7. Oona

There are a few things I’ve learned from observing humans over the years. One of those things is that they absolutely cannot be trusted to not kill themselves. Most of the time, they aren’t thinking about the consequences of their very stupid actions.

The humans who keep coming out into my territory to toss their enemies overboard, for example? They also toss other things into the water. Cans filled with nasty-smelling liquid. Small sticks they hold in their mouths that burn and smell like death. They pour chemicals into the water and call it a day and act as though the water isn’t connected to their own habitats, thus hurting themselves in the process. Dumbasses.

I know not to shit where I eat, that’s all I’m saying. And that’s why, when my new pet wants to relieve himself in the tree house, I start to lose my patience with him. Him, I’ve come to learn, because I finally got to see what’s lurking beneath his pants. At least that mystery is solved.

Nick doesn’t know any better. He needs a gentle but firm, guiding hand. I get it. Really, I do. But maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a caretaker, after all. Maybe it’s for the best I’m alone and my eggs remain unfertilized. There’s too high of a chance I’d eat them once they hatched.

When night falls and the sounds of the forest come alive, Nick finds a corner in the bedroom and pulls his knees to his chest tightly. He’s terrified. Rightfully so, because anything in the forest can, and will, kill you. But he doesn’t have to worry, because I will keep watch over him.

“Relax,” I say as I pad over to the bed and pull out a large fur blanket. It’s made of bear fur I collected from the time I found a cave with a solitary male grizzly inside. I managed to kill and skin it, and was able to eat its meat for several moons after. Even gained a little weight thanks to that hunt.

Once, I considered living in a cave, but constructing my tree house was a better idea. I don’t have to worry about anything sneaking up on me at night thanks to my ingenious soup can alarm system I’ve fashioned in every room. Nick’s only bumped into it five times today by accident, but I’m sure he’ll figure it out sooner or later.

“Here,” I say, and toss the blanket at him. It lands on his head. Poor reflexes on that one.

He grunts out a reply, pulls the blanket down, and runs his fingers across the fur like he’s admiring it. My chest swells with pride as he glides his hands over the smooth texture. Yes, I did all of that myself. I’ve never needed anyone to help me figure things out, because I’m more than capable of doing everything. Having someone actually acknowledge my craftsmanship is nice, though.

“Wow,” he murmurs under his breath, then pulls the blanket up to his chin.

I sit down on the edge of the bed and pat the floor by my feet. “Come, Nick. Come,” I say in his tongue.

He raises his eyebrows, then scoots across the floor with the blanket and lies down beside my feet. He’s so small. So fragile. All it would take is a single squeeze of my hand and he’d be ground into dust. But I don’t want to do that, because despite trying to pee in the house earlier, he’s been good company so far, and I’m getting used to his presence.

Still, I don’t think I can keep him forever. Can I? It’s not as though I can send him back to his people. They tried to kill him, after all. What if they try to do that again?

My stomach clenches at the thought of him being tossed overboard and nearly drowning in the murky, gator-filled water. Gator food. My pet was almost gator food. I’m not sure what he did that pissed off the other humans so much, and frankly, I don’t care. Nothing justifies an end so gruesome. He deserved to go out fighting. Toss him a spear or some other weapon and let him stand on his own two feet so he could die with some dignity, I say.

He blinks up at me, as though noticing my thoughts have wandered off into undesirable places. My lips peel back as I attempt to smile at him, but he winces.

“Sorry,” I say in his tongue.

“It’s okay,” he says, then rolls over onto his side, facing away from me. “Goodnight.”

I have no idea what “goodnight” means, but I’m going to assume it means our exchange is over and he wants to sleep. Very well.

“Goodnight,” I say back, then lie back on the cold stones. The sound of the insects should lull me to sleep like they usually do, but tonight, I don’t get a wink of rest. I keep stealing glances down at my pet to make sure he’s still breathing.

A week later,Nick and I have settled into a gentle routine. At first, he would wake up in the middle of the night drenched in cold sweat and shivering despite the blanket I gave him. Bad dreams, I can only assume from the way he’d bolt upright and begin screaming. But eventually those died down, and now he sleeps comfortably through the night. Most mornings, I bring him a couple of rabbits to eat, along with foraged berries I watched the birds gobble down.

While we drink our water and enjoy our breakfast, we trade words by the fire.

Nick picks up the animal carcass and says, “Rabbit,” before handing it back to me to skin. Then he points to the flames and says, “Fire.”

