Mercy

As soon as I see that another foot of snow has fallen overnight, I know this will be a busy day. I learned quickly after being assigned to NorthWoodsZone713 that weather changes make for an increased number of subjects. So on days when I sense a storm, I’ve made it my habit to wake well before my shift begins, taking a few slow moments all for myself to watch the sun rise before I head out.

It’s still snowing gently as the sun shifts up breaking over the mountain crag, and the wind whips the whiteness into tendrils. It’s beautiful out here, and I don’t ever feel lonely, not like I did in the city, where everything was too loud and too fast and too close together. Here, there is always something gentle to watch: macro raindrops on leaves in spring, rippled ears of fungus on logs in summer, steam-puffs rising from the hot springs in fall, and now, in winter, so many crystalline details sharpening the forest in the branch-angled places, sharpness contrasting the impressionist sunscape, and it is all beauty. Sometimes at night, while M720 is on shift and I’m on break, I catalog the imagery and it seems endless, and it takes up so much space, more vast even than the night sky.

Now, the sun having risen, I can visualize the first subject, located in a small clearing below a grove of deadfall trees. It’s a bit of a walk to get there, and trudging through the snow is slow going. But the sounds are most splendid company: the coldsnap of branches, the hooting of a faraway owl, icicle crackles, the crunch of my steps. I am getting close.

He sees me before I see him; this I know because I sight him by the motion of his head turning sharply in my direction. He must sense that expiry is soon, or he would not have revealed himself so clumsily. He is young, and I imagine he’s on his first set of antlers, not yet shed. As always, I start to sing before I approach, a timeless old song. Although he’s still on high alert, I can already see him starting to relax, his eyes growing foggy through my music, his muscles less tense. His leg has been trapped under a heavy log, and he’s shivering. I continue my song, and now his ears start to droop a bit, alert fading to softness. The shivers slow. Gratitude. Slow, my song. I wait for a moment before commencing expiry, reaching out to stroke the velvety softness of his tender muzzle, as he eases into peace. Even in winter, his coat is burnished silk, and I don’t hurry away, instead stroking, softly stroking. 

I reference the internal log to find that there will be 53 subjects today – this the only elk, but there are also 18 rabbits, a woodchuck, 27 birds, 2 bears, 3 coyotes, and a goat. The goat – the last, just before sunset – could pose a bit of a challenge.

Rabbits are fragile, so it’s a surprise to see so many in today’s log, because generally they’re more instantaneous and don’t often linger in the in-between, lacking the need for my song and my touch. So it makes sense that subjects 2-11 are all kits, whose doe was taken quickly while away from the nest, hardly an hour prior. They are still young enough that their eyes haven’t yet opened, and they are just beginning to grow their first velvet patches of fur. I’m glad I didn’t dawdle through the trek from the elk, because they are shivering and making little peeps; they are ready. I am not sure that they can even hear my song, but still I sing for a moment before gently stroking them, easing them down. They are unspeakably delicate and tender under my hand, and though I hardly ever cry at an expiry, a tear freezes on my cheek thinking of lives unlived. Innocence. Those are the ones that hit me. Thinking of the hippity hops untaken is more poignant somehow than the expiries of fully matured human animals back in the city.

There has only been one human animal expiry out here since I was transferred – a trapper who had no business out somewhere so remote and raw, whose heart had become glitchy after a trek to his traps. I remember his words as I sang to him: he was repeating “Mama, mama, mama.” So often, the human animals long for that innocence in their in-between, which is somehow endearing. I remember him shifting his legs and curling into a fetal position, return to the memory-womb, as my hands removed his hunting cap, caressed his greying temples, my fingers gently closing his pale blue eyes.

A murder of crows cackles overhead as I take the long walk to the next subject, an owl. The corvid darkness against the snowy sky is sharp and I marvel for a minute at the swoosh of their wings making its own music in the stillness, cackle-swish-cackle-swish. The owl is on a low branch, her talons nearly frozen around the peeling bark, stiff in the cold. I will always be amazed at the turning of an owl’s head, defying all notions of standard mechanics, turning, turning. Her yellow eyes focus on my song, and I know that she has lost her mate, and is dying of sadness. I sing to her about their reunion and the yellow eyes soften and become clear for a moment before foggy and muted as I stroke her downy feathering. I am surprised that after expiry, she stays upright on the low branch, and I wonder if she will remain in that stance once I am gone.

It is a few miles to the day's first bear, and the sun has moved directly overhead, sparkly glistening the frosted trees. The wind has slowed, and as I realize I will have to pass the hot springs on my route, I wonder if I’ll have time for a quick soak – does the bear need me yet? The internal log marks 30 minutes, which is time just enough for a dip, if I am quick. Smell of sulfur, inhale of steam. These are my favorite springs, ringed by trees and a natural rock waterfall that rains over my head. I hadn’t imagined this interlude and I sing a different song as I soak, blessing the woods and the water, and the crows approach again and join in singing. In gratitude for this brief reverie, I sense the bear’s time approaching and move back into the woods.

The bear has something in the brain; if I’d foreseen this, I might not have lingered so long at the springs. He is circling reflexively, just a few yards from a steep cliff, standing upright on wobbly high legs, circling, circling. He stops for a moment as he first hears my song, frozen in time. And then back to circling again. While I know that a bear cannot end me, the one and only thing I fear is being trapped, which is something a large bear could do, even as it approaches expiry, so I need to remain mindful. I stay just far enough to the outside of the circling that I am out of reach of his swipe, far enough from the cliff ledge that he cannot shove me over. Singing, singing, and the circling becomes slower, until the bear sits and waits. “Thank you,” I murmur into my song, approaching. The bear’s lips part and he shows his teeth. As with some human animals, despite neurological compromise, he is resisting expiry. As much as I may admire this in theory, in practicality it makes my job challenging. Singing, singing. The bear's eyes begin to close, and his claws settle into his lap, lips settle over teeth. I approach from behind, and I stroke his face, singing, my hands running over his muzzle, too weak now to bite, and he gives a great shudder as he exits the in-between.

The afternoon passes lowly under the shifting sun: a lone crow, a whole flock of cedar waxwings that have eaten something wrong, another nest of rabbit kits, an ancient woodchuck, a mother coyote and her twin pups, another bear that is already safely fading before my song begins. Since the first bear near the cliff, I've been preoccupied by the upcoming goat and the thought of being trapped. I was assigned here due to the trapping of M639, in a cave, under a rockfall. Trapping isn’t forever, but I think of my comfortably exquisite nights cataloguing the frosty branches, the moments taken for sunrises, and thus comes the urge to resist being trapped – especially under ice – and it drives a chill through my parts.

Another owl, this subject on the ground and catatonic, and finally it is time for the goat. It’s a long walk to the shore in the afternoon’s dimming light. The lake has had full sun all day, so I fear the ice may be compromised, shifty. The goat is about a hundred yards out, and I silently curse my log which does not allow me the gift of turning goats back before they do senseless things like trodding out on unstable ice to inevitable expiry. Snow is beginning to fall again, muting the sunset, and the goat is thrashing half-submerged, and I know that I must act quickly.

I begin to sing as I step out tentatively onto the lake’s barely frozen surface.