She smiles. "I never went, but my dad has a photo album of when he worked here as a teenager."
She sighs then and I realize that talking about her dad reminds her of how her family turned their back on her.
"So this whole business of shifting from one shape to another," I say, to change the subject. "How do you think it works?"
"What do you mean? You just decide which you want to be—human or animal—and there you go."
"No, I mean the physics of it. Cory told me that if you don't concentrate on what you're wearing, when you change back to your human shape, you're buck naked."
"That happens to all of us at first."
I nod. "But how does it all
work
?"
"I don't think science has anything to do with it," she says. "The government researchers think it must have something to do with genetics, but apparently they can't find anything unusual in our DNA. Cory talks about old bloodlines, but I don't think he means that literally—it's more that we inherited these animal souls or whatever. Auntie Min says it must be a gift from the Thunders—you know, the old-time mystery gods.
"Me ... I think something magic came here to Santa Feliz," Elzie continues. "Some spirit or force decided to connect a bunch of us with our animal brothers and sisters. And now it's our responsibility to share what we learn with the rest of the world."
"How does that fit in with getting rid of all the humans?" I have to ask.
"You're never going to let that go, are you?"
She doesn't look mad like she did when we first met on the pier, but I still feel the need to let her know I'm not starting an argument.
"I'm just trying to understand," I say. "That's all."
"Me too," she says. "I know things are messed up and I know we have to fix them, but I don't know how we're ever going to do it."
"I get that," I tell her.
"At least the ferals are trying to do something about it," she says.
"I know. I just don't think their plan is necessarily the best way."
"I have my own reservations."
I wonder how people let the world get to where it is now. Greed, power and religion, I guess. Even the hippie generation managed to screw it up, most of them ditching their peace, love and flowers ideals in favour of personal wealth and comfort. I'd like to say I'd do better, but my carbon footprint's nothing to be proud of.
This is depressing, so I change the subject again.
"The first time I met Cory," I say, "he did this thing where he was still human, but he had a coyote's head."
"I've seen a hawk Wildling do that, too. It's kind of creepy."
"Yeah. But I wonder if
we
can do that."
She laughs. "You are such a boy."
Okay, I've managed to change the mood, but I'm not sure I want her laughing at me.
"I just think it's interesting," I say. "And being able to freak people out with a Wildling head on a human body might give you an advantage if you were cornered or something."
"So long as they don't have a gun."
"Sure. But it makes you think, what else can we do? If it's all about magic, then it seems like anything's possible."
"There are probably rules."
"Yeah," I say. "There are
always
rules."
She nods. "Like having to eat after a change. I can't believe how hungry I get."
We fall silent again. The traffic from town seems very far away. There's just us and the deserted rides in the amusement park. Waves lapping against the shore. I love that sound. It's the soundtrack to my life. Lying in bed with my window open at night, the beach is close enough that I can hear them roll in as I fall asleep.
"Do you want to know the only magic I know?" Elzie says.
I turn to her. "Sure."
"You and me."
She slips her hands around my waist then onto my butt and pulls me in for a long kiss.
"How's that for magic?" she murmurs.
"The best kind," I tell her.
That night I Google jaguarundi. I look at pictures and they do look something like a mountain lion. They have short legs, long bodies, long thick tails and flattish heads with small rounded ears. None of that says Elzie to me, but when I look in a mirror, I don't see a mountain lion—except for that one time when I watched myself change, and that's not the same thing at all. Jaguarundis are good climbers, great swimmers and they're active during the day. They're also an endangered species, which brings back my nervousness.
I remind myself of what Elzie told me—that it was just a fluke that Laura got shot—but it's not particularly comforting. I mean, how do you prevent something so random? The only way you could fully protect yourself would be to never leave your house. That wouldn't work for Elzie because she doesn't have a house and she wouldn't stay in it twenty-four/seven if she did.
That gets me wondering about where Elzie
does
stay. She's always clean and dresses with style—thrift shop style, but she looks good. How do you manage that if you live on the street?
So where
does
she live? How can I not know where my sort-of girlfriend lives? What does she do when we aren't together?
I could drive myself crazy with these questions. I know that. But I also know myself well. Now that they're on my mind, I can't let them go.
I switch from the Google window to check my email. All the usual spam. The only interesting thing is an update from my Wild Surf subscription telling me they have a new demo up on their site, but I don't feel like listening to it at the moment.
I'm about to shut off my computer when I remember what Marina said about using the Internet to find some more info about Wildlings. I type "Wildlings" into the Google window and about a million entries come up. Most links on the first few pages are about what happened to Laura. That's the last thing I need to read right now. There's got to be something about Wildlings that doesn't focus on the shooting or link to that hawk video. I try adding "blog" to the search and my screen still fills up with way too many entries. They all seem to be about Laura, too.
It's late. I should just go to bed. I glance down the screen, scanning until a LiveJournal link makes me stop. The title of the blog is
My Life as an Otter
, which is just charming enough to catch my attention, so I click on it. The profile picture shows a pen and ink drawing of an otter. It takes me a moment to recognize it. I go over to the handful of books I've had since I was little and pull out a well-worn copy of
The Wind in the Willows
.
Sitting on my bed, I flip through the pages until I come to the image I'm looking for. I glance at my computer screen. The profile picture is a detail from the illustration in the book I'm holding.
The blogger's user name is Nira. If I were Sherlock Holmes, I'd deduce that somewhere in Santa Feliz, there's a teenager named Nira who's an otter Wildling and likes
The Wind in the Willows
—the original, judging from the illustration she used for her profile picture. Judging by the name, I'm guessing the author's a she, but I suppose Nira could be a guy's name, too.