We try committing each other’s vocabulary to memory, with little effort. His language and the way his mouth wraps around each syllable isn’t so different from my own, apparently. When I hatched, I had no one to talk to aside from myself, so I developed my own alphabet and language. I’m not sure why I even bothered. I guess a part of me always held out hope that one day I’d meet someone—anyone—and they’d want to talk back to me.

The next morning, I wake with the sun and begin my routine around the tree house. Drink the water I stored the night before, splash some on my face, then gather my gear to head down to the lagoon for hunting. Nick is still fast asleep by the time I’m ready to head out. The fish haven’t been tasty lately, but they’re still the easiest food source I have as well as being the most accessible, so I can’t give up on them yet. I head out, ready to start fishing, but pause before going down the rope and turn back around.

It’s tempting to let him sleep, but what if he panics when he wakes up and finds that I’m not here? What if he has to relieve himself and can’t get down—and then back up—by himself? There are too many things that can go wrong when leaving him to his own devices, so I gently shake his shoulder.

He’s snoring. Each snort that comes out of his nose and mouth sounds like a dying hedgehog, and I let out a soft sigh.

“Nick,” I say firmly in my raspy, guttural voice. His eyes fly open as he jerks away, and he lets out a shrill scream when he sees me hovering over him. “Nick,” I say again, putting my hands up in what I hope is a passive gesture.

The skin on his face blanches as he huddles against the wall of the house, his chest heaving. Is it possible for a human to die from fright? I haven’t seen it happen before, but I’ve seen it happen to rabbits.

“Oh. Oh…” he mutters, then rubs the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed. He shouldn’t be. It was a normal response. I’d probably do a lot worse in his position.

“Come,” I say to him, and hold up the spear I use for fishing. “We’re going fishing. Gotta catch more since you ate all of mine.”

He pushes himself to stand and follows behind obediently. Maybe today I’ll see about teaching him what I know so he can at least find his own food. I’m not sure how things work in his society, but judging from his small stature, I’m going to guess he doesn’t get enough protein. He downed all my fish jerky like he was starving, so finding bigger, meatier prey is going to the top of the to-do list.

I carry Nick down the rope and lead him along the path I made long ago, when I first settled here. We head down to the lagoon’s muddy waters, and for once, he doesn’t say anything or complain as he trudges through the grassy reeds like I expect him to.

“Good boy,” I say, grinning as we make our way out into deeper water. But when I wade up to my chest in the water, he stops several feet behind. I turn around and sigh again. “Come on. I won’t let you drown.”

He shakes his head in response. He doesn’t want to get into the lagoon with me, and I guess I can’t blame him. A week ago, he almost died. That would probably leave a mark on someone. But he needs to learn how to take care of himself or he’s never going to make it out here in the wild, and I can’t keep a constant eye on him.

“Nick, come on,” I say a little more firmly. “I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise.”

And it’s a promise I know I can keep. Yes, there are gators. But I know to expect them, and I know how to spot them before they become a problem. Usually.

Reluctantly, he wades out into the water to my side. His throat bobs up and down, and I smile down at him before patting him on the head. Then I hand him the spear. He looks up at me, his face screwed up like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle, and I take him by his other hand to lead him out further into the water. I tap him on the shoulder, inhale sharply, and hold my breath, trying to demonstrate what I’d like for him to do. To my surprise, he actually mimics me and slips underneath the water, still clutching the spear in his trembling fingers.

I glide through the water with graceful movements, letting my tail act as a rudder. When I spot a large, juicy fish at the bottom, I point at it and make a stabbing motion. Nick, who is much slower than I am in the water on account of him being a mammal and not having a tail, juts the spear out in front of him. The fish escapes, easily, in a flurry of bubbles.

Okay, I’m not sure what I was expecting, here. Perhaps he can’t see in the water like I can, but I’ve never had to teach anyone how to spear fish before, and no one ever taught me how to do it, either. It’s something I figured out all on my own. Nick beats his arms and legs in the water like a drowning rabbit and eventually crests the surface to draw in another deep gulp of air. I pop up next to him and blow water out of my nostrils.

“It’s okay. This is new for me too,” I say. But with his laborious, slow movements, I’m not sure if this is the best way for him to hunt. Maybe there’s something else we need to try.

I jerk my head back toward land and beckon for him to follow me. We’re going to go after bigger game.