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When on Earth
part 3
by Feech
From Tasmania to Australia, Australia to the
west coast of the United States of America and
from the west coast to the east coast. Egypt,
Massachusetts, Boston, Massachusetts and now,
Pennsylvania. It can be mind-boggling. I don't
know how people do it, sometimes... I have only
travelled to those few areas on the globe and
already I go to my room at night and open the
atlas, pinpointing the place where I stand-- as
near as I can from the maps, anyway.
My comfort with a place only comes when I
know where that place is in relation to everywhere
else-- except on boats. Somehow, looking over the
sides, I know the ocean is as open and honest a
place as one could ever find-- it still amazes me
that creatures live there, and I have been
studying them with a fervor that impresses some of
my teachers... They say that if motivation decided
progress, I would be outstanding in my field. I
am still a little slow, though. I am always
getting sidetracked by _life_. And, of course,
there are others who desire to learn about my
physical self as much as I need to learn about
society.
Some say the ocean is deep and secretive...
In my mind, at least it is present _now_, and that
is more than can be said for the me that was... or
the Tasmanian wolves. They still say they are
dead a hundred years. And still I ache. It is an
ache of confusion, of time. Sometimes in the grey
flickers of images over my vision I recall the
months that passed between my appearance on the
ranch and the discussion with the doctors in
Australia, and I _know_ something is not right.
Something... What it is, I will probably never
know. It is as they have said. I am confused.
Lost my memory. So I do not relate the memories I
have, anymore. But still, _something_ comes to
me. Did I go full-morph in the grasslands? If I
stay here, and do as I am told, does it matter?
What if I have a family somewhere?
I have these thoughts everywhere, and the
images will not be suppressed, as is proven by the
fact that I am distracted from the questions being
put to me right now.
I am sitting in a pleasant room, clean, but
smelling of disinfectant sprays, warm plastic
electrical equipment, and colognes. My chair is
plastic, but accommodates my stiff tail nicely
with a curved opening at the back. Much better
than lecture-hall chairs or waiting-room chairs.
"What do you like to be called, Miss Hannah
Merle?" The groomer asks gently, for the third
time, and this time I turn my large, round eyes to
him and wrinkle my lip in a smile.
"Sorry," I say huskily. "I am distracted...
And I have never... done this before."
"I understand that, all right," says the
groomer, marking something on the file he is
supporting against the panelling of the room. His
own smile is slight, but genuine. In fact I like
the way he smells, despite the shiny smock that
obscures most of his clothing and some of his
natural scent as well. He seems trustworthy. I
decide to pay attention to him and do this right.
After all, I can't make a bad name for my
university while visiting MacLeod.
The graduate student from the University of
Egypt who has been including me in his
presentation on extrapolation of characteristics
of extinct species from known fact has been
invited to present at MacLeod University, and I
came with him. He claims I am the best visual aid
he could have, and should help to maintain
interest in the topic. My supervisors gave
consent, provided I can handle being on stage in a
strange place. I will practice that later, before
the students arrive for the presentation, much as
I sat alone in the church in Boston.
I really am not an entirely accurate
representation of a Thylacine, I think as I
inspect the thin fur on my wrist. But anything to
improve the project, as the student says, and so
here I am to be groomed. I must admit that even I
can see the sense in this. I really do like to
look my best when confronted with so many
unknowns.
"Anne is fine," I reply to Angelo, quietly,
and the groomer nods, evidently writing this name
next to my legal one.
"Anne, then. Nice name. Now, the people
from your university said they wanted you to get
spruced up for a presentation someone is doing.
What would you consider 'spruced up,' Anne?"
I look at him. Red hair, small earrings-- I
never wear that kind of thing myself, but they
fascinate me on other people-- relaxed position as
he waits patiently for my next answer. He wants
to know. What do _I_ consider 'spruced up.' Of
course, it's _my_ groom. I am doing it for the
school, but... "Well, I don't know... Something
to enhance the Thylacine, since I am one on two
legs, mainly..."
He looks at me, now. And something crosses
his scent and his expression, but is gone before I
can truly catch it.
"Anne," he says, businesslike but friendly,
"Why don't we go ahead and get started, and when I
get the basics done and you have taken your
shower, we can decide on any details that might
please you. How's that sound?"
