payment on that car. A minimal portion of his mortgage.

But maybe the guy has a kid with an incurable illness. Maybe his wife has a drinking problem. There could be reasons a couple hundred bucks was too much. So he doesn't comment on the financial feasibility. He just sighs. "The shelter has a financial assistance program. They can have the adoptee pay for the pet instead, so you don't have to. Keep it in mind, for next time." Because the chances this guy got his cat spayed are 0.

"Yes, yes. Fine. Will do. Besides, the damn cat ran away." Mr Thompson mutters under his breath in the fashion of a man who does realise that there is no way he's going to come out on top of this -- and who somehow is still going to have convinced himself in a few hours that he showed that guy. At the moment, though, for all his bluster, he knows he's beat. "Bolted right out of the car, ran off down the street. Look, will you just go away? The wife's going to be home soon and she will lose her fucking mind if you're here making trouble about the goddamn cats. There's not going to be another goddamn cat in this house, okay?"

As much as August can't be happy some poor cat is stuck out there hungry and probably decimating the local bird population as a result, he won't blame it for fleeing. Not one bit.

He turns over this new information on his mind. The wife was the one who didn't like the cats. Did she dump them, then, and not Mr. Thompson? He'll freely admit to the bias of assuming it had been this man, name on the package aside.

And therapy or not, calm demeanor or not, August can't help but say, "That's good to hear," about there not being another cat in the house. He even smiles, puts on his best 'Parks and Forestry employee here to help you out' mask. (His was never very good.) "Thanks for your time, Mr. Thompson." He folds the packing slip up and puts it back in his hoodie pocket, then turns to go. "Think about giving a little more next time," he adds over his shoulder.

It's not Mr Thompson's best day. It really isn't.

The embarrassment of a dressing-down by some park ranger; he'll get over that. He will, no doubt, convince himself that it was entirely unwarranted, that he was entirely in the right. He's that sort of man -- a small mind with an inflated sense of self-worth and no real empathy. Not quite intelligent enough to be a sociopath; just a little mind that makes his little corner of the world a little darker. There are a lot of those people around, and dealing with them is why retail workers spend a lot of time looking for other employment. Mr Thompson never manages to keep the services of the man who mows his lawn for long because he can't resist telling Mexican jokes. He pays quite a bit for lawn mowing by now because by god, he's going to have somebody mowing his lawn lest the neighbours notice that he does not, but Mr Sanchez the gardener demands a raise every time Mr Thompson forgets that his name isn't Pancho. It all adds up.

His day is about to get a lot worse, though. As August heads back towards his car in an honestly quite impressive display of not letting some suburbian jackass rile him up, a police car comes around the corner. Two officers emerge, heading up to Mr Thompson's door and ringing the dorbell anew. On the sidewalk, the children stare. Nothing much happens in this street, and police officers coming to see the Thompsons is definitely newsworthy. One girl bets the other that he's robbed a bank.

As it turns out, Mr Thompson did not rob a bank. He is, however, being asked politely to come to the station for a few questions, in that tone that translates to, Please come along sir, or we'll bloody well make you. It's probably quite serious when they ask like that. And probably not about dumped cats.

You can't save everybody (or their cats). These three kittens, at least, are destined for a decent life with regular food (and probably a visit to the vet for spaying and neutering when the time comes, indeed).

Fingering the infamous sheet of paper with Mr Thompson's name and address though; that is a curious experience. It's hardly the first time that August has turned something over in his hands, letting himself perceive its history, the residue of human experience still clinging to it, the threads of fate that connects it to the tapestry of -- well, whatever the Veil actually is, and indeed, what human life is supposed to be. One could get quite religious, speculating about that, or wax philosophical for a very long time.

The thing that leaps to mind immediately here though is that the paper does in fact not exist.

It is there in his hand -- but it is not wood pulp and ink and the combination of symbols to create sounds and patterns in the mind of a man; it is dream stuff, the sort that lingers in the mind just before one wakes up -- a possibility, a half-remembered memory, a thought, an idea.

What if I just drove the damn things out in the woods and got rid of them...

That kind of idea. Probably not a very good idea, as far as ideas go.

August is in the process of getting the kittens (still snoozing in their canvas bag, though no doubt soon to become hungry) into the car when he sees the patrol car on approach. He tries not to be that guy, staring as a dude has cops rolling up to his front door. Tries, fails. But he does manage to get himself into his Outback so his gawking is minimally visible to anyone else.

He runs his fingers over the packing slip, feeling his way through its history. Except, there's no history there. There's nothing there, not really, he (and Thompson?) just thought there was. Or he did, or...

He grimaces, half-suspects it will disappear the next time he thinks to look for it in his pocket. Not that he'd expected to find much more than coroborating evidence the wife was the one who did this.

What had the cat-creature by the river had said? A life for a life.

He watches the cops insist on Mr. Thompson accompanying them, licks his lips. Time to go. He waits until the cops are occupied thoroughly enough that a random car driving off won't draw their attention, and heads for the pet store.