She moved along the path, breathing in the pure air. Arrow was
still far ahead, darting in and out of sight. After scanning the sky, she
decided there was enough light left to stay a little longer. She turned up the
mountain, weaving between giant manzanitas, stopping to stroke the smooth
burgundy skin of a twisted trunk. Her small, muscular body climbed the steep
incline without much effort. She knew that the dog would find her. As she moved
up into a treed cleft, she felt her strong calf muscles flexing inside her blue
jeans. She reached the plateau and paused. This was a favorite place. Light
slanted through the grove of trees in pale silver bars. She could hear Arrow
crashing through the brush. A gray squirrel sprinted, levitating to the top of
a pine, while the dog flew in quivering pursuit. They sang to each other;
Arrow’s yelping and the squirrel’s raucous scolding reached a pitch so frantic
that she laughed out loud. After a few minutes, the dog lost interest and began
nosing the ground.
The
circle of oaks was perfectly placed, as if by a landscape architect. She sat
down, her back against a tree. The deep quiet and fading light lulled her.
Arrow lay nearby in his nest of leaves, taking her in with quiet dog calm. The
air was still and cool. Finally, knowing her time here was up, she stood and
zipped her sweatshirt, then bent over to tie the undone lace of her boot.
It
hit her from behind. The powerful force of its streamlined body knocked the
wind out of her, ramming her face hard into the ground. Her knee shattered in
pain; she scrambled on all fours like a crab. Arrow was barking and whimpering.
Turning her head in panic, she caught a flash of tawny fur. She screamed as the
cat lunged again, its claws slicing, cleaving into the skin of her lower back,
while its teeth simultaneously hooked the fanny pack strap and one belt loop of
her jeans.
The
lion bounded through the oak circle in a graceful lope, then paused and raised
his head. Clare dangled in mid-air, limp and unconscious. Engulfed in the
lavender glow of twilight, he moved slowly up the mountain.
The
lion patiently made his way up through the steep cliffs. Night had fallen;
above him arced a filigree of stars and an almost-full moon. Sometimes in his
exhaustion he dragged her over brush and boulders. The top of the mountain was
in sight, but the closer he was to the ledge, the weaker he became. It was
midnight by the time he dropped her into his lair. He struggled, loosening the
fanny pack strap and belt from his teeth. He didn’t bother to inspect the
motionless prey. His legs crumpled under him, and he surrendered to sleep.
Clare woke at first light, wondering if she had died. The
landscape was eerily unfamiliar. She lay on a rock ledge that jutted out over a
small canyon. Above her was an overhanging stone that seemed like the opening
of a cave but only provided a small shallow shelter. The lion was nowhere in
sight. She could not move. She had never known such extreme pain. Even in
childbirth there were moments of reprieve. This was a tight, hot cocoon of
constant pain. Besides the crushed knee and clawed back, she was covered with
wounds, scratches, bruises and welts. Her clothes were torn, her hair tangled.
She wore only one hiking boot. Infection bloomed pinkly in her body, and the
oncoming fever made her eyes sting.
She
heard a distant rustling across the canyon, then saw the lion weaving his way
back to the ledge. She felt her bladder let go, and a stream of tears slid down
her face, landing in soft puffs of dirt. Her heart pounded inside her small
chest. She could not slow down her breathing. She managed to move herself,
curling inward to protect the soft inner part of her body, even though she knew
she was going to die. Instinct and adrenaline running deep in her brain bent
her into a
womblike position, waiting.
The lion moved towards the ledge, lingering at a stream. He
paused, enjoying the sun on his back. More and more, his old bones needed warmth. He drank the clear,
cold water and stretched.
~Melinda