"Okay." I say, getting the slightest of
impressions that he is somehow testing me. I
adjust myself for comfort in the seat and look
down at the old clothes I wore for the
appointment, having been instructed not to wear
anything that might be ruined by hairs and lotions
and such. Really, I am only truly comfortable in
old clothes anyway, I have gotten so used to them.
This is just one of my regular outfits. It's
already been through seawater and chemicals and
whoknowswhatelse. Angelo turns away, setting the
file aside and taking up some metal object that I
cannot quite identify right away, then reaching
over to a black CD player as if this is part of
his daily ritual and turning it on before
returning to me.
"Hope you don't mind music-- if it bothers
you, we can turn it off," says the groomer. I
nod, and when he is within range, I indicate my
willingness to begin the grooming procedure by
extending a hand-paw towards him.
Again that indefinable look, but Angelo
smells very much as if he has discovered something
utterly unexpected. He takes my hand, and shows
me the metal tool. "Guillotine clippers," he
says. "I'm just going to shave the tips off your
fingernails and see how it goes. In my
experience, all species and ages of animals have
differently textured nails, and in your case this
could take a bit of experimenting-- I have never
groomed a Thylacine before."
At the appearance of yet another smile across
the man's face I relax and try to forget the sound
of the clippers snapping as they trim my claws,
instead swiveling an ear towards the black CD
player on the window sill. The musical sounds are
harsh, but not unpleasant; the lead singer has
rather a screaming voice, but the volume is not
too loud and I listen closely out of mild
curiosity.
I have been scraped, examined, taught modesty
and then had it blithely violated, yet having a
relative stranger touch my hands and feet still
makes me jumpy. Oh, well. I sigh, I hope
inaudibly. No reason to behave as if I don't
trust the friendly Angelo. After all, the first
thing he did during this appointment was ask _my_
opinion. I am, for these few hours, free of the
doctors' and researchers' decisions. It is rather
soothing.
"What music is this?" I ask, quietly, trying
not to move the limb he is currently working on.
"Guns'n'Roses. Popular years back. This was
their best album, in my opinion."
"Is that a violin?"
"Electric guitar."
"Oh."
Angelo pauses and reaches into a nearby
plastic cart for an emery board. I place my hand
in my lap as soon as he lets go, then raise it
again when he faces me. "Thank you, that's
perfect," he says, and begins rasping the edges of
the trimmed claws. "I think later on in the album
there's a violin, but I'm not sure. Is the music
disturbing to you?"
"Oh, no," I assure him. I watch the progress
on my nails for a moment, but again find it more
soothing to glance away.
Angelo notices. "Does the nail trimming make
you nervous?"
"A little."
"Now that is odd," he informs me, and again
that curious demeanor is evident in the groomer's
posture and eyes. "Do tell me if anything else
makes you nervous."
"All right."
I got back to my dorm room after seeing the
church and taking dinner with Mattie, and I
flicked on the TV for awhile, just to make a
smooth transition from the activity outside my
private space to the quiet inside. I looked in
the mirror.
Same, fawn-colored wolf-headed girl I always
knew-- that is, always since the first time I saw
a human being, although I must have known many I
cannot remember. The rancher showed me myself in
his looking glass, hoping to spark some memory
with what I could see there, but I just nodded,
unable at that time to speak his language and
picking up on the body language that meant
"agreement" in his evident communication.
Something about that reflection, back in
Tasmania, confused me deeply, and I recall a
pained expression on the rancher's lined face, as
though I said or did something to sadden him, but
I do not remember now what that was or why I
became upset myself.
I am reminded of the filmed Thylacine that I
was shown in the Australian research center.
Perhaps I did something like that-- pressed my
face to the mirror, connecting with an object
nonexistent. All I know is that I nodded, and
with that the rancher seemed determined, I suppose
to find my identity and return me, a poor lost
girl, to her family. I obeyed whatever he, and
later the doctors, said, and I learned again to
speak the language they say I must have left
behind... Although they do not really know for
certain what nationality I might have been.
I looked in my mirror in the dorm room, and
considered the happenings of my first day free, on
my own. It had been interesting, but I still
could not be sure I was doing everything
correctly.
I slunk tiredly over to my bed and flopped,
belly-down, onto it, leaving the thin white
curtains open so the last of the sun could soak
through the windowpane. I believe I slept... At
any rate, I went into a sort of torpor...