There are links to other blogs. "Wildling Words." "Where the Wild Things Dream." "Cousins' Corner." "I Am a Teenage Wildling." I opt to stay on this page and read through Nira's post.
This will sound terrible, but as sad and horrified as I am about Laura Connor's death, one of the first things I thought afterward was here we go again. Yet more focus on the negative aspects of Wildlings.
The news media and blogosphere are already rampant with it:
When did Laura Connor become a Wildling?
Did anyone close to her know?
Why would she "choose" to be a rat?
Does this mean there are other Wildling vermin out there?
Why didn't she turn herself in to the government? She could have prevented this tragedy.
Should the government step in and put them all in camps?
And only later, questions more specific to this tragedy:
Did the boys know Laura was a Wildling?
Why would parents let teenagers out with a .22 rifle?
Could this be part of some gangster war—a settling of accounts between rival Wildling factions?
It's always bad stuff that makes the news. An attack, a tragic death, or more fear and speculation on the danger/cause/weirdness of it all.
Nobody ever talks about what an opportunity it is.
This is our first real chance to get some understanding and insight into the animal world. But lots of people don't want to see that happen. I'm not just talking about the religious Right and all those nut jobs that can't stand change. There's the whole meat industry, for starters. If you can have a conversation with an animal, can you really then turn around and eat it? Or the NRA. Give up hunting and fishing?
Okay, some Wildlings are predators. They eat meat. But I say, so what? Out in the wild, so do bears and mountains lions and wolves and such. The difference is they're killing to survive—it's the natural order of things. They're not killing for fun. For "sport."
The thing is, this is our chance to actually communicate with animals. But do we embrace the opportunity? No. We freak out.
Don't get me wrong. It's an awful awful thing that happened to Laura Connor. But what if those boys who were out shooting birds and rats could have met and talked to her, knowing that her Wildling aspect was a rat? Would they still think shooting rats was fun?
I don't know. I don't know those boys and I don't have any answers.
Right now I just feel sad for Laura and her friends and family. I wish I could have known her as a Wildling and as a girl. But I understand why she hid her animal aspect. And I understand what drove her to go running wild in a place she thought was safe. Sometimes I feel like the otter in me is going to burst out of my skin if I don't find some safe place to let her out.
Take care, my friends. After what happened to Laura, I can only wonder, is any place safe for us?
I know exactly what she means about the otter wanting to burst out of her skin. The mountain lion in me doesn't push and stretch only when I'm scared or angry. It's there all the time. I can feel the way it catches a scent that attracts it, or notices some movement in a hedge or up in the dried fronds of a palm. The way that it yearns to run free. But I don't see how or where I could do that. It's not like I'm something small like a rat or a lizard that nobody's going to notice. And the truth is, I'm a little scared, too. What if I lose control and someone gets hurt? Then I'll be just another one of those negative Wildling stories on the news.
I like this blogger. I read through what she wrote a second time before I go all the way back to her first post, dated a few months earlier:
The first wave I ever went paddling for, I thought for sure I'd catch it. The procedure seems so simple. Get on your knees, push your shoulders up and slide your body back, spring quickly to your feet, putting them a foot apart and under you in one motion. It's tricky, but doable when you practice on the beach.
But out on the water, that wave just slipped away. By the time I got to my feet, the wave had gone on and I just stood there on my board, slowly sinking into the water. I tried and tried again and, when I finally did catch my first swell, all I could think was, what happened? How'd I do this?
Every surfer goes through those painful days. I don't even recall my first ride very clearly, when the wave pushed me for long enough so that I could actually stand for a few seconds. But I do know that was the day that I got hooked. I think of that whole day as Wave No. 1. I remember lying in my bed that night and reliving the experience. I promised myself that every session I was going to ride at least one swell.
It took awhile, but when I finally got to the point where I could do just that, I felt so lucky. It made it all worthwhile: the paddle out, the turtle rolls, the constant paddling against the current.
What does any of this have to do with being a Wildling?
Nothing and everything. It took me a long time to get comfortable in this new skin—just like it took me a long time to get comfortable standing on my board, riding a wave to shore. It took me longer to feel lucky that I'm one of the few who, by some fluke of fate, gets to live two lives.
My job now is to integrate them the best I can. To still be a girl when I'm an otter and to let the superior senses and strengths of the otter enhance the girl.
Celebrate who you are, my Wildling friends. Be careful, but be joyful. We've received a tremendous gift.
I sit back and stretch my arms over my head. Well, she's definitely a girl and I think I'd like her even more if we met. We've got a lot in common. She's a Wildling. She's a surfer, so she must dig the whole surf scene. I wonder if she likes surf music. I'll bet Marina knows her and doesn't even realize that she's a Wildling.
Judging from the date of her first post, I see that she's been a Wildling for a relatively long time.
I'd love to know who she is. I want to read more of her blog, but I'll do that tomorrow night. Right now I've got to get to bed. The morning comes awfully quick when you go to sleep this late.
Monday morning I find Marina and Desmond waiting for me in front of Desmond's house. I'm still feeling a little off and I guess they are, too, because we're pretty quiet as we make our way to school. We start off walking, carrying our boards.
"Do either of you know a girl named Nira?" I ask after a couple of blocks.
"Who's she?" Desmond asks.
"Some girl who's got a blog about what it's like to be a Wildling. One of us probably knows her."
"What makes you say that?" Marina asks.
I shrug. "She's a Wildling, so she has to be from Santa Feliz, and since it's only teenagers who are getting changed, she must go to our school. Where else would she go?"