The Animals: A Novel (40 page)

WHEN MORNING
came at last, the fire was only a heap of smoldering coals. It was freezing and he was shaking again and could not stop. His feet and his fingers had gone completely numb but as he lay there the sun appeared from behind the clouds and shone into the mouth of the little alcove and for a few moments he could feel a faint warmth against his face. Beside him in the frozen slush lay the dart gun and what was left of the book, its pages gutted but the cover remaining, and from that the pronghorn antelope stared back at him with the same guileless and implacable expression it had held for all his life.

He tried three times to stand, each time careening back to earth again. His feet like stumps tied to unbending knees. Clothes still wet next to his skin. On the third attempt he rolled over onto his back and scooted forward on his elbows. The snow was deep and heavy and his body plowed into it but he was able to push his way from the cliffs and up over the slight rise.

The trees were scattered down the length of the slope. Beyond them, beginning at the base of the ridge and stretching out across a broad flat plain, lay a pale and thickly packed forest coated in a clotted layer of wet snow and through which ran a black river that coiled through those bleached and albescent conifers in loops and turns and which encircled, at its center, a vast field as empty and clear as a blank page. The wilderness seemingly without end, the ridges folding into an accordioned distance. Above them rode a series of towering clouds in blue sky, their shadows cutting the lit surface of the forest below into scraps and tatters and rags. The span between here and there as impenetrable as the forest all around him. Some impossible distance. And no sign of motion anywhere.

He slid forward on his back and elbows again and managed to get himself partially down the slope before he came to Rick. He lay encrusted with snow, his skin blue and white as if the blood had been drained from his body and what remained was only a shell curled into the position that is, for all our race, the first and last on earth. He leaned in close and peered for a long time at that frozen face. A gaunt visage of sharp angles topped with eyebrows now weighted with ice. Once upon a time: your best friend.

He rolled away from the frozen body and lay for a long time on his back, staring up at the motion of the clouds, his body trembling everywhere at once. There were things in the world he would never understand. The rules men created to guide them through their lives were little more than guesses meant to fill whatever purpose they could imagine for themselves. Sagebrush and poverty weed. Ground squirrel and pronghorn antelope. Grizzly and wolf and raccoon. All designed to perform a function. But the universe held its workings in secret and a man could claim nothing from that void and instead would need to design in that obscure and private place that is his heart the laws that would govern his life. The clouds a blur of unrecognizable shapes without meaning or purpose. Only function. His had been to survive in the world he had chosen for himself. And he had succeeded. There was no law simpler than that and when he wept it was for himself and himself alone.

The sun fell once more behind the clouds and the temperature dipped until he was shivering again. At some point he managed to rise into a sitting position, although he could not remember doing so, and he remained there for a long while, his eyes drifting closed.

When the first flash of light came he thought he had dreamed it but then came another. Far below him, pools of sunlight drifted across the valley floor and from somewhere amidst those snow-
covered trees, that black river, came a flash of bright, dazzling light. He sat up and watched and waited and then it came again: a quick burst like a white star burning out of the trees. At first he took it for some sign or signal and then imagined that he could see movement in the empty field below, as if that blank space had been visited by the tiny shapes of distant animals: martens and raccoons and the flapping wings of raptors. A wolf and a mountain lion. And of course the bear. But he knew that such a vision was impossible and so he waited and when the flash came again he understood what it was: sunlight glinting off the windshields of passing cars. As if in confirmation, the sun broke wholly through the clouds for the briefest instant and the highway itself blazed as a long strip of bright white light, as if it suddenly had been drawn in glowing ink upon what had been, only moments before, the endless wilderness.