When I awoke, it was dark except for the
glimmer of street lamps bouncing off the glass of
my dorm room window. I felt dry and sweaty at the
same time, and knew something was wrong when I
felt the stick of sweat around my neck and chin.
I only sweat on my palms and feet.
I jumped up, and a sort of dizziness
unsteadied me, and I felt a brushing of fur
against my shoulders where it should not have
been. My nose and ears were solid, useless. I
tried to stretch and realign my jaw and could not.
It all felt like that strange sensation that had
overcome me in the Christian church, but I had
thought there that it was a matter of having been
out in strange places too long, coupled with my
ongoing confusion. I knew now that it was
physical, and strong, whatever it was, and I
stifled an urge to flee.
Running out into the halls, sick and
confused, would be foolhardy until I knew where to
go for help, who of the members of the college I
could trust.
I staggered to the mirror, no longer dizzy
but frightened, and stared.
The reflection was of a woman, dark-haired
and blue-eyed, and I knew in an instant I had seen
her before-- once. In the water placed in bowls
at the church. This was _me_! Except that I
knew, once and for all, it was _not_. The girl
with curved black hair, melded with the Thylacine
body I had grown accustomed to, was an utter
stranger.
I screamed-- or, more properly, I let out a
high-pitched "Yip!" that could certainly be heard
down the hall, then fell into a coughing fit such
as I had not had since first travelling to
Australia following my discovery.
I only cough lately when I am dreadfully
nervous. I had made up my mind to hide, curled
under the sink in my room, until recovering myself
again, but Brina in the room three doors down was
approaching her own room, and heard my cry.
"Anne! Anne, are you all right?"
I coughed, and Brina pushed the door open-- I
am always forgetting to lock it-- and came to sit
beside me on the floor. "Anne! How do you feel?
Look at yourself-- the SCABS has changed your face
back. Are you okay? Why did you yelp like that?"
I shook my head. I couldn't work up more
than a whisper at first, then managed: "Stripes."
"What, Honey?" Brina placed an arm
cautiously around my shoulder and squeezed gently.
I did not object. At least she was known to me.
"What's wrong, Anne? What are you saying?"
I coughed again and was silent. I had the
distinct impression that I had said something
silly, and felt it best to shut up once again.
Anyway, the images like old film were piercing my
consciousness again, so much like memories I could
have _sworn_... But I just curled up next to Brina
on the tiles of the dorm floor, and said nothing.
Brina stayed with me. The next day a
photograph of my human face was sent off by
computer to Australia, so the search could begin
anew for my family, if I have any. So far,
nothing has come of it. Two days later my face
reformed with another bout of dizziness and
tingling, and with my trusted sense of smell and
my typical body back, I began to feel much better.
It was with immense relief that I looked back into
the mirror at a Thylacine, no matter how odd the
species, and with my usual wonderment that I
attempted to fathom the emptiness of my deep brown
eyes. They keep telling me I have the biggest,
lonesomest eyes-- that it "spooks them out". But
all I feel is a question. Maybe they are
mistaking aching confusion for sadness. The same
way they confused panic with excitement, when my
face shifted like that.
I listen to the experts, and I try to make
myself better doing what they say. They help me
with my learning. But still no one really tells
me where the wolves have _gone_, and why I do not
recall ever having seen that woman's face in the
glass. Therapists only succeed in bringing forth
more of the Thylacine, and concentrate instead on
my education as a new human being. Well, fine...
I do not remember who I was, they won't let me,
and I might as well be new as anything else.
I spend a lot of time at the shore, not just
during class projects, and jog along looking for
horseshoe crabs and other animals.
I talk to them, sometimes. Is that strange?
Talking to animals, I mean.
I have thought of asking my professors, and I
know some people talk to domesticated animals,
giving them commands, but I tire of the confusing
replies to my questing and I am not certain I have
seen anyone but my own self talking to crabs. I
watch, I scent the air and listen, and here and
there I pick up something that is taught to me
unwittingly. Sometimes I think that is the best
way.
"Nice, coarse hair," Angelo murmurs, running
his fingers over the top of my head. "If you're
going to be trying to impress upon people the true
nature of the Thylacine, I really hesitate to
detract from it. What say we just spot-clean you,
and use plain water otherwise. In your case, we
don't _want_ 'fluffy'."
