Page 14 of A Malicious Menagerie
“It’s rhetorical,” I’m quick to assure her, not wanting her to worry. After all, the kinds of creatures I’mactuallythinking about are far more deadly.
Nan ponders my dilemma thoughtfully. She’s always been this way, ever since I was a kid and Mom and I moved in with her after Dad died. She’s thorough, methodical, compassionate, and the smartest damn person I know. “I don’t see how telling him he shouldn’t keep them would change anything. Most likely, he’ll just tell you to either deal with it or quit. Then, the animals willstillbe in captivity, but without you to look after them. And if he were to release them, where would they go? They’re not going to be able to survive in the wild after living all this time in a rich man’s home, and the city is no place for animals like that.”
“I guess you’re right,” I say slowly, though her logic doesn’t quite sit right with me. Granted, she’s talking about monkeys, and I’m talking about centaurs. She’s right that the city is probably not the place for them, but if they could get back home to wherever they came from, they would probably thrive.
But what am I supposed to do? Sneak a fifteen-hundred-pound horse-man out of the warehouse and take him back to Greece or wherever he’s from? Like John said, it’s not like he’ll fit in the back of the Lexus. Plus, I can’t imagine what Mr. NDA would do to me if he caught me stealing from him, even if I don’t believe that you can “steal” a person.
“Maybe the best thing you can do for the animals,” Nan continues, unaware of my whirling thoughts, “is to keep taking care of them. You are smart and sweet and so caring. If you’re the one taking care of them, they’re sure to be treated well. You’ll keep all their needs in mind and aim every day to meet them, just like you’ve always done for me.” She sighs. “Even thoughIshould be the one taking care ofyou.”
“You have,” I assure her quickly, reaching over to twine my fingers throughhers. I give her a supportive smile and gently squeeze her hand. “You’ve been taking care of me for years. I’m so privileged to be able to return the favor.”
Nan doesn’t look convinced, but she does squeeze me back with as much strength as her weak right hand can muster. “Give the job a chance,” Nan advises me. “You can always quit later. But maybe, in the meantime, you can do some good.”
She’s right. Of course, she’s right. And my mind is already busy with how I can make life in the menagerie better.
8
The Kelpies
That night, John greets me by unceremoniously dumping a large pile of white plastic into my arms. “What’s this?” I grumble, already in a bad mood from the lack of sleep and spending long hours debating ethics with myself.
“Death worms need fed,” he replies shortly. “That’s the venom-resistant suit.”
And that’s how I find myself in a vinyl hazmat suit that smells of shit and rotting carcasses, as well as other people’s stale sweat. Thankfully, the worms decide not to investigate because I’m distracted tonight. Distracted is a bad thing to be around venomous predators, but I can’t help it. Before leaving for work, I sat down to go over finances.
Twelve dollars. That’s what I have left in my bank account after settling the rest of Nan’s bills and filling the loaner car with gas. Honestly, it could be worse. At least the number is black.
After poring over a calendar and plotting out bill and credit card due dates, I’ve hit the realization that I can keep that number from going red. I can. I just need to survive this job and my moral angst long enough to collect a paycheck. After that, I’ll have some decisions to make on what the hell I’m doing here.
Once my pleasant task is done, I catch up with John outside the jackalope exhibit, where he’s just refreshed the antlered hares’ hay and laid out freshproduce. “Moving on,” he mutters, dusting his calloused hands off on his heavy khaki work pants.
John leads me through the door in the back wall and a series of bland white hallways until we emerge in the jungle section. The air is so thick with humidity that I’m worried I might drown on dry land. Dashing damp strands of dark blonde hair out of my eyes, I follow John past towering trees with thick, twisted trunks and flora in every dazzling shade of the rainbow. He leads me below another cliff and brushes aside some of the vines to reveal the roughly-hewn entrance to what looks like a mine. There’s a faint, argent light illuminating the tunnel, and John motions me in. “C’mon.”
Once we traverse the short tunnel, we emerge in a large cavern, though a chain-link fence that extends to the ceiling blocks our access to all but a small section of the cave. The silver light I noticed before is coming from near one top corner, where the source appears to be attached to a stalactite. “What…?”
Before I can finish my question, the light expands as the creature perched near the ceiling spreads luminescent wings. It launches off the stalactite and dives down and away toward the back of the cavern, where it disappears behind a boulder. The cave is immediately thrown into darkness as the bird’s light is obscured. Gasping, I reach out and grab John’s arm, then just as quickly cringe away when I realize what I’m doing.
“Alicanto,” John grunts, moving away from me like I might throw myself at him. As if. “It’s shy. That might be the most you ever see of it. In any case, we need to feed it.”
“What does it eat?” I ask curiously. I follow the sound of John’s scuffing footsteps and muffled curses toward the far end of the chain-link underground aviary.
“Silver.”
I blink. “Silver… fish?”
“Silversilver,” he replies with a sigh. “The metal.”
“Of course it eats silver,” I mumble under my breath.
“Old man Mathis likes to complain that he could only get a silver one,” John explains as a bright white light suddenly clicks on. I squint against thesudden flare of his flashlight, my eyes accustomed to the alicanto’s more subtle illumination. “Thereallyrare ones eat gold.”
The first part of the night goes on like that, with me trailing behind John as he reluctantly makes his way through a list of chores. We tackle the rest of the jungle first, chaining up a goat for the chupacabra in a scene reminiscent ofJurassic Parkand leaving a bowl of blood mixed with ants for a creature that John calls the “capelobo.” Neither creature makes an appearance, and I’m both dismayed and relieved in equal measure.
We venture back into the warren of hallways behind the outer wall and emerge next in the woods section. The cool shade under the trees is an instant relief to my flushed cheeks. “Come on,” John grumbles, his mood not nearly as cheered as mine by the scent of decaying leaves and damp soil. “I’ll show you how to feed the kelpies.”
“Kelpies are water horses, right?” I ask a few minutes later as I help John load a wheelbarrow with trout from a tank by the door.
“Yes and no,” he replies distractedly. As I watch, he reaches for a handbell resting on its lip on the ground and gives it a few sharp shakes. The sound is loud and biting, and I wince as my ears ring. As the echo fades, I become aware of a more subtle sound, though it’s growing louder by the second. Finally, I recognize the percussion of hoofbeats just as two horses come into view through the trees.