He did not know how long he remained there but the sky was covered in clouds when he finally began the process of struggling to his feet, his breath hard and his body feeling as if it were fading out all around him. And yet he managed to stand, his legs knee-deep in the snow, and then to take a single agonized step forward, and then, at last, to begin his descent. Below him lay the shining line of the highway and beside it the slow oxbow curves of the river, its surface reflecting the sky so that clouds seemed to float gray and swollen in its depths. Sometimes in his descent, he could see them as they ran free through the fresh snow, their muzzles blowing steam, their bodies long and muscled and whole. All of them. Even you. He could see them and then he could see only the vacancy of that snow-covered meadow beyond.

If he could just reach the highway, he could flag down a passing car to drive him the hour and a half to Coeur d’Alene, although in the profound depths of his fatigue he could not always recall what might be waiting for him there: people he loved, people who loved him in return, and between an endless geography of white earth and black trees. In his descent, what he held fast to was the bear. He took that shape with him through that forest of frozen pines. Sometimes he fell. Sometimes he rested. Sometimes he staggered on.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

TO MY FRIENDS AND FAMILY WHO STRUGGLED WITH ME THROUGH
endless drafts and redrafts, pondered new ideas, concepts, and themes, wrestled with philosophical debates, and/or put up with late-night phone calls: Jason Sinclair Long, Andrew John Nicholls, Jason Roberts, Tim Rutili, Amanda Eyre Ward, Josh Weil, and Lance Weller. Of particular help were the detailed notes of Lois Ann Abraham, Lydia Netzer, Michael Spurgeon, and Karin Erickson. Thanks to Chip Conrad and to my father, Gary Kiefer, for joining me on research trips to Reno, Battle Mountain, and North Idaho, and to my uncle, Jeff Kiefer, for straightening out my use of plant biology terms. Especially helpful were the thoughts of my wife, Macie, who allowed me to fill her head with my characters so I could watch them walk around (and watched the children so that I could actually write the thing).

In and about Reno, Nevada, many thanks to L.C.; Tim Dees (Reno Police Department, retired); the particularly fine memory of Kathy Eastland and everyone at Reno’s Wonder Bar; Linda Gardner; Tupelo Hassman, author of
Girlchild
; Steve Reed; Lynn Tower, LCSW; the fine novelist, musician, and Nevada native Willy Vlautin; and Michael Wirtschafter. I would also like to acknowledge that participants in the Facebook group
You are probably from Reno if …
were consistently helpful.

In Battle Mountain, Nevada, many thanks to the patient information provided by Lori Price at the Battle Mountain Cookhouse Museum; Paula Tomera, executive director of the Battle Mountain Chamber of Commerce; Lander County sheriff Ron Unger; and Robin York. Josh Scovil was the first to introduce me to Battle Mountain. His stories and those of his father, Jonn Scovil, were invaluable.

In North Idaho, my aunt and uncle, Pam and Greg Mangum, and cousin, Dale Mangum, were excellent guides to the area; wolf handler Mario Marzio helped with information related to that beautiful animal; Dory McIsaac offered her expertise in rehabilitating ungulates at Mystic Farm Wildlife Rescue in Sagle; Kathleen St. Clair–McGee of American Heritage Wildlife Foundation helped me navigate through the paperwork associated with the care of injured Idaho wildlife. For news and geographical information, I am indebted to Mike Weland of
News Bonners Ferry
; to the research skills of Jessica Bowman, cataloging assistant and reference technician for the East Bonner County Library District, for providing me with copies of the
Bonner County Daily Bee
; and to the memories of the Facebook group
Bonners Ferry Back When
. The Northwoods Tavern is a real place, fictionalized for the purposes of this book. Apologies to its patrons and its current owners, the very kind Roger and Laurie Doering, for any liberties I have taken.

Special thanks to the very patient Jill Lute of the Folsom City Zoo Sanctuary for answering my questions on the practical side of zoo management, and to the San Francisco Zoo’s Debbie Marin-Towey, assistant curator of carnivores, and Sandy Huang, carnivore animal keeper, for specific information about grizzly care. M. Paul Atwood, wildlife biologist, Upper Snake Region, Idaho Fish and Game, kindly shared his insight on grizzly behavior and cognition, and on the paperwork and legal ramifications of running a wildlife rescue in Idaho. (The IFG conservation officer in this novel bears no relation to him or any other real IFG CO
whatsoever.) I should also mention here that the wildlife rescue in the book was inspired, in part, by Animal Ark, north of Reno, Nevada.