I nod, listening, but also listening to the
music and watching the movement on the street
outside. Angelo gives me a small bottle of
translucent gold shampoo.
"I would like you to please wash the sides of
your face, and your arms and hands, with that, and
also the soles of your feet, since you say you
sweat there. The shampoo is hypoallergenic and
very gentle... I see you have been using human
shampoos, which is not a good idea with your
skin... This shampoo is safe enough for you to use
in the corners under your eyes, too, but otherwise
I want you to rinse off real well with water only.
Then we'll use the blow-dryer, okay?
"Towels are on the rack next to the tub...
Towel-dry yourself as much as you like, with
circular motions so we don't break any of those
nice hairs, all right?"
I wrinkle-smile back at the smiling man and
enter the next room, which has been made over to
accommodate any kind of SCAB bath needs... Except
possibly the very largest of creatures, although
there is only so much Angelo must be able to do
with a smallish place like this. I proceed to
rinse carefully in the spray from the shower.
From the other room comes the muffled sound of
Angelo idly singing with the CD player while he
organizes his equipment.
It doesn't take more than a few minutes to
spot-clean and get water through my entire coat,
as instructed, and I towel-dry to the point where
I can change comfortably into my other set of
clothes-- also old. I notice a dryer in the bath
room, but with my short hair I do not need to do
anything but towel off thoroughly before
reentering the vacuumed and wiped-down grooming
area.
I go back over to the chair and arrange my
tail. Angelo brandishes a white plastic dryer and
a very finely toothed comb.
"Okay, now that you're clean, we'll make you
perfect." He grins at me and flips the switch on
the dryer.
I start. It's right there, whining, by my
sensitive ears. I draw my head away to the side,
trying not to show my discomfort. Angelo turns
off the machine.
"Anne," he says casually, as if he planned
for this pause and it does not in the least
inconvenience him, "If you don't mind my asking a
personal question, when did you come down with
SCABS?"
"Oh," I say, just as casually, "A... couple
years ago, down in Tasmania..."
"In Tasmania," he says. He steps back and
looks at me, not for the first time. "That's
unusual, to say the least, isn't it."
"How-- how so?"
"Well. I don't know of many people who go
swimming and then turn into SCABS sharks, or go to
Borneo and become orangutans. It doesn't seem to
depend on the place the individual is at the time,
does it."
He knows, or has a suspicion of, something I
don't. At least, there is something he is not
saying, almost as if afraid I might not want to
hear it. What has the groomer been noticing about
me? I decide to ask him a question, to see if he
is as open and trustworthy as he seems.
"Angelo? Where did all the wolves go?"
"What wolves, Anne?" The song on the
Guns'n'Roses CD changes, and we both listen to the
next song's beginning for an instant. I keep one
ear on the slow, yet wailing music and one on the
man before me.
"All the Tasmanian wolves," I say.
"Like you."
"No, not like..."
Something in the music half catches my
attention, but after one wondering moment I
dismiss it. It was nothing, I guess. "Not like
me," I continue. "Not human. Extinct. Just as
all the researchers say. Extinct."
"Hm. Well, if they're gone, then they are
gone to Heaven, if you ask me, which you did. But
tell me. What do you remember."
"Nothing. I don't have any memory of
anything that happened before I saw a rancher who
helped me."
"Really? What happened? Didn't anybody
claim you?"
He still has thoughts he's not voicing, even
though he smells perfectly honest under that
smock. He hangs the dryer back on a hook on the
wall and picks up a small, yellow towel. "We'll
use this," he says, and demonstrates the towel's
super-absorbency. "No one knew who you were?"
I begin to understand. He will _listen_ to
me. I look up at him eagerly from under the
towel.
"I dream in black-and-white," I tell Angelo.
"What do you dream of?"
"Thylacines. I smell in my sleep, and I
smell them. And sometimes I remember--" Yes. I
_remember_, no matter what anybody else says, "--
waking up on the first day after I left my mother,
and feeling so sick I could not eat. And my body
got larger and I got hungrier and--"
Angelo listens raptly, in evident
fascination, and rather suddenly the song on the
CD dips into a quiet part, so quiet I pause and
shift my ear to listen. The music falls into a
building rhythm. A rhythm like the loping, not so
fast but inevitable and able to go all night, of a
wolf or two following one animal of prey to its
inexorable death. I listen. And then I jump out
of my chair, and press my ear to the machine, even
though the music is too loud when up close, even
though I know there are no Tasmanian wolves in
there-- or, they say, anywhere, though I know
better than _that_.
