Page 25 of Beasts of Mine

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.”