To the various patient answerers of questions, interviewees, expert witnesses, careful and measured listeners, researchers, and divulgers of secret lives—in person or via e-mail and/or telephone—know that you helped situate these characters in their world: Lottie Ashton; Robert M. Dale; Jennae Harwell; Michael Hinch; Katie McCleary; American River College librarian Debby Ondricka; Jeffry-Wynne Prince; Tristan Soderberg-Mull; Henry Twilling; Dennis Yudt; and many of my students at American River College in Sacramento. My gratitude to all.

I am indebted to four master writers who have offered friendship, care, and counsel when needed most. Richard Ford was kind enough to help me navigate the business side of things, offering expert advice and perfectly timed words of caution. Pam Houston’s friendship and support have been invaluable, both on a personal and professional level. Denis Johnson kindly suffered a slew of stupid questions about Bonners and North Idaho and then pushed me to create better lies to answer them. Finally, I would like to acknowledge the lasting impact of my first writing teacher, now a friend of more than two decades, T. Coraghessan Boyle, fellow explorer of the collision of human and animal worlds. These people are the stars of my particular brand of heaven, and I am grateful for their friendship.

I did a great deal of reading during the drafting of this novel. In particular, I would like to acknowledge a few texts I returned to over and over again: Michael Allaby’s
Temperate Forests
; Reed W. Fautin’s
Biotic Communities and the Northern Desert Shrub Biome in Western Utah
; Dwayne Kling’s
The Rise of the Biggest Little City: An Encyclopedic History of Reno Gaming, 1931–1981
; James A. MacMahon’s
Deserts
; Roberta Parish, Ray Coupé, and Dennis Lloyd’s
Plants of the Southern Interior, British Columbia, and the Inland Northwest
; Jakob von Uexküll’s
A Foray into the Worlds of Animals and Humans
; William T. Vollmann’s monumental
Rising Up and Rising Down: Some Thoughts on Violence, Freedom and Urgent Means
; and of course Vinson Brown, Charles Yocum, and Aldine Starbuck’s
Wildlife of the Intermountain West
, a book given to me by my grandparents when I was a child. The copy of
The Tibetan Book of the Dead
referenced is the 1960 Oxford University Press edition, as translated by W. Y. Evans-Wentz. I should also note that the work of John Brandon, Doug Peacock, Else Poulsen, Paul Shepard, Gary Snyder, and Clive D. L. Wynn were important in helping me find ways to approach the animals in this book.

Thank you to everyone at Liveright and W. W. Norton, especially my lovely editor Katie Adams, Cordelia Calvert, Peter Miller, and Philip Marino. Also many thanks for the lovely cover design by Jaya Miceli and copyediting expertise of Miranda Ottewell.

Finally, profound gratitude to my wonderful agent Eleanor Jackson, who was honest right when she needed to be. This novel would not exist without her.

ALSO BY
CHRISTIAN KIEFER

THE INFINITE TIDES

Copyright © 2015 by Christian Kiefer

All rights reserved
First Edition

James Dickey, “The Heaven of Animals” from
The Whole Motion: Collected Poems, 1945–1992
, © James Dickey 1992. Reprinted by permission of Wesleyan University Press.

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The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:

Kiefer, Christian, 1971–
The animals : a novel / Christian Kiefer.—First edition.
pages ; cm
ISBN 978-0-87140-883-9 (hardcover)
1. Betrayal—Fiction. 2. Ex-convicts—Fiction. 3. Wildlife refuges—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3611.I443A85 2015
813’.6—dc23

2014038445

ISBN 978-0-87140-885-3 (e-book)

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