"Angelo," I rasp, "listen to this."
It is the exact note of the contact call. I
would know it anywhere. Here, on the electric
guitar or whatever it is, the sound is too
drawn-out, but this is it. We are loners, or
working in pairs, but as a family or a pair there
is a voice for keeping track of the others'
whereabouts. "Listen to this."
Angelo listens from where he stands. He
seems the slightest bit afraid of me, for an
instant. Spooky, I realize. He had not thought
his CD called to dead animals. I am beginning to
get the idea of what is frightening to others,
when I think about it carefully. Still I keep my
ear pressed to the black plastic machine.
"What is it?" Angelo inquires.
"It's them," I say, knowing as usual that my
words do not necessarily make sense. "If it was
short and sharp..."
"Ah, I see." And he _does_! He really does.
"I don't know what to do," I admit.
"You don't have to do _anything_ you don't
want to do. But if everybody else assumes..."
"Yes. I guess we should tell some people,
the researchers, the students, the important
people."
Angelo chuckles. "I knew my gut instincts
would be correct. They _almost_ always are, when
it comes to clients. But in your case I had a
hard time believing myself."
I nod. The song ends and I lose interest in
the music.
"I had just started out on my own," I mutter
quietly.
"Well." Angelo scratches the back of his
head thoughtfully. "They won't believe you, you
know. Do you know where they can _find_ the other
Thylacines?"
I nod emphatically. Now that I'm allowing
the images in, of course I do! "I could lead a
party to them. Although they will be hiding."
"You make a _great_ human," he says, seeming
to know what kind of encouragement is called for
right now. _I_ know my Thylacine self, but
suddenly the human thing is slipping. I need to
know I am not a bad one, even if I am due to--
"Angelo," I say suddenly, "What about--"
Again he knows, before I finish speaking.
"My opinion. This is religious, so if you
don't--"
"I do."
"Okay. Well, I have SCABS myself, and I used
to be a woman. I am completely male now, though I
too have memories from before. And as for the
soul, Darling, if those eyes mean anything, and if
I know _anything_ about SCABS, a virus does not
create a soul. It comes with the territory and
cannot be defined, made nor destroyed by a
disease. And that's my two cents for the
discussion today."
I let my human side take over and I hug him.
He seems pleased.
That rose is in the same place in the church
in Boston. I enter quietly, during a weekday as
before, because I have had about enough lately of
poking and prodding and questions and discussion.
Let them go to Tasmania and find out. I am going
to school.
The rose rustles in the breeze of the indoor
air system, and as I pause before the tiled
representation of Jesus in what I hope is a
respectful fashion, something occurs to me. Just
as it does, just as the thought begins to cross my
mind as I soak up the solitude of the church,
another person enters the church.
The man genuflects as he comes in the door,
and I can hear him dip a hand in the water even
though my focus returns to the altar area. He
steps quietly to the front pew, and slides in next
to the rose bush, nodding to me as he does so,
seeming to want to be friendly in case I am new
here.
I slip into a pew off to the other side. I
keep one eye peering at the rose and the man, and
see the man lift a black folder from the pew, one
that I know he did not bring in. It must have
been sitting there already.
The man slides closer to the huge rose bush's
pot, and touches one of the blossoms. The branch
does, indeed, curl around the man's wrist.
I decide to pay attention to trying to learn
to pray, but I can't help being interested in the
interaction taking place in the front pew. I knew
it. Maybe something of Angelo's intuition rubbed
off on me during my stay with that graduate
student in Pennsylvania.
I wonder if she spends a lot of time here, or
whether, like me, this yellow brick church is a
haven for short stretches of time before going
back to the pursuit of-- well, of what depends on
the person, but the pursuit of something important
to the rose.
It occurs to me that the rose may have been a
human, or may have been a rose, but it should not
matter now. If Angelo is right, and a disease
cannot create a being, then we all have equal
invitation to be here.
That's why they always leave the door open.
I bought a Guns'n'Roses CD. "November Rain"
is my favorite, of course, but I still don't want
to go back to Tasmania-- not yet.
I have twenty-five Washingtons to go before my next
Whale Watch.